Bonds of Brass (The Bloodright Trilogy #1) - Emily Skrutskie Page 0,37
two fists in the air like he’s conquered this planet.
I roll my eyes, sliding down the ladder after him. Rather than rush for Delos’s dirt, I cross to the equipment lockers and pull a pair of scrapers from the toolbox. When I descend the ramp, I do it slowly, savoring each step until my boots sink into the sand of an empire I’ve never known.
We couldn’t have picked a prettier spot. The distant ribbon of the river slices across the horizon, catching the light of the rising sun so vividly that it seems like it’s glowing. Mist curls through the forest that hems the clearing, and everything is green. Not the dusky, patched green of a prairie spring at the academy. This part of Delos is downright verdant.
It’s the perfect place to catch your breath, and that’s exactly what I do as I sink into the sand next to Gal. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. As if I could drink in the entire world this way.
“You’re infatuated,” Gal says, and I stiffen before I realize he means with the planet.
I toss him one of the scrapers. “Time to put some calluses on those princely fingers.”
* * *
—
The paint that marks the Ruttin’ Hell as Umber property is tougher than it looks. Worse, it’s hard to get at, even with the ladders we find tucked in the cargo hold’s equipment lockers. Both of us can’t work at the same time—someone has to hold the ladder steady while someone else works until his arms get too sore to carry on.
I take a certain amount of pleasure in peeling off the black and brass bit by bit. Flakes of paint fall away, leaving nothing but pure hullmetal untempered by the heat of reentry. There’s no hiding that we’ve removed markings from the ship. We’d need an acid wash to restore it to its factory state. But there’s something deeply satisfying about taking something Umber has layered itself over and making it clean again.
When it’s my turn to hold the ladder, I don’t look up.
We break at midday when the sun gets unbearable, retreating into the Beamer’s cargo hold, sealing ourselves inside, and cycling the coolant until our sweat-stained shirts feel like they’re about to freeze to our skin. Over a ration-pack meal, we reevaluate. We’d thought it would only take the morning to get the Ruttin’ Hell scrubbed, and we’d be in Isla before sundown. Clearly that isn’t happening.
“We finish the job today, sleep, and hit Isla first thing tomorrow,” Gal declares, taking a swig of water as I cut the air and reopen the cargo ramp. The delay’s eating at him. His nervous energy has been building with no ceiling ever since we set foot on this planet. Every extra day we spend on foreign soil is a risk. We can’t linger on Delos.
Even if I sort of wish we could.
I’ve never spent an extended amount of time in the wilderness. I’m used to cities, to the constancy and solidity of buildings and pavement and people all around. That or the quiet of the void, with only the hum of a ship to fill the air. A different kind of hum pervades this space. It’s like the planet is an engine, its heart beating with the distant motion of the river and the dull roar of the winds that cuts above the tree line. Here, I can almost forget everything that matters, every force driving us, every piece of history nipping at our heels.
There’s time to kill before the afternoon heat breaks, so we trek across the sandy clearing to the banks of the river. The water looks clean, cool, and inviting. Naturally my shirt’s over my head and my boots are off before Gal can get a single note of worrying in. The water’s only three feet deep, but I immerse myself anyway, dropping to my knees and then rolling onto my back as its chill sinks through me. When I glance back at the shore, Gal’s still looking indecisive.
“Problem, Your Majesty?” I smirk.
“Ruttin’ hell,” he sighs, and my stare snaps guiltily away as he yanks his shirt off.