Moloney climbs to his feet with a grunt. ‘The brass put it about that she died in the escape craft wreck, to save face. But those of us with connections know they want her back bad. A hundred thousand credits bad.’
‘But—’
Moloney reaches towards my neck. I struggle, but three Rooks hold me firm, and there’s nothing to stop him from ripping the scarf away to reveal the livid scar.
‘There,’ he says. ‘Max-security prisoners wear full collars, not partial ones. They have to be surgically removed. She must have cut her own throat to get it off.’
Tears of rage fill my eyes. You don’t understand.
The wind howls, slamming the door against the wall, and an empty drum clatters to the ground.
‘Enough of this,’ Moloney barks. ‘Weather’s turning. Cuff her, get them all to the hold.’
Hands sticky with engine grease bind my wrists behind me.
‘I’m not going with you,’ the General protests. ‘We have a deal.’
‘Deal’s not done ’til I get my money, sweet cheeks. And since you did for the wire here, looks like you’ll be our guest for a while. Jax, where’s the nearest wire?’
‘Prob’ly Depot Twelve,’ one of the Rooks answers. ‘Chances are we can score prisoner transfer there too.’
‘Good. You too, Silas, you taplicker. You’ll ride with us ’til I’m sure you ain’t going to run to the Accord.’
‘Moloney, I’d never.’
‘Shut up. Get to the ship.’
Hands pull me to my feet, dragging me through the broken wares. Past the beating of blood in my head, I hear the wind, I hear the voices that ride upon it, swirling from between the stars.
The Rooks haul me out of the post to where a large ship waits, guarded by men with guns. Through the swirling dust, I see the name, scratched into the oil-black paintwork.
Longrider.
Whatever the Augur saw – whatever they had shown – it’s coming true. The light turns thick and yellow as paste, the seconds are becoming unstuck, the skin of the world sloughing away. They are here.
‘Rook,’ I whisper. ‘Longrider. Spindigo. Hell.’
‘What she say?’ a Rook asks, but the question is lost in the roar of the wind.
They crowd into my body, numberless, nameless, ravenous.
A grease-black Rook crashes from the sky towards the earth. Moloney’s blue eyes are wide in death, sand clinging to the wet blood on his face. The General and I walk away, into the desert…
And then I know; they are showing me the way.
I laugh as the sedative does its work, dragging me into the void.
* * *
I wake to a hum in my ears, and for a moment think I’m still on Silas’s ship, that any moment I’ll smell eggs frying and coffee brewing and hear the General’s hesitant laugh. But when I move, I feel cold metal beneath my cheek and smell nothing but stale oil and fuel and desert air. I open my eyes.
I’m lying in the hold of a ship, one that is thick with grease, stacked with tangles of wires and parts. Pain flares in my shoulders; my wrists are bound behind me, tied to one of the ship’s girders.
It’s Moloney’s ship, the Longrider.
The name brings back the Augur’s words – Spindigo, Hell – and the vision of the king of the Rooks, dead in the desert. I don’t understand, but they don’t seem to care about that.
When I try to roll to my knees, my stomach gives a violent lurch and I retch, vomiting bile onto the hold floor. Afterwards, I struggle upright and lean against the wall, trying to think as my head throbs.
What will the General do, now that she knows the truth about me?
Part of the truth.
She is Accord, right to the marrow. No matter that they want her dead, she still believes in them. Even if we do escape the Rooks, as they promise, will she let me go?
‘Ten?’ a voice calls across the hold. In the gloom, I see the worn sheen of Silas’s flight jacket. He comes forwards cautiously, the way someone might approach a dangerous animal, a cup in his hands.
‘You’re—’ He clears his throat, nodding at the vomit on the floor. ‘See you’re awake.’
‘No thanks to you.’
He hunkers down on his knees. Out of my reach, I can’t help but notice.
‘Here,’ he holds out the mug, ‘they’re eating. Not much, just soup.’
I laugh, a painful noise from my raw throat. ‘You think I’m going to drink that?’
Even in the dim light, I see the strain on his face. His black hair is even more of a mess than usual.
‘Nothing wrong with it,’ he mutters. When I don’t move, he takes a sip. ‘See?’
My throat is crying out for liquid. ‘Alright.’
He comes closer, until he kneels beside me and can hold the mug to my mouth. The soup is weak; a few spoons of unidentified savoury powder and long-desiccated vegetable flecks mixed with treated water. How long ago were carrots harvested from the hydroponic fields of Prosper? Three years? A decade? But as soon as the liquid touches my lips, my body responds and I drink greedily. Silas tilts the mug, careful not to let any spill.
When I’m done, he sits back, and we stare at each other.
‘Is it true?’ he asks at last.
‘Which part?’
‘That you killed people?’
I wipe my mouth on my shoulder, wincing as one of the cuts on my lip opens. ‘You see, your theory doesn’t work.’
‘What theory?’
‘What you told me before, that people can escape the past on Factus. They can’t. The past is at our heels, even here, at the edge of the system.’
He takes the pipe out of his pocket but doesn’t light it, just fiddles with the stem.
‘I didn’t fight,’ he says eventually. ‘I’m from Jericho. My mothers are both warehouse bosses there, farming and pharma. Meant we stayed out of the war and in on all the trade.’ His lips twist. ‘True neutrals. Original green. We made a fortune.’
It makes sense now: his once-costly clothes, his own ship, his lack
