The Long Forever. Eugene Lambert

space an hour ago. Since then the freighter’s been decelerating and manoeuvring us into orbit, all on automatic, while Murdo watches and tries to chew his lip off. I’d been looking forward to see the storm-like nebula again, but this close it’s all spread out and too faint to see.

      That’s what Murdo says anyway.

      Sky was funny. She had a right go at him, sure he’d flown us to the wrong system. But the star map is on his side.

      We saw Shanglo’s planet on our way in, a lifeless-looking grey blob. That’s away to our right now. The system’s half-dead sun is somewhere behind us, a red giant.

      As we track over the moon’s day-side, most of the surface is hidden by yellow-white clouds towering above their dark shadows. But I catch glimpses of lush green land too. Towards the far horizon I see glittering blue. Murdo says this is an ocean, which is like a really big lake.

      Dodgy stomach or not, I’ve never seen a more beautiful sight. I could gaze at it forever.

      ‘Okay, I want everybody out of here,’ Murdo says. ‘Now!’

      He reckons our descent could get rough so we all need to be strapped in. With Sky being a jammer pilot too, she’s in the right-hand flight seat. I’ve a few hours’ flying time myself and have bagged the seat behind them.

      Anuk herds the other kids back to the crew compartment.

      I’m pulling my straps tight when Murdo summons up a graphic display of the star freighter.

      ‘Initiating separation, in three, two . . . go!’

      The flight deck shudders violently. On the graphic our freighter splits into two parts, our dropship front end shrugging off the larger dee-emm drive assembly.

      ‘Split complete,’ Sky says. ‘Everything’s in the green.’

      Anuk yells that they’re all strapped in.

      Murdo rest his hands on the controls for atmospheric flight, built into the armrests of his pilot seat. On the left are the throttles to control our speed. On the right a pistol grip controls pitch, roll and yaw. He swears it’s called a joystick, which is weird. These last few hours, I’ve never seen him so excited, and I’ve caught it off him. My heart thumps like it’s trying to punch its way out. If we manage to offload this darkblende he says we’ll be up to our necks in creds, so rich that we’d struggle to spend them all in our lifetimes.

      I’d settle for never being cold, hungry or scared again.

      Not for the first time I have to pinch myself that I’m not dreaming. Days ago I was Wrath’s most wanted. A hunted rebel, hiding out in holes in the ground, misery and suffering all I had to look forward to. Now this . . .

      ‘Right,’ Murdo says, giving us his most annoying grin. ‘Let’s see if I can remember how to fly a descent.’

      ‘Try real hard,’ Sky says.

      My feeling exactly. I saw this thing when it was on its way down to Wrath. It doesn’t hang about.

      ‘I’ll do my best,’ he tells us. ‘Hold on.’

      Our drop starts smooth, but the atmosphere thickens fast and we start to be buffeted. Soon I’m glad for my wrap-around seat and my straps. I’ve been on wild flights in jammers back on Wrath, but they were nothing compared to this. After one particularly savage buffet rattles my teeth, I shout out to Sky, asking if something’s gone wrong.

      She checks her displays. ‘No-o, we’re go-o-o-d.’

      And then, quite suddenly, everything calms down again. I can make out features below us, mountains and rivers. But they seem to be leaping up at us hellish fast.

      ‘Hey, pull up!’ Sky yells.

      I reckon the dropship does it for him, but only at the last possible second. I’m shoved down into my seat so hard it’s as if ten heavy men have piled onto me. My seeing greys out. By the time I can focus again we’re in level flight with clouds whipping past unbelievably fast. And we’re definitely not on Wrath. Shanglo’s sky is a different blue, and shot through higher up with weird, ghostly tendrils of green.

      Murdo gives himself a shake. ‘Switching to manual.’

      ‘Is that a good idea?’ Sky says, only just beating me to it.

      ‘You want me to wait until I’m landing it?’

      A fair point that shuts us up.

      He does a few shallow practice dives and mildly banked turns without any problem. Then throws it around more confidently like he’s back aboard his windjammer.

      A big grin splits his face. ‘See, nothing to it, huh?’

      ‘Where’s this old contact of yours?’ I ask.

      ‘Cobb’s a thousand klicks that way.’ Murdo points in the direction we’re flying. ‘A compound at the edge of a great big plateau. Should be hard to miss.’

      That I can believe as the surface of Shanglo flashes past beneath us. Apart from a dark smudge in the distance, all I see are flat, tree-smothered plains in every direction. Murdo noses us lower, until we’re skimming the tops. These trees are way bigger than anything on Wrath.

      ‘Fine bit of lumber here,’ I say.

      Murdo glances at me, as if I’ve said something funny.

      Not long after, we arrive at that brown smudge I’d seen. The trees disappear like somebody flicked a switch. Under us now is a scarred and shattered landscape, criss-crossed with tracks, dotted with stumps where trees once jostled.

      The brown stretches ahead to the far horizon.

      ‘What the hell happened?’ Sky says.

      ‘Auto-loggers happened,’ Murdo says. ‘Lumber’s big business. No trees left on the Core worlds, so they log it here and ship it back. Rich folk like a bit of wood.’

      He cranks us round and we get a look at how the forest ends behind us in a straight line that can’t be natural, before we fly on again over the devastation.

      ‘No trees left?’ I say. ‘What happened?’

      ‘Used them all up. Poisoned them. Who cares now? I reckon that’ll be our rock ahead in the distance.’

      A cluster of strange plateaus sticks up from the ravaged landscape. Flat-topped, sheer-sided, they look like they’ve been squeezed up out of the ground. Murdo’s flying us towards the biggest one, which must be a good few klicks across. I can see the outline of buildings on top of it.

      ‘Weird,’ Murdo says.

      ‘What’s the matter?’ Sky asks.

      ‘Cobb’s guys must see us coming, so why aren’t they on the comm, demanding that we identify ourselves?’

      ‘Why don’t you give them a shout?’

      Murdo sucks his teeth, not looking too keen, but then he presses a button on the joystick. ‘Cobb compound, incoming free-trader is the . . . Never Again Two. D’you copy?’

      Nothing. He calls again. More nothing.

      When we make a low pass over the compound we find out why. All that’s left of Cobb’s compound are tumbled-down walls and burnt-out skeletons of buildings. Murdo curses, and cranks us back round in a steep turn.

      It looks no better on the second pass.

      Still cursing, he sets us down on an open area outside the ruins. It’s not his best landing, but I’m saying nothing.

      ‘This is dumb,’ Sky says. ‘Nothing’s left here.’

      But Murdo’s already unstrapping himself. He growls that he wants to take a look around. Minutes later, all of us except for Sky are crammed on to the loading platform as it lowers.

      We step off it on to the surface of