‘And we’re just meant to believe that?’ the second-in-command snaps.
‘Believe what you like. I told him it was suicide. He did it anyway.’
‘Sounds like Dru,’ the older Rook chokes. Tears slick his grimy cheeks. ‘Where is he? His body?’
Ghosting across the desert, a ghastly figurehead. ‘I don’t know.’
‘If he’s dead,’ the second-in-command says, ‘I’m in charge. And I say we carry on to Depot Twelve, hand this bitch over and get the cash.’
I laugh coldly, stepping close to him. ‘If you try, Hel the Converter will come for you too.’
Evidently, they are as spooked as Silas said, because not one of them says a thing after that.
‘The General will perhaps keep her word and pay you, if she lives,’ I continue. ‘And for that we will need more medical supplies.’
The second-in-command won’t look at me. There is sweat on his upper lip. ‘Dabb,’ he barks at the younger of the Rooks. ‘Where the hell are we?’
‘Middle nowhere, boss. Somewhere back between the Depot and At Least.’
‘At Least?’ Silas sounds hopeful. ‘The Charis is there. I have some medical supplies on board.’
‘Fine,’ the second-in-command grunts. ‘Fine, but keep her away from me.’
* * *
We make At Least by nightfall. The Rooks push their patched-up ship hard, ignoring its groans and splutters. They want their money, but more than that they want to be rid of us, rid of me. I hear them muttering that I’m a witch, that I’m not right. For some reason, it makes me smile. A thousand guns wouldn’t have shaken fear loose from these men, but two women walking out of the Edge has. Besides, without Moloney they are fatherless, rudderless. I don’t want to give them time to gather their strength and crush their fear with the thought of a hundred thousand credits.
‘You think they’ll let us go?’ I ask Silas, as the weak guide lights of the trade post come into view.
He laughs around his pipe. ‘I think they’re too afraid to do anything else. They’re convinced you’re cursed.’
‘And you?’
‘I think you’re lucky.’
‘I meant, will you let us go? Or will you try and sell us again?’
He looks away, his jaw tight. ‘Saved your life, didn’t I? They would have left you out there.’
‘We wouldn’t have been out there if not for you.’
‘Look,’ he won’t meet my eyes, ‘I’m sorry, okay? I assumed you were just some two-bit rustler, that they’d give you a month’s labour and that would be all. If I had known who you were, if I’d known they’d send you back for life I…’
‘Would have asked for more money?’
His nostrils flare, and he falls silent.
‘Did you earn it?’ he asks eventually. ‘That sentence?’
My hand strays to my neck, to the legacy of my escape. ‘Yes. I am still serving it.’
We do not speak again until the ship touches down. The oldest Rook carries the General from the ship, gently, I notice. In his arms she looks smaller than ever. The trade post looks small too; a place of scant humanity and strained hearts in the pitiless desert. I look up at the winking lights of orbiting ships, only to realise that night will never seem dark again, not after the Edge. The terraform makes the starlight ripple strangely, as if seen through the skin of a great, invisible beast. It seems a fragile membrane, compared to the endlessness beyond.
In the landing pen, the Charis hunkers, grey and dusty.
‘Hello, baby.’ Silas hurries towards it. ‘I was afraid that old hag might have sold you.’
We make it within twenty paces of the trade post before a shot breaks the night open. The door flies back on its hinges and a figure steps out, a shotgun in their hands. All around, red eyes blink into life, guns whine, like dogs ready to attack. We are surrounded.
The shotgun jerks. Whoever holds it is tall, wearing a mask and night-vision goggles. ‘Hands where I can see them.’
Behind me the Rooks are swearing. At any second, one of them might do something stupid…
‘We are just here to refuel,’ I call, raising my hands, ‘and we have an injured child. We do not want trouble.’
There’s silence where there should have been a gun blast.
‘Doc?’ an incredulous voice calls.
The figure rips the goggles free. One brown eye glints at me in the near-darkness.
‘Falco?’
* * *
‘Thought you were dead.’ Falco laughs. ‘Gilli said you got nabbed by Moloney.’
‘I was.’
She looks over my shoulder, and the joy on her face drops into hostility; more than hostility, to a rage that I have rarely seen in her.
‘These the ones that took you?’ she snarls, raising the weapon again.
Then I realise. It isn’t just rage on her face. It is grief.
‘Where are the others?’ I ask.
‘Peg’s inside.’ The shotgun does not leave the Rooks.
‘And Boots?’
‘Where the hell do you think?’ Her eye is bright, face creasing with pain. ‘She’s back there too, buried in the goddam dust with a dead century tree for a marker. And all because some shitbirds got greedy and wanted a chase.’
‘Look, Falco—’ Amir begins.
She arms the shotgun. ‘Did I say you could speak?’ She nods at the General. ‘Is the kid alive?’
‘Last time I checked.’
‘Put her down.’
The older Rook holds the General closer, like a shield. ‘No way, you’ll shoot me.’
‘Meet your death with dignity, scum. Pegeen,’ she orders behind her. ‘Get ready to fire.’
‘Moloney’s dead,’ Amir calls.
That gives Falco pause. She flicks a look my way. ‘You kill him, Doc?’
I shake my head.
‘We got targeted by Seekers,’ Amir continues. ‘They got the rest of the boys too. We’re all that’s left.’
Falco doesn’t look away from the men, her eye narrow, pitiless, calculating.
‘Get into the light.’ She jerks the shotgun. ‘Let me look at you.’
Sullenly, the Rooks move forwards, dragging Silas with them, until the faint light from the trade post falls upon their features. After a minute, Falco lets out a cold laugh.
‘The three musketeers,’ she mocks, before looking Silas over. ‘And who the hell is
