Unreconciled

by W. Michael Gear

“Okay, go share spit with yourself.”

  “Takes three.”

  “Asshole.”

  Demon chittered its amusement.

  She kept half an ear open to the chatter that rose and fell behind her as the supper crowd came in. The clunking of mugs on chabacho-wood tables was reassuring, as was the sound of people calling to each other. The big news was that the first cargo shuttles bound for PA had landed from Ashanti.

  Picked out from among the multitude of containers slated for the marine unit, Pamlico Jones and his crew were unloading the first lots of medical supplies, spare parts, farming equipment, and a new set of yard lights ostensibly for the Wide Ridge Research Base up north, but that had been abandoned for ten years. The good news was that Port Authority would have streetlights again. Assuming they could broker a deal with Kalico; this was, after all, Corporate property.

  The distant rumble of thunder boomed above the rising din of conversation. Figured. Hot day like today, of course there’d be rain rolling in from the east.

  She gave Inga a nod as the woman brought Talina her stout with one hand, whipping the five SDR coin into her pocket with the other.

  “I’m still thinking about what I want for supper.”

  “If you want the chili, don’t wait too long. Don’t have that much left.”

  Which left either chamois steaks or the squash bake.

  “Chamois steak with broccoli and cherry pie,” she decided.

  “You got it!” Inga pivoted on her heel, bellowing the order in the direction of the kitchen.

  Talina lifted her stout, took a sip as Shig climbed up onto the stool beside her and slipped his water-spotted cloak from his shoulders.

  “Looks like it’s going to be a hard rain,” he noted. “I checked with Talbot on the way over. He’s got everyone on the gates. The Ashanti people from the shuttle field are safely inside the compound.”

  “Good. We can use the moisture. It’s been a couple of weeks. I was out in the fields. Things are looking a little dry.”

  “Indeed, but the Sczuis got their wheat, barley, and rye harvested. Worked out perfectly for them.” Shig paused. “Trouble out at the farms today? Heard you had to make a trip out to Reuben’s.”

  “No. Well, maybe. Dek Taglioni was out there, picking peppers for Reuben. I gave specific orders that he wasn’t supposed to go outside the gates.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Ko Lang tells me that someone named Shig told him that good old Dek could go work for Reuben for the day.”

  Shig was giving her his mildly reproving look. “It might seem churlish of me to remind you Dek’s a free man, an adult, of sound mind, and seemingly healthy if malnourished body. You have no right to tell him what he can or can’t do.”

  “The guy’s a pain in the ass!” she snapped.

  Demon hissed down in her gut.

  She thought she heard Rocket laughing somewhere in the back of her head.

  Shig’s knowing gaze fixed on hers. “I see.”

  “Don’t go dropping any of that Buddhist crap on me. I’m not in the mood.”

  “There is something in his personality that reminds me of Mitch. Some quality of having been tested, of not knowing the answers, but willing to tackle whatever it takes to find them.”

  “Don’t even think of going there.”

  Shig smiled his thanks as Inga rushed down the bar just long enough to place his half-glass of wine before hurrying back to fill more mugs with beer.

  “He’s different from Cap. Didn’t land with that cocksure, I’m-gonna-kick-asses attitude. But at the same time, he’s similar in that he’s fascinated just by being here.”

  “Do you want me to break your jaw?”

  “Unlike both of them, Derek Taglioni has a different depth of personality. Mitch never faced the kind of desperate trial Taglioni did. And Cap, of course, had a head start from his training. He didn’t have to begin his reevaluation of self until he was faced with disaster.”

  Talina gave Shig her most evil I’m-going-to-make-you-hurt-like-you-never-thought-you’d-hurt glare. “If you say one more word, I’m knocking you off that chair.”

  Shig lifted his glass, sipped. He studied the wine, a nice translucent red. Worked it in his mouth. “Very pleasant,” he told her as he set the glass down. “I think it has possibilities.”

  “Glad you can talk about something besides Taglioni.”

  “What makes you think I was talking about the wine?”

  Tal slapped a hand to the battered chabacho bar. “That does it! I’m shooting you through the knee.”

  Shig stared thoughtfully at the backbar with its glasses and containers of liquor. “History can be a burden. It accumulates. Becomes a weight and a hinderance. In its own way it can become blinding, so that the only thing people see is who you once were. They see you gunning down Pak or Paolo. Eliminating Clemenceau. Burying Mitch. Saving the town from disaster. Facing down Kalico Aguila, and walking out of the forest with Cap. Or they remember you taking down Spiro or standing up for quetzals. Maybe they remember you shooting a shipping crate when you thought it was Sian Hmong. Or single-handedly hunting three quetzals in the rain. They might—”

  “Does this have a point?”

  “The point is, they might not see Talina Perez.”

  “Well, duh! Right here. Filling this chair.”

  Shig’s amiable smile bent his lips. “But do they see you, Tal? Or do they only see your history? The legend?”

  “Let’s just say that I’m too dense for the holy mystical shit. The learning-by-analogy crap. So stop with the hocus pocus, already. What’s your point?”

  Shig gave her one of his bemused looks. “If you were truly as dense as you attempt to portray yourself, you’d have been turned into quetzal shit years ago.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve come close to ending up that way more times than I like to remember.”

  Demon made that broken gurgling that quetzals thought sounded like laughter, then hissed, “Yes.”

  “Very well, I shall be as blunt as a boulder.” Shig twirled his wine glass on the counter. “When it comes to raw material, Taglioni is as good as I’ve seen over the years. I think he would be a real asset to Donovan for a lot of reasons. For one, his name, assuming we ever hear from Solar System again. For another, he’s got that spark of soul. What should have snuffed it dead aboard Ashanti has given it additional illumination. He has the makings of greatness in him. My fear is that he will never be allowed the chance to discover it within himself.”

  “Why not?”

  “He is going to pursue his calling. Follow his Tao where it will take him. And do so in the company of whomever will serve as a guide. Perhaps Rand Cope? Or maybe Bernie Monson?”

  “They’ll get him killed within a week.” A beat. “He was asking about the Briggses today.”

  “They’d be adequate for the time being, though insufficient for what I think Taglioni’s ultimate needs will be.”

  She gave him a distasteful look. “So, you’re playing matchmaker?”

  He studied her with an intensity she wasn’t used to. “Tal, over the years, I’ve developed a certain fond regard for you. In truth, I never figured you’d live this long because of the tamas in your soul. Not to mention that you’re the tip of our sword. There’s not a man, woman, or child in Port Authority who doesn’t owe you their lives. Taglioni needs a teacher. I think you need a student, even if you don’t recognize that fact.”

  “I need a student?”

  “Since Trish died, you’ve existed alone. You distance yourself from your people in Security. You only socialize with Kalico when she’s up from Corporate Mine, with me, and on rare occasions Yvette when she comes in. Otherwise, your beloved bar stool might as well be on up on Donovan’s moon.”

  “And what would I talk to people about?”

  After the silen
ce dragged for a bit, Shig said, “Precisely my point.”

  31

  Fatima’s arrival interrupted Vartan’s concentration; he’d been going over the inventory of supplies, equipment, and stored items. Jon Burht, the first of the First Chosen, had heard the girl screaming down by the garden.

  Burht brought little Fatima in just before dusk. She was bawling, said that something had hurt her foot. And there, inching up her pencil-thin calf, was a lump as big around and as long as Vartan’s thumb. Moving. The thing was crawling along under the skin.

  “Call Shyanne!” Vartan cried as he tried to soothe the child. “Hey, it’s all right. Your mother’s coming.”

  “It hurts!” Fatima declared as tears streaked her cheeks. “I’m scared. I want my mother!”

  “Coming. She’s coming.”

  The Messiah, disrupted from his reading, walked over, stared down. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Vartan told him. Lifting the girl’s foot, he could see the wound, a bloody puncture where the child’s foot was caked with mud. “What was it that they said? Something about slugs?”

  “And shoes,” Burht reminded. “That we needed to wear shoes.”

  The Messiah tipped his head back, eyes closed. The blue eye in his forehead continued to stare aimlessly at the light panel overhead. “Perhaps we should.”

  “It’s moving faster,” Burht noted.

  The Messiah reached down, pressed on the lump moving slowly up Fatima’s lower shin.

  The girl screamed, and the lump slipped down behind her tibia and fibula, as if hiding. As it did, Fatima shrieked and kicked, as if trying to dislodge the pain.

  “Fatima!” Shyanne cried, her expression panicked as she raced into the room. “What’s happened?”

  “Something bit her,” the Messiah replied thoughtfully, a curious stirring behind his dark eyes.

  “Bit her?” Shyanne bent down, taking her daughter’s hand. “Baby? What happened? What bit you?”

  “It hurt my foot! It’s in my leg! Make it stop, Mother! Please. Just make it stop!”

  Vartan ground his teeth. He’d always had a soft spot for Fatima. But for the universe, she might have been his child. Even after the Harrowing and Cleansing, he still had feelings for Shyanne. Couldn’t help but remember how it had been before.

  His soul ached at the expression on Shyanne’s face as her quick hands began to press on the girl’s swollen lower leg. As she did, Fatima screamed her pain.

  “Sorry, baby. So, sorry.” Shyanne glanced at the Messiah. “What do I do?”

  “You’re the vet tech,” the Messiah told her. “The closest thing we have to a doctor.”

  “I’d better call Port Authority,” she said through a nervous exhale. “They’ll know what to do.”

  “No.” The Messiah’s tone left no room for doubt. “That is forbidden. We want nothing from those people. All they intend for us is harm.”

  Shyanne’s brown eyes had taken on that gleam Vartan knew so well. He laid a hand on her shoulder. Felt her flinch as he told her: “Deal with it. You can figure it out on your own. It’s just like an infection, right?”

  Shyanne blinked, winced as Fatima screamed again.

  “Please. Let me call.”

  “No. I will not tell you again,” the Messiah told her. “You are our medical expert. You’ve seen the materials they left us. What do you think this is?”

  “Probably something they call a slug.” Shyanne was wavering on her feet, her hand clutching Fatima’s. Tears were rimming her eyes.

  “A slug,” the Messiah said softly. “I thought they poisoned them all.”

  “Lies!” Burht snapped. “Corporate deceit.”

  Fatima began to whimper.

  Vartan looked down in time to see the lump shift behind the little girl’s skinny knee. “It’s in the lower thigh now.”

  Shyanne clamped her eyes closed, both hands holding her daughter’s. “They said it could be cut out.”

  “This is the universe’s will,” the Messiah said with finality. “This is a lesson to us.”

  “Get me a knife.” Shyanne’s voice had that high waver on the verge of hysteria. “I’ll need something to sew with. I’ve got to get that thing out of my daughter.”

  “And risk yourself?” the Messiah asked. “Shyanne, think. Yes, she’s your daughter. But you are our only medical person. What if, in trying to save your daughter, it infects you? We can’t let that happen. You are too important to us.”

  Vartan watched the interplay of anger, fear, and worry behind his ex-wife’s expression.

  Before she could do herself irreparable harm, Vartan spun her around to face him. “I need you to run back to your room. Read everything you can find on these slugs. That Perez woman left the notes. Once you do, we’ll know how to proceed. So go now. There’s not a moment to lose. Find the answer for sure.”

  Shyanne shot him a look of disbelief.

  “Yes,” the Messiah agreed. “Go read the notes. See if there’s anything mentioned besides surgery. Hurry!”

  Vartan, praying, watched Shyanne hesitate, saw the skepticism, but the woman nodded. Bent down. “Baby, I’ll be right back with the cure.”

  Shyanne left at a run. Almost bowled First Will Petre off his feet as he met her at the door.

  Vartan wiped sweat from his forehead. “Maybe it won’t be as bad—”

  “Take her to one of the back rooms,” the Messiah ordered. “I read the section on slugs. They are probably dividing inside the girl’s leg as we speak. I want Fatima quarantined.”

  To Petre, he said, “Your job, First Will, is to keep Shyanne away from her daughter. Whatever it takes. But remember, as our only medical person, she’s not to be too badly harmed.”

  Vartan fought down his urge to protest. Glanced at the agony reflected in the little girl’s face. This was going to break Shyanne’s heart. It was already breaking his. “Yes, Messiah.”

  As he reached down and gathered up the writhing little girl, he heard the Messiah say, “And no one goes outside barefoot from here on.”

  As Vartan carried the whimpering little girl down one of the dim hallways, he couldn’t help but wonder.

  If they lost the children, they lost everything.

  32

  A roiling muddle of thoughts filled Miguel Galluzzi’s head as the shuttle’s pitch changed, g-force pressing him down in the copilot’s seat as Ensign Naftali placed them on approach to Port Authority.

  Ahead the blue expanse of Donovan’s ocean was broken by the continental mass; the old impact crater made it look like a bite had been taken out of the coast. They were shooting through clouds now. Flashes of cumulus that momentarily blotted the view.

  Galluzzi might have been an old space dog—and he had to maintain his decorum—but inside he bubbled with excitement. This, after all, was the culmination of everything. The entire purpose of space flight. He was living the dream that had filled human imagination all the way back to the moment the first hominin looked up at the stars and wondered.

  For that one moment, it didn’t matter that Ashanti’s voyage here had been disastrous. If anything, knowing how close they’d all come to dying made this arrival even more fulfilling.

  To get to this point, Galluzzi had crossed thirty light-years of space, lived for nearly three years “outside” of the universe. Brought his ship, the survivors, and cargo to this distant world.

  G-force increased as the shuttle cupped air, the roar of it loud through the hull. Then the nose dropped, Naftali caressing the thrusters as he crossed the coast, put them into a glide over a vegetation-dotted landscape, the colors oddly vivid compared with Earth.

  The shuttle slowed into a hover, and Naftali eased it down. Galluzzi caught sight of another A-7 parked off to the side of a stack of shipping containers. Then a billow of dust spewed out, and
the shuttle settled onto its landing skids.

  “Welcome to Donovan, Captain,” Naftali told him as he spooled the thrusters down.

  Galluzzi could feel the change through his seat. Planetary gravity. So different from the angular acceleration that served as a surrogate aboard ship.

  I am on a distant world.

  For a moment he wanted to giggle, to shake his fists with delight. Didn’t, of course. He was the captain. Captains didn’t do those sorts of things.

  Even if they had survived the kind of spacing he had.

  Rising, he emerged from the command deck hatch and crossed aft through the cargo-packed main cabin to where Windman opened the aft ramp and let it drop.

  The acrid smell left by the thrusters gave way to fresh air as Galluzzi minced his steps down the ramp. Gravity, after all these years, was a tricky thing. He could feel the strain in his muscles.

  And then he was out in the light, blinking, aware of the air on his skin and its incredible perfumed scent. The direct heat from Capella was a marvel, the light so bright it hurt his eyes. In wonder, he extended his hand to the breeze, feeling it trickle over his fingers. Eyes closed, he leaned his head back to the sunlight; for a moment, with breath going in and out of his lungs, he savored the miracle of fresh air.

  The whine of machinery began to seep through his consciousness. Opening his eyes, he forced himself back to reality.

  “Miguel!” Benj Begay called. The Advisor/Observer came striding across the landing field. The man wore a freshly pressed suit. Something obviously retrieved from one of the crates of personal possessions that had been locked away in cargo. Begay might have just stepped out of an office on Transluna. The professional cut of the clothing, shining a metallic blue in the light, looked oddly out of place against the background of dirt, shipping crates, and the high fence surrounding the domes.

  “Benj. Good to see you.”

  “What’s the word on the ship?” Begay stepped close, shaking Galluzzi’s hand as if it had been years instead of days since they’d seen each other.

  “Got Deck Three cleaned out. I wouldn’t leave until that had been taken care of.”