Stitching Snow (2 page)

“That I will. Lemme walk yeh out. Grayson, keep an eye on things.” Once his assistant nodded an acknowledgment, Petey took his coat from the hook and turned back to me. “Bundle up, now. It’s a cold one.”

He said that every time I left the Station. Every second on Thanda was a “cold one.” The obviousness never kept him from watching to ensure I followed the advice. I pulled up the hood of my own coat, tucked in my scarf, and accepted his smile as he ushered me out.

An electronic voice greeted me on the other side of the door.

“Essie Essie Essie.”

I wasn’t surprised to see the little robot lurking nearby, but I sighed anyway. “Didn’t I tell you to go home?”

“Home Essie home.”

“Right, got it.”

Petey chuckled. “At least ol’ Dimwit’s stopped tryin’ to follow yeh in.”

That was true enough. The men weren’t fond of the drone’s squealing and squawking throughout the fi ghts.

“I can make it home on my own, Petey,” I said.

“I know yeh can. But I have a delivery to make down the way.”

“Suit yourself.”

We walked to the street, and I enjoyed the quiet while Dimwit 5

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scurried amongst some empty supply crates. The drone’s four spider-legs made it faster and more agile than I’d ever be, but it lagged behind like a distracted puppy, its optic lenses swiveling to take in scenery that never changed. Its arms moved endlessly, ready to make mischief, which meant I had to keep half an eye on it. Nothing new there.

Both moons were out, their light glinting off the stark metal structures lining Forty-Two’s main drag. The shacks closest to the Station were in high demand, with easier access to supplies, entertainment, and jack-ale; I was more than happy with mine at the edge of the settlement, even if it meant I had a fi fteen-minute walk ahead of me.

Fifteen uneventful minutes . . . usually.

As I turned to tell Dimwit to get moving, a streak of light approached over the eastern edge of the settlement, bringing with it a bone-grinding whine.

“What in blazes . . . ?”

Petey’s question was a good one. As the object passed over, I got enough of a look to answer. It was a shuttle of some kind.

Not like the usual carriers that took merinium from the mine to a spaceport. No, this was more elegant, carefully designed, with massive engines.

Interplanetary. The kind of shuttle that wasn’t supposed to come directly to the settlements.

And judging by the way it careened past, it was completely out of control. Not long after it disappeared beyond the scraggy forest, the ground shuddered.

Petey was on the move before the vibrations stopped, running back to the Station and shouting for Grayson to grab a 6

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medical kit and anyone sober enough to see straight. When the older man got back to my side, I was still frozen, staring.

“What do yeh think, Essie?” he asked. “The fll ats?” His tone told me we needed to help, but something in me resisted. Something that lured me to the comfort of my routine here, to things that didn’t change.

Mother would’ve been halfway there already. That thought sparked me into motion.

“Aye, the fll ats. Let’s go. Dimwit, move!” I broke into a run with Petey on my heels and jabbed the transmitter I wore on my wrist. “Whirligig, you hear me?”

A faint electronic voice replied through the tiny speaker.

“Affi rmative, Essie.”

“You and the others get out to the fll ats beyond the forest. A ship has crashed. Find it and report back.” Two beeps were all the response I got. ’Gig and the other fi ve drones were well ahead of us at my shack and would cover ground more quickly than Petey and I could. So could Dimwit, but it lingered at my side.

“Don’t suppose you want to pick up the pace and help the others?” I asked.

“Run Essie help Essie.”

“Right, whatever.”

We passed my shack and kept going into the forest that bordered that side of the settlement, farthest from the mine.

The moonlight didn’t help much among the trees, shadows disguising the roots and stubborn undergrowth, but I didn’t slow down. Petey fell a step or two back, but I knew he’d keep up well enough. Even with his age, the man was still fi ghting-fi t.

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Halfway to the fll ats, the receiver on my wrist pinged. I punched it as I ran. “Did you fi nd it, ’Gig?”

“Affi rmative, Essie.”

“What do you see?”

Ticktock’s voice cut in. “Garamite design, Class Three intra-system shuttle.”

Garamite. Two orbits away from home and coming to the wrong part of Thanda. That made no sense.

“Condition?”

“Signifi cant damage, specifi cs unknown,” ’Gig said. “Infra-red indicates possible fi res in command and engine compartments. Instructions?”

“Try to get inside and pull out any people on board. Use medical protocols. And put out the fi res!” My muscles burned, but I ran harder, cursing the weight of my coat. If I dropped it, I’d have bigger problems. At least the snows hadn’t come yet.

With the adrenaline pushing me, the eight links I could walk in an hour took under twenty minutes. But it felt like days. The drones could only do so much for the people on board; for all I knew, we were eighteen minutes too late.

I stopped at the edge of the woods to assess the scene. The fll ats spread before me, and the shuttle lay dead center. Not as bad a crash as I’d feared—it was still in one right-side-up piece.

The sparks and smoke, however, didn’t bode well.

Neither did the lack of people outside. A hatch gaped open at the rear of the shuttle, so the drones had made it in.

Petey caught up, along with Grayson and one of the miners. Just one. With Petey’s stipulation of “sober enough to see straight,” I wasn’t surprised.

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“Essie, I . . . I don’t like the look of that smoke,” Petey said.

I caught the look in his eyes. Worry, but also fear. He’d told me stories about a mine fi re when he was younger, how he’d lost friends down there. Grayson was the kind of man who could only unpack jack-ale if Petey gave him bottle-by-bottle instructions, and the miner he’d brought wasn’t one of the sharpest, either.

The people inside the shuttle didn’t have time for this.

“The drones’ll manage it,” I said. “Come on!” I forced more air into my lungs, ignoring the protest of my bruised ribs, and pushed on across the fll ats. The three men followed. “Got those fi res out, ’Gig?” I said into my wrist transmitter.

“Affi rmative, Essie. Secondary fi re ignited in rear compartment . . . now extinguished.”

True enough, the plume of smoke eased up as we approached.

Still no sign of people. “Survivors?”

“One human male, command compartment.”
Blazes, just one?

Petey cut in. “Well, why haven’t you brought him out?”

“Medical protocol. Do not move humans with possible spinal or cranial trauma.”

I clambered through the hatch into the engine compartment, coughing on the acrid smoke lingering in the air. It was the last thing I needed after a hard run, and I gripped my aching ribs with one arm. The drones didn’t have the same problem. Clank and Clunk worked on locking down the electrical overloads sparking all over the ship, and Zippy put out a minor fi re behind a control panel.

“Make sure the drones didn’t miss other survivors,” I told 9

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Petey and the other two men, taking the medical kit from Grayson. “I’ll get the pilot.”

I left them to it, hurrying past two lateral rooms to the command compartment at the front, half expecting to fi nd a dead body or two to climb over.

No bodies. The pilot slumped over the main console, his safety harness unfastened. All I could see injurywise was a nasty burn on the back of his right hand. Whirligig stood nearby as though unsure what to do, so I sent it to help the others. I pulled a scanner from the medical kit, and it gave me the details

’Gig couldn’t.

Defi nite concussion, smoke inhalation, plenty of serious con-tusions, and several burns, but nothing to prevent him from being moved.

Before I could say as much, the console erupted in a new cascade of sparks, along with the panels to either side of me. I grabbed the pilot around the chest and pulled him back, hauling him out of the chair.

“Petey, a little help!”

The old man ducked in and took the pilot’s legs, helping me carry him to the rear of the ship, electrical discharges shower-ing every step. Grayson and the miner met us at the hatch and lent a hand getting us out.

“Cut the power—just cut it!” I shouted at the drones. “Anyone else alive?”

Petey had to cough three times before his voice could answer.

“No, but no one dead, either. He was the only one on board.” We laid the pilot on the frozen ground, and I fi nally got a good look at him.

He was young, around my age.

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“What in blazes is a kid from Garam doin’ all the way out here?” Petey said.

I was thinking the same thing. Shuttle pilots were usually cantankerous and old, especially the types who traveled alone.

And when they bothered coming to our planet at all, even black-market pilots went down to the Bands, not the mines.

The boy was also beautiful in a way that didn’t make sense on a rock like Thanda. Golden skin that saw more sun in a day than we saw in a whole cycle, strong cheekbones and jaw like an artist had drawn him, and brown hair with just the slightest curl. The one less-than-beautiful feature was a bloody gash on his forehead.

I couldn’t breathe. He was terrifying.

One of the drones swore, breaking my spell.

“You said it, Cusser. Come on, boys, let’s rig something to get him back to town.”

11

2

WHEN I’D SAID “back to town,” I hadn’t meant my own shack, yet that’s where the men left the strange Garamite boy. Petey gave two reasons: it was closest to the wreck, and it kept our visitor farthest from the mine. Good reasons.

We’d sedated him to keep him out for the journey, but I’d seen plenty of worse injuries in Forty-Two. A smart-plaster on his forehead, regenerative wraps on his burns . . . The boy would be good as new soon enough.

And then what?

I would have been happy if he stayed asleep looking pretty for a few decades, but I doubted that would happen. Eventually, I’d have to deal with him.

A tap on the door signaled Petey’s return from a quick stop at the Station. The no-good-news look on his face didn’t improve my mood.

“Immigration offi cials on their way?” I asked.

“No, and that’s the thing. There aren’t any alerts about a R.C. ll E WI S

sanctioned shuttle crashin’, but there aren’t any about a
non
sanctioned shuttle crossin’ the perimeter, either.” Hearing that Immigration wasn’t on the way was a relief, but not enough to balance the new questions. “Scan-scrambler?” He shrugged his slumped shoulders. “Must be. But it’d be a mighty powerful one to get through up here. What would a boy like this be doing with such a thing, and alone?” That question piqued the part of my brain that craved new puzzles. “I’ll fi nd out. You’re exhausted, Petey. Head on home.” I cut off his attempt to protest. “You all have work to do in the morning, and if I can handle Jarom Thacker, I can handle one injured boy from Garam. I’ll let you know if I fi nd out anything.” He gave in and left again, slamming the door a bit hard on his way out—hard enough to rouse my mysterious guest, who began to stir. From the groan, I guessed I hadn’t gone heavy enough with the painkillers. He wouldn’t be feeling too spry, but I palmed a tack laser behind my back, just in case. As well as I could handle a fi ght, a makeshift weapon meant a lot less effort.

A second groan resolved into words. “Ow . . . What—where am I?”

“On Thanda. Mining Settlement Forty-Two.” His eyes wandered, unfocused, until they settled on me.

Dark eyes with an unnerving depth to them. “Forty-Two . . .

There was a malfunction, smoke everywhere.”

“Aye, then you crashed about eight links from the settlement.”

“Crashed?!”

He pushed himself up, too fast, nearly toppling over before I pushed him back with my free hand.

“Slow down. You’re not going anywhere just yet.”

“My shuttle. Is it—?” The boy gasped for breath, pain 13

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contorting his face and raising sweat across his forehead.

I thought about giving him a higher dose of painkillers, but decided I preferred him immobile.

“Still in one piece, but in a bit of a state. It’s not going anywhere just yet, either.”

“How bad is it? Can it be repaired? Is there someone who could do that?”

A snort of laughter slipped out. “The slugs around here are good enough at
using
machines, but haven’t a baby’s fi rst gasp on how to make them work to begin with. Garamite brains like yours, you can manage yourself, right?”

“What? I . . . Not my area. Botany. I don’t know anything about shuttles. But it has to be fi xed. I can’t stay here forever.”

“True enough. Forty-Two’s work crew is full up, and you don’t seem the mining type. Mind telling me why you’ve gone to the trouble of scan-scrambling your way here in the fi rst place?” He paled enough to tell me it wasn’t just about the pain.

“What do you mean?”

“We may not be brilliant Garamites around here, but we know there’s only one way to get to the surface undetected.

There are
three
habitable planets in this solar system other than your Garam, and no one chooses Thanda for a vacation. So why are you here?”

“You’ll laugh.”

Unlikely.
I told him so without a word.

“I’m treasure hunting.”

“If you think you’re going to steal one speck of merinium, those miners will make you wish we hadn’t pulled you from that wreck.”

My decided lack of laughter seemed to startle him. “No, not 14

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merinium! Not even close. Chasing stories, that’s all. Doesn’t much matter now, if my shuttle can’t be repaired.” A sigh hefted my chest. He didn’t have many options, and neither did we. Only two, really—report him to Immigration or not. No one in the settlement wanted government offi cials coming around if we could help it. We were happy to be far from the eyes and ears of the crown on Windsong. As long as this boy didn’t interfere with our mine, no one would much care what kind of lawbreaker he was.