Under the Empyrean Sky Read Free

drift down to the ground. The other moth, still alive, hightails it the hell out of there.
    A corn leaf tickles Cael’s ear, and he pulls away. “I hate this shit. Stupid plant. Stupid crop. Damnit.”
    Rigo shrugs. “I dunno. Been like this long as I can remember.” He hobbles along on his one good leg.
    “Corn’s how they control us,” Lane says. “It’s like your pop says, Cael. Corn wasn’t like this back when he was a kid. Used to be you plant the seed, that’s where it grew. Now it goes everywhere. Got a mind of its own.”
    Way Pop told it, the Empyrean crossbred the corn with a handful of other plants: kudzu, flytraps, some kind of nightshade. Called it Hiram’s Golden Prolific. Right now, Cael couldn’t give a whit about any of that.
    “We’re out of money!” Cael says. “Guys, we don’t have anything left. Spent all our damn ace notes on those hover-panels. Now they’re just a pile of junk.”
Like the stuff we scavenge.
    Cael swats at a corn leaf, but it doesn’t seem to care. Ittwists toward him, and he grabs it and rips it off. The stalk recoils as though in pain.
    “We’ll figure it out,” Rigo says. “We always do.”
    Cael’s not so sure. But it’s his
job
to figure it out. He’s the captain of this crew. He’s out here every day earning ace notes—or trying to—for his brat sister, for Pop, for his poor, bed-ridden mother. Responsibility, he decided long ago, sucks. It sucks the shine off a brand-new motorvator. If only they got lucky, just
one time
…
    “Those hover-panels were our ticket,” he says. “Our way to beat the Butchers. To find that one big haul and set us up for life.”
    Lane makes a
pssh
sound. “It doesn’t work like that. I told you. You have to put it out of your mind, Cael. Out here it’s all just different shades of brown. You’re like those people who count on the Lottery year after year.”
    “Hey, shut up,” Rigo says. “The Lottery’s the real deal.”
    “The Lottery’s bullshit,” Cael says. “But my plan isn’t. Whoever has the ace notes has the edge. The mayor’s on the Empyrean’s teat, and that means he gets the biggest mouthful of milk—and that means Boyland’s got a taste, too. But how do you think Boyland the Elder got to be mayor? I bet he bought his way in. And if we had enough money—”
    Lane claps him on the shoulder. “Cool your heels, dude. One day at a time.” He offers Cael a hand-rolled cigarette,but Cael waves him off—he doesn’t smoke any of that ditchweed. “Let’s just focus on getting
Betty
back up and running.”
    “Gwennie will know what to do next,” Rigo says.
    Cael cocks an eyebrow. “Gwennie’s not the damn captain.”
    “But she’s the first mate.”
    Lane adds, “And let’s be honest: she’s the brains of this operation.”
    Cael gives him the stink-eye. “We need someone to send a tow-tractor out there to haul
Betty
back to the barn. And we need to do it soon, because if we leave her out there too long, the damn corn’s gonna grow up all over her. Then we’ll have to pay for a chop-top to go out along with the tractor just to chain-saw through the stalks.”
    “That’ll cost ace notes,” Lane says.
    “Ace notes we don’t
have
,” Rigo points out.
    “We’ll have to scrounge.” Cael sighs. “Or take out a loan from the maven.”
    Lane shakes his head. “That’s how they get you. They get you stuck in the mud, and every time you try to pull out… the deeper you sink.”
    Cael’s about to tell them both to shut up, because none of this is helping—but then his eyes catch movement. The other two don’t see it, but that’s why Cael’s the head ofthis crew: he’s got vision like a hawk. Or an owl. Or some kind of hawk-owl hybrid that the Empyrean scientists are probably working on just for shits and giggles.
    “Shuck rat!” Cael hisses. Then he breaks from the other two, his slingshot already out of his back pocket and in his hand a ball bearing ready to fire.

 
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