Casey lifted the underwear, shined the UV on it. In the room light, it could barely be made out. The black splotches where blood absorbed the spectrum. “Found the child,” Casey said woodenly.

“Those are Felix’s!” Kevina cried, standing. “I made those for him.”

“Yeah,” Casey told her. “And he’s got blood under his fingernails. I didn’t run the fingerprints yet, but you can bet they’re going to match the ones on the vibraknife. And none of the other children fluoresced. Only Felix.” A pause. “When I asked him about it, Felix said, ‘I wasn’t there till the end.’ When I pursued it, he told me, ‘The Voice said it was all right.’”

The Voice?

62

Years ago, when Kalico’s father had finished a tough day, he had used the expression, “I feel like I’ve been beaten with supple sticks.” The saying seemed particularly apropos that evening when Kalico stepped into Inga’s, crossed the foyer, and paused at the head of the stairs that led down into the tavern. Damn. She had a lot of history in this place.

At the long tables, her people—along with PA’s residents and a handful of Wild Ones—sat behind mugs and glasses or bent over plates as they chowed down on whatever Inga’s special was. The sight of all those wide-brimmed hats, the quetzal-hide cloaks, propped rifles, and tough-looking people, brought a smile her face.

God, it was good to be back. Especially after her disastrous visit to the Maritime Unit and then the pain of the cave-in and all that came spiraling out of that. For the first time since the collapse in the Number Three, she’d reinstated the weekly rotations to PA. During the disaster, she’d wanted all hands available for rescue, support, or who knew what? Not that any of her people would have wanted to be anywhere but Corporate Mine.

At the bottom of the steps, she strode down the central aisle, waving and answering greetings called by the locals as she passed.

She could imagine the reaction back in Transluna. She was a fricking Board Supervisor, one of the most powerful women alive. The very notion that a woman of that stature would deign to share greetings, let alone riposte to ribald and insolently familiar salutations, would have left her old boss Miko Taglioni apoplectic.

Calls of “Sorry to hear about the cave-in,” “Anything we can do to help, you call,” “Our prayers are with you, Supervisor,” and “You need anything, let me know” warmed her heart. Doubly because had she asked, each and every one of the crusty Donovanians would have sprung to. Not because she was a vacuum-sucking Board Supervisor, but because she was one of them.

When did these become my people?