Savel and I make it to Griswold just as the sun reaches the tops of the Bald Mountains. Though the slanted light and day-long heat rising from the dusty roads remind me of the first time I was here, we're coming from the opposite direction, and I've got to squint to keep the sun out of my eyes. But the squint goes swell with my glasses. Because I'm sweating under my blazer, I have to keep pushing the glasses up my nose, and overall, my re-transformation into the girl Duster wouldn't look twice at is a rousing success. Savel escorts me into Strony's, sets me down at the bar and whistles for the barmaid to take care of me, then quickly leaves me to my own devices. I order a midgen tonic and settle myself in with my notepad to take notes of my surroundings.

It isn't dark out yet, so the shadows in the corners beyond the throw of light from the green, triangular overhead lamps and half-working neon are just hazy brown. A young couple and their overalls-decked toddler eat at one of the booths to my right. Between her glass jewelry and his over-slicked hair, it's obviously a special night out for them, but everyone else in the pub look as much a part of the furniture or time-blasted woodwork as anything else. A few elderly men sit smoking a few stools down from me at the bar, with long grey hair in ponytails and tobacco-stained teeth. Their scars, oddly bowed legs, and extravagantly tooled boots mark them as former glorious cattlemen. The young-bloods are still out with their herds. Come nightfall I'm sure as many as can get away will come to visit the barmaids, however. The girls look just like the booze ads in their sprayed-shiny victory curls, rolled up sleeves, and tight-waisted skirts among the glow and sparkle of the brighter bar lights on the tumblers and bottles. But far be it from me to look down on them, as I would have undoubtedly seven years ago. The shower I had the other night was the first in probably weeks.

The majority of stools and booths are empty, though, and I don't even spot Wolf Strony until I see his long, grey-trousered legs sticking out from behind the powered-down recorodion.

I lean over the bar and catch the nearest barmaid's eye. "What's wrong with the recorodion? I could use a little music right now."

She slides three bitters to the time-crusted cattlemen and shrugs. "Dunno. Wolf, he got it fixed up some just the other day, had it getting in broadcasts from Coastal City, even, and then this morning I come in and he's practically cryin' over the thing. Mouse chewed the cord, or something. Not that we get lots a' mice," she adds quickly. "That's why it was a surprise, see."

"No, it wasn't a surprise, not really," Wolf moans as he rises from behind the silent machine, looking, with his messed-up hair and gaunt face, more like a shaman commenting on the end of the world.

But then he glances between Savel and I and all grouchiness is gone. One hand sweeps his cobwebby hair back and the other straightens his vest, and he grins in that almost-too-wide way.

"Newcomers! Well, ain't they just a credit a bushel nowadays! Hmm, and I see Melna's set you up with a midgen tonic. Good starter, very good, cleanse the palate and give a general freshen-up after a day of travel. What brings you out here, ma'am? Business? You got the look of a Nose about you – can I give you any information? Perhaps give you a good reason to put the pub here on the front projection of a broadcast? The name's Strony, by-the-by, Wolf Strony himself." As he talked, he'd jumped over the bar, whipped the towel out from Melna's apron, lifted my drink to give the counter in front of me a brisk scrub, and leaned over to wink at me. "And I've got some real beauties of boozes here, real deserving of being put on the map. You doing a piece on vacation destinations?"

Thank goodness for the magical properties of makeup. He doesn't recognize me.

"Lovely to meet you, Mr. Strony, I'm Pershanna Garrow." I hold out my hand and channel starch and top-label perfume and hunting clubs and everything I imagine behind the name. "I'm with the Blazon Intelligence, and I'm here due to a lead on the soal shortages. Word is there's been a few Fire-keepers through here, and even some trouble with the Guild. You have any information on that?"

After shaking my hand, Wolf straightens up to put his hands on the edge of the bar and sniffs. "Not the kinda thing blokes like to have information on, if you know what I mean, Pershanna Garrow. And ain't those Guild blokes supposed to be city-centered? Gentleman-thieves, hmm? We ain't got much high tech around here for them to be hacking and stealing and such. That recorodion's the newest thing we got – gives me an edge over the West-Side Bar across town, but it's chalking up to near on ten years old. I know everybody in this town, dame, and I'm saying there's not much anybody'd have to say on the Guild. Now, if I could bring your attention back to the vacation destination idea, I have a line of house brews I'd be happy to set you up a tasting for right now." Wolf turns to brunette Melna, hand on the small of her back, and smiles. "Fetch us the shotglasses, darling?"

Just then, a handful of cattlemen come clumping in, the outdated electrical security bars across the door zapping the last one when he forgets to check his pistol at the door. Anywhere else, the newer, soal-powered version of the same tech would have short-circuited not only my prods and Core's firearm in my purse, but almost burnt the skin off Charon's reconstructed hands. I'm not sure, yet, if this coincidence helps me, or that darn Dreamboat and any other Guild that may be hanging around here. Before I can go further with this thought, I notice that two of the five cattlemen don't go right up to the bar to flirt with the barmaids. They join Savel at his booth, the heavy-set dog that'd entered with them sitting down by their boots. It stares at everyone else in the pub with watery but unblinking eyes, as if daring them to try to mention the 'no animals' sign outside by the door. I expect Wolf to when he whisks a few fingers of whiskey each and a coffee pot to their table, but he doesn't. He just jokes with them, inquiring after one's herd and the other's girlfriend, and they answer him in monosyllables, faces as expressionless as if the scrubland sun has baked emotions out of them. So Wolf retreats behind the recorodion again, and I pretend to watch him with his repair attempts. But really I'm keeping tabs on the three in the booth.

Savel sits with his back to me, his head thrown into a silhouette by the lamp inside the booth, but I can see the faces of the two cattlemen when I glance their direction.

"Savel." The elder cattleman – to judge by his darker skin and the many squint-creases at his eyes – tugs at his clunky, collar-like antique visor to loosen it around his neck. Then he leans over the table to study the supposed Fire-keeper. "Ain't seen you 'round here in quite some time, mate. What brings you back?"

"Me rocket-jet got clipped in a dogfight a few months ago, right down the belly."

The last shot I got in before the Verve went down the first time hit the ship following me – not a direct hit, but a long graze. I saw the sparks scatter down the whole right side of that unmarked hull. Saw the right thruster sputter and stall just before my own engine failed, shot through, and we plummeted and the procarnes circled and Core became confined to the med ward.

To keep myself composed, I take a sip of my midgen tonic. I compliment Melna on it. The condensation on the glass hides the sweat on my palms.

Savel continues.

"Can't fly right now, so I came back here to be helpful where I could. Heard from mama that the power's blown in her place down here, wanted me 'round to see what I could do about it. 'Course I'll have to hunt down new bulbs, most like."

The older cattleman gives a bark of laughter and pours black coffee into the whiskey in his glass. He takes a swig and shakes his head at Savel. "Good luck wiv that, mate. Last lightbulbs we got here? Taken. Not two days ago."

"Shite." Savel stiffens and grips his glass. "Mama's not going to be happy wiv me."

I take another sip of my midgen tonic. No way this conversation is really about lightbulbs. Either that, or Savel's mama is a drill sergeant.

Core? I open the comm link for the first time since the transit station. The Guild have got something going on here, all right. Not sure how big their presence here is, yet. But I was right.

I can't say 'good', so I guess me only option is 'good on you'.

How are the repairs going? I ask, right as Wolf bursts out with some cussing from behind the recorodion, followed by a loud thump.

Right on schedule for our four-day deadline. Duster's finishing up the patchwork on the hold now. Should be done in a half-hour or so.

It's encouraging to hear – now all that's needed before the Verve is airworthy is for her landing gear and wing panel to be repaired. But unfortunately my good luck ends there. The elder cattleman finishes off his whiskey-and-coffee and gets to his feet with his companion. He makes a chirruping noise, and I think he's beckoning to the dog, but it's Savel who gets up first, hands in his pockets and head bent. The men toss a few credits onto the bar then all three disappear into the sunset-stained evening so quickly any move I make to follow them will be too obvious. I let them go.

You better be proud, Core. I just tried that caution you're always talking about.

I am proud. Your prod's fully charged, right?

Easy there. I smile into the last of my midgen tonic before I swallow it. Let's take it a step at a time.

Then Melna moves over to collect the cattlemen's credits, wrinkling her nose as she picks them up with just her long red fingernails, as if the money were dipped in what the horses left in the street right outside the door.

"Nice blokes," I murmur sympathetically, leaning on the bar and shaking my head. "They come in here often?"

Melna rolls her eyes as she slides the credits into the register, and sighs. "Too often. Haven't seen that Fitterly guy in months, but Lake and Cargon, they're here every week. Two fingers of Brawhaus each, and never a tip."

The register is right next to me on the bar, and in the light of the lamp over it, yellow-tinted, like all the outdated electric-run mechanics in the town, I take another look at her. Dark blue dress with buttons up the front and a low neckline and little puff sleeves. One of the buttons doesn't match the others. Her make-up is a little smudged, and I can still make out the bluish marks under her heavily mascaraed eyes. She doesn't even look at the register as she rings in the credits.

"You ever been out of town, love?" I say, keeping my tone quiet. I wish I'd brought some cigarettes ­– I could have offered her one, warmed her up.

She shakes her head, making her blue-gem feather earrings swing. "No. Been wantin' to for a while, but this place don't do much more'n pay the bills. We only get cattlemen, some local families, and drifters like Fitterly in here."

"There are more jerks like him? I've never gotten to know a Fire-keeper, really, what're they like?"

Melna purses her lip, digs at one of her nails. "I shouldn't talk bad about customers, but... Fitterly's a real pile of horse shite. I went to school wiv him here, couple years back, y'know? Hardly passed any classes, he did. Don't know how he got to be a Fire-keeper, I hear their training is real demandin'. Between the two of us, I don't fink he's really a Fire-keeper at all. Not any more, at least."

"Oh? Why's that?"

I lay a few credits on my bill on the counter – a few more than necessary. Melna notices at once, and narrows her eyes.

"I know you're a Nose, ma'am. What my gossipin' about patrons gonna do you?"

"Any information is good information." I smile and push the credits toward her across the bar. "And if there's something rotten going on with Fire-keepers, the public ought to know. You'll be doing the Empire a great service, and I promise, that kind of attitude and gumption gets you places."

Melna bites one of her red nails gingerly. Then she shrugs and slides the extra credits into her apron pocket.

"Fitterly never did me any good."

Leaning over the bar, she makes sure Wolf is still busy with the recorodion, casts a quick glance over the other patrons, then sits on the stool by the register and rests her elbows on the bar.

"So Fitterly goes off to be a Fire-keeper a few years back, mebbe two, and good riddance me and the girls here say. But then, few months later, he comes swaggerin' back with that Fire-keeper jacket and all kinds of stories that I half don't believe me ears to hear. All 'bout atmospheric reentry and nests and eggs and vapourizin' n' all. But the fing is, those stories, they don't change. He tells the same ones every time he comes in."

"He didn't do much talking tonight."

"Oh, he never does, not when Lake and Cargon come in. Specially Cargon. He's the one what has the dog. Calls him Gait. Wolf lets him bring Gait in 'cause word is Gait bit two fingers off a man who got too close to Cargon's herd, and near tore his face off, too. So yeah, Savel let's Cargon do all the talkin' when he come in. We all got to be nice to Cargon when he come in."

"What a bully! Can't you report him?"

"There's Justman Liuen, but she got plenty other fings to deal with."

"Like what?"

Melna glances around the pub again. The sun's almost set by now, shadows stretched long in the street outside the window and lights coming on in the upper windows of the buildings across the streets, yellow in the growing dusk. A few more cattlemen have come in as she and I were talking, and Melna straightens to watch the two other barmaids tend to them. Without looking, she pulls a basket of napkins out from under the bar and starts folding them. She does this for a while, eyes darting over the customers.

"What's Justman Liuen busy with, Melna?" I ask again, quieter.

"Oh, just, you know, rabble-rousers and such that are after the other cattlemen's herds, is me guess. Every town's got some low sort like that. Listen, ma'am, you're real nice, and all, but Wolf's not gonna like it, me sittin' here chattin'. We got to keep this bar runnin'."

I somehow keep myself from bringing up how much the man talks, himself.

"Of course!" I smile to cover my disappointment – I'd been really getting somewhere, there. "If you think of anything else you could share about this suspicious Fire-keeper, though, please contact me. Comm 921." That's the first private comm I'd ever gotten, and I still use it now only for strictly private communication. Then I gather my purse and sit back, raising my voice from the confidential whisper it'd been at previous. "But you'll probably see me in here again. I'll be in town for a couple of days. I wonder if you have recommendations as to lodging?"

"A place to lay your head?" Wolf crows, reappearing from behind the recorodion. "Shoot, dame, we got rooms right upstairs! I'm telling you, Griswold would be a great vacation destination. You'll get nothing but the best service here, I swear. A trip unlike any you've had before. I'll show you up now. Where's your luggage? Still in transit? Ah, yes, the transit system is fried nowadays, what with the soal shortages and all. No problem. Full accommodations in our rooms – everything you'll need to feel right at home."

The narrow bed, thin walls, chipped-enamel sink, and electric lightbulbs exactly fail to come anything close to what I left behind seven years ago. The only thing that reminds me of life then is the makeup on my face in the mirror, and that's soon gone. I immediately feel more myself, however, and after slipping into one of Core's old shirts – which I'd stuffed, last-minute, into my purse before leaving the Verve – and turning on my visor's proximity alarm and motion sensors, I feel safe, too. Despite smelling musty, the sheets on the bed are clean, and I curl up on the bed and open the comm link.

I close my eyes, breathing in the pleasant musky, slightly sweaty Core-scent on the shirt as he opens contact.

How's it going, me love? I haven't heard from you in almost an hour.

Part of me doesn't want to tell him what I really think, to keep him from worrying as much as I know he will. But doing so would be foolish. I need my team on the same level as me.

I don't know if it's the Guild or not, but someone's got control of the town. It may just be this jerk called Cargon – some kind of shifty-eyed cattlebaron. Has a nice herd nobody'll touch even though the others get messed with, or something. Could be just local feuds. Or...

I'll keep as many as me radars running as I can – I've got nearly everything online, now. Just a few pierces of hardware left for Duster to touch up. He's finished the hull and got about half of the rewiring on the wing panel done. He's bunking down soon, and so should you. I'll keep watch.

Thanks, dear.

Yawning, I reach over to the small table beside my bed to turn off the lamp, peering down within the shade to look at the lightbulb. Electricity is such a quaint old invention, and I've always enjoyed watching the filaments within the bulb glow, coal-like, for a few seconds before dying to the dark. But when I flick the lamp's switch, this doesn't happen. The power shut-off is too sudden. Far too sudden.

Pulling my visor up, I switch it to heightened night vision, and the room leaps into view again as if in pale daylight instead of near nine at night. I study the lightbulb again, and frown. The lightbulb looks hazy. But it should look almost as clear as a bubble in the visor. And... the socket looks like the ones of the repair lamps on the Verve.

I'm not sure why, but the next thing I do is pick up the greyhound paperweight (its pedestal-like base decorated with the oddly suitable engraving my condolences for your loss) from the table and smash the lightbulb. After the sharp pissh of breaking glass, silence falls over my tiny room, broken only by the muffled sound of the repaired recorodion treating the pub to the best dance tunes of the week. My heartbeat, however, drowns out the rhythm below as I pick up the largest piece of broken bulb. I set my visor to transparent mode and turn on the headlamp. In the white, soal-powered light, the shard of glass looks more like a curved piece of vellum from the ancient texts my grandmother read to me when I was little.

It's yellow.

It's painted, coated on the inside with a thin film as if dusted with something like my face powder.

Who paints lightbulbs yellow?

People who want yellow light.

Nobody wants yellow light if they can help it. Yellow light is electric – outdated, weak, and inefficient.

But if electric light is yellow to begin with, why bother with the paint?

There's no way I can lie down and try to sleep now. Setting down the broken piece of glass, I slip out of my room in my bare feet. Prod in hand, I tiptoe across the upstairs hallway and one by one, enter the three other guest rooms, all of which are identical to mine, and all empty.

They're all alike in another way, too.

All have the same yellow-painted lightbulbs.

All have the same