Through Fire

Through Fire - Chapter 09

As they carried out the search, Flint marveled at the changes he'd seen in Diana since he'd first met her, dancing on the Rhino's back. Before she had been carefree, perhaps insolent, but daring. She had wanted to run from the city, escape the prison she had grown up in, or rather the prison her uncle had begun to build, first for her, and then for them all. She still seemed daring, and yes, she could still hurl insults – even at a whole crowd of riggers, but underneath it all he sensed something new, a fierce determination to return, to run and hide no more, and instead to regain her home, renew it, take it back from the beast who had stolen it.

He wondered, as these thoughts flowed through him, how much of what he saw was real insight, and how much his own feelings layered onto the girl. He, too, had tried to turn his back on the city, and he too had found that it bound him, not with steel chains, but something finer. When he had found Tessa Clavar and her young daughter Caldy, prisoners of the slavers, he had been appalled, and when he had learned how Burl had sold them, sold them himself, fury had overwhelmed him, and he had raced back to do rigger justice on Burl, but ever since that night when he had thrown Burl's broken body onto the pyre, and his rage had burned on, he had known that his feeling was not a moment of anger at an act of injustice, but a deep hate of a system that put prices on people, a system that, he now saw, took a straight path to slavery.

He would stop Vistor, with his hands, his rig, or Caerlion's gun, if need be. But the real challenge would follow on the heels of the first, for Vistor was not their ultimate enemy, and once Diana returned to the city, she would see that. She would have to.

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The search continued long into the night, for there were many rigs, and though some were small, they were all freighters, with large holds and lots of nooks to stow cargo. Caerlion went along, sullen and withdrawn, prodded by Nathor, who had produced a long curved knife, hooked at the tip like a sickle or an eagle's beak. Nathor smirked when the cruel point left a thin mark on Caerlion's neck. Perhaps he hoped to provoke a reaction from the enigmatic insurgent, but Caerlion never spoke, and his eyes remained unreadable behind his glasses. Jerethy watched this with a sour look, but he said nothing to Nathor, perhaps hoping to avoid further infighting among the riggers at a time when they needed to cooperate.

At last they finished the search. Where spirits had run high, now Flint saw glum looks and heard bitter grumbles. He shared the other riggers' frustration, but Nathor gave it voice. "This was a wasted evening."

They crowded into a rough circle on the black strip that ran from the hydrants back to the great way, and Nathor shoved Caerlion into the centre at the rounded end of his knife. "This creature can tell us how much of the girl's story is true," he said, "if any."

Flint stepped towards him. "You think I would push this at you on a whim?"

Nathor rolled his big green eyes. "You kill on a whim, rigger. Having us run around like idiots seems a deal less serious than that."

Flint curled his hands into fists. "Says the man who filled his hold with homemade bombs. You're a danger to everyone around you, Nathor, and more still to yourself. How you haven't blown your rig up I do not know."

Nathor turned away from Caerlion, and angled the blade towards Flint. "I figure this for a big lie, Flint. I figure Vistor put you up to it. We all know he buttered you up and slipped you out of the noose. I figure he sent you to mess with us so we'd screw up the race, and his chosen rigger could take the prize."

"And who would that be? Who would Vistor's puppet be?"

Jerethy stepped between them, palms stretched out. "This has got to stop. We get nothing from fighting each other. No one has the guns, no one is Vistor's puppet."