Under the Empyrean Sky Read Online Free PDF

said I do, and I do. And I want what’s in those sacks.”
    Shit, shit, shit.
    “This is a sick rat. Got into a tank of gravy. We’re gonna eat him because we have to, but you get better provisions than us. You really want the rat?”
    Please say no. Please just go away. I need what’s in these sacks.
    Cael prays this is enough to send Pally off the scent, because who the hell would want to eat a poisoned rat? Well, besides half the people in town. But Pally is bored. His cheeks grow redder.
    “Fine. Don’t want the rat. But what’s in the sacks?”
    “Fresh vegetables. Bell peppers. Tomatoes.
Green beans
.”
    The misdirection works. Pally spins the sonic shooter.“Uh-huh. That’s real funny, shit-bird.”
    “We wrecked our boat,” Cael says. “This is just some of our provisions. Some hardtack. A bundle of mouse-eaten rope. You don’t want any of this.”
    “You’re right, I don’t.” Cael’s heart lifts. But then Pally smirks. “But I’m still going to take it, because I think you’re a shit-bird.”
    “That’s not gonna happen,” Cael says, and the words surprise even him. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s already dropped the rat and the sacks onto the road and brought the slingshot to his hand. “No helmet. Uniform unzipped. I got a clear shot.” The Babysitter uniform is a kind of plastic mesh meant to absorb heavy blows and diffuse impact, but a white wife-beater won’t help Pally.
    “Put that slingshot away. I got my shooter out. You want to tangle with me?”
    “You should be the one who’s worried, Pally. You hit me, I get knocked back, bruised up, probably sick for a few days. I hit you—and I will—I’ll put that eye out of your fool head.”
    Cael widens his stance, trying to look tougher, meaner. He’s bluffing—he’s never been shot, but Cael has heard it’s pretty awful. Besides feeling like you just got hit by a drug-pumped bull, the blast leaves you dizzy and imbalanced for days. Unable to stand for long. Throwing up every couplehours. Busser once said it was like being drunk and hungover both at the same time.
    “These are my crew’s plunders,” he tells Pally. But he knows it’s coming. The way Pally’s hand tightens around the shooter, the way his finger seeks out the trigger, Cael knows he’s about to get hit dead in the chest by a sonic blast. Once that happens, he’ll be rolling around on the ground, throwing up on himself—giving Pally the perfect opportunity to go rifling through those sacks.
    “Hey!”
    It’s the other Babysitter, Grey Franklin. Jogging up behind Cael from the direction of town. Pally looks like he’s been caught with his hand in the till. Though Grey is not his superior, he’s damn sure mentally superior.
    Pally suddenly laughs and his hand drops, his pistol with it.
    “What’s going on here?” Grey asks. Franklin’s built like a bulldog, with a mean hunch and a hard underbite. The sides of his head offer thatches of gray hair, hard and bristly like a boot brush.
    “Nothing,” Pally says, waving it off. “I’m just giving Cael here a hard time.”
    “Leave him alone. Get back to town. Folks are getting riled up, what with the Marshall kid dying. We want to make sure we’re both there. Just in case.”
    “Yeah, yeah, sure, sure,” Pally says. As he passes Cael, he mutters, “Hope you eat that rat and you get the trots so bad it pulls your guts out your bunghole.”
    Cael’s about to open his mouth, but Grey plants a hand on his chest. A gentle shake of Grey’s head makes it clear Cael shouldn’t say a thing.
    “Go home, Cael. Say hi to your pop.”
    Just this once, Cael does as he’s told.

 
    PISS AND WISHES, BROKEN DISHES
     
    THE HOMESTEAD ISN’T much to look at. Horseshoe gravel driveway. Old red barn falling apart. The skeleton of a silo out back. Pop’s got a workshop above the barn, a place he calls his “fortress of solitude”—a term he took from some old flimsy rag about a goof in blue-and-red