The Harvest by Chuck Wendig Page A

skiff of some kind. Empyrean, obviously, because Heartlanders don’t have skyboats.
    Then she hands him a visidex. A zoomed-in look at the skiff—again, definitely Empyrean, though beat to hell and back. Which is curious.
    “The guns are trained on the ship,” she says. Above the wall, at the corners, and then below, running laterally, are the guns of Pegasus City—massive sonic cannons that once hung below the floating city or along its edges. Meant to deter an enemy attack from below, they repurposed them to repel attacks from above and from the side, thanks to Rigo’s suggestion. It gives them one hell of an advantage, because they can shoot anything out of the sky that comes for them. The Empyrean don’t have a ship that can get in range.
    “It’s an Empyrean scouting ship,” she says.
    “How do you know?” he asks.
    “Because I’m not an idiot.”
    Well, okay, then.
    Behind them, the ragged breathing of Killian, who’s finally catching up as the meager platform that passes for an elevator disgorges him.
    “Thanks for waiting, everybody,” Killian rasps. “No, really, I’m fine, it’s good, not dying over here or anything.”
    Luna shoots him a look, then rolls her eyes. Back to Lane: “Shoot it down. Then we’ll check it out.”
    “You sure that’s what’s best?” Killian says, still doubled over, hands on knees. He straightens, holding his side with the flat of a hand. “I’m all for decisive action, really, truly, I am. But I find it a bit of a barbed burr to swallow that this ship out there is Empyrean. It’s just hovering there like a fly. A harmless little puzzle.”
    Lane’s about to speak, but Luna jumps in:
    “Harmless. Harmless? Do you know who my father is?”
    “Oh, here we go,” Killian moans. “Of course we do, girlie. Obviously .”
    And yet she tells them anyway, because that’s how Luna is. “My father is Carlton Dorado. Legacy member of the Captains’ Council. And what he always said was expect the unexpected —”
    “Oh-ho-ho, and how’d that work out for him?”
    Lane winces at the sting. Because Luna’s father is dead. Dead because one of the other captains on the council—Hvin Jarlskoenig—assassinated three of the other captains, betraying them for the Empyrean. (Reportedly, the Empyrean did not welcome Hvin with open arms so much as they threw him off one of the flotillas when he arrived expecting a hero’s welcome.)
    It’s been a hard year on the Sleeping Dogs. They’re ascendant now. Bigger than they’d ever been. But the chaos of the Heartland puts them all in precarious positions, and the ground continues to move beneath everyone.
    Luna’s jaw drops, then everything tightens up as if she’s preparing to attack them both. “I let . . . whatever this is between you go on. Your little relationship? I don’t judge. I don’t care who sticks what in who. I care that things get done right. That we keep everyone safe and that we collectively stick it to the skybastards any chance we get. Now, Killian—”
    “Think before you speak,” the pale raider says.
    “I appreciate your service to our people. I do. You were a helluva captain once upon a time, and Daddy admired you because you got things done. But now, you’re a flower gone to seed. Drunk on the Empyrean’s left-behinds: wine and Pheen from what I hear. And that means you’re fuzzy around the edges. But I’m sharp. And Lane needs sharp to keep this city—”
    The visidex beeps.
    Lane looks down as the others both give him—or, at least, the screen—an irritated look. Holy hell .
    “They’re hailing us,” Lane says, surprised. “They want to communicate.”
    “So talk to them,” Killian says.
    “It’s a trap,” Luna says.
    Lane cocks an eyebrow. “How could it be a trap?”
    “They send a virus over to corrupt all the visidexes and that jumps to what few computer systems we’ve managed to get running. Or they hone in on our frequency and fire a homespun rocket right up our