“Akkar?” she asked sharply, and crossed herself. “They caught Akkar? Well, shit.”

“They didn’t catch him. He went visible so I could position myself for this. Very visible, actually.”

“You are joking, detoxification man.”

“No joke.”

“Akkar’s coming?”

“Yes. And when he does, we’re all out of here. Everyone goes home.”

“I’ll take you to the longhouses,” Foluwakemi said. “You can see if your wife is there.”

“Thank you.”

“If she’s not…”

Callum grinned weakly. “Don’t worry, I’ll still get you all out.”

—

It wasn’t far to the collection of buildings that the exiles had built for themselves. Callum ordered Apollo to record everything his screen lenses were capturing. They would all be relying on the images for leverage when he got back to Earth. He didn’t know what to look for at first, so it took him a while to recognize what he was walking toward. In his mind he’d pictured a medieval-style village of circular huts with thatched roofs. Stupid, because Zagreus didn’t have any vegetation; there were no trees for wood or palms. Instead the outcasts had built themselves stone walls three meters high, forming long rectangles. They were roofed with sheets of transparent polythene.

“It comes in big rolls,” Foluwakemi explained. “They send it inside the survival barrels, like everything else. It’s thin, but really tough, thankfully.”

“What else do they give you?”

“Clothes.” She patted her coat. “Seeds, eggs, some tools, a few utensils, basic medicine. Food, of course—to start with. You get enough to last a few months, by which time you should be growing your own.” She shrugged. “At least, that’s the theory some desk expert worked out. In practice, it’s bloody hard. Poor nutrition causes a lot of health problems. And this air’s none too good for us, either. Then there are…disputes.”

There were plenty of people milling around outside. Five new longhouses were under construction. Callum stared at the wheelbarrows that stones were being carried about in, marveling at the ingenuity. Each was made of a barrel cut lengthwise, with a barrel rim as its wheel, strips of barrel forming the handles.

“They’re damn useful,” Foluwakemi admitted reluctantly as she caught him watching.

She went over to one of the crews building a wall. Callum’s hand stayed very close to his pistol as she talked to them. A group started to gather, inspecting him from a distance, their voices a low grumble on the verge of menacing. It was the weapons on his belt that made him stand out, he knew; everyone here would be up-close familiar with the types and who carried that particular combination. He kept his nerve and stared back levelly, as if they were of no consequence.

Then, as he dreaded would happen, someone was striding across the ground toward him, a big man with a dark beard that hung a good twenty centimeters down the front of his coat. He was carrying an axe, its handle made from thick strips of yellow barrel plastic, bound to a stone blade. His supporters in the watcher group started to flow after him.