CHAPTER ∞
Near Outpost Tharsis Two, Tharsis Plain
ANNOS MARTIS 238. 7. 13. 11:59
The road ahead unwinds like a coil of wire toward Olympus Mons and its cousins, a family of volcanoes thousands of kilometers from Hell’s Cross. As the sign for a petrol station rises into view, I cut the power on the snowmobile and drift into one of the pumping islands. All the station’s signs are written in the bishop’s Latin, with prices crossed out. In front and behind us is a pock-marked landscape formed by volcanic lava flow. The sky is dark, the clouds low, swift, and angry, and I wonder if this was what the Earthers saw when they first settled the planet.
My snowmobile, like me, is caked with dust, and when Vienne slides off the seat and beats the soil out of her miners coveralls, the stiff wind makes us look like a rolling dirt devil. She unstraps her helmet and shakes out her hair.
“You ought to keep that on,” I say. “Might be bounty hunters hereabouts, and there’s a price on your pretty head, after all.”
“If there are bounty hunters in this godforsaken wilderness, they should worry about me, not the other way around.” She walks past the station clerk, a swaybacked old woman dressed in a tattered blue CorpCom jumpsuit.
“Mimi?”
“I read only three biosignatures, cowboy.”
Silently, I nod. That’s what I thought. It’s better to be safe, though, when you’re a wanted man.
“This way to the latrine?” Vienne says, too loudly. It seems innocent enough. In reality, she’s sizing the woman up, a hand near the armalite she has strapped underneath her jacket. Despite what she says, the bounty on our heads—a gift from Dame Bramimonde, who swore charges of murder against us—makes her cautious.
The clerk nods. “You’re a long way from home, miner.”
Vienne barely glances at the woman as she passes.
“Pumps need to be hand-cranked, mud puppy.” The old woman pushes me aside and starts pumping the fuel into the tank. “Won’t nothing electronic work out here. Satellites and dust see to that. Hope you got coin on—oh.” She sees that my hand is missing a finger.
I’m thankful to have both the miners’ payment and the missing half of the Dame’s fee, which the miners decided the Dame owed me and lifted from her purse before she left. Of course, it only inspired the Dame to add grand theft to her charges against us.
I hand her coin in payment and display my hand like it’s nothing to be ashamed of. “Lost it to a Manchester when I was a kid. Thanks for the help with the pump.”
“Funny things, them Manchesters. Most times, they take off a man’s whole arm. Never seen a snowmobile with wheels before.”
“It’s a custom job.” Spiner did it for us when we left Fisher Four. It was a going-away gift from the miners and Fuse and Jenkins, who decided to remain at Hell’s Cross and leave military service behind. Though I couldn’t blame them for staying, we miss their company. Well, I do. Can’t say the same for Vienne.
“Where you two headed?”
“Outpost Tharsis Two. Know it?”
Fuel spills out of the tank. The clerk curses and shuts off the pump.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“You got a death wish, son? Most of Tharsis Two is controlled by Mr. Lyme’s men, and what ain’t is full of angry spirits.”
I know all about Mr. Lyme. It’s the reason I’m looking for the outpost. “What do you mean, angry spirits?”
The old woman lowers her voice. “Men killed by unseen forces. Meat stripped clear down to the bones. Folk used to say it was the Dr?u, but they ain’t been in these parts for half a year. And the Dr?u always left marks, if you know what I mean.”
“That I do.” I think of the rumors we’ve heard the past couple of weeks as we’ve traveled north from the mines—unexplained deaths, usually blamed on the Dr?u or other boogeymen. The possibility that it might be the chigoe turns my stomach. “Still, that’s where the work is. Tharsis Two.”
“Hope you’re getting paid a fair wage, then,” she says.
While she’s cleaning up the last of the spill, Vienne returns. She slides onto the seat behind me and lets her head, for a moment, rest on my back.
“All set?” I ask her.
“Affirmative,” she says, and I can almost hear her smile. “All systems copacetic.”
The old woman grabs my forearm. “If I can’t change your mind, then may god let your death be a beautiful one.” She holds up a hand. The pinkie is missing. She makes the sign of the Regulator and bows. “One eye. One hand.”
“One heart,” Vienne says as she puts on her helmet.
“We’re not Regulators,” I say. “Not anymore.”
“Once a Regulator, always a Regulator, son.” She shakes her head. “Watch yourselves out there. Watch the road, too. There’s a fresh hell of trouble waiting at the end of it.”
“That’s funny.” I gun the engine. “There was hell at the beginning of it, too.”
With a nod to the old woman, I point the snowmobile toward the towering image of Olympus Mons, which is now my guiding star. As we accelerate, the foothills streak by, a vast volcanic plain filling up our horizon.
“‘Boundless and bare,” Mimi says, “the lone and level sands stretch far away.’”
“Wordsworth?”
“Shelley,” she says. “I’ve told you that a thousand times.”
“One hundred seventeen times, to be precise,” I say, flipping down my visor and leaning over the handlebars. “But who’s counting?”
Acknowledgments
Many heartfelt thanks to those folks who read and critiqued the early drafts of Black Hole Sun: Patti Holden, Denise Ousley, Steve Exum, Julie Prince, Shannon Caster, Lindsay Eland, Lauren Whitney, and Jean Reidy.
To all the bookmakers at Greenwillow: Martha, Tim, Paul, Michelle, Barbara, Lois, Steve, Sylvie, and Virginia. And to Emilie, Laura, and Patty in HarperCollins Children’s school and library marketing.
To my fabulous agent, Rosemary Stimola.
Finally, to Deb, Justin, Caroline, and Delaney, for not letting me get the big head.
About the Author
DAVID MACINNIS GILL is a former high school teacher, and he lives on the North Carolina coast with his wife and children. In a starred review, Kirkus called his novel Soul Enchilada an “action-packed power-punch of a debut.”
www.davidmacinnisgill.com
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