Blake was too well-trained to walk the streets in daylight with his head up, but managed to see everything he needed to regardless. The morning was as hot as the previous evening had been, with fierce sunlight bouncing off any unpainted metal or glass in blinding streaks. Miki, bouncing on his shoulder, was almost painful to look at. Beside him, Jace sauntered like he owned the whole town, hands in his pockets, whistling.

“It’s not your ship,” he said at last, “is it?”

Blake started, stared at him. However truly insane saying such a thing out loud was, the rage he felt at the accurate assumption was worse. Jace’s smug smile remained; he kept walking.

“That’s why you left in a hurry. You’re running from someth-“

Before Jace could finish, Blake had his throat. He slammed Jace up against the nearest wall; Miki, dislodged in the action, clattered to the floor. A worker across the street paused, glanced over and looked away.

Blake put his face as close to Jace’s as he knew was uncomfortable, so close that all he could see were Jace’s eyes and all Jace could see were his, pupilless, grey and unnerving. Jace lifted his hands in surrender and gave an anxious grin.

“Fine, fine. I won’t talk about it. All right?” he said.

The heat in Blake’s eyes started to hurt. When he felt that, he let go of Jace, flexed his fingers reflexively and started to walk again. Soon after, Jace caught up, rubbing his neck.

“Arsehole,” Blake muttered under his breath.

“It is a nice ship, though,” said Jace conversationally, like nothing had happened. “Or, it will be, when it’s not in a smouldering hole in the ground.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Blake said, unable to hide his annoyance.

“Talking,” said Jace, “is what I’m good at.”

The landscape was shifting, the way it had the night before. The burning metal smell returned, with the steam and smoke; sparks flew from shopfronts as mechanics welded and cut. Aliens in overalls hurried around with work-orders and mugs of hot soup, bags with pipes and blowtorches sticking out, faces dirtied with smog and grease. Chatter and squealing industrial sounds pulsed through the otherwise still morning.

“This is Copper Corner,” said Jace, holding Blake’s sleeve to stop him from colliding with a junk vendor. “You’re certain to find a mechanic here. Although, probably not one that will work for free.”

That was a problem. Blake paused, sighed.

Behind him, there was a crash.

A skitter of nuts and bolt spilled between Blake’s feet. Perplexed, he turned. Lying face down on the floor behind him was a man, an upturned box and a pair of glasses. Miki stood, guilt written all over his screen-face, amidst the wreckage.

“I am so sorry,” said Blake immediately, reaching down to help the man. The man lifted his face, blinked his tiny eyes and smiled thinly in Blake’s general direction.

“Oh, don’t worry, my mistake…” he said, but he held his work-gloved hand up to Blake’s regardless. “I’m clumsy, it’s my fault. I should have been looking where I was going…”

“No, you tripped on my robot –“ Blake shot Miki a disapproving glare, and Miki bowed his head. “Miki, apologise.”

“No, really, it’s fine…” The man pulled himself to his feet, patted his face. There were goggles on his forehead that he seemed to have forgotten about. Blake cast about for the glasses and retrieved them from the pile, placing them gently into his hand. “Oh! There they are. Thank you!”

With the glasses on, the man’s eyes looked much better suited to his face. He dusted down his fancy waistcoat and the knees of his trousers and smiled down at Miki.

“Very sorry, little robot, I didn’t see you there.”

“Well, here,” said Blake, turning the crate the right way up, “let me help you pick those up –“

“Oh, no no no,” said the man, horrified at the suggestion. “I’ll do that… my fault…”

He knelt and began picking up each individual scrap. Blake hesitated. He clocked the man’s toolbelt, his big boots, his skinny frame – surely this man was not a mechanic, some worker carrying parts for his boss, perhaps. There was a kinship in that. After all, that was what Blake had been up until a day or so ago. He didn’t want the man to get in trouble.

“Come on, Moon-head,” said Jace, moving away. “We’ve got stuff to do.”

Blake nodded. He beckoned Miki to follow and set off down the street again, leaving the clumsy worker behind to pick up his bolts.

In the shadows, two men with scarves covering their mouths watched the exchange, and their eyes lingered on the kneeling man, picking up nuts and bolts in the busy street.

“How much are you offering for this… Blake?”

The head of the Desert Foxes, Bero, sat at his desk in his corner-house, protected by his loyal guards and followers. The tent-flap over the door fluttered with a gentle breeze and did nothing to keep the endless wafts of sand out.

Bero ran his fat, ringed fingers around the back of his neck, feeling the sweat under his scarves. It was hot, but that was not why he was sweating.

“Dead?” said the voice from the computer screen. “Sixty-thousand Green.”

Bero’s glittering eyes narrowed.

“Alive?” he asked.

For a moment, it was silent, as if the concept of ‘alive’ had not even been considered.

“A hundred thousand,” the voice said eventually. “Either way, I want the body clean. Untouched. I want nothing taken from his person. Do you understand?”

Smug, Bero sat back in his chair.

“Of course. I have men stationed around the crash site. He won’t be getting anywhere near it if he decides to go back and fish out anything he left. I have men on the streets, too, searching for the pilot. To tell the truth, I was interested in him before our little talk.” He smiled. “It won’t be long, friend.”

“Good. I appreciate your help, Bero, and I look forward to our next conversation.”

“As do I, friend. As do I.”

The screen’s speakers fell silent; Bero released a long, satisfied sigh. A hundred thousand Green for a man who had walked away from a serious crash? Easy money.

He flicked his fingers at his men.

“You heard him,” he said. “Find Blake. Don’t steal anything. Understood?”

“Yes boss,” they said, and slipped out of the tent-flap.

Bero sat, smiling, imagining his hundred thousand.

It felt like hours of traipsing Copper Corner before Blake, fed up, decided he could not wander the streets any longer. It was hot and his shoeless feet were sore, he wasn’t sure where Miki had got to, and Jace’s talking had become so annoying that he was sure he was going to explode if he listened to it any more.

Jace talked and talked about nothing, three steps ahead, while Blake brought up the rear. It was for this reason that when there was a second, more frantic voice, Blake picked up on it instantly.

“I don’t know! I – I don’t know!”

Blake frowned, turned. He did not see the source of the voice, but he was sure he recognised it from a time fairly recently.

He tugged Jace’s sleeve and said, “You hear that?”

“Hear what?” said Jace, stopping.

But Blake knew, now. It was the mechanic Miki had tripped earlier. His eyes narrowed; his jaw hardened.

“Follow me,” he said, and he slid into the crowds, back the way they had come.

The mechanics’ shops and storefronts in the sand-brick walls were loud and busy. It was difficult to follow the voice over the din of sawing and puttering engines, but Blake trained his ear on it and did not stop walking, threading his way between carts and stalls, hearing it get louder and louder.

One of the shops had its grille slid up but the lights dim inside – Blake could only just see the people inside against its dark backdrop – and the voice was coming from there. The clumsy mechanic was held by elbows by a scarved man, and the second thug held a machete to his tiny, white throat.

“I swear,” the mechanic said, head tilted away from the blade, “I swear I don’t know!”

The machete-wielder pushed the blade closer. “Hows about we carve you up?” he snarled. “Will you know then?”

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The mechanic’s eyes widened and he pulled against his attacker, but he was a damn sight smaller than the man who held him and there was no give.

“He just helped me up,” he said, tearful. “I don’t know him. I’ve never – “

But the words washed over Blake as soon as he realised the implication. Cool, controlled fury took hold.

He scowled, slid a hand into his pocket and produced a thick, well-worn bracelet. It fit snugly over his thin wrist, two-fingers wide. Blake extended his fingers and the bracelet reacted to his movement instantly, telescopically unfolding into a gauntlet around his fingers. It made a comfortable, formidable fist, dented and stained.

Blake focused on what he saw.

Two thugs, one armed. The machete was the first problem. The men would be nothing.

“One,” he whispered to himself.

The machete-wielder became impatient.

“You changed your mind?” he said, gripping the mechanic’s hair.

“Two.”

“No, please,” the mechanic sobbed. “Please!”

“Three.”

Blake was upon the first thug before anyone could comment on his sudden appearance. He grabbed the scarf and tugged, hard. The thug choked; the machete clattered to the ground.

The thug saw only a metal fist, then nothing.

Blake hit him once, twice, feeling the bone and muscle bend beneath his metal gauntlet – and, from the corner of his eye, saw movement. He turned to react and saw, to his surprise, Jace.

“Ah, triple suns,” Jace whispered from the doorway, and then, with a shout, he launched himself at the second thug.

The mechanic once again fell to the ground as Jace wrestled with the second man. Blake dropped his victim and turned to help Jace, who was attempting to talk his quarry to death.

“Yeah, you wanna fight me, dust rat?” he said, hands up in fists, as the thug just stared. “You wanna fight me?”

Blake tapped the thug on the shoulder casually. He turned, confused, and received a face-full of gauntlet in response.

It was quiet, then. The whole fight had taken moments.

Blake grimaced at the blood on his gauntlet, wiped the knuckles unceremoniously on Jace’s shirt-sleeve. It left a long, grim smear. Jace grimaced.

“Oh, great, arsehole,” he said.

“Now,” said Blake patiently, “you don’t owe me a jacket.”

The mechanic picked himself off the floor and shuffled across to a work desk, watching Blake and Jace with trepidation. His face was pale, his eyes wet. A line of red, raised skin lay on his throat. Still, when he saw Blake glance over, he gave a weak smile.

“I… um…” He looked at the bleeding men on the floor, then back to Blake. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” said Blake. “Are you hurt?”

“N-no… I’m fine… a little shaken, I think…”

Blake often had this effect on strangers, especially once he had committed atrocious violence in front of them; he was surprised how restrained he had been, considering, and grateful that he had kept his composure. Everything might have turned out… differently, otherwise.

The mechanic took off his glasses to clean them. Blake, self-conscious suddenly, pressed the switch on his gauntlet that slid it back into its bracelet form and looked at the scene. It was not a pretty sight. Two men, one with a caved in nose and cheek, the other with an eye the size of a fist. It was not going to be easy to explain away. Maybe killing them was a kindness, so he could drop them into a river or a gulch or something. It was certainly too much for the little mechanic to deal with on his own.

“I’ve made a bit of a mess –“ he started, apologetic, but the mechanic laughed lightly.

“Oh, I think the contents of my jugular would have made more of a mess, so in all, you’ve saved me a lot of cleaning!” he said.

This small man had a lot of guts that Blake had not anticipated. He smiled in an almost sideways fashion.

“I’m… Blake,” he said, stepping forwards and holding out a hand.

The mechanic paused, looked at the offered hand with a fizz of panic and then, slowly, held out his own, putting his glasses back on at the same time.

“Keil Oxley, at your service,” he said. “I’m in your debt, Blake. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, then…”

“It’s all right.” They shook. “I figure it’s my fault they were here anyway.”

It was only a matter of time, after all, until King sent more men to find him. The man had near-infinite resources, it seemed.

Keil’s face fell. “They did mention a… a pilot. Who crashed his ship?”

Blake looked at Jace, who shrugged and shook his head.

“That would be me. Yes.”

“I… I see…”

Keil dropped Blake’s hand, adjusted his glasses and smoothed down his waistcoat, and looked Blake dead in the eyes.

“Then, in all good faith and for your saving my life,” he said, “I offer all of my services.”

Blake frowned, eyes flicking around the workshop. Surely not…?

“You’re an engie?” said Jace, frowning too. Keil smiled nervously and nodded.

“Oh, yes.”

Jace blinked, stared, and erupted in laughter. He composed himself just as quickly, and then continued, “You. You’re a mechanic?”

The confidence that had gripped Keil dissolved from his shoulders.

“… yes.”

Jace roared, slapped his knees. Blake put his tongue in his cheek and took a deep breath.

“Ignore him,” he said to Keil. “He’s a real bastard. You any good at engine work?”

At this, Keil brightened again.

“It’s my specialty. I would love nothing more than to help repair your ship in return for your good deed.”

“I can’t pay you,” said Blake, embarrassed, but Keil put up a hand.

“Nonsense. You’ve done me a kindness, and I shall do one in return. Where’s your ship?”

Jace, through tears streaming down his face and shortness of breath, managed to stop laughing for long enough to say, “In a great big hole in the ground, where else?”

And he resumed his senseless mirth.

Blake, stony-faced, said, “Like I said. I real bastard.”

“Let me just get my tools and I’ll – “

He turned to find his bag and at the same time, Miki finally wandered into the shop. Keil’s boot collided once more with the robot and, startled, his arms flailed, tangling Keil further in the motion. For the second time in one day, Keil was on the floor, Miki standing guilty by his side, and Jace laughed hysterically in the background.

“I need to watch out for that robot,” Keil whispered to the floor.

Later that evening, as the sun set over the smoking carcass of Wyvern, six Desert Foxes, armed with laser guns, watched over it with menacing scowls beneath their scarves. The mere presence of them was enough to deter most onlookers. The Enfant Robots, trying desperately to fulfil their role as protectors of the ship, frantically hurried in the shadows of the tunnels, carrying tools and wiring, clustered and uncertain and clumsy as they attempted to fix the engines alone.

In the street opposite, the three boys watched the blockade from behind a set of stairs. Blake, stony faced as usual, assessed the situation without the worry on Keil’s face and the irritation on Jace’s. Jace raised an eyebrow.

“Any particular reason why Bero’s dust-rats are after you, Moon-head?” he said.

Blake did not respond, but his eyes narrowed. He could think of plenty, but he did not want to share them at that time. Keil, into the silence, cleared his throat.

“Perhaps they are interested in the ship,” he said.

“If they were interested in the ship,” said Jace, not even feigning patience, “they’d have taken it apart already.”

Keil hunched his shoulders. “Then that does not bode well for Blake, if that is what they do to things they are interested in,” he whispered.

Blake tried to ignore them. He picked out the routes of the guards instead, estimated the firepower on their weapons.

“Well then, Moon-head,” said Jace. “Any bright ideas?”

Again, there were several, and none involved Jace. Blake said nothing.

“How about you, Dumb-bot?” Jace added. Miki bowed his head. Jace rolled his eyes. “Great.”

“If we could just get close enough to inspect the damage –“ Keil started, cut down by Jace’s glare.

“That’s the problem, genius.”

But Blake’s plan had finished formulating.

“Jace, do you have any scarves home?”

Jace wrinkled his brow. “Scarves? Why?”

Most days as a Desert Fox were dull. There were plenty of people to shake down but they were all poor and there wasn’t much else to steal, unless the thief really enjoyed taking scrap metal. The crashed ship had been the most exciting thing to happen for weeks.

The men assigned to guard it, therefore, felt rather smug about it. They settled comfortably into their posts, holding the best guns Bero could give them, confident that this was going to be the easiest job they had ever done. Keep a man who crashed a ship from the site? No problem.

As the choking afternoon came to a close, some men approached the perimeter, scarves over their chins and foreheads. They were not wearing the standard uniform, but that was usual if they were new recruits. The man in charge moved to intercept.

“You got a problem?” he said, gripping his gun a little tighter.

“Boss sent us,” the first man said. His accent was unfamiliar, but his Greevan was clear.

The head honcho looked them up and down. “He didn’t send you with guns?”

“Boss said you’d give us yours. He doesn’t have enough for everyone, after all, and it was last minute. He wants you guys to join the street team, looking for that guy, um…”

“That Blake guy?”

“Yeah, sure, Blake.”

Interesting, and yet…

“Heard there’s a big bounty on his head, that Blake,” said the man in charge, frowning.

“Exactly. You guys head off, we’ll look after this.”

The leader shook his head. “I don’t go anywhere without orders from the top.”

The second man, who so far had not spoken, shrugged, sighed and said in Basic, “Never mind then,” and it got messy very quickly after that.

The second man’s hand shot right up and grabbed the leader’s neck at the side; before he could react, he felt his legs turn to jelly and his vision falter, and he crumpled to the ground. His second-in-command, startled, did not react – so the attacker simply grabbed the back of his head and slammed it down. Forehead connected with kneecap.

Silence.

The first scarved man tutted and pulled the scarf off his mouth.

“Yeah, real subtle, Moon-head, real clean,” said Jace, back in Basic.

Blake scowled beneath his scarves. The only part of him that Jace could see was his weird, silver eyes, but it did not hide the odd menace that Blake exuded.

“Now what?” Jace said.

“Hide the bodies,” said Blake.

“Where’s the genius?” said Jace, turning around.

Keil, in the back, shuffled from his hiding space.

“I don’t like this at all,” he whispered to Miki, who responded with, “Arr-pap-pap.”

Blake and Jace dragged the unconscious Desert Foxes under a tarp while Keil crept to the ship carcass to inspect the damage. Jace slipped the gun off the leader’s shoulder and inspected it. He had never seen the like, but it was functional as far as he could tell, and that was good enough. He handed the second one to Blake.

Blake sauntered around to the back of Wyvern. Keil’s legs poked out of the bottom section of the exhaust and Enfant Robots ran in and out like ants into the nest.

“How does it look?” said Blake, dropping his scarf.

Keil jumped, banged his head with a clang and scurried out, ready to scream; when he saw Blake, he put a hand to his heart and sighed.

“Well,” he said, looking again at the hole, “the rear booster structure is all buckled, which means the fuel converter is blocked and jammed, and I’m going to have to remove the injector pistons all together, but –“

None of this meant anything to Blake.

“Can you fix it?” he interrupted.

“Oh, certainly,” said Keil, with a wide smile.

“How long will it take?”

The smile dropped. “Well… um…”

“Keil,” said Blake, trying his hardest to be patient.

“I can make it functional in an evening,” said Keil. “To make it safe? That would require three days.”

“It only needs to be functional.”

“Then… then I’ll get to work.”

As if it was a signal, the Enfant Robots surrounded Keil and Miki, gleefully ready to take instruction; Keil swapped his glasses for the goggles on his forehead.

Jace, waiting at the nose of the ship, turned when Blake approached.

“Well?”

“He’s on it,” Blake said.

“Will it be ready?”

“I don’t know?”

Jace rolled his eyes and glared at Blake.

“Great stars, what do you mean you don’t know?”

Behind them, some of the other Desert Rats shuffled, turned their heads. Blake stood perfectly still, facing the wasteland.

“That’s what I mean. I don’t know. Don’t shout,” he hissed to Jace.

Jace, furious, opened his mouth, thought against it, and turned away with a black scowl.

“How did I end up in this mess?” he muttered. “What was I thinking, trying to help you?”

He prodded Blake’s arm hard with the end of the gun. The gun, inexplicably, sparked. Blake jumped, grabbed the gun and snatched it from Jace.

“If you can’t use that thing responsibly I’ll have to take it from you,” he said in a dangerous, low voice.

“Who are you, my mother?” said Jace, snatching the gun back. “Just so you know, this plan stinks.”

“I’m well aware.”

It was a flimsy, stupid plan, but it was the only plan they had. Blake, frustrated, turned to look at the skeleton of Wyvern. Keil, dilligent if not over-zealous, was working furiously in the darkness, tiny sparks flying and illuminating his goggles.

“If there was some way we could get the ship out of the open,” he whispered.

“Or,” added Jace, back turned, “if we could get the dust-rats off your back.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“I don’t even know why I agreed to this in the first place. I don’t even know who this moon-head is.” Jace sighed. “Ugh, it’s gonna be a long night.”