Through Fire

Through Fire - Chapter 12

Flint stood at the edge of the field, skimmed his eyes over the crowd, and watched the lone figure walk away to the shield wall. At this distance Flint couldn't make out his features, but he recognised the bulging upper body and spindly legs of Vistor Ambrel. The older man wore the same grey suit he'd had through the trial, but now he carried a green backpack with a bedroll and enough gear to keep him alive, for a time. The families of the lost riggers had wanted to hang him, and the men who'd been hurt or had their rigs damaged by Nathor's bombs had agreed, until Flint had shown everyone a single, blackened piece of metal, the last shred of the Eagle. That, he had said, was the last remains of Vistor's plan. Everyone in the bay had heard the explosions, and when, after looking at Diana, he'd suggested exile, the riggers had listened, and the city folk had accepted it, including however many had intended to wield guns for him. Now Vistor trudged towards the shield wall, the wild lands, and whatever life he could make out there. Flint didn't know if it was merciful or cruel, but it was over, and that was enough.

He turned his back on the scene and hurried to the hangar. Once inside the vast old building, he went straight to the rig. As he'd expected, the workers had cleared out for the sentencing and banishment, so no one got in his way or questioned him when he approached the great old hulk. They'd done a decent job; filled gouges in the skin with aerogel, welded them over with new layers of titanium, replaced a big strip of the right wing, resurfaced the bottom layer, and replaced the tires the rig ran on during take-off and landing. The weld points showed, the new titanium plates stood out against the old smooth skin, and the rig looked like a patchwork monster rather than the toughest, proudest rig in the city. Worse yet, they hadn't got around to replacing the bubble windows. The originals lay somewhere at the bottom of the bay, and no one in the city had a maker machine designed to produce that kind of material. Some of the makers were talking about new techniques, and others were arguing for scrapping some of the rigs damaged in the race, though the owners were fighting the notion. For the time being, the repair team had cobbled together a lot of plastic house windows. They covered the cockpit, flat, hard-edged and crisscrossed with lines, but Flint could at least see through them. He reached up and smacked the nearest pane, and it didn't fall out.

"Guess it'll do," he said, and noticed that someone had found the rhino figurine and put it back on the dash. He smiled and headed around to the door. When he got there, he saw light spill out from within, a shadowy figure framed in the entrance. He paused, let his eyes adjust, and recognised a familiar silhouette. "Diana."

She wore a long black dress and her hair framed her face. Her diamond pendant hung over her clothes, bright against the black fabric. "You took your time."

"Had to wait for the sentencing. Had to see it done."

"And then you came straight here. Nothing left in the bay for you?"

He shrugged. "You knew I was going to get out as soon as I had a chance. This city isn't the place for me."

"Uh huh, that's brave, especially if you're gonna fly away in this busted old piece of scrap."

"This piece of scrap saved your life. More than once."

She waved a finger. "There's just one problem, Flint. The race."

He shook his head. "The race was never finished. Pretty soon someone's going to notice that, and when the riggers get over the horrible smash-up that Nathor and Caerlion caused, they'll agree. You'll get a proper new President, and everyone can get on with life."

She pointed her finger at him. "Lot of people say we've got our President."

He winced. "Look, it's not that I don't find it flattering, but I didn't even do it right. You're supposed to stop at all these places, trade, fetch water at the tower, buckets of things you're supposed to do, and I skipped near all of them."