‘I’m from the Congregations, did you know that?’ I ask eventually.
Falco shakes her head, thoughtful, as if filing everything I say away for later use. ‘Always wondered why you speak the way you do. Sort of old fashioned. Didn’t have you down as religious, though.’
‘I’m not, not now. My faith didn’t last long, once I left. But back on Ty-Hala, my fathers used to talk about God’s will, God’s grace. I didn’t really understand at the time, but…’ I grip my arms, hard. ‘What if it was never God’s will? What if it has always been theirs?’ I was raised to believe that what I am about to say is the worst kind of heresy, but I force myself on. ‘Perhaps they have always been with us, but people were too noisy to hear them, too distant, back on Earth. Perhaps we only felt them faintly and people called what they felt God or luck or fate, but now we are out here, surrounded by so much space and silence, and some of us can feel them properly for the first time. Feel their will.’
Falco’s expression is indecipherable as she takes a long drink of benzene. ‘I don’t know about God,’ she says at last, passing over the bottle, ‘but you’re crazier than I thought.’
There’s no answer I can give. I raise the bottle to my lips when out of the darkness comes a yip, and a whistle. Falco’s head jerks up, her hand flying to her gun.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Peg’s seen something.’
She draws the weapon. The next second Pegeen appears, breathless, holding a pair of night-vision binoculars.
‘Birds, a whole flock of them. Coming from the east.’
‘Seekers?’
‘No. Not Accord neither. Looks like bandits.’
‘How far?’
‘Twenty klicks. Maybe less. They’ll have seen the fire.’
Falco swears and kicks sand over the embers.
I grab up the blankets while Peg shakes Boots awake. ‘There is still a warrant on me for that Kwalkavich business,’ I say. ‘And if they’ve come from Landfall…’
‘It won’t be that.’ Falco looks over her shoulder. ‘They’re hunting.’
Within a minute she hauls herself into the driving seat, arming her guns. I scramble up behind her as she starts the engine.
That’s when I hear it, the distant churn of engines cutting the still air, growing louder. For a moment, the stars spin in my vision. Cold metal, hot blood, pain on the wings of black birds…
The wagon screeches forwards.
‘What’s going on?’ The General is awake, grabbing hold of the seat.
‘Company,’ I yell, snatching up a pair of binoculars that hang beside Falco, blinking hard to clear my vision.
In the pale light of the near and distant moons, I see twin clouds of dust: Pegeen’s and Boots’s mares racing behind us. And beyond them…
Shapes, like ragged holes punched in the stars. Eight craft, low-flying and slick-winged, a painted shimmering oil-black.
‘It’s the Rooks!’ I yell.
The wagon picks up speed, rattling and groaning at a pace it will never be able to keep.
‘Whoever they are, they’re closing in,’ the General calls, kneeling on the seat beside me. ‘Convergence in five, four, three…’
‘Hold on!’ Falco bellows.
I grab for purchase as she wrenches the wheel, sending the wagon whipping out, fishtailing to one side, then the other. Pegeen and Boots do the same, kicking dust into a blinding cloud.
I can’t see, can’t breathe, all I can do is hold on. Nearby, someone yells. It takes me several seconds to realise it’s the General. I open one eye a sliver to see her crouching low in the seat, shouting something I can’t hear over the noise of the engines.
A rushing sound, and fire zips past. Too late I realise it’s on Falco’s blind side; I holler for her even as the explosion sends the wagon reeling onto two wheels before crashing back to the dirt. Falco swears, craning to see the damage. Something booms and splutters to our right; Boots’s mare smashes into the ground, billowing black smoke. Peg breaks rank to speed towards it, pale hair streaming out behind as Falco screams in rage.
My knuckles are white on the back of the seat, but beside me the General is on the floor of the wagon, scrambling with something as she’s thrown from side to side.
An almighty roar, a scream of metal and I know it is too late. The greasy belly of a craft appears above us; an automatic turret dropping down.
‘Low!’ the General yells. ‘Keep me steady!’
She leaps onto the seats, a rifle in her arms. Falco veers again, and the General almost falls before I grab her legs tight.
She stares up at the craft, her dark eyes narrowed in concentration. Even when the turret spits charges she does not flinch, just takes aim and fires.
There’s a hiss and liquid streams out behind the craft. I smell fuel and tug on her, yelling for her to get down as another round of charges smashes into the wagon, but she isn’t listening. Like a machine she lowers the gun, reloads and fires once again.
And in between the flashes of bullets and charges, I feel them. They are not here for me, I realise in horror; they want her. Can she see them as they whirl, tasting, feasting on her, savouring every eventuality that she embodies?
I want to drag her out of sight, hide her from them, even though it will not help. If they have seen her, they will follow us, they will tug at the threads of both our lives until we walk in chaos.
I cry a warning, but it’s too late. She pulls the trigger, and the Rook’s fuel tank explodes in a paroxysm of flames, sending it crashing to earth.
* * *
We don’t stop until we’re certain we are not being followed.
‘Is it safe, here?’ I croak, in the abrupt silence.
‘Don’t know.’ Falco pulls the scarf from her face. She looks haggard. ‘But the engine is fit to bust. If we don’t
