by Alex Wells
“You about ready?” Hob asked.
He didn’t turn to look at her. “I didn’t think I could despise anything quite as much as I despise your motorcycle,” he remarked. “Until I met that thing.”
“You’ll have your very own bucket,” Hob offered.
He gave her a sharp look, then snorted at her grin. This was good. This was easy. Needling someone was a hell of a lot more in her experience than soft words or caring. “You’re very thoughtful.”
“Old Nick raised me right.” She sank down onto the sand next to him.
“I am surprised you’re not in the thick of it,” he said.
“Privilege of rank. Plus Coyote told me I’d only be in the way. He’s got some grand plan about how he’s gonna load everythin’ up, and all the devil’s tricks won’t be enough to save a body that gets in his path.” She let the silence stretch, aware of the solid, cool mass of him in touching distance. She’d thought about visiting him over the last few nights while they waited for Hati to figure his way around the mechanics of an osprey. She’d also thought about those crisscrossed scars under her fingers, and his hand on her throat, and the look in his eyes like he was dying. She wasn’t sure if she’d wanted to erase those things, somehow, or run from them herself. So she’d stayed away. He hadn’t seemed to notice. And it was easier to think about it out here, in the open, where doing something about all those urges wasn’t a possibility.
“I think about it, at times,” he said. And for a moment, she thought he’d pulled some witch trick, and read her mind. But then he continued, “If I really am one of you or not.”
“Would that be so bad?” she asked. Not that humans were any kind of fucking prize.
“I still don’t know.” He finally looked at her, an odd little smile on his lips. “I am always between, and I wish I could flow out through the cracks in the world.” He reached down to find her hand, and curled their fingers together. “But then there is this. And I would miss it.”
And tomorrow they could all be dead, Hob thought, an odd lump in her throat. It would be damn easy, to bridge that little gap between them. Out here, where anyone could see, because who the hell was going to stop her? She was Hob Fucking Ravani. Unless she stopped herself.
She must have leaned in a little closer, because he turned to really look at her. She’d never seen his expression so somber before. But maybe he felt it too, that nebulous whatever hanging between them that scared her spitless. “What do you want?” he asked quietly.
She knew, then, that she did want it, whatever she could wring out of him. And she didn’t have time for being distracted. Not with the osprey back on the ground and being loaded. Hob gave his hand a squeeze, then freed herself and stood. She retrieved a long black cigarette from her case and lit it with a snap of her fingers. “Ask me when we get back.”
Seemed the best way possible to keep both of them alive.
The Last Day
Chapter Forty-Nine
Shige shielded his eyes against the bright smear that was the sun’s last sliver, slipping under the horizon. Beside him, Mr Yellow hummed to himself, his whole body turned toward the mine pit that sank deep beneath the pale salt surface. Shige had come to notice that the salt here was not so perfect white-gray, but rather shot through with veins of pink and red. In this light, it looked more like blood-filled capillaries than he might like.
It was Mr Yellow’s humming that put him in mind of grim things. He couldn’t really place it or explain the difference in words, but something about the tone and resonance had begun to make his skin crawl. Like there was an unheard echo, discordant, coming up through their feet. He wished that Mr Yellow would find the right note to harmonize, because really he could sing quite beautifully when he wanted – in their days here together, he’d shown he could, until the mine started getting deeper and the disharmony became too loud to ignore.
“Are you ready for dinner, Mr Yellow?” he asked, hoping the Weatherman would respond to him this time. More and more lately, he did not, and he’d begun to feel quite lonely about it. It was only him and Mr Yellow here, because the security men were brutal nitwits and the miners were far too ignorant to understand what was going on. He’d really begun to enjoy the Weatherman’s company.
Mr Yellow swayed to lean in close. Shige felt his gaze draw toward Mr Yellow’s, inexorable with something that was want and loathing mixed. He shut his eyes tightly in confused response. Never look them in the eye, he told himself, though he could no longer remember why.
Over the hot rock and metal smell of the mine site, he caught the dry, bloody undertone of the Weatherman. “Will it be today?” Mr Yellow asked.
“I don’t know,” Shige answered. He felt steady enough to open his eyes and focus on Mr Yellow’s shoulder. “But we must be patient. And you must eat, to keep your strength up for when the miners finish their work.”
Mr Yellow took his hand – when had the Weatherman started doing that? It had begun to feel like he’d always done it – with his dry, cold fingers and squeezed them. “We’re all coming home.”
“Of course.” And this time, it was Shige who leaned toward him. It felt like that curious moment of looking over a bridge, the thread of thought swirling that perhaps this time, he ought to jump and be free – no. Not even enough to be an impulse or an urge, but the musings of a mind that believed it was safely under control, he knew. He kept a firm hold of Mr Yellow’s hand and led him toward the Corporate dining tent. While only a tent, it was still far superior to anything the workers had been provided.
The camp was the most massive of its sort he’d ever been in. The camp facilities, including the temporary barracks on the north side where the miners were kept imprisoned, sprawled three kilometers in diameter, with the open pit of the mine a ragged hole nearly half a kilometer across at its center. The tailings pile to the north of the pit was an ever-growing mountain in miniature. The mine works, with two drive chains and elevators, and the start of the train station that was being built toward Newcastle to meet the crew coming from that end crowded around the pit. Dr Kiyoder’s defensive perimeter couldn’t extend out to surround the entire extensive site, but encircled the mine works and the managerial portion of the camp. A surprisingly solid temporary wall had been built around the pit as well; they were taking no chances about sabotage, since most of the workers were conscripts. That no one particularly cared if something crawled out of the desert and ate the miners was implicit.
Shige paused as a group of miners was escorted past by armed Mariposa guards, heading from the mine back to their little prison camp. The miners clanked as they walked, shackled. One, a dark young woman whose hair hung lank around her head, looked hard at him as she passed. The ragged swirl of her now-mottled gray and black skirts hid the chains. Shige felt a shock of recognition that he quickly strangled: she’d been at the meeting he’d had with Magdala Kushtrim. He wondered if Mag was somewhere in the camp as well, or if she’d been killed in the raid. Either way, it would certainly light a fire under Hob Ravani, which would only benefit him – though hopefully she wouldn’t show up until Mr Yellow had finished with the mine.
To his intense relief, the woman looked away and said nothing. He made a mental note to see if he could speak to her on the sly, later. She might have interesting information.
As she passed by, Mr Yellow leaned toward her, and Shige tightened his grip. “Is something the matter, Mr Yellow?” he asked, pretending to have noticed nothing at all about the miners.
Mr Yellow sniffed at the air, and then his mouth rearranged itself into a puzzled frown. “We thought we smelled the light, but…”
“You must be hungry,” Shige soothed. It would be no surprise if an associate of the ragtag little resistance had some amount of blood contamination. “That sometimes makes things a bit confusing.” He tugged at Mr Yellow’s hand to get the Weatherman walking.
As they headed toward the dining tent, the low hum of osprey engines built in the air. Shige glance
d back in the direction of Newcastle and picked out the moving lights in the sky. “The convoy’s a bit late,” he observed.
“There’s a surprise,” Mr Yellow said.
He hadn’t heard the Weatherman speak in such a way before. Bemused, Shige asked, “One I’ll like?”
Mr Yellow tilted his head, like he was listening to something only he could hear. “You’ll be going home too.” Then he started humming to himself again, and didn’t seem to hear anything more Shige said.
He ought to be excited at the prospect, but it did mean he’d need to do his duty and dispose of the Weatherman. He was far too dangerous. Shige found he didn’t have the stomach for it any more, perhaps because he’d really begun to feel the similarities between the two of them, beings created in a lab to be used as tools. And Mr Yellow was so good to him, so dear, so important. Curious and concerned now, Shige watched the convoy land on the saltpan surrounding the camp. The massive stretch of extinct ocean was effectively one endless landing field. They could bring the next rift ship down here if they wished, and easily, so long as there wasn’t concern about native attacks.
He watched the crews begin to unload crate after crate of cargo, then saw Ms Meetchim, immaculate as always in her suit, exiting the final osprey. Security Chief Lien followed behind her, but headed in a different direction. Shige tugged his hand away from Mr Yellow’s fingers and hurried forward to meet her.
“Ms Meetchim, it’s lovely–” he started.
“Very good, Mr Rolland. I’m here to oversee the final breakthrough.” She kept walking, not even really looking at him as he caught up. She headed straight for one of the cooled tents that had been designated for meetings. No doubt she’d studied the camp layout on the way.
Shige kept up with her doggedly. “Of course. How may I best assist you?”
“Find a tent for me. Not shared. And send the engineers and the camp security chief to meet me.” They reached the tent and she stepped inside. “This will be a closed meeting, and I do not wish notes taken. Be about your business, Mr Rolland.” The door, thick canvas on a metal frame, shut in his face.
He took a step back, both mental and physical. What had happened, to put her in such a mood? A tremble of apprehension and excitement ran through him – had the inspector arrived? But why, then, was he being shut out? There was little he could do to prepare, but he would do as directed to maintain his cover as he thought it over.
Mag saw Anabi, in the twisting confusion of smoke and gas and floodlights. A greenbelly had her by the skirts and dragged her across the ground as Anabi silently screamed and stabbed him over and over again with the knife she’d brought to cut those pies. No blood came out of the gashes and tears in the greenbelly’s armor, just dribbles of blue sand. Anabi drove the knife into the ground, clutched it, and the seam on her skirts started to rip under the greenbelly’s fingers, pop pop pop pop–
Not splitting threads. Splitting air around bullets. Mag threw herself out of her tangled blanket, her head whirling in confusion. Her room was caught in the soft place between light and dark, the orange-pink of final light edging in between her curtains. She’d been sleeping days since the first attack, little catnaps really, trying to be ready for the next.
Another crackling volley split the air. Mag pulled on her shirt and skirt, and habit made her tuck Uncle Nick’s little pistol in her pocket. As she ran out of her house, she slapped every interior door she passed, shouting, “To the walls! Get to the walls! Everyone!”
She wasn’t the only one tumbling into the street. More people spilled from their houses, half-dressed, carrying the few guns they had or pickaxes and hammers. Mag fumbled up Clarence’s breather mask, which she’d grabbed on her way out. They’d all learned their lesson at the last attack. Right before she slipped the mask over her face, she spotted Omar, trying to run and buckle his belt at the same time. “Get the kids!” she shouted at him. “Get them out first!”
Because it wasn’t the soft, faintly hollow sound of gas canisters they were hearing now. It was bullets, real ones. And then faint screaming. Omar turned on his heel, and ran off in the other direction. Mag kept going, breath loud and hollow behind the mask, running for her spot on the wall. Why now? she wondered, as her feet thumped the hard-packed dirt. Why now? They should have had time, while the greenbellies tried to force them to yield with thirst, according to Coyote’s brother. It was too soon.
She climbed the ladder to the wall walk, right on the heels of the woman in front of her. Her heart sank as soon as she saw over, to the wall of floodlights and headlights that surrounded the town. A voice crackled and boomed over a speaker fuzzed with static: “I’m here to take my town back. Keep resisting!” She recognized it as Longbridge’s voice, and then someone yanked her down as another volley of gunfire cracked. Chips of hot, shattered synthcrete cut her cheek as they whistled past. Someone nearby screamed, and there was the meaty sound of a body falling down, off the wall.
Didn’t matter if it was too soon, Mag thought grimly. The greenbellies were at their door. Knowing the reason or not wasn’t going to save anyone’s life now.
“Keep your heads down!” Mag shouted. “Hard hats. Get your hard hats on.” She didn’t have one of her own, and had never been issued one. But there were extras now. She should have grabbed Clarence’s. “They try to send a message in?”
“Nothing,” the work gang leader for this section of the wall said. Mag recognized her voice, even muffled by the mask. “Caught a group of them heading for the wall with some charges and shot ’em.” She ducked down lower behind the wall. “Guess they’re mad we ruined their surprise, because then they all come up.”
“Ain’t the only shady thing they’re goin’ to try,” Mag said.
“I know,” the woman answered grimly. “Already passed it down the wall.”
“Good.” She didn’t know what else to say. The bigger problem was that none of them were soldiers. They could crouch behind a wall and shoot back, but what happened if – when – the walls got breached? Longbridge was out for revenge, and he’d already murdered Clarence.
Mag waited for a pause in the fire and peeped up over the wall. She drew her pistol from her pocket, aimed it like Old Nick had told her, and… hesitated. She looked down the barrel at a greenbelly, their face obscured with a mask. But there was a person in there, she could feel it even at this distance. Killing a person was a hard thing, a big thing, a terrible thing.
The greenbelly looked right at her and raised their rifle. Mag squeezed the trigger. Her shot went wild, and she threw herself down just in time to avoid the return shot. She cursed herself a million times a fool for hesitating, and for not ever practicing with Coyote. Hell of a time to realize that for all her carrying the little pistol around, she had no idea what to do with it.
But there was something else she could do. She could feel them all, out there, all those minds, intent on Ludlow. Mag shoved the useless little gun at the work gang leader – she’d know what to do with it – and pulled herself up again. She focused down on the greenbelly she’d been going to shoot, who’d almost shot her. She felt them – him – felt his mind, felt him ready to bend as she put more and more pressure on his will. She felt his intent, felt the shape of his orders, felt the blood waiting to spill out on either side.
She’d done this to Odalia, and hated herself almost as much as she’d hated Odalia. But that no longer mattered. She could stand to hate herself a little if she was still alive to do it on the other side. If even one more of her miners was still alive because she’d done this terrible thing.
She felt rather than saw the greenbelly shaking and trembling. His name sat on the tip of her tongue, but she refused to acknowledge it. She didn’t want to know. She just pushed and pushed, blood thundering in her temples, until he raised his rifle again, turned, and opened fire on the guard next to him.
Chapter Fifty
Mr Yellow hummed in the full dark, with the stars drowned out by the camp floodlights – th
ey had been going twenty-four hours here ever since the second shipment of battery stacks arrived. The Weatherman stood on the flat as close to the mine pit as Shige would allow him, gently swaying in time with his own music.
“Ms Meetchim wants to see you now,” a woman said behind them.
Shige turned toward her, noting the green uniform, the rifle held less casually than he liked in her pale hands. He didn’t recognize the security guard, which likely meant she’d come in with Ms Meetchim on the latest convoy. “Is she still in the second meeting tent?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
Shige glanced at Mr Yellow. “Will you–”
“I’ll stay with him,” the security guard said. “Go. It’s urgent.”
“All right.” Something about this didn’t feel right at all, and he’d learned to trust his instincts on such things. “Do remember to not look him in the eyes.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, moving up to crowd him out of his place.
“Goodbye,” Mr Yellow murmured.
The finality in that word, so uncharacteristic of Mr Yellow, made Shige feel bereft and stilled his feet. But the guard gave him a pointed look and he forced himself into motion again. Disquieted, he took a quick mental inventory of what he did have on him. No gun, because he never carried a gun – it was too easy to be caught with one. He had a garrote concealed in the hem of his jacket, which would only be useful if there was no audience. He also had a few microinjectors and darts. A pitiful defense. But he’d learned on his mother’s knee that if it came to violence, the situation was too far out of control anyway.
The atmosphere inside the tent was thick with tension, and he knew he was in serious trouble the moment he stepped over that threshold. Ms Meetchim waited there for him, along with three guards and Security Chief Lien. All regarded him with looks ranging from uncaring to cold hostility. He fought the urge to run at the sight. No one had threatened him yet; he still might be able to talk things into a useful circle. Running would simply get him shot in the back.
