Prologue

The first shot should have killed me. The second almost did.

Chapter One

Coach Stop

They named Flint after the stone.

It wasn’t the name his parents had given him; they hadn’t stuck around long enough to teach anyone his real name. Even as a lad, Flint was known for his sharp tongue, hard, greyish features, and habit of sparking a fight. Flint loved to fight and doubly so in his youth. It had been a good thing, too. Fighting earned him the right kind of reputation with what most others would call the wrong kind of people, and in the harsh, dust-ridden wilds, the wrong kind of people were the best kind of people to get in with.

He was proud of the name that old gang had given him. For years before that, he had been ‘boy’. That was what the Grounders, Toffs and Landlords used to call him. He hated being called boy. He’d stopped being one when he was eleven, the day he first killed a man for calling him such. They’d have given him the needle if they’d caught him. But they didn’t catch him—not for that kill or the many others that followed. He was good at killing. Killing had taken an orphan from the backstreets of a dead-end town in the wastes to the luxury of Salt City. A city he was loath to leave.

Yet the letter had come. The man who had named him Flint was calling him home, and he owed him enough that he had to go.

“Another glass?” The barkeep tilted a bottle of scotch over Flint’s crystal glass in anticipation of the answer.

“For the road,” Flint groaned, tapping his cred stick on the charge screen. The barkeep poured, and Flint downed the peaty richness with a single swig. His throat burned, and he shook his head, cheeks quivering as he forced the liquid down. He banged the glass on the faux wood counter in farewell and made to leave the Gilded Dune. The bar’s more upmarket clientele sneered as they watched Flint leave. One man in particular, a crooked-nosed Toff with a portly belly and balding head, muttered something in Flint’s direction. If he didn’t have a coach to catch, Flint might have helped rearrange that snout. But he did have a coach to catch, so instead, he pointed at the man, thumb cocked skyward like a gun, and fired imaginary bullets.

The Toff scoffed, and Flint smiled. The smile became a chuckle, and Flint merrily passed through the saloon doors and onto Salt City’s promenade. Streetlamp halos and the neon glows of advertising signs swam around him, and he rubbed his eyes. He’d drunk more than intended. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself, double-tapped his breast pocket to check the letter was still there, then waved down a driverless taxi.

Collapsing into the back seat, he ordered it to take him to the outskirts.

Hours later, the taxi dropped Flint just beyond the city’s towering twenty-foot-high curtain wall, where the city lights could no longer bother him.

The drive hadn’t been enjoyable. The car’s gentle rumble, paired with half a day’s drinking, left him teetering between sleep and nausea. He’d had to fight both the entire way. Fortunately, the chill of crisp, sweet night air greeted him, and he filled his lungs three times over until his head started to cool. Feeling better, he took in his surroundings.

Salt City took its name from the massive underground saltwater reservoir it was built over, the largest known water source on the planet. It was selected hundreds of years ago as the site for the world's first colony, and off-world freight had fuelled its rise, transforming it into an oasis of civilisation, law, and order. It boasted all the amenities, technology, and luxuries one would expect from a Union World. But Union supply dried up long ago. Not a soul had seen a Union ship since before Flint was born. With the death of supply came the death of terraforming, leaving the world beyond Salt City’s walls much the same as it was before the settlers arrived. Barren.

Flint peered into the darkness, seeing only shadows and the dusty hardpan that, in daylight, would stretch seemingly forever. A gust of wind blew some of the dust his way, scratching his skin raw. He pulled up his scarf to protect his face. Shaking his head and cursing under his breath, he turned from the wind and searched for the coach stop. There it was, a hundred feet away, the only visible structure beyond the city walls, illuminated by the light of a lone lamp. He made his way toward it.

The stop was a small rectangular shack. It had three walls and a roof. The two short side walls were concrete, while the third, facing away from the city, was made of thick, resistant glass. The absent wall served as an entrance, granting access to twelve plastic folding seats for waiting passengers. Reaching the shelter, Flint whipped the scarf from his face and ran a hand through his thick, greying curls. They were covered in dust already, as were his clothes and boots. In the city, the walls kept the dust out, but the dust was inevitable everywhere else.

Some said that the dust owned the world and that one day, it would reclaim the city. Flint thought that the kind of rubbish self-styled Toff philosophers would spout. Even the thought annoyed him, and he spat. He regretted it instantly as gritty particles clung to his tongue and lips, and now the dust was in him. He spluttered further, only worsening the problem, and felt his ire rise.

“There is a lesson in that, I think.”

Despite the smooth, calm delivery of the stranger, Flint jumped at the words. In his battle with the dust, he hadn’t noticed the shelter’s other occupant. No—not occupant—occupants. Five, in fact. Five of the shelter’s plastic seats were occupied. Flint never much cared for the opinions of others, but this surprise had him brushing dust from his coat as he tried to straighten his appearance.

“A lesson? What sort of the lesson?” Flint grunted.

“Oh, something about not wasting water in the desert, I suppose.” The full-bearded Toff turned his back on Flint and returned his attention to the rest of the group. “Or something about manners.” The other four chuckled, amused.

Flint’s cheeks reddened, his nostrils flaring. For a moment, he felt the rage of his youth, the word ‘boy’ echoing in his mind. He marched toward the group, who sat in two rows facing inwardly to one another, and stood over the Toff. “You insinuating I’m ill-mannered, sir?

“Not at all.” The Toff didn’t even look at him, “Insinuating suggests indirectness or subtility. You’ll find I was stating it outright.” There was a further chorus of sniggering, and Flint shot each of the others present a menacing glare.

Flint pulled down the chair next to the Toff, planted a boot on it, and flipped his coat back to reveal the las-revolver at his hip. Leaning on his knee, Flint brought his face uncomfortably close to the Toff, who still paid him no heed. “Got any clever statements you want me to pass on to the obituarist for ya?” That finally got the Toff’s attention, if only barely. Much to Flint’s frustration, the man showed no sign of intimidation. Instead, the Toff shot him a righteous, side-eyed glare, his angular, bearded features locked in a dour expression. There was something familiar in that look, like a memory Flint couldn’t quite place. That irritated him further as he held the Toff’s stare. The man’s arrogance stoked Flint’s fury, and his hand began creeping toward his gun.

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“Gentlemen, please!” One of the others suddenly got to his feet and broke the tension, “This is most improper. There is a lady present. Conduct yourselves accordingly.”

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” the lady chimed in, “this is all rather exciting.” The man shot the lady an annoyed look, his bushy moustache twitching in disapproval. The lady offered a coy gesture of apology.

“It is late,” the man added, “and we are all tired. I am sure Mr Revel intended no injury upon our newcomer. Mr Revel, kindly apologise so we can wait for this damnable coach in peace.” The remaining occupants murmured their agreement, but neither Flint nor Mr Revel flinched.

Then, as if overtaken by an entirely different mind, Mr Revel broke into a broad grin, and he turned to the speaker. “Quite right, Mr Boaden. It is late, and I am feeling a little prickly.” He turned back to Flint, “Still, that is no excuse. You have my sincerest apologies, good Sir! Please, sit and join us. We are exchanging tales to pass the time. Young Mr Patterson here was in the middle of quite a good one just before you arrived. I’d very much like to hear how it ends.”

Flint was confused. Usually, when he picked a fight, he got one. The apology—and the Toff’s sudden dismissal—disarmed him, and he wasn’t sure what to do next. Embarrassed, he glanced aimlessly at the others, and then the lad Mr Revel had called Patterson, the youngest of the group, began talking as if nothing had happened. Bewildered, Flint straightened up and took a seat at the group’s edge, leaning in to listen and examining this unwanted company.

Three were Toffs. Mr Boaden and the lady that Flint soon concluded was Mrs Boaden were both dressed in white. Mr Boaden wore a loose-fitting suit jacket with matching trousers, a high-collared blue-and-white striped shirt, and a tall, wide-brimmed Tom Mix hat. He also wore fine brown boots that Flint thought might actually be real leather, reinforced with steel heels and caps. Mrs Boaden wore a white dress, tight and short at the bottom with flowing accents at the top, paired with elbow-high gloves and a fashionable headdress resembling a jewel-encrusted net. Neither seemed dressed for travel, and Flint thought they were more suited to a cocktail party.

The other Toff, the bearded Mr Revel, dressed far more practically. Dust clung to everyone—except him. His tight-fitting black three-piece suit was spotless, as though it had been laundered right there in the shelter, untouched by dust. Shimmersilk, Flint concluded—an artificial fabric so smooth that even dust slid off with the slightest encouragement. Expensive. Flint reckoned Mr Revel was worth his weight in creds. He paired the suit with black faux leather boots, steel-capped and heeled, and his trousers had been reinforced to prevent tearing. Mr Revel dressed to impress the denizens of the wastes, not the city elite like the Boadens.

The others were the boy, Mr Patterson, and an old man who didn’t say much. Both were unmistakably Grounders. Mr Patterson wore patchwork chaps and a ratty grey waistcoat over a faded blue shirt. His long hair flopped forward in a style popular among city youths. Most notably, he wore no gun at his hip. While Mr Revel and Mr Boaden might conceal weapons beneath their jackets, Patterson was clearly unarmed. The wastes would chew him up and spit him out. Beside the lad stood a stack of lightweight metallic crates, twelve in all, nearly his height. The old man was dressed much like the boy, but Flint’s attention was drawn to the double-barrelled mini grenade launcher resting across his lap more than his clothing. Old timers were always extra cautious.

Flint listened to the boy’s tale until boredom overtook him. “What’s with the boxes?” Flint didn’t care that he was interrupting the boy mid-flow.

“Umm.” The boy looked at the others for guidance, clearly unsettled by the sudden intrusion of the gruff newcomer with the pistol on his hip. Mr Revel nodded, and the boy answered. “I’m a courier; these are my charges.”

Flint raised an eyebrow. ‘A courier? At your age, without a scrambler?’

The boy blushed and cast his eyes down before he started muttering. “I’m new. But the company has a deal with the coaches. They let you ride for free if you have cargo. I can save up for a scrambler quick while I use them.”

Flint stared at the boy, who shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. The boy’s discomfort was obvious, and Mr Boaden tutted, shaking his head at Flint. Flint might’ve snapped at the Toff if he wasn’t so focused on the boy. There was something familiar about him, too. There was something in his features, it was like looking at an old photograph of a friend from before you knew them.

“Excuse me, Sir,” Mr Boaden was coming to the boy’s defence. “But Mr Patterson was in the middle of a tale.”

“A tale?” Flint mocked. “He’s just a boy. A smooth-faced boy. What tales would a boy know?” Do you know who tells the best tales?” Flint leant toward the group. “Dead Men. Dead Men tell the best tales.” Flint’s threat cut through Mr Boaden’s bravado, silencing him. Flint stared him down, daring a challenge. When it was clear that Mr Boaden didn’t have the balls, Flint turned back to the boy. “Your name’s Patterson, ain’t it?”

The boy looked up at Flint. “Erm, yes.”

“I knew Patterson once.”

“Did you, now?” Mr Revel’s dulcet tones drew Flint’s attention, locking him once more in that judgemental gaze. Mr Revel was still. His eyes were unblinking, his every muscle steady. Flint felt his heartbeat quicken. It felt like staring down one of the wastes’ Saberhounds, coiled and ready to strike. And those eyes—hateful, piercing. Flint was certain he’d seen them before. His hand started to drift toward his weapon again.

The horn blared, making everyone but Mr Revel flinch. The coach had arrived. “Ah, at last,” Mr Boaden leapt to his feet with great excitement and the tension between Flint and Mr Revel was buried again.

Had Flint lived in ancient times, he might have compared the squat, eighteen-wheeled, armoured coach to a long-extinct rodent called an armadillo. Mr Flint hadn’t been born in ancient times, however, and to him, this was just what coaches looked like. A man emerged from the front compartment. He was wrapped head to toe in thick, dust-covered linens, except for his eyes, which were covered by an old pair of tech goggles. A rifle was slung over his shoulder. He made his way into the shelter. “Tickets, please.” The voice was metallic, betraying the modulator hidden beneath his hood of dirty fabrics. Each member of the group presented their tickets one by one and was directed to the passenger door. The side door opened like a misplaced tongue, revealing a short staircase leading into the raised coach. The Boadens and the old man boarded first, followed by Mr Patterson.

“You gonna get those?” The coachman pointed his rifle at the crates, stopping Mr Patterson halfway up the steps.

“Don’t you load them?” The coachman scoffed and turned away from the boy. Mr Patterson began to climb back down.

“Get yourself inside, lad,” Mr Revel pushed the boy back up the stairs. “Our new friend and I will handle the crates.” Grateful, Mr Patterson rushed back into the coach to escape the coarseness of dust-filled air. Flint didn’t like being volunteered, but he wasn’t about to let Mr Revel out of his sight, so he acquiesced.

Each man grabbed three crates and headed to the back of the coach. There, Mr Revel hit the cargo release button with his elbow, popping open the boot. A few pieces of luggage lay inside, but the boot was mostly empty. Mr Revel set his crates down, and Flint did the same. Then, to Flint’s surprise, Mr Revel pried open one of the crates and began rummaging. Flint sneered, scoffed, and spat. The arrogant Toff turned out to be nothing but a petty thief. Still, there was honour among their kind, and Flint instinctively stood to watch for the coachman or the boy.

“Do you still have the letter with you, Mr Flint?”

Flint patted his breast pocket, but then his heart seized. “How did you—”

An electronic whirl accompanied a sharp metallic twang. Flint’s side was hot, and his legs went weak. They buckled, and he fell onto his back. Clutching his burning side, he brought his hand before his face—his fingers slick with blood. He’d been shot. Above him loomed Mr Revel, a high-powered chrome revolver in hand, steam curling from its barrel. Those righteous eyes bored into him again. “You know, Mr Flint,” Mr Revel came to kneel beside him. “I have to agree—dead men do tell the best tales. There is one in particular I’m quite fond of. It’s about a town, a chapel, a gang, and a Union ship out on the periphery.” He paused for a moment and then asked, “Do you know it, Mr Flint?”

“Who… are you?” Pain shot through Flint as he struggled to say the words.

“I’m the devil that you forgot, Mr Flint.”

Finally, Flint realised where he had seen those eyes before. “You’ll never find him,” were Flint’s last words.

The first shot should have killed Flint. The second most certainly did.