‘There.’ On the map, just beyond the canyon’s lip, a dotted line has been hashed in. ‘What’s that? It doesn’t say what it is, just…’ I peer, ‘Esterházy.’

Falco and Pegeen look at each other.

‘That’s Angel Share,’ Pegeen says. ‘It’s a port, kind of.’

‘A port? So we could land there?’

‘Not a good idea.’

‘Why the hell not?’ Silas yells as the whining increases. ‘I’ve heard of that place, a clearing house, isn’t it?’

Falco’s jaw is tight. ‘It’s a clearing house that will be crawling with bounty hunters, and what’s more, has a Marshal who is an asshole and a psychopath.’

Silas swears. ‘We’re going down fast, it’s there or fry in the desert!’

Pegeen takes Falco’s arm. ‘Pec would give us shelter, surely?’

Falco’s noise of disagreement is lost to the terrible lurch of the ship as it sinks. ‘Looks like we’ve got no choice.’

* * *

How Silas manages to limp the Charis the last few klicks to the edge of Angel Share I have no idea. By the time the settlement comes into view we are already flying too low, wallowing towards the ground like a drunk vulture. Through the tilting windshield I make out an ungainly metal structure: a port, with as many as thirty rusted docking platforms spreading across the dust. Behind it is a forest of containers, some new and shiny with paint, others dented and battered as if they have crossed the system a dozen times. A handful of buildings stretch beyond them, on either side of a dirt street, as if the port opened its great steel maw and belched them out onto the sand.

There are one or two other ships on the wharves, pilot birds and a pair of freighters, by the look of them. Not the reputable kind. I raise an eyebrow as Pegeen arms a pair of pistols. We’ll have to deal with whatever’s waiting.

The Charis flounders down onto the very last platform, almost taking out a gantry before fishtailing in the dirt and crashing to a stop against the buffer. Silas sags back in the pilot’s chair, hair matted with sweat.

‘That’s my girl,’ he gasps, patting the yoke.

‘Alright,’ Falco says, buckling a gun holster beneath her jacket, checking the one at her ankle. ‘Let’s get things straight. We get in, get the ship repaired, get out. We keep our heads down. We do not invite trouble.’ She shoots a meaningful look at the General.

‘It is never me,’ the General complains.

Falco grunts doubtfully. ‘Cover those tattoos, ma’am. And Low…’ She sighs, looking at my filthy, blood-stained clothes.

‘Here,’ says Silas wearily, shrugging out of his flight jacket. ‘Wear this. Then perhaps you can be the pilot. I’ve had enough of it.’ He goes back to packing his pipe with shaking fingers.

Gingerly, I slide my arms into the garment. The lining is torn and still damp from his perspiration. It’s heavy, and smells strongly of him: century smoke and sweat and old coffee. I turn the collar up to hide my wrapped throat, and for some reason, immediately feel better.