I look away from that sky. Below, the ground slides past as quiet as the shifting of a hand across a pillow. Here in the ship, the night seems still and untroubled.
The pilot – Silas – flies smooth. Maybe it’s the lingering century smoke, drifting like a spider’s web about the flight deck, but soon I forget all about him. I lose myself to the drone of the engine, the distant pattering of grit against the hull of the craft, like rain on a tin roof. I place one hand against the cold, thrumming glass of the window. Part of me wants to be like this ship, calm and functional, empty of blood and feeling.
‘Low?’
The pilot looks over at me. The shadows beneath his eyes merge with the warm brown skin of his cheeks. He jerks his head.
‘She’s calling for you.’
The General is lying on a makeshift bunk in the tight space that doubles as infirmary and storeroom. I squeeze in next to her.
The filth of the past few days is gone, blasted away by the ship’s vapour shower. Without the grime in the premature wrinkles on her face, she looks younger than I have yet seen her.
‘How do you feel?’ I ask.
‘Weak. And tired. I have never been this tired before, not even during campaign.’ She opens her eyes to look at the ceiling and I sense she is struggling to keep the emotion from her voice. ‘It’s not just physical. I’m experiencing atypical reactions, visual distortions.’ She looks at me, her eyes pink-edged. ‘You were right. I saw something, when the Rooks attacked. And back there, with the Augur… I don’t want to lose my mind.’
When I speak, it’s all I can do to keep my voice steady. ‘The physical weakness may be your body adjusting to the terraform, still.’
‘Or I could be dying.’
There’s no hiding from it. ‘There is something wrong. But without the proper facilities to run tests—’
She shakes her head. ‘Even if we found somewhere, my enhancements are too complex for anyone on this moon to understand.’ Her forehead creases. ‘I need to see them. The others from C Class. If it’s true, if we’re all in the same situation, we might at least face it together.’
The resignation in her voice frightens me. ‘And if it’s not?’
She gives a bitter smile. ‘Then they still want me dead.’
I busy myself with looking through the ship’s medkit. ‘Have you no family?’
‘No. My parents ran security, on Felicitatum. Our warehouse was destroyed in one of the first Limiter strikes. They were killed, along with my baby sister.’ She looks me in the eye. ‘Do you remember where you were, when you heard that news? Did you celebrate?’
I break her gaze and look into the medical box. ‘I am sorry.’
‘For me, or for the war?’ She lets her head fall back. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
I work without speaking, patching up her knuckles, trying to push down the clash of hostility and grief, trying to remember Peg’s words about how easy it would have been for any parentless child to become like the General. Like it or not, I had played a part in her creation.
‘What about you, traitor?’ she asks hazily. ‘Do you have anyone?’
‘No.’ I take out an ampule of painkiller. ‘I have been dead to them for years.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ she says, but there’s little aggression in her voice, only tiredness.
‘Even if it’s useless,’ I say awkwardly from the doorway when I am done, ‘I am sorry, for what the Accord did to you.’
She doesn’t reply.
I don’t know how long I stand in the ship’s corridor after that, my palm pressed to the metal wall. Eventually, I rouse myself and go back to the flight deck. The pilot is still in his seat, the ship on auto, his feet propped on the controls. He’s drinking from a tin mug, flipping through some years-old almanac.
‘She alright?’
I drop into the co-pilot’s chair with a wince. There’s a bruise across my stomach the size of a dinner plate from the impact of the bullet through the armoured vest.
‘She’s asleep. Neither of us have slept much, recently.’
‘I can believe that. You look like you’ve had the devil on your heels.’
I laugh, running a hand over my scalp. ‘If it was only the devil.’
‘Back there at the Pit,’ he says idly. ‘I heard gunfire—’
‘Please. Don’t ask.’
He shrugs and turns back to his almanac. A minute later I hear rummaging, and open my eyes to see him pull an unlabelled bottle from a hidden compartment.
‘Here,’ he says, glugging some into the cup he’s been drinking from.
I take it and drink without questioning, I’m that tired. As soon as it touches my lips, I almost splutter it out for shock. It’s whiskey. Real whiskey, not adulterated benzene or home-brew. It fills my mouth like rich, stinging amber.
‘Where did you get this?’ I wheeze, as it sears its way down my gullet.
He shows his teeth. ‘Good stuff, huh? Payment for a job, few cycles back. I thought turning a hijacking into a cushy chauffeur trip demanded a celebration.’
I take another sip. Although it stings my cracked lips, it tastes clean and pure, like so little on Factus ever does. Like the first breath of icy morning air on a real planet.
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome, Low.’ He nods. ‘That what you go by?’
I swallow another mouthful.
‘I’m called Ten.’
‘Ah.’ There’s an awkward silence, before he sits back. ‘Never met a Ten.’
His tone is easy, almost careless. There’s none of the judgement I usually encounter when people find out my sentence. He sees my surprise and laughs.
‘Look, whatever you did, whichever side you took, it’s nothing to me. We’re all born again out here, right? All equal in dust.’ He tops up the cup. ‘You’ve got as much right to a new life as anyone.’
I try to smile. ‘The Accord would disagree.’
‘The
