by Alex Wells
The door closed, and they were left in silence again. She rested her hand on the Bone Collector’s and carefully pulled each of his fingers from around her throat so that she could curl them in her hand, and rest that bundle against her chest. “I want to believe you. But you gotta give me somethin’ to believe first.”
The Bone Collector looked away first, his bright blue gaze shifting to the side like he was hoping to find an escape. “I don’t know.”
“Then why don’t you tell me what got you so shook, if you know it ain’t true?”
He licked his lips. “I don’t know, though.”
“Then tell me what you do know.” She wasn’t made for this kind of patience. She wished Mag was here. Then again, Mag probably wouldn’t have had it in her to punch him in the first place.
“I woke up in the desert. Near Pictou. That’s the first thing I remember.”
Pictou had been destroyed decades ago. But if that document was to be believed, he was a couple of centuries old. Who knew how time worked for someone like him, anyway. Hob wished she had a cigarette, but she didn’t want to let go of him to do it. “Then why you runnin’?”
“Because I don’t remember anything else!” he shouted. “Don’t you see? Every one of those abominations has acted as if they knew me. This new one told me to… to… come home.” His voice hitched with despair. “And when I see myself in the mirror of the Well, I am one of them.”
That was plain disturbing, and something he hadn’t bothered to tell her before. “Do you want to?”
“What?”
“Do you want to go home, whatever that means to them?”
“No!”
Well, that was something. “Mag said even if that’s true, you ain’t like them. She’d know if you were. And I know you sure do hate ’em.”
“And yet I am one of them.”
“Mayhap.” She finally gave in to her need and let go of his hand, then moved sideways to sit on the ground next to him. He didn’t seem liable to run any more. Hob got a cigarette out of her case and lit it with a snap of her fingers. Probably said a lot about the Bone Collector’s scattered state that he didn’t even make a face. “We got a rule here. Past is dead. ’Cause Old Nick told me, don’t matter a lick what you are or where you come from. Matters what you do.”
He was silent, then slowly rolled over toward her. She let him put his head in her lap, his lean body curling around her folded legs. She even let herself put her hand in his hair, and now she knew what to look for, she found what he must have been feeling for there, along his scalp: the faint, faded lines of crisscrossing scars. Not quite the same as what she’d seen on Mr Green, but not so different either. She made herself keep stroking his hair instead of curling back in revulsion, which felt like the bravest goddamn thing she’d done since walking into the TransRift lab for Mag.
“The past doesn’t simply die for wishing,” he said quietly.
“All I care about is, what’re you gonna do?”
“Have you take me to the Well,” he answered. “And keep it from them.”
She combed her fingers slowly through his hair, and told herself that it was just to make him feel better, nothing to do with her. “This just about stopping them, or about us takin’ control ourselves?”
“Would you rather it be the second?”
She exhaled a long cloud of smoke, thinking. Before she’d been thrown into doubt, she had her answer. Should it be different now? Did she still trust him? She looked down at him, the way his hand now curled over the top of her thigh like he thought she might go running off. “Yeah.”
“Then it will be done.”
“You ain’t tellin’ me somethin’,” she said, still watching his face.
“I don’t know what will happen.”
“But.”
“I’ve touched the power before. This will simply be more of it.”
“Before as in when you went missing?”
“Yes.”
She huffed a sigh. “Guess I can live with that, since in the end you come back.” It felt like there had to be more; there was still a darkness to his expression. But maybe she didn’t want to think it would be worse than that. There was already enough hell they’d be flying through. “If Hati gets the damn osprey in the air.”
“If that, too.”
To the side, she heard the door open again, but she didn’t bother to look. “Go about your business,” she called. “And don’t be gawpin’.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” Coyote said.
One hell of a spectacle they had to make, Hob thought grimly, her sitting in the middle of the yard with a man in her lap. And right now, she didn’t give a shit. She kept stroking his hair, like this might be the only excuse she ever had for it, and noted the red swelling already marring his cheekbone. “Gonna have a good bruise.”
“It won’t be the first.”
“Tell ’em you got in a bar fight,” she said. “Have Coyote make up a good story for you.” And it felt good to see the Bone Collector smile, even if it didn’t make all the uncertainty disappear.
Chapter Forty-Seven
1 Day
Jennifer Meetchim, Vice President of Production for the Outpost, was not in a good mood. Her assistant, James Rolland, had been gone for a week, which meant her correspondence was notably disorganized and her coffees never on time, hot enough, or the right flavor.
Worse, five days ago, thieves – which seemed a very light name to put to criminals of this caliber – had stolen one of the cargo ospreys. She eyed another non-report about the incident that graced her desk with disgust. The head of the investigation was pushing the theory that the osprey, which had been in the hangar for mechanical problems, must have crashed. After all, the airspace outside the transit corridor was known to be extremely hazardous now – which was the justification for his lack of results in searching. The chances of there being a good enough pilot available to unaffiliated bandits to nurse the wounded machine any kind of distance were vanishingly small. But the investigation had also turned up no wreckage, which piqued her suspicions.
On the other hand, after four days, it was just as likely that the wreckage had been buried by the ever-shifting sands of this backwater nightmare of a planet. Jennifer would have liked that to be the case, but she hadn’t climbed to her place in the Corporate hierarchy by letting loose ends flop about.
She set the frustrating lack of progress aside to take up the dispatch envelope that had been brought in with the recent return convoy from the Oceania wildcat. Mr Rolland’s precise handwriting greeted her eyes, which told her that at the least, this report would be concise and coherent: Thick veins of the amritite in evidence. The engineers believe we are about to break through into some sort of natural cavern, so have pulled back for twenty-four hours to shore up the shaft properly. Survey results, though garbled, indicate that this will likely be the tip of the major discovery, should you care to join us.
For the first time in days, Jennifer allowed herself a small, tight smile. If this really was to be a breakthrough, it would be excellent to witness as her moment of triumph. Hitting this sort of major discovery would be the capstone of her career on the production managerial tree, and a kick into the more rarified world of the home office. It would be nice to get back to civilization.
But would the current situation be able to stand a few days without her eye directly on them? She refreshed herself on the reports from the security perimeters around the rebelling towns. The miners, apparently unable to strategize how to push their supposed advantage, had hunkered down in those confines. Let them, she decided. It would be easy enough to maintain the security lines for a few more days, at which point the filthy ingrates would realize just how much TransRift had always done for them as they began to die of thirst. They’d come crawling in for help then. There’d already been a healthy number of defectors from all of the towns but Ludlow and Rouse, which they’d shipped off to the wildcat site in chains.
Sat
isfied with this line of reasoning, Jennifer wrote up the orders and set up her office for a two-day absence. She certainly wouldn’t want to spend more time than that out at the camp. The facilities were no doubt primitive, though she wasn’t a stranger to roughing it when necessary. She sent one of the lesser administrators to see that she had her minimal luggage waiting for her at the landing field, since the next convoy was set to leave in a little less than an hour.
As she was setting her desk in order, the elevator doors to her office opened and someone Jennifer recognized vaguely as a runner from the communications office puffed across the smooth expanse of floor toward her.
“Compose yourself,” she said sharply.
“Yes, sir. Sorry.” The tech stopped and stood up straight. “I’m sorry, but there’s an emergency communication.”
“From the Oceania wildcat?” What could it be now?
“No,” the tech said. “From orbit.”
The words seemed incongruent. There wasn’t a major shipment due for some months, though she supposed a minor resupply could be due. Those were always subjected to the whims of scheduling, and were Mr Rolland’s to track. “And?” she asked, for lack of anything better to say.
The tech held out a reader to her. “Rift Ship Jentayu sends greetings from Captain Santos.” The tech took a deep breath and continued, almost steadily, “And Federal Inspector Liu Fei Xing.”
Meetchim did not drop the reader, nor did she shout at the tech, though she felt unsteady enough for a moment to do both. “Federal Inspector?”
“The full message is on the reader. They dropped us a packet of data cards in a drone.”
“How far out are they still?” she asked. Of course, the ship wouldn’t be in orbit yet. They must have only recently arrived in system and sent the message drone ahead.
“Our calculations say they’ll be entering the atmosphere in ninety-six hours,” the tech said.
She would have to commend Captain Santos for getting her at least this much advance warning to clean house. And what a mess the house currently was – gone were her thoughts of letting the miners sweat themselves to death. A clean sweep would have to be made, and immediately. They could claim an epidemic, and that would be a good reason to keep the inspector isolated to Newcastle, just in case they were the sort to try to slip their leash. “Get me Security Chief Lien. Immediately. Have him meet me on the way to the landing field.”
“Yes, Ms Meetchim.” The tech seemed grateful to escape.
Jennifer turned her attention to the reader, to scan over the full text of the message. The normal formal nonsense, the demand for full cooperation, the reminder of duty and privilege. That mattered little to her. Then she caught one stray line in the form text – I expect all documentation to be prepared, as you have had several weeks’ warning of my arrival. See notice provided in data card packet and hardcopy carried by Rift Ship Kirin for exact requirements. Compliance on this ground is mandatory and expected.
She re-read the sentences again, to be certain. Mr Rolland had arrived back on the Outpost via the Kirin, shepherding Mr Yellow. He had given her all of the paperwork from the home office, and she’d read it to the letter, as was her job. There had been no mention of an inspector incoming.
Jennifer ran back to her desk, heels sounding sharp on her office floor, and scrambled through the flimsies Mr Rolland had brought. There was nothing in any of them. And Mr Rolland was not the sort to forget anything, or simply lose a document. He was utterly reliable, and had been for years. That was why she had brought him with her to the Outpost, why she’d entrusted him with so much sensitive business.
Yet the document was missing. Had someone in the home office removed it as a power play? She paged through the flimsies again, searching for a gap in the numbering. Everything was in order. The document either hadn’t been sent, or had been removed and replaced seamlessly. Either someone in the home office or–
–or Mr Rolland. The thought seemed almost inconceivable.
Meetchim considered the number of near misses her assistant had undergone since coming to the Outpost. The few times Security Chief Lien had said he had lost track of Mr Rolland, and she’d dismissed it as incompetence on his part – because Mr Rolland was a mere secretary. And had her mere secretary been here rather than the Oceania wildcat, he would have received this message, instead of it coming directly to her hand.
Had she been played for a fool?
The very thought shook her to her core, first with betrayal, then with rage. No, she would not be hasty. She had attained this position because she wasn’t one to act foolishly. Before she decided what to do, she would find a way to prove once and for all if Mr Rolland was loyal and being played by the machinations of Corporate, or if he had betrayed her.
And if the latter, he would be disposed of.
Jennifer stuffed the reader and all of the documents into her briefcase and hurried to the elevator. The building intercom was down due to Mr Yellow’s absence, so she simply ran. It was unseemly, but she needed to catch her security chief before he left the building. She was in luck; the doors of the thirty-eighth floor opened to reveal him waiting for the elevator, his briefcase in hand.
“Ms Meetchim?” he said, shocked.
She jammed her fist onto the door open button. She couldn’t risk that the greatest breakthrough of her career was being overseen by a traitor eight hours out of her reach. “Tell the flight commander that the convoy is delayed indefinitely until you and I are on board. And I want a security team sent to Mr Rolland’s apartment.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
12 Hours
The osprey rose slowly into the air, massive engines putting out a growling thrum that Hob felt right through her bones. The ascent was steady, the wings so even that Hob was pretty sure she could be standing on them and drinking a beer without spilling. Dust whipped and tore up from the dunes, billowing over the camouflaged walls of the base. Hob squinted against the dust and the bright overhead sunlight. The osprey’s shape cut a black shadow as it continued to rise and turn, a little too awkward to be one of the great eagles.
The massive net they’d pulled over the osprey the day they brought it back sat crumpled on the ground. Coyote had put a foot on it to keep it from blowing away. “Looks like less of a death trap,” he commented.
Hob pulled up the shortwave unit Hati had cobbled together to talk to the osprey. “How’s it feeling, Bala?”
A pause, then the answer came back. “Like flyin’ a fuckin’ bathtub.”
“That means he’s fine,” Coyote said.
“Land it if you’re satisfied,” Hob said into the shortwave. “And we’ll start packin’.” She turned the transmission off and looked at Coyote. “He gonna be OK to fly that long at night?”
“Oh, he’ll piss and moan, but he was one of the best night flight operators I ever knew.” Coyote grinned. “It’s like riding a motorcycle. You never forget once you learn.”
“Thinkin’ we get on the road soon as can be, that’ll have us where we’re goin’ after full dark.” Freki and Geri had calculated the trip as taking roughly eight hours. “We can land distant, get in close on the motorcycles, and have the day to get a real good look-see.” If she was lucky, she’d even be able to scope out where Mag’s girl was and get her the hell out before the lead started to fly. The bigger the camp or town, the more security holes it tended to have if someone was clever and didn’t mind belly crawling.
“Fair of a plan as any,” Coyote said. “I don’t particularly enjoy charging in with no intelligence, despite rumors to the contrary.”
“The world will be fuckin’ shocked.” Hob looped the large net up over her arms and waited for Coyote to grab the other end. Between the two of them, they dragged it back into the metal-flavored, hot dark of the garage. They left the net there in a jumbled heap, for whoever ended up on her shit list to take care of later, if there was a later.
In the yard, Hob rang the alarm bell. No one hurried or lo
oked surprised as they filed into the yard; they’d all known what was coming if Hati fixed the osprey and Bala didn’t crash it. Hob looked them all over, expectant and many of them grinning. If derailing the Weatherman’s train had been a middle finger raised in salute to TransRift, this promised to be a double-barreled gesture accompanied with fireworks and artillery.
They’d all signed up for this, she reminded herself, looking at the bulk of Lobo leaning on the doorway to the mess hall. No one was here because they thought they were going to die abed at a ripe old age.
“I want every motorcycle, every bit of kit, every weapon, and all the emergency spares in the osprey. Coyote’s gonna oversee the loadin’.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Don’t know what we’re headin’ into. We’ll see it when we get there. But they ain’t invented a wall yet could keep us out, ’cause we got the fire in our bellies. And we’re gonna leave ’em in the dirt and spittin’ teeth. You ready?” They cheered, god help them all. Hob grinned even with that weight on her shoulders, because she felt it too. She was tired of sitting and waiting, of chasing her tail. They were going to make it rain blood. “Then get movin’.”
There was a scramble of activity, Wolves going to their various assignments. As Hob watched, Geri stopped by her elbow. “No fence?” he asked.
She knew what he was thinking, because it was the same thing she’d been thinking the minute the words left her mouth: the strange electric fence at the wildcat site, that had knocked out her, Coyote, and the Bone Collector. “We’re gonna do a scout out once we’re there,” she said. “If they got that damn thing again, we’ll spot it. Bet it won’t hold for spit against bullets.”
Geri laughed. “Most things don’t.”
She found the Bone Collector outside the walls, sitting on a drift of sand and watching Dambala land the osprey for the Wolves who waited with the first rank of motorcycles and supplies. She was surprised he still hadn’t done his regular disappearing act, after they’d had it out. She’d been all set to add another scar to the growing collection on her hand. But no, he’d stayed in his assigned room, picked at whatever food Coyote thought to bring him, and kept to himself.
