Then, abruptly, it stopped.
The ship made a winding-down sound, and the temperature cooled back to normal. Bonebreak hit a few more buttons, seeming rather satisfied with himself. “There,” he said. “Perfect docking.”
The ship lurched to the right, and Nok screamed.
Bonebreak adjusted a lever, and the ship righted.
“Now. Perfect docking.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Rolf muttered, looking pale.
Bonebreak hit a few buttons, and the door opened. A curious sound came from the open doorway.
A sh, sh, sh that at first Cora thought might be ocean waves. A gust of wind suddenly blew up through the hold, carrying fine, sandy dust and thin, but breathable, air. The sound was the wind—in a space station devoid of anything but artificial breezes, she had missed the wind. She closed her eyes and let it wash over her.
Real dust.
Real air.
For a second, she wondered if Armstrong wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe not the paradise Dane had described, but maybe not awful either. She didn’t care if it was dusty and hot, as long as it was a safe haven.
The fresh air seemed to have the same effect on all of them, except for Bonebreak. He grabbed a bag from under the control panel and slung it over one shoulder. “I’m going to find something to drink.”
“You’ve been here before?” Cora asked.
“No. But I have never found any inhabited space in the universe, even desert planets run by lesser species, that didn’t have a bar.” He dropped down the hole.
The others stared after him.
Nok squeezed Cora’s hand. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s see what’s out there.”
45
Cora
THE DUST NEARLY BLINDED Cora as she jumped down the hatch; Leon caught her, wiping the dust from his own eyes.
“Not looking so much like paradise, sweetheart.”
Cora pushed her hair out of her face—its new length meant it kept blowing in her eyes—and squinted into the dust. “Maybe everone here lives indoors, or underground.”
“I think this is just what’s left of a dust storm that already came through,” Nok said. Her 1950s-housewife apron kept billowing in the wind. “One of the models back in London was from Morocco. Used to tell me about the sandstorms there, and how the wind howled.” She coughed as the others climbed out of the ship. “Maybe the dust will settle soon.”
She was frowning, and Cora didn’t blame her. It wasn’t a place she’d want to raise a daughter either.
The shadowy silhouette of low mountains hung in the distance—rounded and ancient. And a sun that was bigger than theirs on Earth, which was probably why it was so hot. Bonebreak was walking off toward a collection of dark shapes that might have been buildings. He seemed to move and breathe just fine, and for once she envied him the mask.
“We should catch up with Bonebreak.” She took a step, but her legs felt heavy with exhaustion.
“It’s the gravity.” Rolf came up beside her, stooped over, like it took effort just to stand up straight. “This must be a very dense moon to have gravity this strong. That’s why those mountains are so low. And the air—they must have manipulated the atmosphere.”
Cora glanced behind her. Anya had stayed on the ship, her head still aching, and Mali stayed as well to take care of her. Mali and Leon exchanged a few words before parting. Mali suddenly stood on tiptoe and kissed his ear.
When he came over, he looked as off-kilter as if she’d slapped him. “Right,” he said, a little discombobulated. “She said me and her are doing a rescue mission.”
“You okay with that?”
He rubbed at the ear she’d kissed. “Oh, yeah.”
Cora rolled her eyes, and they started trudging through the dust after Bonebreak, toward the hazy structures that were getting more visible in the clearing dust.
“What do we say to them?” Nok asked nervously, bobbing along next to Cora as they caught up to Bonebreak. “That Rolf and I are going to be their new neighbors, and by the way, I’m pregnant?”
“I think we start with hello,” Cora said. “And then see where that takes us.”
The ground was uneven and fissured and marked with spiny vegetation, and Cora had to be careful not to trip. Her lungs burned; the air didn’t quite seem right. She felt light-headed, which didn’t match with the heavy gravity. The structures came out of the dust in a wavering sort of way, and for a moment the angles didn’t seem right. For a terrifying second she thought she was back in the Kindred’s cage, where angles had been distorted illusions, but then she stumbled upon a clapboard hut, and she reached out and touched it.
Solid.
The wooden siding was rough-hewn; it must have been made from trees chopped in a nearby forest. A tin bucket of muddy water sat beneath a cloth tarp.
“Vegetation,” Rolf observed. “Water. Breathable air. Your friend didn’t lie about there being ample resources.”
“I wouldn’t call Dane a friend,” she muttered. She ran her fingers along the board that formed the corner of the hut, and a splinter came off in the pad of her finger. She broke into a grin. “Look—it’s real!”
“Hooray,” Nok muttered. “The wonderful world of splinters. It’ll probably be too much to hope for a day-care center?”
The dust had nearly settled, and the village was taking shape. The hut was one of about twenty that were constructed with primitive but attentive craftsmanship. A few had flower boxes in the windows holding big-petaled flowers with thick round leaves, though they were all currently coated in dust. There was a covered clay ring that looked like a well, and some beaten-flat areas where maybe the Armstrong residents held dances. Everything was made of wood or clay, with a bit of tin glinting on the roofs. It had a pioneer kind of quality to it, and Cora felt proud, despite her reservations. Even far from home, humans had a knack for surviving.
Rolf’s eyes went big. “It looks like how I always imagined America’s Wild West.”
“A bit, yeah,” Nok said, toeing the bucket of muddy water. She rubbed the back of her neck, looking at the village. “Should we just knock?”
Bonebreak shook a finger toward the only building that was more than one story high. “I always say, go with the tallest structure and hope it’s where someone important lives.”
They followed him across the dusty town, trampling a sort of thick-stemmed succulent grass, to the porch of what they thought must be the town hall. Cora shook the dust from her hair and brushed it off her shoulders, aiming for a halfway presentable appearance, and then knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again. Nothing.
“Where would they be?” Nok asked. For the first time, unease crept into her voice. “You don’t think the Kindred knew we were coming and rounded them all up?”
Everyone shot a hard look at Bonebreak, who held up his hands. “If there was a way of communicating with the Kindred or Mosca, little childrens, I would have called for backup when you had a gun pointed at me.”
“Then where is everyone?”
“Sleeping,” Bonebreak said. “Farming. Picnicking. How should I know what humans choose to do with their time?”
Leon gave a frustrated sigh and pushed forward, throwing the door open. “Hey! Anyone home?”
“We’re friends,” Cora added. “From Earth, by way of Kindred aggregate station 10-91.”
She waited, but there was no response.
“No one home,” Rolf observed.
It looked like some sort of makeshift municipal building. There was a big entrance hall with a desk by the front door, and a hallway to the left, probably leading to offices. If it was Armstrong’s sheriff’s department, there didn’t seem to be any jail cells, which was good. She’d be happy to never see another cage in her life. She picked up a book left facedown on the desk and smiled. Gone with the Wind. Beneath it was a fat, dusty set of leather-bound pages.
“I guess we wait,” she said, flipping ope
n the leather cover and scanning the pages. Nok and Rolf headed off down the hallway to investigate.
“Uh, guys?” Nok’s voice came uncertainly from down the hallway.
Cora started to close the folio, but something written across the top of the first page caught her eye.
It was divided into columns. Numbers were listed in the left-hand column like a calendar, but the months only had ten days. In the other columns were series of numbers that didn’t immediately mean anything. The first entry read 25/12/12/1; the next, 30/15/12/3; and the next, 27/0/2/25. She flipped the page and froze.
On the next page, someone had written out the column headings:
Total New Slaves / Of Which for Manual Labor / Of Which for Wives / Dead.
She froze. Total New Slaves? Given the dates, that had to be new arrivals on the moon . . . the Kindred’s regular delivery of good samaritans to Armstrong.
But slaves? And dead? And wives?
Someone had scrawled in the margin:
Ask Kindred next time, need more wives. Keep running away. Say it’s for reproduction—they always fall for that.
Cora slammed the notebook closed, her heart pounding. She stumbled through the hallway with legs that felt too heavy until she found the others in a small office. They were gathered around a pile of ancient-looking chains, the kind you’d fasten around someone’s ankles if it was 1850. On the other side of the room were bins filled with clothes—baseball uniforms, Middle Eastern robes, frilly dresses—the fake kind of clothing the Kindred gave them to wear.
“What does it mean?” Nok asked in a high-pitched voice.
A tickle started in the back of Cora’s throat. No—this couldn’t be right. The Kindred were the ones who imprisoned humans. Why, when given freedom and ample resources, would humans possibly enslave their own kind?
“Bonebreak,” she called, her voice sounding a little desperate. “Bonebreak!”
There was no answer. She ran back into the main room, but he wasn’t there. She went to the door, squinting into the bright day. The dust had all but settled; she could see the whole village now, but it was still empty.
“He left us,” she said.
“What if he went back to the ship?” Nok asked, anxiously twisting the pink streak in her hair. “He might try to leave without us.”
“Anya and Mali are still there,” Cora said. “They’ll stop him.”
Nok paced nervously and then went still, staring at something far off. She had always had the best eyesight out of the group; Cora twisted to follow her line of vision. A single column of dust rose skyward in the distance.
“What is that, another storm?” she asked.
But it was too small, and too concentrated.
“It’s a truck,” Leon said. “Coming fast.”
“What do we do?” Nok asked. “Run?”
But the truck was getting closer. Cora turned around, scanning the horizon. There was nothing but the ship; they’d never make it to those far mountains in time. Hiding in one of the buildings would only trap them.
“No,” she said, and pressed a hand against Lucky’s notebook in her pocket. “We came here for a reason. We need to find out if this is a safe place.” She exchanged a look with the others that she hoped didn’t look too worried. “However we have to.”
Leon cracked his knuckles.
Rolf pushed at the imaginary glasses on his nose, blinking hard.
Nok’s hand fell from her hair.
Cora took a deep breath and watched the cloud of dust approach. Whoever these people were on Armstrong, they were human. They too had been stolen from Earth and caged by the Kindred. They knew what it felt like to be treated like animals.
That had to count for something.
That had to count for everything.
Because if not, she might have just gotten them all into deeper trouble than they’d ever imagined.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’VE BEEN FORTUNATE TO work with a brilliant team on this book. My editor, Kristin Rens, who has believed in Cora’s story from day one, and the entire Balzer + Bray team for supporting us, including Kelsey Murphy, Alessandra Balzer, Donna Bray, and HarperCollins’s fantastic team of designers, copyeditors, and marketers. I’m also grateful to my agent, Josh Adams, who inspired Mali’s awesome ninja moves, and Megan Miranda, who read countless drafts and helped make each one better.
A special thanks as well to Jesse, for long walks brainstorming about alien planets, giant dollhouses, and twisted safaris.
And, as always, to my readers. Without you, my words would be hollow.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo credit Kristi Hedberg Photography
MEGAN SHEPHERD grew up in her family’s independent bookstore in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The travel bug took her from London to Timbuktu and many places in between, though she ended up back in North Carolina with her husband, two cats, and a scruffy dog, and she wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. She is also the author of the Madman’s Daughter trilogy and The Cage. Visit her online at www.meganshepherd.com.
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BOOKS BY MEGAN SHEPHERD
The Madman’s Daughter
Her Dark Curiosity
A Cold Legacy
The Madman’s Daughter Trilogy: The Complete Collection
The Cage
The Hunt
CREDITS
Cover art © 2016 Sebastien Hue
Photo of girl © Howard Huang
Cover photos © iStock.com/Guenter Guni
Cover design by Michelle Taormina
COPYRIGHT
Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THE HUNT. Copyright © 2015 by Megan Shepherd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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ISBN 978-0-06-224308-9 (trade bdg.)
EPub Edition © May 2016 ISBN 9780062243119
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