Challis' hands blistered under the handle of a pitchfork. There had been so much mucking and hauling in the last week that the skin on her palms was fresh with sores, raw skin cozying up beside the callouses she had worked so hard on all season.

In the shade of the stable, Rasalas was wearily retying the sweatkerchief around his neck. Challis rearranged her own to knot her hair up off her neck. She tried to brush off her tunic, but the smooth sweat-wicking fabric was no match for a layer of mud mixed with thrike amniotic fluid and was still sopping wet.

Bolts screeched as the gate slid open. Unlike in the mud barns, these stalls were completely caged in with bars, top and sides, and surrounded by a buffer layer of wire mesh. Crushed leaves covered the floor inside. Challis dug into these and chucked the waste to the floor outside the stall while Rasalas tossed it from there up into a wagon. They moved with the precision of mechanical gears, grinding away without pause, one protesting muscle at a time.

When the stall had been cleared of waste, they worked side by side to unearth the twisted filaments of punchcord around the edges of the stall. These collected the residual flux from the nesting thrikes, and it was the flux croppers' job to transfer the flux into their upper arm cuffs for unloading later. The filaments running from the cuffs to their circunets were unhooked and repositioned, which also prevented any fresh flux streaming into the circunets and diffusing into the veins in their wrists and from there throughout the rest of their bodies. Not an ounce could be taken for themselves.

It was dirty, meticulous, sweaty business. And once a stall had been mucked and stripped of flux, the next stall stood waiting.

"Chall," Rasalas called out after they had worked in silence for two full bells. They were mucking again, tired arms taking up the pitchforks. Challis fumbled the next forkful so it splatted onto her brother's trousers. That made them both stop.

"What?" Challis asked.

"Gross," he said at the same time.

Challis was breathing hard. "Sorry. What is it?"

Rasalas wiped the muck off with his hands. "What happened earlier that got Corvin so upset?"

"Corvin, all a-temper? You'll have to be more specific."

He just looked at her.

Challis wasn't ready to give in just yet. "Raffar wouldn't stop going on about Hianette," she said coldly. "As if I had breath to waste with her anymore."

"Nugget – you're the least helpful person I know. Just listen for a tick." His voice took on a slow, troubled descent. "I'm talking about the relay. You were in charge of Corvin's equipment, but then Rib-eye went after both of us. I know we talked about this, but now… I'm blank. Break it down for me. Was it something I did?"

"Ah." Challis' tone changed, though she kept her pitchfork pitching. "Raffar and I got into a discussion. It got heated. I was in charge of prepping Corvin's gear, but you were supposed to be my backup. When I left, you… I guess you forgot."

"Gierdammt. That's twice in one day."

"Small wonder Corvin took it so hard."

"That, and you deliberately pushed his buttons," Rasalas clicked his tongue. "Did you see how close that thrike got to us? You really choose your battles, don't you?"

"Teakle's an idiot."

Rasalas didn't heartily agree as Challis hoped. He was just shaking his head slowly. "What a nightmare," he said. "On the final relay, too. But then why didn't Rib-eye, um –"

"Bury us alive?" Challis shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Rasalas propped his forehead with a hand and sighed. "I hate forgetting, but I hate not knowing even worse."

"Hey," she said softly, stepping up closer. "Look at us. We're mucking out the stalls. Tofflar wasn't killed, and we made it through the Exhibition. We don't need answers to everything, right?"

They stood in silence, unseeing as they exchanged thoughts. Rasalas blew out a breath.

"Right."

They stood listening to the fading shrieks of the thrikes outside on another flight drill, and Challis felt her chest tighten. She had never even gotten to ride one. When Trent Gannagen had been corporate Dachartor of all Oledrak pterosaur services, he was determined to get his son and daughter enrolled in the program when they turned twenty. They would be a windworker team, he promised. But promises, in a broken world, get lost. Lost in a whirlwind of sudden, unwelcome changes.

One of those changes came whistling into the stable a moment later, and the twins jumped back to work. Thax clicked past them without a word. He wore a fresh tailored ensemble displaying the gendracco's badge that Challis still couldn't believe he had earned on his own. What a medical debt like hers would do in the face of a salary like his.

Advancing from peer to superior overnight, Thax hadn't entirely turned his back on the twins when they dropped to the dregs of society six years ago, even as their predicament alone distanced almost everyone else. The Gannagens accepted his company, such as it was, though they despised the way he always glanced around before talking to them.

He hung a saddle on a peg and came back. Only when he had passed them the second time did he stop, make his customary check for anyone watching, and then grace the Gannagens with acknowledgment.

"I can't believe you made it through," he said, cheerfully unstrapping his fingerless gloves. He leaned on the edge of the wagon to watch. "That was a cheap stunt you pulled, Gannagen."

Challis slowed. Was he talking about the thrike delivery, or the relay race? Talking to her, or Rasalas? Thax had a quick smile, too, so she couldn't even tell if he was upset.

Rasalas straightened and rolled his shoulders. "Cheap stunt? What was all that show in front of everyone in the mud barns?" he asked, his tone too light. "You talk to Challis like that again and you'll see that mud up real close, Mic Gendracco."

"Why bother? Somebody's always wearing the floor already," Thax said, eyeing the other's clothes. "And I didn't mean anything by it," he said blithely to Challis, waving a hand. "Gotta hold my rep, you know? Speaking of which, the bridge on my right cinch was loose again. Double-check it next time, would you? And my visor got smashed up. I stuck ten coppers inside if you can replace it before early half-light tomorrow."

"Outstanding," Rasalas coughed. "Please tell me you've got water."

Thax paused, then slid a canteen from his belt and tossed it to him. Rasalas, in turn, handed it to Challis, who took two swallows before letting her brother finish it off.

"Liquid life, no?" Thax languidly pulled his jacker from its holster and checked the clip, chunking it in again with practiced hands. "You're welcome, by the way. I thought Rib-eye would bust at the seams this afternoon when you both vanished, but he was mobbed by a crowd of congratulations after what I did during the race. Be glad you're alive. He was a real crackle-hopper."

Rasalas carefully twisted the cap back on, aimed, and flung the canteen hard at Thax's nose. It hit home with a satisfying yelp. When Thax could see properly again, Rasalas was holding his hand out to shake. "Thanks, then."

Thax shoved the canteen back in place, eyed the manure still painting Rasalas' knuckles, and swatted the hand aside. "Asshole."

Challis was just smiling at nobody. She took up her pitchfork again. "Rib-eye actually let us off easy," she mused. "Guess he wanted to leave us some energy to finish this and do the showgrounds."

"Ah. Um."

They both looked at him.

"You should know," Thax said uneasily. "I hate to tell you this, but… curds, I sound like the harbinger of –" He stopped before saying 'death'. "Anyway, I heard him tell Scat he's wiping your wages for the Exhibition. The whole two days, and the prep work."

The twins froze, a micromovement from each that nevertheless iced up the air. Thax shrugged. "Maybe he was waiting to tell you at a better time. Though I wouldn't bet on it. He's Kelvad."

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

"Really," was all Challis said.

Rasalas braced himself. Whether or not his sister slid into his eyesight, an intense emotion was often enough to cross over from her into him. If he was already entertaining an emotion of his own, he could never be sure how well the twain would meet.

"Not just for the race," Thax was saying. "Something about killing a buck?"

The twain met. Rasalas threw down the pitchfork with a clang.

"I was trying to save it," he said harshly, rounding on him. "Doesn't he even care?"

"Mm," Thax said. "Tough."

Rasalas turned and slammed his elbows down onto the edge of the wagon, thrusting his hands into his hair.

Challis lolled her head back. Silence echoed in the wake of Thax's evil tidings, tightening an unpleasant knot in her stomach. She thought of her furious words to her father. How she had run off in a mad dash and left her duty behind. Then, the exhilaration of an idea, the splash of flux-fizzed water, then the feel of the first buck's body as she tugged it out in a cloud of doubt and terror of what she had done. Forge's anger was her fault. But…

"He can't do that," she whispered thickly. The thrike's nest blurred, and not just because of her double vision. She blinked around at the cage and, in the next moment, chose her battle.

A commotion of thrikes and windworkers came into the barn through the far door. Thax pushed away from the wagon in a hurry and trotted toward them, smiling at the brunette in front. Rasalas gritted his teeth and turned away.

Someone gave the Gannagens a curt call, then followed up with a sharp whistle at the lack of response. Rasalas glared at the ground. It was bad enough to be invisible, but even worse when you weren't allowed to be.

"Chall?"

He straightened to look around. "Turn my back for two ticks," he sighed, then stopped. Realization slapped over him like a forkful of manure. So did fear, in about the same spot.

"Oh, crap."

Wet leaves slid under him as he leaped the pitchfork and bolted out the door.

* * *

Sunlight on the open grounds burned her eyes, but Challis didn't stop. This was too much – the daily machinations of Rib-eye to keep her and Rasalas on the metaphorical leash, left with just enough energy to work, paid just enough to stay afloat – and she was dead tired of it all. Hell, she was almost dead dead of it all. She, the Cormellican procedure gone wrong, stuck with endlessly sliding visions and headaches and a relentless onward roll of hospital debt. It had been better when she couldn't see at all. At least then no one had bothered her, only pitied her.

Forge wasn't in his office. Challis caught a whiff of smoke and took off at a run down the slopes from the pterosaur grounds toward the open-air galleries where the afternoon meal was being prepared.

The jowled face appeared around a corner, accompanied by a strut that Challis could recognize even across the yard. She didn't slow down, all caution thrown aside as she cut the distance between them at full steam. Rib-eye stopped when he saw her coming and grinned.

"You know it's bad when it looks like one Gannagen but acts like the other," he announced when she skidded on the sand, coughing.

"How could you do that?" she burst out as soon as she could, flux swirling around her as she gasped it into her lungs. "You're a sadistic double-crosser, sir!"

A lull in the activity spread out from them as people stopped what they were doing to look over, then the noise resumed just as smoothly when they saw who it was. Cooks went on kneading and stirring and chopping. At any other time Challis would have been excited to see her favorite potato potsaaki on the grill with coconut milk and torn herbs, clouding the courtyard and coloring the air with scents of lemon and thyme.

Rib-eye spat off to the side and turned to climb a short staircase onto the platform.

"I have every right," he called behind him. "You neglected your duty. What did you think would happen?"

"It's over a hundred bells of wages!"

She climbed up after him but he spun back around, eyebrows raised. He was well accustomed to the energy of pterosaur employees, not to mention the rhapsodic temperaments of Oledrocca, and his Kelvad composure stayed where it was. "That doesn't make a difference." His voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned closer. "Watch yourself, Challis. Your talent in handling flux doesn't make you exempt from the consequences of your conduct."

"My conduct?" she sputtered, heat rising in her cheeks. She recognized, with no small shame, that her Talent In Handling Flux was failing right now and replaced by a blustery defensive attitude. Especially in the face of Rib-eye's stoicism. That alone doubled her anger, only this time far worse now that she was angry with herself. Her voice came out stiff and achingly deliberate. "Have you ever stopped to consider the other way around? Maybe our conduct might be improved, sir, if you treated us fairly."

She almost made it. At the last word, she rammed a fist back at a bamboo crate behind and slightly to one side. It was, unfortunately, empty. And yet someone had stacked heavy platters eight high on top. The whole collection toppled over in a raucous clatter of hardwood, one edge clocking Rib-eye's shin so he spewed out a string of curses, snatched Challis' arm, and jerked her close.

"Enough of this," he spat, real menace in his voice now. "Never once have I failed to make clear my expectations, and what happens when you fall short of them. If I didn't know better, I'd –"

He lurched backward as a muck-smeared arm appeared over his throat. Challis fell free of his grip. Rib-eye spun away, teetered, then met the full strength of Rasalas Gannagen combining legs, torso, and shoulders into a single powerful blow. Rib-eye's head snapped back. His arms flung out to the sides to make a more dramatic exit in the crash that took out a line of cooks at their roasting stations.

Heavy iron grates, loaded three high, tilted and crunched down onto the planks. Rows of smoking fish, fruit, and potatoes flew and splatted and sizzled, or disappeared into the open garden behind the platforms. Two of the cooks tumbled off the edge. Rib-eye followed, backward, and the three of them mashed down a section of the garden, a multi-tiered duct system heavy with draping plants and water that sluiced free from the broken troughs and was lost to the sand. Baskets full of vegetables spilled until the ground was rolling with colors in all directions.

Challis sidestepped a whole roasted turkey hawk reeling across the planks. It gathered dirt and debris on every sticky surface as it wobbled and came to rest between Rasalas' feet.

His hand was still in a fist as he stood there, stunned at what he had done. Flux quivered the air around him, driving him on to capitalize on the situation in the worst way possible, but he was keeping his boots planted with all his might. Groans and oaths echoed back and forth as half a dozen workers tried to push and lift hot heavy items back into place, but a few of them were obviously poised to grab Rasalas if he lost control. The only other sound came from one of the fire kegs wrenched out of its trappings as it trundled over the platform. Smoke spilled from its open end.

"Rasalas."

He and Challis turned their heads in sync to the side. A thickset man, with graying hair that bushed out over his mouth and chin, stood alone in the courtyard. His shoulders slouched with chronic weariness under a weight that was far bigger than the satchel he carried. For too long he stood, taking in the scene with a slow gaze that came to rest on Rasalas' stricken face.

The buzzing flux faded back to silence as everyone's attention spotlighted the man. He spoke in a soft, intent voice.

"Get away from there, now."

Rasalas numbly turned his back on the wreckage. Without even a glance at Challis, he crouched and dropped off the platform without using the steps, and pushed his hands into his pockets as he approached his father.

Behind him, voices murmured back to life, one at a time:

"Get those two out of here."

"Look at the state of this!"

"We've got enough trouble without –"

"It'll be a noya trauflen pain to replace those."

"Filthy muckraker, did you see his –"

Rib-eye chose that moment to step in and block his path.

The boss' glower was blackened by blood from his nose, and the chest under his soaked shirt heaved with enough steaming flux to wrestle a five-hundred-slug thrike.

Grills were hissing again, though some were scorching the air with smoke as workers watched the happenings. Even worse, the shaded eatery was filling up with people arriving for the afternoon meal. Challis didn't notice them at first – Rib-eye's form appeared in front of her as if she stood where her brother did – and she had to separate out what she saw from what he saw before making her way down to him. Then the whispers began around them. The Gannagens stood there like the world's last tumbleweeds waiting for the windstorm.

"If you say flux got the better of you," Rib-eye was saying quietly when Challis reached them, "I'll believe you."

At that, Rasalas met his eyes. Challis' heart lifted, just a bit. Until…

"That wasn't flux, sir," he admitted. "That was all me."

Challis flinched, but her eyes got a double serving of what the boss did to her brother.

One firm hand caught Rasalas' wrist, while the other cracked the buffalo lash across his face hard enough to make him stagger. Then Rib-eye shifted grip in a grim but calculated move, stepped up shoulder to shoulder, and shoved him backward. Challis regretted standing so close.

It was no tumbleweed but a fully loaded stock wagon that rammed out her lungs, and both Gannagens hit the ground together with a crunch. Challis' view was a blur as she tried to struggle back up, but it took an unseemly long time for the weight to roll away. Rasalas hadn't made a sound; both hands simply clutched over his eyes as if the touch of air would burn them. It was typical Rib-eye: face for a face.

The shadow of the Almighty Forge fell upon them.

"You get your wish," he said, brandishing the buffalo. "Fair treatment. Now go fix that smashed tubing and trappings, and I'll relent enough of your Exhibition wages to cover the cost of lumber for the platform. Not a unit more."

He scowled down at Challis and kicked at Rasalas' leg. "And thanks to a supreme lack of judgment when it comes to choosing your battles, you both are fired from the pterosaur grounds. Turn in your cuffs by half-light. Good day, you two."