‘Shh,’ Peg hisses, over the General’s spluttered reply. ‘What’s that?’
We stop dead in the middle of the street.
For a long time, there’s no sound beyond the distant metal groan of the port. Then, I hear it. Tap, tap, tap.
Falco reaches for her gun.
Tap, tap, tap.
‘Two snipers,’ the General murmurs, her eyes fixed on the curtained windows of the building. ‘At eleven and one o’clock.’ Her hand twitches towards her rifle Falco has lent her.
Tap, tap.
The front door of the blue building creaks open, and a woman steps out, leaning on a cane, shielding her eyes from the sun. I can’t help but stare. She’s old; possibly the oldest person I have ever seen on Factus. Her face is like the Barrens themselves, leached of moisture by the winds, scored by deep canyons and etched with fine lines, like abandoned mule trails. A faded tattoo of a crescent moon circles one eye.
‘Who’s there?’ she calls, her voice stronger than I expected. ‘State your business.’
Falco steps forwards. ‘Afternoon, Pec.’
Like a squeezebox stretching, the old woman’s face breaks into a smile. ‘Mala! Come in, out of the sun.’ She glances up at one of the curtained windows. ‘It’s alright, Bebe, Thrip, stand down.’
With a shiver, I watch as the mouths of two guns are withdrawn from the sills.
‘Who is that?’ the General asks, staring at the old woman. With a jolt, I realise that what I had taken to be a cane is actually a long rifle, its mouth resting on the ground.
‘That is Ma Esterházy, the first and greatest smuggler on this moon,’ Falco says. ‘So watch your tongue.’
‘Falco,’ the woman greets, extending one arm as we approach. Falco responds with a G’hal hug, a gentle one. ‘And Pegeen. It has been too long.’
‘We would have been back, if you weren’t plagued by that rabid Air Marshal. Or has someone finally put him out of his misery?’ There’s a note of false cheer in Falco’s voice I haven’t heard before.
‘Sadly no,’ the old woman says. ‘And who have you brought?’ Her eyes are amused as they land on Silas. ‘New special friend, Falco?’
‘In his dreams.’ Falco smiles. ‘Peg’s my one and only. Silas is just our flyboy for the present.’ She turns to me. Beneath the friendliness, I see a warning in her eyes. ‘This is Doc, a medic we’re taking east. And Gabi, her niece.’
‘A pleasure to meet you all, I’m sure,’ the woman says without hesitation. She has a slight accent I can’t place. ‘Do, come in.’
As the others step to follow her, a sudden pain stabs at my chest, like an insect sting. I touch my wound through the coat. Something has been carved above the door, scratched into the breeze blocks. Two sloping lines and one horizontal: the same symbol cut into my chest.
Fear sweeps cold across my skin, and I look down to find the old woman’s eyes fixed on mine, dark as the space between the stars.
‘Welcome to Angel Share,’ she says.
* * *
Even a glance is enough to tell me that Ma Esterházy’s joint serves a multitude of purposes. The walls are festooned with ragged maps and star charts, so full of pin holes they look as though they have been attacked by termites. Silas stares at them, his eyes bright with interest. There are wanted posters and bulletins that give me pause – though none of them look new – as well as goods tags, thousands of them in different colours and shapes, printed with the logos of every freight company in the system. It reminds me of Falco’s place; a patchwork of anything that might be spared or stolen, each one a victory, however small.
A rough bar of beaten metal dominates the main room, surrounded by mismatched tables and chairs, and through a door in the wall I see what looks like an old-style jail cell.
‘For folks’ valuables,’ Esterházy says smoothly, when she sees me looking.
I only nod. I want to grab the old woman’s thin, papery arm and demand to know what the symbol means and who carved it into my flesh and who saved my life. But I know I cannot. As far as she is concerned, I’m simply “Doc”, simply a medic and a friend of Falco’s, travelling east. Would that I were. I take a seat at the table she shows us to.
‘Excuse me?’
A woman is addressing me. Her black hair hangs limp down her back, and a battered holster, with two pistols, is slung over her faded floral dress.
I try to smile. She returns it. Her teeth are fibreglass, cheap ones.
‘I was just wondering,’ she says softly, ‘would your niece mind spending a little time with my Franzi? It’s so rare he meets another child, these days.’
‘I’m sorry?’
A small boy peers from his mother’s shadow. He looks to be around nine, but could easily have been older. Growth is often stunted out here, faces worn too soon, so that it’s impossible to guess at ages. The boy’s light brown skin is grubby, his dark hair close-cropped. He stares fixedly at the General.
‘Ah.’ I look across the table. ‘Well, that is up to Gabi.’
‘No,’ the General says without hesitation, her eyes on the tray of tumblers being carried by the man who works as bartend. He’s heavily muscled, his shaved head smudged with the shapes of tattoos.
‘Manners, Gabi.’ I give her a warning look. ‘Why don’t you go along and play with Franzi?’
The General stares daggers at me. ‘Because I don’t want to. I’m thirsty. I want a drink.’
The man with the tray hears. ‘It’s alright, sweetheart, I’ll bring you out a soda. How about that?’
Franzi’s face creases with envy. Soda is a rare treat indeed on Factus, sugared as it is. Shyly, he creeps around the table and grasps the General’s hand. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘I got beetles.’
The General gives me an outraged look as the child drags her away. I shrug, trying
