Rat laughs, slapping her boss on the shoulder.
I stare at the bulletin, my head odd and light. The fugitives also perished. How many times could I die?
‘Hey,’ Silas takes my arm, ‘don’t you see what this means? You’re safe. If they’ve reported you dead…’
‘They have reported me dead before.’
Silas smiles. ‘But it said no survivors. And who is there to tell them different?’
I remember the young soldier, staring at me in horror as I told him to run.
‘No one,’ I murmur.
‘Well then.’ Silas squeezes my hand. ‘You’re free.’
Free. The word plagues me as we sit around the stove and talk and smoke and share sips of mezcal long into the night. It plagues me when I look in on the General as she sleeps, her small, scarred face hiding so much. It plagues me as I lie beside Silas, his arm warm on my shoulder.
Finally, after hours of sleeplessness, I ease from the blanket, and step outside.
It’s deep night, and the wind is in full voice, singing of the darkness between the stars, of the invisible threads that bind worlds – that bind us all – together. I close my eyes and listen.
The change comes gradually, creeping like frost on a window, like heat through metal. This time, they don’t rush or tear or claw, they simply are. I open my eyes. Beyond the last solar light at the edge of the ranch, a figure waits. A woman with grey hair and eyes like the darkness.
All is silent as I ease the door closed behind me some minutes later. The skin on my chest prickles in the cool night air, my shoulder gives a stab of pain as I pick up the pack, and make my way quietly down the steps.
As I reach the vegetable plots the ranch door squeaks. I stop, knowing that if it’s Silas, the desire to stay might be too much, might stop me from doing what I know I need to. Slowly, I turn.
The General stands on the porch, her feet bare beneath the faded linen gown, her hands pressed to the wound on her torso.
‘You’re leaving,’ she croaks.
I stare, remembering the grief on her face as she pressed the gun to my head, the look of triumph as she watched Aline fall.
‘Yes.’
She shifts, obviously in pain. ‘You promised to keep me alive.’
‘The surgeon says you will live. For a long time, I hope.’ I try to smile. ‘Falco is going to ask you to join the G’hals. She said you have a home there, if you want.’
‘As if I’d join a bandit crew,’ the General murmurs, but a smile pulls at the very corner of her mouth. ‘They’d treat me like a kid.’
‘You are a kid, Gabi.’
She looks at me, lost.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out,’ I say softly. ‘To the Seekers.’
‘Aren’t they monsters?’
‘I don’t know. I only know that they have answers.’
After a long moment, her face crumples, tears catching at her breath. ‘Low—’
I shake my head to stop her, feeling tears gather hot in my own eyes. ‘It’s alright.’ When I trust my voice again, I take a breath. ‘I left a letter, for you all. But… Silas. Tell him I am sorry.’
‘He won’t understand.’
‘I know. But I have to do this. There was a price, and I chose.’
At the edge of my vision, I see movement; the woman with grey hair, waiting. I wipe my eyes, and turn to leave.
‘Traitor?’
‘What is it, General?’
‘I’m not a General, anymore.’
‘And I’m not a traitor.’
I meet her gaze. For an instant, she looks beyond me and her eyes widen. ‘May your thoughts be clear,’ she whispers.
I walk away into that singing night, out towards the Edge, towards the vast unknown.
And they walk with me.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
HERE’S WHERE I can open a bottle and raise a glass high to all the people who have brought Ten Low to life:
George Sandison, not just for snatching this book out of the air and patiently cleaning it up, but for championing many a weird and wonderful work of speculative fiction.
Tasha Qureshi, for eagle-eyed editorial skills and for fearlessly stomping the gas on the manuscript. Egészségedre!
The whole team at Titan, for giving Ten and I a home.
Ed Wilson, for buying the first round.
Hélène Butler and Emily Hayward-Whitlock, for being on board from day one.
RJ Barker, for words of encouragement when they were needed.
Lavie Tidhar, for help and hard liquor.
My parents and family for all their support, and Dave, for being a fan.
My sister – as always – for riding shotgun and helping me navigate through the dark.
Nick, for being the best co-pilot I could ask for.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STARK HOLBORN IS a novelist, games writer, film reviewer, and the author of Nunslinger, Triggernometry and Ten Low. Stark lives in Bristol, UK.
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