“Maybe fifteen hundred miles. In your current physiological state, it would take a little over three weeks to walk.”

“Can we cannibalise both crafts to make a vehicle?”

“No, but I’ve been trying, combining components conceptually. I will continue.”

“Do we have weapons?”

“Some,” says Fin.

“Let’s be prepared for a fight if need be,” says Shell.

Salvo says, “Who are we fighting?”

“Space pirates,” says Shell. “Lagos space pirates. Mutants hiding in the service ducts. Diseased Earthmen hiding in service ducts. Rogue AIs. Fucking Ragtime’s robots. I don’t know, take your pick. We were just knocked out of the sky by a demon AI that possessed our ship.”

“Um, are we worried that we’ve seeded experimental organisms into this biosphere?” says Joké.

“I can’t worry about that right now,” says Shell.

“That’s how it happens, you know. Nobody worries until it’s too late,” says Joké.

All the plants grow in whorls or spirals, some concentric. There are floating spheres of entangled fungus carried on the breeze. Fragrant, foul, all in between.

Frances returns with small mammals he has killed, drops them in the camp, trots off again.

“It’s my first time on a planet. I feel fat. Do I look fat?” says Joké.

“Something’s coming,” says Salvo. “The sky.”

They all tense up and Fin distributes weapons.

It’s a drone. It circles the site and speeds away.

“It won’t be long now,” says Fin. “That’s a seeker-type, information gatherer. Its mummy won’t be far behind.”

The drone craft that arrives for them hovers for five minutes before landing. It’s strictly rescue and they can’t pack anything. Protocol insists that Shell destroy the remnants of the Ragtime, but fuck that. She leaves a marker and has the core of the Pentagram in a suitcase-sized package at her feet, the trapped soul of Ragtime. She’ll be back to the site.

As the drone flies them back, the radio comes alive. “This is Demetrius Peole of Bloodroot Mission Control. Are there any injured in your number?”

“This is Rasheed Fin, investigator. No injured. I need to speak to Lead Investigator Unwin ASAP.”

“Good to hear your voice, Fin. He’ll be here to debrief you when you return.”

“Negative, this is urgent. The culprit of the murders is still at large. I have reason to believe he still intends mischief. We need to apprehend him before he can do any more damage.”

“Stand by,” says Peole. The radio goes dead. Fin and Shell stare at each other, faces lit in the glow of the instrument panel. Outside, the landscape rushes by, dotted with the occasional hermit’s dwelling.

“Fin, is Michelle Campion there?” asks Peole.

“Here,” says Shell.

“Stand by for Head of Missions Malaika.”

A pause, then, “Captain Campion?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was this culprit a passenger?”

“Well…”

Chapter Forty

Bloodroot: Brisbane