Weight of Ashes

by Rook Winters

  WEIGHT OF ASHES

  ROOK WINTERS

  For my kids, who are awesome

  CHAPTER 1: COURT

  Court adjusted the position of his fingers on his mag gun. There was something in the trees ahead.

  Probably a deer. Too quiet for a moose, he thought. Moose would’ve been a nice treat.

  They’d eaten a lot of deer and feral dog lately. They’d be heroes if they brought back a moose.

  Beside him, he heard a hint of a wheeze in Walker’s breathing. His hay fever was bad this year. Court found it ironic that the kid was allergic to the outdoors given that his people had lived off these lands hundreds of years ago, before the expulsions, before grav tech, before electricity, before cities even.

  Court raised the gun and looked over the sight lines at the spot where experience told him the deer would come into view. He saw its head for a fraction of a second. A doe with her ears forward but not facing Court. Something else had her attention. Before he had time to react, the animal bolted.

  “What spooked it?” Walker asked.

  They heard the answer a moment later. An inorganic sound, something out of place this far from civilization. It was coming from the old road.

  “Let’s check,” Court said. “But stay out of sight.”

  They moved faster than they did while stalking prey. The noise they made didn’t matter compared to the whining that was growing louder and the sound of fallen branches snapping as something sped along the remains of what was once a highway for gas-powered vehicles.

  “There.” Walker pointed to a two-wheeled machine bouncing over the uneven asphalt mangled by decades of frost heaves.

  “That’s a motorcycle,” Court said. The driver was old like Marsh and the other council members but this man’s white beard and hair were neatly trimmed. A smaller passenger sat behind the driver, dressed in black, including a helmet.

  Not from around here, Court thought.

  “Should we flag them down?” Walker asked. “They’re lost for sure.”

  “Don’t be foolish. We don’t want anything to do with city people.”

  Then Court heard a hum that wasn’t from the motorcycle. He grabbed Walker by the shirt and pulled him deeper into the thicket for better cover. It was a sound Court had heard twice before. The first time was with his father on their way home from trading venison for seeds. The second time was a week later when explosives fell on their village. His parents…

  Court squeezed his eyes tight. This wasn’t the right time for emotion.

  “What’s that other sound?” Walker asked.

  Court scowled at the younger teen. “It’s a grav control flyer. Shut up and don’t move.”

  The ground under the tangle of bushes was damp. Moisture soaked through the elbows of Court’s shirt. It wasn’t great cover, and he hoped that whoever was in that flyer only cared about the people on the old motorcycle.

  That thing had to be at least fifty years old. It couldn’t outrun a grav flyer, especially not driving over a neglected highway that was more path than road.

  Walker flinched at the sound of a thunderous crack. They couldn’t see clearly through the trees but they saw enough. A section of road was sucked into a black dot then spit back out as dust in all directions, leaving a hole the size of a bear in the ground. The leaves around Court and Walker danced as the air reacted to the disruption.

  There was no way the driver could avoid the hole but he tried, leaning to his left and jerking the handles. They hit the edge at an angle, launching the passenger from the back. The motorcycle flipped and the man screamed as it crushed his leg.

  Walker started to get up and Court clamped his hand on the boy’s arm. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

  The flyer settled a few inches from the ground, hovering over the old asphalt and weeds. It was quiet for something that literally floated in the air. This one looked big enough to hold a half-dozen men but was no louder than a croaking toad. Court could hear the ground crunch under the weight of a Qyntarak as it stepped off.

  The sketches and grainy photos of Qyntarak that Court had seen didn’t prepare him for how huge and terrifying they were in real life. This one was twice the size of the man it was bearing down upon. Its four spindly legs supported a long body that curved up and then hung down at the end, like a branch bearing too much fruit. It wore body armor and cradled what Court guessed was a weapon in its two shortest arms, the ones that looked most like human arms with finger-like parts. Its other arm equivalents, two long ones with pointed ends and two shorter ones with blunt pincers, were fanned out like tree branches made of snakes.

  He’d once heard Qyntarak compared to a giant centipede crossed with a spider crossed with a horse, but that comparison was inadequate because it didn’t capture how alien they looked. Court knew that underneath that body armor, there was nothing resembling a face.

  “Dr. Donovan,” the monster said, its voice synthetic and unnatural through the speakers of its body armor, “you have left the compound without authorization and are guilty of desertion.”

  The man, Donovan, wiped blood from his mouth and said something in a language Court didn’t recognize.

  “The governor has a message for you.”

  A long moment passed in silence then a different but equally synthetic voice said, “Donovan, friend of many years, the disappointment you have created in me is great. Your actions are foolish gestures. This failure brings shame to me. It was selfish of you.”

  Donovan uttered something else in the unknown language. Then in English he said, “You are the fool. The human spirit cannot be contained. Oligarchies never last. Empires always fall.”

  “We shall see. At least, I shall see. Your time has expired. Others will resume your work and you will be forgotten. You have accomplished nothing but to bring cold to my mandibles. Goodbye.”

  The alien moved forward. “Traitor.”

  Another crack, this time quieter.

  The Qyntarak returned to its flyer and it shot upward with a deep hum.

  Walker began to move again but Court kept his grip on him and shook his head no. They waited until the hum was gone and the chirping of birds resumed. Cautiously, they moved to the road. The old man was lying on his back with a hole in his chest almost as large as his head. What was left of his torso was covered in gray powder. Blood oozed and mixed with it, creating a sludge in the cavity.

  Walker steadied himself against a tree and vomited.

  “You alright?” Court asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Where’s the other one?”

  After a brief search, they found the body, stiff and unmoving, among the trees at the edge of the road.

  “It’s a girl,” Walker said. “Or a woman, I guess.”

  She wore a dull black bodysuit with no visible seams or fasteners. Her helmet was solid with no visor or eyeholes. Court pressed his fingers against her neck and then her wrist.

  “The suit’s cold. I can’t feel a pulse through it, and I don’t see how to remove it.”

  “We can cut it open with my hunting knife.”

  “No, not out here. We need to get them closer to the village and find Marsh. He’ll know what to do.”

  Court was weeks away from his twentieth birthday, almost a year since he became a full adult in the village, and even though the fourteen-year-old Walker thought the older teen knew everything, Court was well aware of how much he didn’t know. Like what to do with two dead bodies.

  “We’ll push them on the motorcycle,” Court said.

  They followed the road for nearly a kilometer to where a dry creek bed reached the road. It was slow moving with the bodies draped over the motorcycle. Blood trickled from the dead man and Court worried that it might at
tract coywolves or a bear. He didn’t say anything to Walker. If the kid was worried, he wasn’t letting on.

  With considerable effort, they pushed the bike far enough up the creek to be out of sight of the road. The road wasn’t frequently traveled but that didn’t mean it was wise for Court to linger there with the bodies while Walker ran to fetch Marsh.

  It would take the better part of an hour for Walker to return. Court sat on the ground and rested against a maple tree with his mag gun in his lap. It was a beautiful day. Late summer or early fall, depending on one’s point of view. A day too beautiful for death and dying.

  Eventually, Court heard the crunch-crunch-tap of Marsh with his walking stick and stood to meet the village council leader.

  “Where are they?” Marsh said, forgoing the normal pleasantries of conversation that he’d drilled into Court for years.

  “There.”

  Marsh stopped several feet away and brought his free hand to his chest. “Clint.” He knelt and put his hand on the man’s face. “I don’t understand.”

  “You know him?”

  “Knew him, yes. A long time ago. Clint Donovan. He was a researcher. Became a collaborator to avoid exile.”

  Walker asked, “What about the woman?”

  “Impossible to say with that helmet on.”

  “We couldn’t find any obvious way to take it off,” Court said. “I didn’t dare take a knife to the suit.”

  Marsh felt around the woman’s wrist and elbow. “Wise choice. It might be booby trapped.” He studied the suit and helmet for another minute. “Try pressing Clint’s hand against the front of the helmet.”

  Walker looked like he might be sick again as they rolled the body and lined up the dead man’s hand over the helmet and pressed it down. The helmet clicked and air hissed as a seam appeared. The woman’s hand twitched and Walker yelped. Her arm knocked him off balance as her hands flew to the helmet. She pushed it open, two curved panels sliding to the sides as if on invisible tracks.

  CHAPTER 2: COURT

  The woman in black rolled and leaped to her feet. Marsh and Court stepped back while Walker slipped in the pine needles and dirt, struggling to create some distance. Her eyes didn’t stop moving as she took in her surroundings. When she saw Clint Donovan on the ground with a hole in his chest, she dropped to her knees and cradled his head in her hands. “No, no, no…” Her words trailed off into sobs.

  “You’re safe now,” Court said.

  Marsh put a hand on his shoulder. “Let her be for now. And don’t promise what you don’t know to be true. She may not be safe at all.”

  When the intensity of her crying softened, Marsh knelt beside the woman. “I knew him a long time ago. He was a friend. I’d like to take him to our village before animals come around, if that’s alright with you. It’s not far.”

  The woman didn’t speak but nodded as she set the dead man’s head back on the dirt. Her face was wet from tears, and she wiped mucus from her nose. Marsh pulled a square of fabric from a pocket and offered it to her.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, but she didn’t acknowledge the question.

  While she cleaned her face, Court and Walker placed Donovan’s body back on the motorcycle and resumed the arduous task of pushing it up the creek bed.

  They emerged from the forest into the clearing that surrounded their village, an area where nothing was allowed to grow and the children were forbidden to play. A no man’s land between humanity and the wilderness.

  “Walker, get Vaidehi and help her move Clint to the hospital. I need to gather the council. Court, why don’t you take our visitor to sit with Pica by the fire?” Marsh gestured with his head to a ring of benches hewn from tree trunks where an old woman was tending a pot over a campfire. Marsh leaned in and whispered, “Keep a close eye on her. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

  Walker returned with the doctor and they moved Donovan’s body to a simple stretcher of moose hide stitched around two poles. The woman in black made a noise that wasn’t quite a word when they took away the body.

  “It’s alright,” Court said. “They’re taking him to the hospital. We can wait over here.”

  He led her to the campfire circle where the old woman bowed her head to greet them but said nothing, as if motorcycles and women dressed in black bodysuits materialized from the woods every day.

  The woman used her index finger to draw an invisible pattern on the left forearm of her suit, and the material went slack so that it hung off her like a child wearing a parent’s clothes. With a slight movement, the suit fell to the ground. Underneath, she wore a sleeveless shirt and pants that looked cleaner than Court’s clothes ever had. Her skin was paler than any Court had ever seen. When she removed the helmet, her hair was equally pale, a yellow so light that it was nearly white.

  “Those are lovely braids. I haven’t seen hair that blonde in a very long time.” Pica moved as if to touch the woman’s hair and the pale woman jumped back. Pica looked confused and a little insulted.

  “She’s had a rough day. Do you have any needle tea? That might relax her.”

  Pica nodded and rummaged through the satchel hanging over her shoulder.

  The pale woman laid the suit on the bench farthest from the fire and swiped her finger along the sleeve. It beeped and steam began to rise from it. Court felt the heat coming from it.

  “What’s it doing?”

  When it had become obvious that the woman wasn’t going to answer him, he turned to watch Pica preparing the tea.

  When it was ready, the woman accepted her cup and sat. As she sipped, her tears fell in fat drops. Pica resumed her cooking, oblivious to the grief of the younger woman.

  When Marsh returned from the village council’s cabin, he beckoned Court away from the fire.

  “The girl is in shock. Whoever she is, she obviously cared about Clint. We need to give her time to mourn. Grief doesn’t like to be rushed, but I suppose you understand that better than most.”

  Court pursed his lips and rolled a small stone under the toe of his boot. He gave a small nod without looking up.

  “Now then, judging by her appearance, where do you suppose she comes from?”

  “A city?”

  “Perhaps. But she has no signs of markings, no tattoos, no brands. And her hair is long. Uncommon in the cities.”

  “If she isn’t from the city, then where? She’s too clean to be from a squatter town.”

  “Clint was a researcher. She could be from one of the state-sponsored facilities. There’s a rumor of one at the old tidal power station. That’s not so far from here. Regardless, the council will have no shortage of questions for her when she’s ready to talk. You can listen in if you want to. You found her and likely saved her life. I think you’ve earned the right to hear her story directly from her.”

  “Thank you. I’m curious about her suit. It’s strange. It was stone cold before. Now it’s giving off heat.”

  Marsh went to the bench holding the suit and held out his hand. “Incredible.”

  “Why is it doing that?”

  “I suspect it’s a heat capture suit. We were working on the concept years ago when I left, although our prototypes were a lot bulkier. The suit traps the body heat of the wearer so you can control how much thermal energy is given off. The Qyntarak don’t see light the way we do. They see temperature. They have a kind of thermal equivalent to our nonverbal body language.”

  “What’s that mean? Thermal equivalent?”

  “Parts of their bodies change temperature when they communicate. It helps them express emphasis and emotion. To them, humans always seem to be shouting because our bodies are naturally warmer. The suits were supposed to give us some control for better communication.”

  “I knew you worked on advanced technology, but I never imagined it was this kind of thing.” He brushed his fingers over the suit.

  Court still had his hand out when he heard a twig snap behind him. He turned to see the woman c
harging him. He put a hand up to defend himself but she was too fast. She grabbed his wrist and used her momentum to pull him off balance. She swept his leg out from under him and he crashed to the ground. The thin layer of evergreen needles did nothing to soften the blow and it knocked the air out of him. While he gasped to refill his lungs, she planted herself between the men and the suit.

  Marsh looked amused but his tone was stern. “Young lady, I am a tolerant man but I will only ask you once to refrain from attacking my people.”

  “Don’t touch the suit.” Her voice was intense. Court had expected it to be soft after the way she had sobbed.

  “You could’ve just asked,” Court said as he scrambled back to his feet.

  “It’s not a request. Don’t touch the suit.”

  “She’s right, Court. It’s not our place to handle her property without permission. Why don’t we sit and talk instead?”

  Court clenched his teeth. Marsh was head of the council. He didn’t need to be deferential to this girl or woman or whatever she was. Without the telltale signs of a life lived outside, Court couldn’t decide how old she was.

  Old enough to take me down, he thought. Once.

  Marsh steadied himself with both hands on his walking stick as he sat on the nearest bench. Court didn’t know exactly how old Marsh was either, but he was at least seventy and his advancing age was becoming more apparent. Eventually, the village would lose him and it would be devastating. Court forced the unpleasant thought from his mind and sat.

  The woman looked at her suit then gave a wary look to Court before sitting down between it and him.

  “Where did you take Dr. Donovan?”

  Marsh pointed to a building with the remains of a red cross on weathered white walls. It was the only building not made from interlocking logs. “That’s our modest hospital. Our doctor is cleaning up his body so we can give him a respectable burial.”

  “Burial? You bury people? In the ground?”

  “I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me. You’re no doubt used to the practices of state facilities. Our customs out here will be a bit foreign to you.”