Chapter 3

A low hum marked the transit of the weathered Obel rising wide and grey over the bulwark Hall of Justice. Deep, thumping wubs from the goliath passing overhead drummed pressure into his ears. Every hour that Obel made a deliberate transit and deep inside its dark-grey exterior it was always sewing formless energies that ebbed and flowed.  These it guided outwards, weaving subtle forces into gyrogravitational tension to keep gravity stable on the panes, and shape the necessary internal rotation that kept the township upright.  This was Buerl, the timekeeper, some called it. Two others, Donte and g’Ndou, always followed. The late horses, because they held orbits that came after Buerl. All three balanced the forces between them. They moved in a coordinated ballet around each other, the town, and the panes, never meeting, never interrupted, steady guardians of the range.  Buerl droned through the night sky. Fuzzy moss bloomed from pitted scoring across its flat alloy faces, corrosion worked there by the stormy flares of a tempestuous sun. Cosmic radiation lashed across it eroding holes, over time, for blooming clusters of wispy mould that drifted in soft trailing motions around the Obel’s lower reaches. In the mornings the spidering tangles of emerald sparkled with dew.  The humidity before harvest season always got the station this way, when the blooms spread off the fields and through the station’s air. The stationfolk could smell it in the mornings, a faint musty odour. It would be gone when the air from the cycling systems turned over dry.  Arran went up steps worn to a patina by the footsteps of generations of stationfolk seeking to unburden themselves of the rough, disagreeable matters of their days. Here, time and nature also weathered the metal, and weedy vines with broad, waxen leaves rambled through the railing. Vines went up into a parapet overhanging shuttered upper windows and broke the straight profile of the rooftop. The slowly beating judicial heart of the station had a lit stoop and a bench outside.  From far out on the panes was a deep boom, a percussive blast that made the hair on his neck stand on end.  ‘Searcy,’ he said, looking in the direction of Odelford’s farm.  There, in the distance. An expanding speck. Spiralling outwards, fast. Coming to see him at a breakneck speed. On the ark and all along the Hollow people were turning to watch.  Word travelled fast from the mouths of Gods.  Mayor Searcy’s orthorn cloak streamed blue below the scowled clench to his jaw. Arran braced, inhaling. Rushing air pushed the Mayor’s greying brown hair flat against his head. One shoulder drew back, big hand balling into a fist.  ‘Oh shit,’ Arran said. ‘We’re dancing.’  The air itself split into thin, white jetstreams from the corners of his squared physique. Arran didn’t stand a chance.  The blow hit his jaw, breaking it. The force knocked him off his feet. The Mayor’s winding trajectory added speed and angle to the blow, sending Arran glancing ragdoll off the Hall’s fronting and flying wild into the air instead of directly into the wall. The Mayor would have punched him through it.  His senses spun. Arran took a moment to recover. He blinked. Searcy was inverted bearing down on him, his rough hands reaching for Arran’s throat.  Arran descended, slipping out of Searcy’s reach. Searcy spun around. Arran righted himself, using the transfer of weight to throw a kick at Searcy’s side. With a free hand Arran grabbed his own broken jaw and shoved the bone back into place.  Searcy blocked the kick. ‘You utter fucking malcontent, Arran.’ He came right around, facing him.  The jaw bone jutted hard into the socket. Arran’s throat made a wet click. It would take a few seconds for it to come good. Searcy launched forward, both hands raised now to grab Arran by his collar. He was twice Arran’s size. If the Mayor wanted he could rip the peacekeeper in half down the middle and drench the town below in his bloody entrails. It was fortunate, then, that he only drove Arran straight out of the sky and hard into the roof of the Hall of Justice, denting its weathered roof inwards with the force of the impact.  Arran had the wind knocked out of him and blood coughed out with it.  Searcy tightened his grip on Arran’s collar and stuck his face close. His breath was hot. He growled. ‘I told you, Odelford was off-limits. We were going to get him by the smuggling case. You had absolutely no right to go in there, what, fucking guns blazing? Like you’re a lawman again? What is the matter with you, Arran?’  Arran’s jaw was set back in place, but his back was broken and he was pretty sure most of his insides were bleeding. He’d be fine though.  ‘I had every right.’  Searcy let out an aggravated grunt. He pulled the peacekeeper out of the dent and slammed him back into it, the metal ringing at the blow. Broken, jagged rib bones minced through Arran’s organs.  Arran groaned, fingers twitching. Searcy stood up and away from him and went over to the rooftop door a few feet away.  ‘When you’re ready, dickhead.’