Another World

by Samuel Best

  “The shuttle has a guidance system which should be able to pick up the new colony’s nav beacon,” said Uda.

  “It may even have a working radio,” Leera added.

  “How do we get there?” asked Turner.

  Leera walked down the hillside, toward the sea of crabs. She held the rod out in front of her, but they didn’t alter course. Then she drove it into the ground and they scurried away as if she’d just tossed a rock into their midst.

  “Leapfrog,” she called back to the others.

  Uda walked past her, carrying the other two rods. She went right up next to the edge of the migrating crabs and slammed a rod into the ground. Nothing happened.

  “The switch,” said Turner.

  Uda slid open the small protective cover near the top and pressed a red button twice. The crabs jumped away like they’d been shocked, revealing a patch of ground beneath, two meters in diameter. Then she moved quickly to the far edge of the small clearing and repeated the process, opening another two meters of safe ground.

  “Stay together,” said Leera. “They’ll seal the openings after we pass.”

  The group huddled together as they worked their way slowly north, pulling up the last rod in line and driving it into the soil at the very edge of their small patch of open ground, pushing back the line of crab-like creatures.

  “It’s a long way to that rock,” said Walter. “What if the rods lose their charge?”

  “The shuttle will have a charging bay for biolith cells,” said Uda. “These spikes probably use biolith.”

  “Won’t do us much good if we die before we get there,” Walter added.

  “Maybe we can run on top of the crabs,” said Turner.

  “Until they decide to move out from under us,” said Uda. “Then we fall.”

  Leera drove her spike into the ground. “The charge will hold,” she said. “We’ll find the shuttle, and we’ll reach the colony.”

  “What if…” said Walter cautiously. “What if there is no colony? What if we’re the only survivors?”

  Leera paused with her hand gripped tightly around the cold metal of her radio spike. After Uda stuck another one in the ground ahead to part the crabs, Leera yanked hers up and swiped hair from her sweaty brow.

  “We have to try,” she said.

  And then what? she thought. We settle in? Wait for another ship to come? How long will that take, if one ever comes at all?

  She looked up to the cerulean sky, wishing with all her heart to see the Halcyon in orbit, waiting to take her back to her family.

  The sky was empty except for a single, lonely cloud.

  Rage swelled inside her as she looked down from the sky — rage at Kellan, who had lied about the dangers of Galena; rage at the Halcyon, for not holding together; rage at herself for leaving her home and her family.

  Leera focused on the path ahead, ripping out a spike and driving it back into the ground with purpose, channeling all her pain and anger into each thrust.

  Yes, her group of survivors still had a long way to go before they reached the mountainous rock, but she had enough brimming fury to get them there.

  TULLIVER

  The proposed farm sites had been laid out in a grid pattern south of the colony site. Twenty initial two-hectare sites had been identified from orbit on previous trips to Galena. The patchwork quilt of farms formed a misshapen square over the land, rising with the hills and dipping into broad troughs. The westernmost farms bordered a small river, and had been assigned to red ticket passengers who paid extra for the waterfront land.

  Tulliver stood before the land distribution map the wardens had posted outside their tent earlier that afternoon. It had to have been printed aboard the Halcyon, where most of the decisions had been made. There were a few hand-drawn alterations to the map, mostly scribbled-out names of farmers known to be missing or deceased.

  He traced a finger over the map, starting at the colony and moving south, squinting at the small handwriting squeezed in between wavy elevation lines.

  The name Merritt Alder had been carefully crossed out. Written next to it in tidy letters was the name Gavin Alder.

  Tulliver grunted with amusement and tapped the distorted parallelogram of farmland. Most of it was on the eastern slope of a large hill and in the wide trough beneath.

  Good for irrigation, he thought. Good for sunlight. If the soil isn’t rotted, the boy’s lucky.

  It was not one of the coveted sites bordering the western river, but it was a good deal better than the surrounding farms.

  Warden Cohen walked out of the admin tent, focused on the tablet in his hands. He stopped and looked at Tulliver when he noticed him by the map. Tulliver offered him a friendly smile, then turned and whistled as he moseyed away, hands stuck in the pockets of his jacket.

  He carried an item in each pocket, items he cupped in his palms and rubbed his thumbs over carefully while his brain worked through the various problems that lay before him.

  While his brain puzzled its way through one particular problem named Cohen, Tulliver went to see a man about alcohol.

  He took his time as he made his way through camp, impressed by the progress that had been made in such a short amount of time.

  Several more temporary structures had been erected that morning to join the few already in the broad clearing at the heart of the new colony. There was now a small medical tent, though the medical supplies with which to stock it had not yet been recovered.

  Four hard-shelled bunkhouses squatted beneath trees on the northern edge of the settlement, each one capable of housing eight people.

  The camp was a great deal emptier since the farmland assignments had been posted. Most of the farmers were eager to get started, tossing their allotted bags of soyflower seeds over their shoulders and wandering off to find their own piece of the colony.

  It would be hard work, Tulliver knew. On Earth, there were probably only a handful of farmers that ever touched their own soil. The rest relied on their machines.

  Behind the low-roofed bunkhouses, a young man in a dark gray ship’s administrator uniform pulled plastic crates from a large stack and separated them into smaller stacks nearby. After he moved each crate, he would tick a checklist box on his tablet.

  Tulliver fixed a slight smile on his lips as he approached.

  “The work’s just starting, isn’t it?” he asked casually.

  The supply manager grunted as he set down a heavy crate, his back to Tulliver.

  “I’ve a feeling it will never end,” he said in a high, clear voice. He brushed aside a lock of black hair as he stood and turned around. Then he smiled without humor. “Ah. It’s you.”

  “It’s me,” said Tulliver.

  The man went back to work, pulling another heavy crate from the large pile.

  “I don’t have what I owe you,” the supply manager told him. “As you can see, everyone’s still getting settled.”

  He dropped the crate on a small stack with a grunt.

  “You can forget the payment, Samar,” said Tulliver.

  Samar chuckled as he moved another crate. “Oh? Why is that? Did you find religion?”

  “I’m thirsty.”

  Samar wiped his sweaty palms on his uniform shirt and regarded him carefully. He glanced around the settlement before looking back at Tulliver.

  “It won’t last forever, you know.”

  “Of course I know,” Tulliver agreed. “Until it’s gone, whoever has it will be in a very nice position.”

  “I’d like it to be me.”

  “I only need a little. Just a few drops, really, and we’ll wipe your slate clean.”

  Samar’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “No more payment?”

  Tulliver spread his hands magnanimously, then placed one over his heart. “My word is my bond.”

  “I’m sure.” He looked around the camp again. “How much do you want?”

  “Just one little flask. Enough to get me through the night.”

>   Samar hesitated for a long moment, then nodded. He walked around to the back of the large stack of crates and produced an empty plastic flask from a canvas bag. Lifting the lid on one of the crates, he revealed a plastic jug filled with dark brown liquid. He set it atop another crate and held the mouth of the flask to a small metal nozzle.

  “The wardens brought this down themselves,” he said as he twisted the nozzle handle, filling the flask. He knocked the last drop off the nozzle and screwed the lid back on the flask. “They mean for this to last a few weeks.”

  “Our little secret,” Tulliver assured him.

  He handed the flask to Tulliver, who accepted it graciously and tucked it away in his inner jacket pocket.

  Tulliver made a goofy face and waved his hand in front of Samar in a mock-religious gesture, saying, “You are free.”

  Samar laughed and shook his head, then returned to his sorting duties.

  Tulliver patted the flask over his jacket as he set off toward the farms.

  Leaving the forest of tree trunks behind, he emerged on a low rise overlooking a valley that stretched away to the south and west, toward a snaking river that shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. Beyond the river, two mountains with dark green peaks touched the clouds. In the distance to the east was a narrow sea, enormous gray waves breaking upon its shore.

  The owners of the first farm Tulliver passed weren’t wasting any time. A stout, older man leaning on a slender shovel and a tall, thin woman a few years his junior had all the pieces of their build-it-yourself home laid out on their property like a giant jigsaw puzzle. They stood near the pieces, arguing over the instructions. A strip of their land had already been hand-tilled, and an open bag of seed lay on the ground beside it.

  On the distant hills beyond, Tulliver could see more farmers moving about their property, marking their borders and deciding where to erect their homes.

  Those who hadn’t purchased a pre-made build kit had rolled out sleeping bags or thin blankets supplied from the meager colony stores. One farmer had dragged the hatch of his escape pod to his farm site and half-buried it sticking out of the ground so he would have something to recline against.

  Tulliver crested a small hill and found himself looking down on Gavin Alder’s property. The boy worked the ground with a large hand trowel, hacking clumps of soil to pieces. The weasel-faced man Tulliver had seen during orientation was with him, supervising.

  The boy’s father hadn’t purchased a home kit, so the property was empty but for Gavin, his chaperone, and two bags of seed.

  Tulliver tromped down the hill, the soles of his large boots sinking into the soft ground.

  Gavin saw him approaching and stood up straight. He wiped his sweaty brow with his wrist, adding more smudges to his dirty face.

  The weasel-faced man turned to face Tulliver and crossed his arms.

  “Not yer property,” he said with a thick twang.

  “Ain’t yours, either,” Tulliver replied.

  “I’m the boy’s friend.” He nodded down at Gavin. “What are you?”

  Tulliver knelt in the dirt, eye-to-eye with the boy.

  “I’m Tulliver.”

  Gavin looked up at his chaperone uncertainly.

  “Look at me,” said Tulliver gently. Gavin did, and Tulliver smiled. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  He stood to face the other man.

  “What’s your name?”

  “My friend’s call me Skip, but you can call me Sir.”

  “I see no friends,” said Tulliver, looking around. “You’re alone. Being alone can be dangerous.”

  “Listen, I didn’t make no deal with you, and I don’t want to make no deal.”

  Tulliver stepped closer to him.

  “How ‘bout this deal, Skip?” he said quietly enough so the boy couldn’t hear him. “You shuffle away now, and I won’t turn you into fertilizer.”

  Skip swallowed hard as he tilted his head up to contend with Tulliver’s dead-eyed stare. He finally looked away and knelt down in front of Gavin, resting a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m over by the river,” he told the boy. “If you need anything, just holler at your neighbors and they’ll come fetch me.”

  Gavin nodded reluctantly as Skip stood and jabbed a shaking finger at Tulliver’s chest.

  “If you hurt him, every soyflower on my property’s gonna taste like you.”

  Tulliver watched him stomp away, his bony hands balled into fists.

  “Always feels good to have the last word,” Tulliver said thoughtfully. “Even if you lose.”

  He knelt down once more in front of Gavin, then admired the fervor with which he’d been attacking the soil.

  “Gonna do this whole field yourself, are you?”

  The boy looked down at the ground, and shrugged.

  “Tell you what,” said Tulliver. “I’ll find some folks to help you. They like helping. How does that sound?”

  Gavin did not lift his gaze from the ground, but he gave a little nod.

  Tulliver scratched his nose and looked around the empty field. On a hill to the west, a young boy and girl played a game of tag, laughing as they took turns chasing each other.

  Gavin saw them, too.

  He watched them for a long moment, then resumed hacking at the soil with his hand trowel.

  “It’s hard losing someone you love,” said Tulliver. “I’ll tell you one thing before you find out yourself. It never gets easier. The pain never goes away.”

  Tears spilled down Gavin’s dirty cheeks.

  “The sooner you come to terms with that, the stronger you’ll be.” He grunted as he stood up to look down his nose at the boy. “Don’t worry. We’ll have this field growing in no time, then you can work off what your daddy owes me. After that, you’ll be your own man.”

  He hesitated, as if he wanted to say something more, but wasn’t sure what it was.

  “Right then,” was all he could manage before turning away, leaving the boy to his tears.

  As dusk fell that evening, Tulliver rested against a tree trunk a short ways from the colony. He sat in a nook between two large roots, which were unusual as most of the tree trunks had no visible roots at the base of their trunks.

  He had made it his own personal camp until he could acquire something classier. So far, he owned a blanket, a thin pillow, a spare shirt that was too tight, an extra pair of socks, and his red ticket, which was all but worthless down on the surface.

  Tulliver could sleep in one of the bunkhouses, but the beds were sure to be too small. He liked it in the open, beneath the stars. They twinkled brilliantly, bestrewn across the purple canvas of the night sky.

  Tulliver settled back against the tree, its large roots hugging his shoulders.

  The pulpy remains of two native brown fruit were barely visible at the base of a nearby tree. Tulliver stared at them for a long moment, then focused his attention on the stars above.

  He had found a good spot between those roots. Yet they were not the only reason he had chosen that particular tree to set up camp.

  The noise of a cracking branch drifted through the forest. Tulliver searched the growing shadows for the source.

  Fire bloomed in the distant wood, flaring briefly from the ground before calming to a low, contained blaze. Its light flickered on the face of Warden Cohen, who lowered himself to a sitting position next to the small fire. He took a long drink from a flask, then wiped his mouth.

  Tulliver pulled his own flask from his inner jacket pocket and twisted its cap absentmindedly as he watched Cohen from afar.

  The man was drinking with a purpose. He brought the flask to his lips every few seconds, tilting his head back farther each time. When it was empty, he looked into it, then tossed it aside with disappointment.

  Tulliver pushed himself off the tree and worked his way quietly through the forest, toward the fire.

  No one should drink alone, he thought.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MERRITT
r />   They came across their first piece of the Halcyon about a mile from the pillar field.

  It was a charred hull plate as tall as a three-story building, standing like a monolith at the center of a ring of broken trees. It had hit the ground at an angle, creating a large impact crater at its base.

  Merritt, Niku, Ivan, and Henry skirted the edge of the crater, heading for what they hoped was the primary crash site.

  The five slender smoke trails Merritt theorized were rising from the Halcyon’s hull thrusters had evaporated during the short night, along with all signs of the hexagonal crab animals and the burrow-dwelling hunters.

  It had taken them three hours to delicately navigate their way through the remainder of the field of pillars. Niku’s and Henry’s makeshift foot coverings were black, red, and shredded by the time they stepped onto soft ground beyond the field.

  Even now they limped, groaning occasionally when their feet found anything harder than a wet sponge.

  “We better start coming up with names,” said Merritt as they walked through an open section of the forest.

  “I’m Niku,” said Niku.

  Henry chuckled.

  “You know what I mean,” Merritt told him.

  Niku grinned. “Yes, I know. What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, these things, for starters,” said Merritt, gesturing at the tree trunks all around them.

  “Trees,” Henry said.

  “Easy one,” Ivan called from the back of the group.

  “Okay, then, what about the creatures with hexagonal shells, and the things that were hunting them?”

  “Crabs,” said Henry. “And crab hunters.”

  “You’re good at this,” said Niku with a wry smile.

  Henry faked a bow. “I am an explorer, after all. What good would I be if I couldn’t find names for new discoveries?”

  He winced and flexed his injured shoulder. The wound he sustained from a leaping hunter last night was red and inflamed. It oozed blood from its edges, further staining his body suit.

  “And that big animal flying through the air last night?” asked Merritt.

  No one offered up an immediate answer. He had told them about what he saw while they slept, as he hugged the arch in terror: a massive silhouette, high in the night sky, passing like a shadow over the stars.