by Mark Eller
Over all, Aaron observed the actions of a federal government unprepared for the complexity and aggravation of this unexpected acquisition. Policies had been set, but nothing had been defined. On paper, from five hundred and more miles away, everything worked exactly as planned. In reality the decision-makers had nothing to go by but the written reports of the foxes that had broken into the hen house. He doubted most of the assembly had a clue as to how few of their orders were obeyed.
The Clan needed a tidal wave, and they wanted Aaron Turner to start that wave. For his part, Aaron was willing to begin matters, but had not the slightest idea how.
* * *
"Mister Turner, I haven't seen you since your first day here. I even went by your cabin, but so far as I could tell, you never even opened it."
Sighing, Aaron turned to face the sergeant. His back ached from hauling rock for the longhouses. Hot, sweaty, and tired, he had entered First Chance because he wanted something to eat that had not been cooked over a campfire.
"Forgive me," Aaron said. "I remember you, Sergeant, but I don't know your name."
"Huh? It's Anderson. Loren Anderson. As I was saying, I haven't seen a sign of you in days."
Her smile seemed friendly, but her brows gathered, and the creases in her forehead ran deeper than Aaron remembered. She appeared suspicious, and Aaron remembered her disdain for "do-gooders, a classification Aaron knew he fell into.
Shrugging, he gave Sergeant Anderson a wry half-smile. "Sergeant Anderson, I am one tired Turner. I'll tell you right now that you're getting nothing out of me before my butt hits a chair and food hits my stomach. If you want my little tale, you better find us a place to settle in."
She nodded toward one of the tables. "That place is as good as any."
"Then lead you on, and I shall follow."
She picked two chairs that sat between two other troopers. Setting her tray down with a thump, she took Aaron's tray from his hands and stared at it suspiciously.
"Now how are you supposed to gain muscle eating like this?" she demanded. "One measly little chicken breast and half a potato. Private Carbat, fetch our guest an extra breast."
"I ain't servant to no civvie," the addressed private sputtered.
"Our guest is Mister Aaron Turner. You may have heard of him."
The private's mouth snapped shut. She opened it again, closed it, and finally pushed her seat back from the table and headed for the serving line.
The sergeant chuckled. "We're a prideful bunch out here. She's the only one I could order to do that without having to come down hard. The gal has something of a crush on you."
Aaron peered at the woman in question. She looked not yet sixteen, tall like so many other people in Isabella, and a redhead like Kit.
"I don't know her."
"No reason why you should," Anderson replied.
She set Aaron's plate down and waited until he sat. Sitting down herself, she sliced off a thin sliver of chicken and slid it into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully and swallowed delicately.
"Bad teeth," she explained. "One of these days I'll get the courage to have a few jerked out. The thing is, Private Carbat has this theory that you did single battle with Haarod Beech. Most of us think she's gone loons. Me included. I'll admit that you did wonders for us, but I know for a fact that you never served in the guard. So what have you been doing since I saw you last?"
Aaron gestured vaguely. "I thought there was a lot of free land out there. Guess I was wrong. Everyplace I've looked has already been claimed."
The man on Aaron's right burst into laughter. "Oh ho, so that's the story. The infamous Mister Turner wants to settle down." Laughter dying out, his expression became more serious. "I'll tell you, sir, there's not one acre of unclaimed land for at least fifty miles, not any worth the holding anyway. We've kept a loose kind of record of who's steading where. Now, there are a few tracts further out that you might find interesting. There's one nice little place that's only a couple thousand acres. It has two streams and a small pond. To tell the truth, I had my eye on it for a while, but I found something better."
"Oh," Anderson's voice grew interested. "Where would this be?"
"Sorry, Sarge, it's kinda hard to find, and I want to keep it that way until my time is up in two months."
"Here you go, Mister Turner." Another chicken breast slid onto his plate. He nodded thanks to the private.
Accepting that nod as an invitation, Carbat touched Aaron's shoulder. "Is it true you killed Haarod Beech?"
Aaron shook his head. "No. We clashed a couple times, but he always had the best of it. The last time we met he killed my family and escaped."
The last thing Aaron wanted known was that he had killed a Talent Master. Nothing good could come from that knowledge getting out.
Some of the glimmer in Carhat's eyes dimmed.
"There he is!" a voice shouted.
"ATTENHUT!" Anderson leaped to her feet and saluted; so did everyone else around Aaron. Aaron felt very alone in his chair. He started to rise just as everyone else sat down. Crouched over his chair, Aaron found himself staring at a uniform covered in braid and ribbons and metals and stripes. Not knowing what else to do, he finished rising and held out a hand.
"Colonel Wheeler, I presume."
"I'll have none of that, boy," the colonel's voice boomed. "The name is Nancy to you. I tell you, Aaron, it's an honor and more than an honor to have you right here in First Chance. When Sergeant Anderson told me you were here, I was like to bust an artery I got so excited. Have you just begun eating? Anderson, why don't you find yourself another place to sit? Aaron and I have things to talk about. Important things. In fact, you should all clear out so we can speak privately."
Rising, Anderson snapped a respectful salute. "Yes, ma'am. Okay, people. You heard the colonel. Clear out."
They cleared. In fact, they cleared so quickly that some didn't bother taking their food. Aaron found himself standing at an empty table with Colonel Wheeler enthusiastically shaking his hand. She released it reluctantly.
"Sit." She gestured. "Sit down and eat." She sat in the chair recently vacated by Anderson. "So tell me, what do you think of our little town? I know it's still rough, but it's new. Try to imagine what it will look like in five years."
"Do you want me to be frank?" Aaron tried a forkful of potato and regretted it. Where the chicken tasted delightful, the potato tasted bitter, half-cooked, and hard.
"By all means, be as honest as you like."
"It strikes me as pale," Aaron said. "I see a lot of people and a lot of activity, but every face I look at is white. Where are the natives? I read the treaty, and it specifically states that they are to be given full citizenship rights."
A twitch formed at the corner of Wheeler's left eye. She raised a hand, pinched the bridge of her nose, lowered the hand, and stared at Aaron.
"Don't tell me you're a savage lover."
"No, I'm not a savage lover," Aaron said while reflecting that he liked more than one or two but certainly was not in love with any of them. "However, I am in love with peace. I can't help thinking that if the natives are treated like animals they are bound to rise up again. There's a lot of empty land out there, a whole lot more Clan than we faced the first time, and an awful lot of new settlers who are spread out and need protection. If another war starts conditions favor the natives."
Wheeler shook her head. "Doesn't matter what the savages do. We can beat them."
"I've no doubt they'll lose in the long run," Aaron said. "My concern is that the death toll will be horrendous. More than half the new settlers will be killed, and the cost to the clans can't even be thought of. I believe that if Isabella treats the natives as equals and works at educating them, a future war is not likely."
Wheeler stared at him, half in agreement, half in derision. "Personally, I think what you say is true. Things would run very smoothly if we observed the treaty to the letter. The natives would assimilate into Isabellan society within a c
ouple decades, three at most. However, there's a problem with that. The new lands equal all our other lands combined. If we follow the treaty, the savages will own fifty percent of all Isabella. That won't happen on my watch. If they're permitted that kind of clout, it won't be long before they're economically and politically stronger than any other group. That sort of power will have them in control of the government before this century is out."
"That will happen," Aaron agreed, "or something similar, though nothing quite so politically all-encompassing as you fear. Isabella is still a democratic republic. The country is run by votes, and the old guard will have most of those votes. Look at the last elections. The outlaying provinces voted Conservative. In light of total populated landmass, the majority of this country did the same. However, the older and more populated provinces possessing the larger cities all went for the Progressives and Liberals. In this case, people living on ten percent of the land elected the president and the majority of the assembly. This shows the amount of land controlled doesn't signify equal political clout."
"We won by a bare majority," Wheeler pointed out. "That majority will disappear if these new lands are populated by savages too ignorant to vote properly. No, I think, and the orders I received from certain members of the assembly agree, that it's best if these new lands are populated by the right sort of voting people. So yes, we have some tough years ahead of us. People will get hurt, but it's best to rid ourselves of the vermin now instead of later."
She set an elbow on the table and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. Something sad and yet determined showed in her eyes.
"Most of the current homesteaders will be dead inside of five years. Only the wise ones, those like you and me and the power barons, the ones who possess great tracts of land but don't live on them, will be alive when matters shake out. We'll sit on the sidelines, waiting until the fighting and the dying are finished, and then we'll claim the abandoned land for our own. When this thing is finished, I plan on owning a hundred thousand acres. A rich person like you can own ten times that much, and that's what I want to talk to you about. Owning land isn't everything. Owning the right land is more important. You and I, we aren't farmers or ranchers. We want to make money fast. So here's the deal. If you use your clout to ensure that I get the land I want, I'll find land for the both of us that's rich in mineral resources."
She raised her chin from her hand, reached out, and grasped Aaron's shoulder. "Think about it. Mull it over for a while as you check me out. You'll find that I'm the person you want to do business with."
Aaron gently pried her hand free. He felt distant and betrayed and abandoned. Isabella was his adopted home. It was his life and his future--and it was not what he had thought it to be.
He wanted to cry as he gazed upon Wheeler. It seemed both his worlds were run by politics and greed.
Leaving the rest of his food unfinished, he pushed back his chair and rose. Wheeler rose with him, looking expectant. Aaron knew his answer and hated himself for it, but Wheeler would order his death if he didn't agree with her plans.
"I'm taking a journey into the interior to look at some land for myself. I'll think about your proposal while I'm gone." Smiling, he reached out to clap her shoulder. "I can think of worse things than being partners with someone like you."
Her smile was marginally triumphant. "I thought you'd see it that way. You and I, we're not the types who make good sheep. We're the type of people who eat sheep."
"We," Aaron lied, "are people who do exactly as we please." He smiled a thin, unhappy smile. "Sometimes we have to remove obstacles."
Wheeler returned his grin. "Exactly."
Chapter 13
His butt hurt.
Aaron shifted on the blanket that was the only cushion between him and the horse's back. His thighs were chaffed raw. His back ached from his butt to his neck. The uneven jolt of the horse's gait knocked straight into his brain. His head throbbed, but he barely noticed because of the muscle cramps running up and down his thighs.
In retrospect, riding across the land was one of his stupider ideas. He had thought he wanted first-hand experience with the nomadic lifestyle. He had thought he might gain a realistic perspective of Clan culture and attitudes by observing their lives while they escorted him to one of the more established villages.
He had gained perspective all right. Aaron had learned how far an out-of-shape person who hated horses could ride before he really and truly wanted to shoot himself
Delmac openly enjoyed Aaron's discomfort. The surly Freelorn made sure that he completely understood every nuance of Aaron's pain. He seemed to think every jolting step was one small compensation for the debt Aaron owed the Thirty Clans.
Aaron would have climbed down off his horse and walked if he hadn't agreed with the clansman's opinion. Something inside wanted him to go through this suffering. He had a penance to pay, and this journey was the first installment.
Aaron's horse stumbled and straightened, jamming its sharp backbone up into an area of Aaron's anatomy.
Aaron groaned, and Delmac laughed.
"How much further do we have to go?"
Peering up at the sun, Gerda squinted her eyes in thought.
"Three weeks. Unless it rains. Then it might take longer."
"Damn it, how much further do we have to go today?"
"Why, Mister Turner, imagine such language coming from you." Delmac's voice exuded fake shock.
"It will be dark in four hours," Gerda said, "but because of your condition, we'll stop when we reach safe water. I know of a pond two hours up the trail."
Groaning, Aaron reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the last three aspirin he had placed there early in the morning. He popped them into his mouth, hardly noticing the heavy horse smell on his palm or the rancid taste from his hand. He hurt, and this little relief was all he could expect.
"There is something you should know," Bersalac told him. The older woman was the supposed leader, though Aaron had doubts on that matter. Ten people were in the group, eight women, Delmac and Aaron. To his eyes, most of the women looked old, though Delmac assured him that not one was older than thirty-five. Gerda was only twenty-four, and yet Aaron had first guessed her age at nearer forty-five. Life on the plains was obviously difficult. Wind and cold and heat took its toll. Even Heralda, whose short stature indicated a girl of no more than fourteen, showed signs of wear.
Heralda was the strange one. Aaron remembered seeing her in the new village, laying down the stone slabs of the longhouse's new walls. She was young and vibrant and enthusiastic, and yet at times she seemed taken by sudden moods. Sometimes she rode silent for hours.
Aaron discovered she had no official standing because her relatives were dead. Even when her family had been alive their status had been nothing of note. They were not leaders or healers or priests. They were no more than ordinary nomads.
So why was it, he wondered, that Heralda was treated with such great respect and sometimes fear? Bersalac was the recognized leader of this group, but the others looked to Heralda when a decision was made. That she seldom voiced an opinion made small difference. They always looked to her first--and yet she was little more than a child.
The clans were confusing. Trying to figure them out made his head spin.
The aspirin slowly took effect, lessening though not ending his pain. Aaron forced his mind away from self-awareness and took in the sights.
The land was now mostly open grassland. The few stands of trees were rare, and those trees were stunted and twisted and useless for anything except firewood. The lack of lumber might be keeping settlers away from this area because homesteads had become fairly rare. The last one they encountered was more than six hours behind them.
Despite the preponderance of grass and weeds and the lack of homesteads, he found a lot to observe. Several herds continued grazing while the group passed. Usually, the animals ignored the nomads as long as they stayed at least two or three hundred yards distant.
However, when the distance narrowed, every member of the herd turned to face them. At first, Aaron assumed the animals were a kind of herbivore he was familiar with, four legs underneath, a head in front, and a tail behind. Then he saw one rise up on its hind legs and hop away. Its motion was almost kangaroo-like, but it looked nothing like a kangaroo. Its long front legs ended in razor sharp hooves that, Delmac assured him, could slice a person to the bone. As if that defense was not enough, the animals had horns centered on their foreheads. The horn was widely curved and, according to Gerda, made of tightly twisted hair
He asked the animal's name, but the name was purely Clan and totally incomprehensible. Delmac assured Aaron there was no Jutish equivalent, so Aaron dubbed it a uniroo.
Another animal they encountered seemed to be a cross between a goat and a cow. The beasts were the most unlikely things Aaron had ever seen, with their spindly legs and heavy bodies. Huge antlers reached more than three feet tall and held at least twelve tines each. The animal seemed comical and ungainly, but Aaron was assured that he did not want to get close to one. They had universally evil tempers and a protective group instinct. No predators ever attacked them because they always retaliated and never relented until the threat ended. Some herds had been known to follow a threat for tens of miles. For want of a better name, Aaron called them horned lemmings.
Jirants, Aaron discovered, were a small fish that traveled in schools, had sharp teeth, and unending appetites. They also had the amazing ability to leave the water and travel on flat land for up to a hundred feet. For that reason, camping near running water was not a good idea. Still water was always jirant-free. Aaron wondered how the fish breathed while on land and if they needed a current to force water through their gills while in the water. He decided that, considering the appetite of the tiny carnivores, he wouldn't search for answers. He was many things, but not---usually--a suicidal fool.