Starflight (Starflight, #1)(74)

Solara shifted on his lap and leaned closer to inspect the town, or what was left of it. She’d never seen destruction like this. Wood buildings were flattened, their timbers pounded to the dirt in splintered fragments. None of the ruins were charred by fire, and she didn’t see any evidence of a flood. It looked as if a giant boot had simply descended from the heavens and stomped the settlement into the ground. Stranger still, the surrounding fields of leafy-green crops were untouched, including a reaping machine half covered in vines.

“A weapon, maybe?” she said.

The captain shook his head and steered the shuttle east. “A lightning spout.”

“A what?”

“It’s a side effect of sloppy terraforming. When the atmosphere’s not stable, it causes weird storms. Like twisters that build up pressure and strike in a single bolt. See how the damage is contained?”

She nodded.

“That’s how you can tell.” He grumbled to himself and said, “The settlement brokers colonize these terraforms too soon. They lure folks out to the fringe with the promise of free acreage, then leave ’em stranded here for life…however long that lasts.”

“Why don’t the settlers go back?” Doran asked.

“With what money?” the captain said. “They sell everything they own for the broker’s fee and a one-way ticket to the promised land. Once they get here, they spend whatever’s left on seed, equipment, and the fuel to operate it. That doesn’t leave much for transport fare.”

“What about fuel?” Doran asked. “If you wanted to fill your tank here, how much would it cost?”

The captain shook his head. “Only a fool would do that.”

“Humor me. How much per unit?”

“Not sure,” Rossi said, lifting a shoulder. “At least a hundred credits, maybe more.”

Doran’s jaw dropped. “But it was only two credits on Obsidian.”

“You’re not on Obsidian anymore.”

“That’s price gouging,” Doran said. “How do the settlers run their equipment?”

Solara recalled the mechanical reaper she’d seen abandoned in the field. “I guess they don’t,” she said, and her mind wandered to Vega. How long would they need a mechanic if they couldn’t afford to use their machinery?

“Anyway,” the captain went on. “Assuming the colonists hitched a ride back to Earth, they’d have nowhere to live, except crammed into a one-bedroom flat with a half dozen other families. That’s why they left in the first place.”

“And they can’t make a life anywhere else,” Solara said. “Not without money or a prearranged job.” A chill gripped her stomach. Even if she found work in the tourist ring, that would put her within reach of the Enforcers and another felony charge. When faced with the choice between Vega and a prison settlement, she’d have to take her chances in the fringe. She told herself it would be okay, that she’d prepared for this.

It felt like a lie.

“So they stay,” the captain said.

“And make the best of it,” she finished. “Like I will.”

Doran held her close with one hand while using the other to tug on his earlobe, something he only did after an argument or when he had to apologize to her. She wondered if he was worried about sharing her fate, assuming he couldn’t clear the charges against him.

“It’s all right,” she whispered. “Your dad’s probably got loads of money stashed away. I’m sure you won’t end up crashing on my sofa.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face as if he hadn’t listened to a word she’d said, and then he refocused on the landscape. “If someone sent a distress call, there were survivors. Where’s the nearest town? Maybe they went there.”

“About a four-day walk south of where we landed the Banshee,” the captain said. “But their wounded wouldn’t be able to make the journey. They probably built a temporary camp.” He pointed to a thin finger of smoke curling up from a vacant stretch of landscape with no structures or people in sight. “Like that one.”

The captain landed the shuttle on a hilltop about twenty yards away, but instead of opening the side hatches, he raised an antique pistol for show, the kind that fired metal slugs instead of energy pulses.

“Ever shoot one of these?” he asked. When they shook their heads, he handed them each a sheathed dagger. “Then tuck this in your belt. And don’t be afraid to use it.”

“I thought we were here to help,” Doran said.

The captain strapped a pistol across his chest. “You’ve never tried to save a drowning man, have you?”

“No,” Doran said, wrinkling his forehead. “What’s that got to do with—”

“He panics,” the captain interrupted. “Grabs onto you and pushes you under. He can’t help it. He’ll do anything for one more breath.” Rossi pointed a second pistol at them before adding it to his holster. “Desperate people kill to survive. I’ll do what I can for these settlers, but not at the expense of losing one of my own. Are we clear?”

They nodded.

“Good,” he said, unlocking the hatch. “Now, watch each other’s backs.”

The noise of the shuttle had drawn a dozen survivors from their hiding places. The settlers blinked at them with bloodshot eyes that seemed to bulge from their skulls. So much filth covered their faces and matted their hair that Solara couldn’t tell the men from the women, or even their ages. Their clothes hung in tatters from sharp, thin shoulders, and bony ankles jutted from torn trouser hems.