“I can do better. One more day and—”

“You’re ready,” he repeats.

—

That night we build a bonfire and watch the sparks whirl up and merge with the stars. It’s cold and the hermits, taciturn and watchful, join us at the fire. AM-41 sits on a flattened hunk of metal, maroon poncho falling loose off his shoulders, metal hands on his knees.

Malik hooks a stick under the lid of a black, three-legged pot on the fire. Peers inside. Rabbit stew. At least, that’s what Vidhan assures me. I have a bad feeling rabbits are an unlikely inhabitant of these salt-coloured deserts. But tell that to the saliva in my mouth. The smell is intoxicating and strong. So, rabbit stew it is. Again—the mind sees what it wants to see.

AM-41 unrolls an ancient map, dog-eared and faded, from the folds of his poncho. He flattens it on the ground and points.

“Here’s Gatwick,” he says. He slides his metal finger to the south. “We’re here.” He moves his finger across. “Main road’s here, ten clicks to the east. Runs to Doverville on the Channel. From there, reckon you can buy passage to Gaul.”

I lean over the map next to him.

“You think we should take the road? And then a boat?”

AM-41 shrugs. “In this world,” he says. “Why not? You got guns. You got swords. Ain’t nobody gonna stop you boostin a ride.”

“What’s that?” I say, pointing at a faint black line on the map, running north-to-south alongside the highway.

“Freight train,” he offers. “Carryin parts and supplies for them off-world ships they’re buildin in the port towns.” He takes a slug from a brown bottle and makes a weird grinding noise. He sways a little in his seat and hands the bottle to Vidhan.

“That would’ve been the Eurostar, back in Sol,” I say. “London St. Pancreas to Gare du Nord. Crossed right under the Channel. Two hours fifteen minutes.”

“Might’ve been so in Sol,” AM-41 says. “But that freight train’ll run dog-slow. And there ain’t no hope of it goin under the Channel. Not in Tir.”

“You’ve been there?” Malik says, looking at me. “To Paris?”

“Been there? I’m from there.”

“You’re French?” Vidhan says. He takes a drink and his eyes pop wide open.

I shake my head. “I was born there, in Paris. Been back many times.”

“Can you parlez?”

“Un peu.”

“Well then, you’re one up on us,” Malik says, shifting the coals under the pot. “None of us have been.”

“We should take the freight train south,” I say. “Doesn’t matter if it’s slow. If it’s carrying supplies, like you say, 41, we can hide in the crates.”

“Freight surfing,” Vidhan says. “Hell, I’m in.”