Next to him Akuji gazes into the flames, saying nothing. I watch her while nursing the callouses on my fingers and my palms. She lifts her gaze and her eyes find mine. I look straight back at her through the smoke. I feel certain she’s about to offer some sly remark about falling over ledges, but she doesn’t. Instead she does something entirely surprising. She stands, walks around the fire, and sits down next to me.

You are thinking too hard, she says into my head.

“About the route?” I say, turning to her.

She shakes her head. About your mistakes. Your poor footwork, your bad strikes and defences. You get stuck in your mistakes. It is why you lost. Put them behind you. Let go. Find a way to win, from inside.

For Akuji, it’s an epic speech. And it strikes me as a fair comment, which makes her even more unusual. Akuji lives with such visible intensity it’s hard to imagine her ever letting go. She’s a walking contradiction. An enigma. One thing and then another.

“You’re right,” I tell her aloud. “I’m forcing it. But I will get better.”

She holds my gaze. Her eyes don’t waver. Yes, is all she says.

“Speaking about getting better,” Vidhan yells. “Have a swig of some of this stuff.” He hurls a bottle over the flames and I snatch it cleanly out the air.

“Firewater?” I ask, opening the cap.

“Nah, mate. Home brew. I call it the Doctor. AM-41 keeps a stash for me, in case I ever need it. Which I do. A lot.”

I take a sip and feel the burn sear my throat.

“Hoo haa!” Vidhan shouts. A log snaps and collapses and sparks swirl up into the night. On the far side of the fire, Malik watches me. I feel light-headed and woozy. My skin tingles. I throw back my head and take another long slug.

We sleep on our bedrolls in front of the glowing embers, long into the late morning. When we wake, bleary-eyed, we pack our gear and, with a gift of a poncho each, we leave the graveyard of planes and the cyborg hermits with their metal faces and their quiet intensity. We trek east across an unremittingly bleak desert. AM-41 accompanies us, leading the way. After about five miles, we see the train blinking in the sun.

AM-41 swings his poncho over his metal hip and looks at me.

“Thank you,” I tell him, hand reaching instinctively for the Wraith, fingers rubbing the bevelled edges of the glass vial.

He watches me and says nothing.

“Will we see you again?” I ask.

“If you must, you will,” he says. “In this world, or the next.”

I squint at him. My mouth is dry. I feel a monster headache coming on.

38