I look at his face, lit by blinking panels. Not Accord, not FL… What is he doing, on Factus? There are signs of hardscrabble about him, but only at the edges. His clothes, worn as they are, speak of somewhere else, far from the border moons.
For a second, we lock eyes.
‘You should get some rest,’ he says.
I nod, draining the whiskey. ‘I’ll sleep in the cargo bay. If you have a blanket?’
He waves a hand. ‘Take the bunk. I’ll be here, anyhow. One of us should get a good night’s sleep.’
His fingers touch mine as he reaches for the cup, and for an instant I’m tempted to hold on, to ask him to come and lay with me and lose myself in smoke and in another person’s warmth. But then I see myself reflected in his eyes, my bruised face, the scarf wrapped high around my neck, and I remember what I am.
‘Thanks.’ I turn away.
His voice follows me. ‘May your thoughts be clear, Ten.’
* * *
I wake to an unusual feeling. I am warm and drowsy; I can’t remember the last time I felt so safe. There’s a soft drone from somewhere, like bees or a low, gravelly voice, endlessly humming. I press my head further into a pillow that smells of someone else’s hair, not wanting to wake.
But wake I do. Reality needles at my body; first my aching ribs, then the sore skin of my face, then the memory of where I am. I open my eyes.
The bunk is in an alcove, shielded from the rest of the ship by a thick curtain. Light filters through the weave, illuminating the walls and ceiling not far above my head. I smile and reach up. I was too tired last night to look at anything, but now I see that the bunk is a patchwork of colour; old-fashioned postcards from a century ago, shiny wrappers from food that can only be found on the home planets, a poster for a one-night-only concert on a satellite I’ve never heard of, a hand-drawn sketch of secretive Voivira with its protective satellites, even some of the better designed Accord and Limiter propaganda, torn from walls. A magpie collection, from across the known system.
Gently, I touch a very old real photograph. It shows a sandy beach, where people with brightly coloured bathing costumes sit smiling on striped towels. Then, as if the image comes to life, an unexpected sound catches my attention: laughter.
Pulling boots onto my bare feet, I head for the tiny galley kitchen. Silas is there, the pipe hanging from his lips as he shovels at something on a grease-thick stove. The General leans in the doorway, listening.
‘—and he told me, “son, I ain’t never seen a jackrabbit.”’
The General snorts into the mug she’s drinking from. They both turn as I enter.
‘Morning,’ Silas greets. ‘Hungry?’
‘About time you dragged yourself up,’ the General says. She looks much improved; the grey pallor is gone from her face, though a trace of weariness remains in the wrinkles about her eyes. She nods to the stove. ‘You might be crazy, but you picked the right ship to hijack. One with coffee and eggs.’
‘Vulture eggs,’ Silas says apologetically, sprinkling some very shrivelled green chillies into the pan. ‘Still, they’re not bad. Better than protein.’ He swings around to pour from a battered pot. ‘Here, saved you some.’
I take the cup. It is indeed coffee – oily and bitter, but real.
‘Thank you.’
‘All part of the service. For what you’re paying me, I should be laying on a buffet.’
I glance at the General and she shrugs. So, they have evidently worked out the details of this arrangement. How much money does she have, stashed away?
The horrors of the Pit remain on my mind, but – as always – my body is a traitor. A mug of coffee and a full belly make the memories easier to push aside.
‘We’ll reach At Least by noon,’ Silas says, scraping oil from his plate. ‘We can refuel there, then head onwards to Depot Twelve, the mining port I was talking about.’
‘At Least?’ The General raises an eyebrow.
‘It’s the only trade post in this sector for miles, nearest civilisation to the Edge. Place is hit so often by Seekers and bandits, only thing people can say is “at least it’s still there”.’
‘Seekers again,’ the General complains. ‘They’re a menace. They should be dealt with.’
Silas laughs at her. ‘I’d like to see you try.’
‘If I’d had a gun when they attacked us, there would be a few less of them.’
‘You actually saw them?’ Silas asks, alarmed. ‘How close did they get?’
‘We managed to get away before they could land,’ I interrupt, before the General can say anything. ‘We were very lucky.’
Silas is frowning, and no wonder. I’ve never heard of anyone facing the Seekers like we did and walking away. I can tell he is trying to figure us out, whether to believe a word we say.
‘Will there be many other ships in At Least?’ I ask quickly.
‘Should be quiet there,’ he says. ‘I reckon the Accord has forgotten the place exists. Far as I know they don’t even drop water anymore.’
‘Sounds wonderful,’ the General mutters.
‘Quiet or not, we shouldn’t leave the ship,’ I tell her.
‘I’ll do as I please.’
I glare at her, but she just glares back. Friendly as Silas seems, I don’t know how far we can trust him.
Rook, the Augur said, Longrider…
‘It’s not only the Seekers I’m worried about.’ I sigh. ‘We had a… run-in with the Rooks a few days ago. We need to stay away from them too.’
‘Moloney’s Rooks?’ Silas whistles. ‘What did you do?’
‘Shot down one of their filthy birds.’ The General smirks. ‘Bastards had it coming.’
Silas looks impressed. ‘I don’t doubt that. Look, don’t worry. Charis might not be faster
