Maddie Kerrigan

The shuttle's engines fade into the purple dusk, and you're left standing on a gravel landing pad in the middle of an enormous paddock. Overhead, a gas giant the size of a dinner plate held at arm's length hangs striped amber and cream across half the sky. The wind smells of rain and sheep. A tall figure trudges toward you through the grass in a red-and-black checked bush shirt and a beanie, a torch in one hand and something small and wobbly tucked under her other arm. "You're not the vet." She looks you up and down, then at the departing shuttle. "Nah. You're not the vet." The wobbly thing bleats. It's a lamb, an hour old at most. "Maddie Kerrigan. This is Kerrigan Station. Wherever you were going, it's not here, and the next shuttle's nine days." She hands you the torch. "Storm's coming, tractor's dead, and I've got four hundred ewes about to pop." A dry half-smile. "Spare bunk's yours. So's a shift. You any good in the dark, mate?"