LITMIR.BIZ

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smiles. A bit sad and pained-looking, but it’s something.

      I’m halfway back to the main base, striding out, hope buzzing away inside me as I wonder if Wrath is finally about to cut me my first-ever break. That’s when I hear the blaster fire.

      My heart sinks. I reckon some drooler has seen the Slayer, lost it and started shooting. Ahead of me the tractors judder to a halt. The escorting fighters crouch and level their pulse rifles.

      More crackles of blaster fire. I see the flashes. And realise I’m wrong.

      It’s from way beyond the tractors – where all our tents are. Where I left Colm muttering into his bunk.

      Now I hear the tump-tump of pulse rifles. Returning fire?

      Peace deals and Slayers forgotten, I take off towards the flashes. The only weapon I’ve got is my hunting knife. No match for blasters, but it’ll have to do. Luckily, by the time I’ve pounded my way there the firefight seems to be over. People are milling around, mostly half dressed like they’ve just rolled out of their bunks, pushing and shoving and craning to get a look at what’s happened. Smoke curls up into the night, spark-filled, stinking. A few heavily armed fighters are shoving everybody back.

      ‘Who was shooting?’ I say, elbowing my way forward.

      Nobody here seems to know, so I work my way through the crowd until I hear some guy mouthing off about what he saw.

      ‘All three of ’em was wearing masks,’ he’s saying. ‘Piled into that tent over there and started blasting. I was having a smoke when I seen ’em go in.’ He shakes his head. ‘Crazy, it was.’

      ‘Where are the shooters now?’ somebody calls out.

      ‘All dead,’ the man says. ‘We got ’em. Not me, I didn’t have no gun. One of the guys in the tent zapped two. The last one tried to do a runner. A buddy of mine took him out.’

      More voices call out questions.

      ‘Who were the shooters? How many of our guys were killed?’

      But I’m past listening. Behind the line of fighters holding us back, I catch a glimpse of a tent in flames.

      The tent that Colm and me bunk down in.

      Panicking now, I shove my way to the front of the crowd.

      ‘Let me through! My brother’s in there!’ I yell.

      This cuts no ice with the hard-faced fighters keeping us all back.

      ‘Take it easy, fella,’ one growls.

      ‘I need to see if my brother’s okay,’ I say through my teeth.

      ‘What you need is to stay back,’ he says.

      ‘Okay, okay,’ I say, do a big old sigh, and turn away for just long enough to make them think I’m heading away.

      Turn, drop my shoulder and hurl myself through them.

      Two go down. One staggers, shoots a hand out and grabs me. An elbow in the face sorts her. A second later I’m at the blazing tent. That’s as far as I get though. The flames are too fierce and stop me in my tracks. If anybody’s inside they’re cooked.

      ‘Colm!’ I reel backwards.

      Into hands that drag me away. My feet are kicked from under me and I’m pushed down, flat on my face. I struggle, despairing and mad as hell, but just get to eat more dirt.

      I quit fighting and lie still. Wondering. Fearing.

      Finally, after what feels like forever, I’m hauled back to my feet. I lash out, more to share my pain than trying to break free.

      ‘Quit that!’ Somebody slams a hard punch into my kidneys.

      That kills. I hunch over.

      ‘The brother?’ a deep voice says behind me.

      ‘Says he is.’ They turn me around.

      There – frowning at me – is the great man himself. Ballard.

      Truth be told, I’m shocked. The same craggy face and close-cropped silver hair. The simple grey cloak of the Gemini Council worn over his combat fatigues. Only this Ballard is way more bent than I remember, impossibly older since I last saw him.

      He signals to the men holding me. ‘Go easy.’

      I’m held less tightly now, do my best to straighten up.

      ‘Kyle?’ Ballard says, his face mournful. ‘You’re not hurt?’

      ‘I’m all right,’ I mumble, glancing around at what’s left of the still-burning tent. ‘Colm was in that tent there. Is he –?’

      Can’t ask it, in case I get the answer I dread.

      I don’t get a second chance. A quick whispered order from Ballard to his fighter escort and now I’m being hustled away.

      ‘Wait, wait!’ I call out. ‘What about my brother?’

      But Ballard’s not listening. Flanked by his wary bodyguards he follows along slowly, his head down, as if deep in thought.

      ‘Kyle!’ Sky shouts. ‘What’s going on?’

      I look over my shoulder and see her trying to push past the cordon to reach me, only to be shoved roughly back.

      Her raging face is the last thing I see.

      The guards put a bag over my head. Everything goes black.

6

       STRINGS AND STINGS ATTACHED

      After a forever of stumbling along blindly and being pushed, I’m stopped, turned and shoved backwards. Hinges squeal, metal clangs and bolts rasp home. Finally, the hood is pulled off. I squint around at a small rock-walled chamber. Table. Bench. Covered shit-pit in the corner. Closed metal door. Loads of guards.

      ‘Why the bag over my head? What’s going on?’

      I’m wasting my breath. None of the guards will answer me; they just watch me out of their bored, tough-guy eyes like I’m some not-very-interesting bug. I give up asking, lie down on the bench and glower up at the rock ceiling, sick to my stomach.

      Does this mean Colm is dead?

      Time crawls by, slow and ugly. Wrath knows how long it is before the oil-starved hinges squeal again. The chamber door opens outwards and . . . Rona and Colm are shepherded inside.

      Seeing me, Rona’s hand flies to her mouth.

      I jump up from the bench. Rona dashes across the room, throws her arms round me and hugs me so tight I can hardly breathe.

      ‘Kyle! Oh, thanks be to goodness, we were so worried.’

      I hug her back, while over her shoulder I gawp at Colm. He looks shaken, his face pulled tight. His left arm is in a sling.

      ‘You’re alive,’ I blurt out.

      He grimaces. ‘Yeah. I think so.’

      Rona lets go of me, dabs at her red-looking eyes and takes a quick healer look at me. ‘You’re not hurt, are you?’

      ‘I’m fine,’ I tell her. ‘I – uh – wasn’t there to get shot at.’

      One of the guards who brought them in steps up, clears his throat and lays a gloved hand on her shoulder.

      ‘You’ve seen the boy needs no healing,’ he says. ‘Let’s go.’

      I glare at him, but Rona shoots me a quick warning look. She reaches out and pulls Colm and me together. ‘Listen to me,’ she says, frowning, ‘you’re

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