Falling Sky Read Free

keep them. The boffins have done pretty well on the first two, but the third is something they can’t make. So it’s up to me to barter for them. We have a decent stockpile due to my efforts, but if you want my opinion, it’s never big enough.
    I grab some more bullets for my dad’s revolver. It’s not always easy to find ammunition for the gun, but then again a lot of people out there seem to prefer 9mm when it comes to pistols, so that helps. I grab some more rifle ammo, too.
    As I’m closing the door, I run into Clay. Or, to be more accurate, he runs into me.
    â€œMore ammo?” he says.
    I flash him a humorless smile. “That’s what happens when you shoot a gun. You need to replace the bullets. Want me to show you?”
    He looks at what I’m carrying. “Some would say maybe you’re a little trigger-happy.”
    I grit my teeth. Step forward. “Well this ‘some’ would have to be particularly fucking naive. I’ve been hired to protect you people. Sometimes that involves shooting down the Feral about to bite your throat out.”
    I’m somewhat impressed when he stands his ground. But that only makes me want to hit him all the more.
    â€œYou’re right,” he says. “Your breed is necessary for the time being. But there will come a time when you won’t be. When we find the cure, what will you do then?”
    I laugh. “Go away, Clay. I’m tired of looking at you.”
    Clay shrugs in a way that’s entitled and snide. “Be seeing you,” he says.
    I head for the Cherub wanting nothing more than to be aboard my ship, in the air where I belong. As I’m all too often reminded, the ground is full of ugliness.

    Clay joined the group only a few months ago, another scientist moth attracted to the flame of the Cure. He’s into the same things Miranda is—virology, cell biology, biochemistry. They have similar backgrounds, the children of scientists. And Clay is a believer. He holds on to the idea of a cure the same way a preacher holds on to God. Only, as he’d no doubt tell you in that sanctimonious drone of his, he’s a rational man. A man of Science. Thing is, he still believes in a fairy tale.
    I rummage in the Cherub ’s storeroom and come up with a bottle of moonshine that some of the boffins distilled for some celebration. Louis Pasteur’s birthday or something. I take a swig. It’s harsh and it burns as it goes down, but it’s warming and I can feel the alcohol spreading out in my system, helping to blot out the anger and frustration.
    What the hell am I doing here?
    It’s a question I’ve been asking myself ever since accepting Miranda’s offer.
    Then I think of Gastown and the way it was overrun, and I think having something to look after, something to protect, can help save a man. The Core has clean water, clean food, and fuel. And they make enough for me to barter for ammo. My needs are met, and all I have to do in return is risk my life down on the ground from time to time, risking exposure to the Bug.
    Fuck.
    I take another swig of the moonshine and settle down against the console.
    We are all Life’s bitches, until Death steals us away.

Miranda’s knock on the gondola hatch wakes me from the light slumber I fell into. I wipe my mouth and go over to open it. I always know when it’s her—she always uses the same pattern of knocking. When you’re a forager, out on your own, you learn to pay attention to sounds.
    She climbs up into the gondola and falls back into one of the chairs. She sniffs. “Drinking?”
    â€œJust a little nightcap.”
    She nods, as if she understands. “Have any left?”
    I raise my eyebrows and reach for the bottle, pass it to her.
    She takes a big swig from it but swallows it down easily, a slight flush of her light-brown skin the only reaction. “We need to go out again,” she