said, through coughs. ‘Hashim was the only mechanic in Herse, and he died of the Fever in the summer along with the rest of them.’
Shepherd closed his eyes and swore silently. Then he said, ‘Seeing that a lot, lately.’
‘We all gotta die sometime.’
Before Shepherd could sit, the shuttle was moving.
The hangar was quiet. The desk clerk was alone. The muscle, maybe sick of waiting around, were nowhere to be seen, and the door to their office was closed.
Shepherd strolled through the gate towards the main exit doors to the landing platforms. He wouldn’t be able to leave without a Customs Licence and the tunnel breach co-ordinates, so the clerk didn’t even look at him. The off-worlders were also gone, and when Shepherd blew through the doors and into the landing area, there was only one freighter left besides Soteria.
Shepherd walked over to her, punched in the key code and went inside to check the cargo. Nothing had changed. No one had been on board or messed with her while he was away.
This place is making me paranoid.
He pulled out his toolboxes and headed outside into the weather.
He positioned himself under one of Soteria’s rear stabilising wings, trying to get at the wiring of the aerodynamic pod for the wing. Within a few minutes, the cold was already irritating his eyes, and sweat poured off his brow, freezing in place and making his face feel like ice. He allowed himself the admission that he was on a bit of a prayer, and hoped Soteria would forgive him, but he figured that he’d get the job done well enough to get out of Herse.
‘You goin’ ’bout that all wrong.’
When he heard the voice behind him, his hand snapped to his pistol.
It was a young voice, mid-pitch and soft, and barely carried above the wind.
Calm down, for crying out loud.
He turned slowly.
‘Yeah?’ he said to a tall, slender boy about halfway through his teens. ‘What would you know about it?’
The boy was dressed in a grubby jumper, pants stained with dark patches of what could have been anything, and worn leather boots with peeling soles. His hair fell around his eyes, and his face was greyish blue from the cold. In his trembling hands was a toolbox, which he set down on the ground.
The weather was getting worse. The wind had picked up and it was starting to snow hard. The boy must have been freezing.
‘Plenty. More’n you, it seems to me.’
‘You’re just a kid,’ Shepherd said, taking in the toolbox.
‘And you’re an old guy with a tech problem. What’s me being a kid got to do with it?’
Not much , Shepherd thought, if you can fix it .
‘Where’d you learn about mechanics? They teach that in school now?’ Shepherd asked.
‘Never been much for school. Let me look at it and then you pay me if it works.’
Shepherd waited for a moment, staring at the boy, then waved for him to take a shot.
‘What do I call you, kid?’
‘Ishmael.’
C HAPTER S IX
Hunted
THE WIND howled as it slipped between the gnarled trees surrounding him. Above, a hawk shrieked as it hunted. Jordi crept around the warped trunk of a fallen pine that was soaked in snow. The forest hadn’t been completely overcome by the touch of winter, and he took care to avoid fresh snow and to step only in places where he felt sure he would leave no tracks. Every so often he would glance over his shoulder, as much to check if the forest harboured a pursuer as to ensure he left no trace of his passing. He wondered whether the forest had been there before the first men arrived, or if it had grown since they terraformed the planet. To him, it seemed ancient and immortal.
His mother’s sewn burlap sack hung off one shoulder and across his back, and his slingshot was tucked into his belt. He wore layers of thick wool sweaters as well as a few blankets he’d torn apart and fashioned into a jacket of sorts. His hands were bare, and when he didn’t need them to climb over fallen trees or carefully brush aside branches laden with
Shepherd closed his eyes and swore silently. Then he said, ‘Seeing that a lot, lately.’
‘We all gotta die sometime.’
Before Shepherd could sit, the shuttle was moving.
The hangar was quiet. The desk clerk was alone. The muscle, maybe sick of waiting around, were nowhere to be seen, and the door to their office was closed.
Shepherd strolled through the gate towards the main exit doors to the landing platforms. He wouldn’t be able to leave without a Customs Licence and the tunnel breach co-ordinates, so the clerk didn’t even look at him. The off-worlders were also gone, and when Shepherd blew through the doors and into the landing area, there was only one freighter left besides Soteria.
Shepherd walked over to her, punched in the key code and went inside to check the cargo. Nothing had changed. No one had been on board or messed with her while he was away.
This place is making me paranoid.
He pulled out his toolboxes and headed outside into the weather.
He positioned himself under one of Soteria’s rear stabilising wings, trying to get at the wiring of the aerodynamic pod for the wing. Within a few minutes, the cold was already irritating his eyes, and sweat poured off his brow, freezing in place and making his face feel like ice. He allowed himself the admission that he was on a bit of a prayer, and hoped Soteria would forgive him, but he figured that he’d get the job done well enough to get out of Herse.
‘You goin’ ’bout that all wrong.’
When he heard the voice behind him, his hand snapped to his pistol.
It was a young voice, mid-pitch and soft, and barely carried above the wind.
Calm down, for crying out loud.
He turned slowly.
‘Yeah?’ he said to a tall, slender boy about halfway through his teens. ‘What would you know about it?’
The boy was dressed in a grubby jumper, pants stained with dark patches of what could have been anything, and worn leather boots with peeling soles. His hair fell around his eyes, and his face was greyish blue from the cold. In his trembling hands was a toolbox, which he set down on the ground.
The weather was getting worse. The wind had picked up and it was starting to snow hard. The boy must have been freezing.
‘Plenty. More’n you, it seems to me.’
‘You’re just a kid,’ Shepherd said, taking in the toolbox.
‘And you’re an old guy with a tech problem. What’s me being a kid got to do with it?’
Not much , Shepherd thought, if you can fix it .
‘Where’d you learn about mechanics? They teach that in school now?’ Shepherd asked.
‘Never been much for school. Let me look at it and then you pay me if it works.’
Shepherd waited for a moment, staring at the boy, then waved for him to take a shot.
‘What do I call you, kid?’
‘Ishmael.’
C HAPTER S IX
Hunted
THE WIND howled as it slipped between the gnarled trees surrounding him. Above, a hawk shrieked as it hunted. Jordi crept around the warped trunk of a fallen pine that was soaked in snow. The forest hadn’t been completely overcome by the touch of winter, and he took care to avoid fresh snow and to step only in places where he felt sure he would leave no tracks. Every so often he would glance over his shoulder, as much to check if the forest harboured a pursuer as to ensure he left no trace of his passing. He wondered whether the forest had been there before the first men arrived, or if it had grown since they terraformed the planet. To him, it seemed ancient and immortal.
His mother’s sewn burlap sack hung off one shoulder and across his back, and his slingshot was tucked into his belt. He wore layers of thick wool sweaters as well as a few blankets he’d torn apart and fashioned into a jacket of sorts. His hands were bare, and when he didn’t need them to climb over fallen trees or carefully brush aside branches laden with
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