by Alex Wells
“I don’t think it would do either of us a service to try to explain either my philosophy or my relationship with my brother. Are you planning to shoot me?”
“I’m considerin’ my options.”
“Please take into that consideration that I’m the one who gave your boss the information about which towns would be visited.”
“Got anythin’ else you’d like to share?”
He smiled brittlely. “Not at the moment. But if you kill me, I certainly won’t in the future.”
Geri rubbed his chin, hand rasping against stubble. “You make a fine point, friend.” He straightened up. “So what do we do, take you into town and dump you?”
“I’m afraid that would be far too suspicious. What time is it?”
Geri cast around the train car, came upon a severed arm, and picked it up so he could take a look at the wrist watch. “Just gone nine.”
“They’ll be sending out reinforcements soon.” Shige closed his eyes tightly for a moment, calculating the best way to play this. “I think I do need you to shoot me.”
Geri let out a short bark of a laugh. “You serious?”
“Deadly. I need to be injured enough that they will believe I was unconscious and presumed dead for most of the fight. So that it isn’t suspicious that I’m the lone survivor.”
“Might be a couple of you left.”
“But you understand my predicament.”
“Not really, but I never let that stop me from helpin’ a… friend out.” Geri crouched again in front of him. “Where’d ya like it?”
“Somewhere that won’t make me bleed out, please. Left shoulder, perhaps?”
“A man with a flare for the dramatic, I see.” He stood and backed up as far as he could, raising his pistol again. “Just say when you’re ready. So long as you make it quick. I got people to tend to.”
* * *
It felt strange, to be so close to the Bone Collector. Hob felt him breathe, felt his heart beating, so she knew he was alive. His blood seeped through her jacket; she’d half-expected it to be cold, since he’d always seemed so cool and collected. But it was hot, maybe hotter than her own blood. She kept their speed as high as she dared, because she could feel him slowing, getting ready to stop, breath and heartbeat weaker.
Dunes rose up over the horizon like a frozen ocean. She poured on more speed. At the bare edge of the sand, she slammed on the brakes, sliding sideways into a halt. With shaking hands, she undid the knots that held the Bone Collector, and then slid him over the side of the bike, dropping him onto the sand as gently as she could.
His lips curved slightly in a smile and his eyes cracked open. She knelt next to him, reaching out to touch his face, just to make sure he really was still alive. It wasn’t satisfying, through a leather glove; she ripped it off, touched his cheek again.
“Your payment’s in Pictou,” he whispered. “Church basement.”
She laughed, but it hurt, something twisting up around her heart. “Now who’s all businesslike.”
He covered her hand with his. His fingers were shaking, his hand sticky with blood. “Be well. I will… miss you.”
She laughed, her eyes stinging. “Keep it up, I’ll start thinkin’ you like me.”
His only answer was a smile, and then the sand flowed around him, lapping like water. He sank until he disappeared from sight. It shouldn’t have hurt so much, watching him sink away like drowning. But it had felt too much like goodbye for anything but a heartsick pain. She’d had too many damn goodbyes already in such a short time, and would have more soon, more men to burn while they mourned and shouted their victory at the same time.
She wrapped her suddenly empty hand into a fist, pressing it against her mouth. With her other hand, she felt from pocket to pocket, trying to locate her cigarettes. Her eye blurred again as she found Old Nick’s silver case, pulled a cigarette out with shaking fingers. Just the act of doing it calmed her, let her unclench her fist. She lit the cigarette with a snap of her fingers and took in a deep, smoky breath, looking up at the endless blue sky as she pressed her knees into the sand that had just swallowed the Bone Collector whole.
A body could drown in that sky, could fly away and be free, could reach her arms out forever and never touch the corners of the world. That sky had terrified her into love, the day she set foot on this rock. And there, in the distance, she saw a mote of light as the phoenix circled and circled.
“Been a month and I already done the impossible you couldn’t, you old bastard. Hope you’re havin’ yourself a good, smug laugh now.”
She grinned, and even though it hurt, it felt like victory.
Chapter Forty-Four
“Mr Rolland, in the past weeks, I have developed a… keen appreciation for your value to our organization,” Ms Meetchim said.
Shige bowed, mindful of the sling holding his arm against his chest. He’d taken to doing that in lieu of shaking hands after Geri had so helpfully shot him in the right shoulder, instead of the left as he’d requested. My left, your right, he should have said. Hell. “I appreciate it, Ms Meetchim.”
“You will be missed.”
“Again, sir, my deepest appreciation. Though it is, of course, only temporary.”
Meetchim smiled thinly. “Several months of having a series of temps sort my mail and make my coffee. I’m not certain I will survive.”
Shige bowed again, ducking his head as if hiding a blush. “I’m merely honored that you selected me for this task.”
“The late Mr Green liked you so much, I would feel remiss in not providing you as a companion for our next Weatherman. I’m surprised you wished to undertake the journey in your current state, but it certainly illustrates your dedication.”
“I’ll admit to a bit of selfishness,” he said, offering her a nervous smile. “Nearly anywhere will have better medical care available. With the company’s permission, of course, I’d like to stop into a decent orthopedic center, and that ought to fix my injury in a matter of days. Perhaps on Jeuno Prime or even Earth.”
“I’m certain Corporate will recommend you to the best.” Meetchim offered him her hand to shake, then laughed, shaking her head. “I am sorry. I forget. Have a safe flight.”
“Thank you, sir. I will see you soon.” Shige bowed one more time, and went up the embarkation ramp to the rift ship.
He had many reasons for volunteering for this task. Getting off Tanegawa’s World would provide him with opportunities aplenty to report his initial findings to his family coalition – and a more careful version to his superiors in the Federal Union. And, he hoped, he would have a chance to investigate further once he reached the TransRift laboratories where he would be given their new Weatherman. He had a great many questions still to be answered. While he was beginning to grasp the uncomfortable reality that something on Tanegawa’s World could act upon the people there and change them, that didn’t answer how the Weathermen came to be in a lab so far afield.
He allowed a steward to show him to his private cabin on the Kirin and seated himself comfortably for takeoff, using belts and webbing. He would also have to pass on the unpleasant news if the opportunity presented itself that he’d not only found his family’s prodigal son, but apparently lost him the same day. It was a shame.
“Would you like tea or coffee, sir?” the steward asked.
“Tea would be lovely. With lemon.”
“Glad to be heading back to civilization, sir?”
He opened his eyes and smiled at the man, so neat in his blue company uniform, with his little cart of treats. “Something like that. It depends on how one defines civilization.”
The steward set a white china teacup in front of him. “Somewhere they don’t shoot people might be a start.” He laughed nervously, glancing at the sling Shige wore.
Word got around. “Indeed. Thank you.” He smiled, and the young man went on his way. The tea – just enough sharpness from the lemon – was everything he’d been missing on that dusty little
planet. Tanegawa’s World truly was the back of beyond.
But less civilized? There was a certain charm to a world that had shootouts instead of politics. Where warnings were heeded instead of reports ignored because they contained inconvenient truths.
Beneath him, the rift ship vibrated, the normal propulsion engines beginning to warm for lift-off. Shige sighed, resting the teacup against his leg for a moment, and contemplated the multitude of truths, each less convenient than the last, that were in his current report.
Yes, he was going to miss the little dustball, if only for that reason.
* * *
“What d’ya think?” Hob asked, sliding the poster across the table to Mag. Anabi stepped away from the stove, arms dusted with flour to the elbow, and leaned over Mag’s shoulder to look as well. Mag’s blue gingham dress was decorated with soft white smudges, where Anabi had touched her shoulder as if afraid she might disappear in an instant.
Mag grimaced. “I think for this much of a reward, they could hire a better artist.” Her right eye was red and a bit swollen; she’d burst a blood vessel in it.
Hob laughed. The only real pictures of her were the ones Rollins had mentioned, of her breaking in to the lab. Apparently they didn’t want to use those, where she was dressed like a company woman. “By the time they upgrade me to dead or alive, I bet I’ll look downright artistic.”
“Don’t even say that,” Mag said, covering the printing on the poster with one hand. “You need to lay low. Bribing people won’t keep you hidden forever, if they keep cranking the reward up.”
“I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it,” Hob said. She grinned at Mag. “I got my taste of pissin’ the company off royal. Gotta say, I liked it.”
Anabi took a stub of chalk and wrote on the little blackboard that always sat at the table: I almost feel sorry for them. She laughed silently and then underlined the word almost twice.
“Just be careful. Promise me.”
“Careful as you’ll be,” Hob said. She grinned. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re up to your eyeballs in your own little plots. If anythin’ you do ever comes to fruition, you’ll be in more trouble than me.”
Mag smiled at her. “If I lay my plots out right, maybe there won’t be a company left to be all pissed off at me.”
Hob raised her glass in a toast. “That’s what I like about you, Mag. You may be quiet, but you never thought small in your life.”
Mag tilted her own coffee mug up. “I am serious, though. Be careful.”
“Got too much fire in my belly. Ain’t room for careful.” Hob said. She took a sip of her whiskey, rolling the smoky taste over her tongue. “Bein’ bad pays too damn good anyway.”
“You ain’t bad, Hob Ravani.”
“Oh, but I am. I’m just the right kind of bad.” She raised her glass again, and drained it.
Epilogue
Thirsty.
There wasn’t room for mission, purpose, name, nothing but the thirst that glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Sand shifted under his feet, trying to throw him to his knees again, but he knew its wiles now. He flowed like he was made of sand himself instead of blood and meat and kept going, one leaden foot in front of the other, right hand used for balance as necessary.
His left hand still clutched his side, covering the gaping hole there. The wound had stopped bleeding some time ago, but his hand seemed glued in place with tacky blood.
So thirsty. He squinted into the burning wind, almost blinded by the dust that coated lids and lashes, but he could still make out the lithe shape moving ahead of him: four shadowy legs, a waving tail, alert ears, long jaws. His side throbbed when he thought about those jaws.
Just a little further. Just a few more steps. And you’ll never be thirsty again.
His feet met rock gritty with sand. The yawning mouth of a cave opened to swallow him, breathing out cool and damp. He moved his tongue to speak, but had no voice between the screaming and sun and dust. So he simply followed, skittering and stumbling down the natural rock ramp, his shoulders scraping against the narrow passage.
It spat him out into a yawning cavern, so big that there were no echoes of his breathing, but he heard a thousand other sounds, sighs and laughter and chittering and the yelping of coyotes. It should have been dark, so far underground, but there was light everywhere, shining from the walls, the ceiling, reflecting the water. Reflecting the water instead of the other way around.
The water. It was bottomless, and full of stars.
He didn’t care about the rest, couldn’t think about it past the thirst. He threw himself to his knees at the water’s edge and drank long from that deep, secret well. The black silvergoldredbluegreen water flowed into him, filled him, tasted like salt and iron and light
and drank him in turn.
Acknowledgments
I started writing this book back in 2005, when I was in Utah for one of the few writing retreats I’ve ever been on. I wrote what is now the short story “Fire in the Belly” (finally published in Mothership Zeta #2, March 2016) about Hob Ravani arriving on Tanegawa’s World. In the year that followed, I wrote several halting attempts at more short stories about Hob’s life. It wasn’t until 2006, at another writing retreat, that I read another piece of Hob Ravani’s life out loud and my friends pointed out to me that these really sounded like chapters, and maybe I should just write a novel and give them the whole story.
Eight drafts and eleven years later, here we are. And this book wouldn’t be in your hands without:
Michelle Thatcher and Shannon Deonier, the friends who took me to that first retreat.
Molly Tanzer, who edited an earlier version of this book and made it good enough to submit to Angry Robot.
Alastair Mayer, who helped me figure out just how many of my darlings I had to kill.
Mike Wells, who read several versions of this book, told me unflinchingly what didn’t work, and spent many nights listening to my paroxysms of writerly self-doubt – and is still friends with me, even.
Phil Jourdan at AR, who destroyed and rebuilt my soul with one editing phone call.
The rest of the Angry Robot crew who have made this thing happen: Mike Underwood, Penny Reeve, Nick Tyler, and Marc Gascoigne.
DongWon Song, my amazing agent, who took me dumping this in his lap literally thirty seconds after I decided to be his client without even batting an eyelash.
My mother, who taught me to love books and take no shit.
My father, who was a chief steward in the Communications Workers of America (local 7750) when I was a child – and taught me to take no shit.
And the brave men and women of the United Mine Workers of America, who fought and died in the 1913-1914 Colorado Coal War. They lost that battle, but won their war. May we never forget, and may we retake the ground they paid for so dearly.
The union makes us strong.
About the Author
Alex Wells is a writer, geologist, and sharp-dressed sir. They’ve had short stories in Strange Horizons, Lightspeed, Daily Science Fiction, Shimmer, and more. Alex is a host on the popular Skiffy and Fanty podcast, where they talk about movies and other nerdy sci-fi and fantasy things.
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rachaelacks.com • twitter.com/katsudonburi
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An Angry Robot paperback original 2017
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Copyright © Alex Wells 2017
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Alex Wells asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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UK ISBN
978 0 85766 643 7
US ISBN 978 0 85766 644 4
EBook ISBN 978 0 85766 645 1
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-0-85766-645-1
