by Eric Thomson
“That’s pretty much the consensus,” Hikaru replied. “Although I’m interested in hearing more about your atlatl idea. Would it improve accuracy?”
“Not a clue.” Decker yanked a spear out of the ground and added it to the bundle in his left hand. The sun had climbed much higher into the sky while Hikaru put him through his paces and he could see figures moving through the fields.
Off to one side, a herd of sheep, released from their pen behind the walls, grazed peacefully. Out on the lagoon, small boats scudded over the waves beneath dun colored sails, fishing for comestible native species. The fragrance of plants, both familiar and exotic mixed with the salty tang of the sea. Overhead the trilling of avians made a lilting counterpoint to the regular drone of the surf dying against a rocky shoreline.
For a moment, Decker had the impression of being at peace, but one glance at the looming plateau, shrouded by dark jungle, quickly shattered the fleeting sensation. Although the exiles had made a life for themselves here, it was far from idyllic, in spite of the sunny midmorning’s beauty. Immersed in this tranquility, he could almost think of his stay as a vacation. But it was a mere snapshot of an existence that could prove difficult indeed, as intended by the Correctional Service.
“Are you coming?” Hikaru’s voice snapped him out of his contemplation. “We’re off to the fish processing plant next, where you’ll be of most use until your ankle is healed.”
*
“Stay still.” Delia Ward grasped Decker’s thick wrist with one hand, while she dabbed ointment on the self-inflicted cuts and scrapes from his first shift gutting and scaling fish. Though a job he could do seated, it nevertheless left him wanting a hot bath and a cold ale.
“Your paste bites back,” he replied, grimacing. “And I’m not always in full control of my reflexes.”
“And here I thought you were a big tough Marine.” She smiled at him. “To be fair, everyone comes out of their first day at the fish plant with bloody hands and a rancid smell, and I mean everyone who settles in Valla. We send newcomers there for a dose of their new reality and an appreciation of what it's like to work hard for your food and shelter. You’ll get used to it, and it won’t be for long. Strong shoulders like yours are better put to plowing or fishing, or to one of the many construction and repair jobs.”
“You mean every noob gets a turn at snorting fish guts?” Decker asked with an air of incredulity. Then, a knowing smile twisted his lips. “That explains the not so gentle teasing from the regular crew, along with terrible advice. Nasty, really nasty. Did you know a purple snapper’s autonomous system can make it bite up to an hour after its death? That would be the wound you’re cleaning right now.”
Delia laughed with obvious delight.
“Don’t forget we’re here because we did something so horrid the rest of human society doesn’t want us to ever rejoin it.”
“True.” Decker winced in pain. “I thought healers swore an oath to do no harm.”
“You’ve done the harm, love. I’m just doing my best to make sure it leaves no permanent marks.” She smeared one last dab on his left palm. “There. Now try to keep from touching anything for the next half hour while the salve does its work. After that, you should be fine.”
“Does that mean we can’t play doctor?”
“I can play doctor,” she replied, giving him a light tap on the upper arm. “You, on the other hand, shouldn’t play with anything right now.”
“But when the thirty minutes are up...”
“You’ll help me with supper.”
“Cruel woman.”
“Cruel to be kind, Zack. If I enjoyed watching others squirm, I’d have used a salve harsh enough to make a tough Marine cry.”
“Try me.” He gave her his best Decker leer.
“Thanks but no.” She rose to her full height and smiled at him. “Thirty minutes, then I have tubers for you to peel. That is if you want to eat at my table. Otherwise, you’re welcome to the fish guts you pulled this afternoon.”
Decker made a disgusted face.
“Nope. I promise I’ll behave.”
“I’m not sure you actually know the meaning of the word behave.”
She winked, and him and sauntered off to the kitchen.
Seventeen
Ironic applause greeted Decker’s fifth try at hitting the forty-meter target with a spear propelled by the atlatl he’d built in his spare time. It missed the marked bale of hay by a considerable margin. A dozen militia members stood behind him in a half circle, each with a bundle of spears tucked under the arm.
“I’m sure you scared something over there,” one of them said, grinning. “And you’ll enjoy plenty of exercise recovering the damn thing, so it’s not a complete waste.”
“I’m glad you can see an upside, Mikkels,” Decker replied, “because you’re next.”
In the three weeks since he joined the militia, Decker had regained all of his strength and most of his mobility. He had been spending an hour before sunset on the range along with Valla’s other defenders every day, improving his skills and becoming one of the team.
After his initiation to the realities of exile via the fish plant, he now worked at shoring up the settlement’s defenses. He also did his part in the never-ending maintenance cycles to keep houses and common buildings in good repair. His hands had regrown callouses he’d lost thanks to a spy’s lifestyle.
Mikkels, the elected leader of the militia, gave the others an abbreviated and wholly ironic bow, then accepted the atlatl from Zack’s hands with exaggerated ceremony. His first throw was even further off the mark than Decker’s.
“That probably didn’t scare anything,” the Marine said with an affected air of ennui.
“Merely a warm up toss, my friend.”
“He’s always warming up for something, but never quite getting there. Or at least that’s what Joanna says,” Harben, another of the militia volunteers remarked, to undisguised guffaws from the rest.
“Scurrilous rumors spread by a man stuck in the bachelor’s barracks, folks, nothing more,” Mikkels tossed back over his shoulder.
“Some of us prefer a life unencumbered by the weight of relationships,” Harben replied. “Considering I’m here because I loved too much, a monastic existence is just the thing for me.”
Harben’s comment drew another round of chuckles from the men. One of them said, “You loved money too much, you old fraud, not women.”
“If I could have silence, that’d be great,” Mikkels growled as he prepared his next throw. “One of us has to show the newbie with the bright ideas that we can find our asses with one hand. Besides, daylight’s wasting and Joanna’s waiting.”
He took a few hopping steps, his throwing arm stretched out behind his shoulder, then released the spear. It struck the bale, if not dead center, then near enough. Mikkels turned back towards the others and made a sweeping gesture with his arm.
“And that’s how it’s done, gentlemen.” Then he glanced in the direction of the Marine, only to find him staring at the jungle’s dark edge with narrowed eyes. “What’s up, Decker?”
Zack shook his head.
“I don’t know. The setting sun reflected off something for a second by the wood line while your spear was in the air.”
“Could be the underside of a slicker tree leaf flipped up by the breeze,” Harben suggested. “Seen at the right angle, it can look like it’s been polished.”
“Perhaps.” Decker sound unconvinced.
“You think we should go check?” Mikkels asked.
“No. It’ll take longer than the time we have left before the gate’s shut.”
“Is our venerated commander trying to weasel out of showing us that throw was a fluke?” Another of the settlement’s defenders asked.
“Just for that, you’ll try the atlatl next, Kuthra.” Mikkels prepared his third missile and lobbed it in a fluid motion. The previous hit hadn’t been luck. His fourth and fifth joined the first two within a minu
te.
*
Hikaru met Decker and the others by the guardhouse as the last band of pink on the horizon faded away. Two of the men shut the heavy wooden door, securing Valla’s perimeter for the night.
“And?” He asked.
“Someone who knows how to hit the target with a spear gets better range and more striking power,” Decker replied. “Hopeless guys like me only end up searching further out for their duds.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Kuthra said, shaking his head as he walked by. “I’ll stick with bow and arrow, thank you very much.”
Mikkels stopped and jerked his chin at the Marine.
“Decker thought he saw something by the tree line, on this side of the river, a brief reflection.”
“Slicker tree leaf?” Hikaru asked.
“Probably.”
Decker’s grunt conveyed enough skepticism to attract the headman’s attention. When he gestured at Zack to speak, the Marine said, “Call me paranoid, boss, but I suggest we double the night watch. I’m not on rotation, but I’ll gladly take my place in the tower.”
“Pathfinder’s instinct? Or is Delia’s sixth sense rubbing off on you?”
“That wouldn’t be the only rubbing going on,” Mikkels muttered, mischief dancing in his eyes. Decker gave him a friendly jab in the ribs with his elbow.
“Gut feeling. I’ve learned not to ignore it. If I’m overly nervous, the worst that’ll happen is a few of us won’t enjoy a good night’s sleep.”
Hikaru glanced at Mikkels. “What do you say?”
“Better safe than sorry, Matt. I’ll join Decker in the tower myself.”
“Done.”
“If devilment is brewing,” Zack said, “as opposed to my latent paranoia coming up for fresh air, I think nothing will happen for a few hours.”
“Why?” Hikaru asked.
“We’re still awake. Back when I used to jump out of perfectly good shuttles from low orbit, we’d hit our targets halfway between local midnight and dawn. That’s the time humans are at their most vulnerable.”
Mikkels nodded.
“I seem to recall reading somewhere that it’s the time when sentries are the most prone to falling asleep on the job. In that case, see you here at midnight, Decker. Give Delia my best.”
*
Ward took one look at Zack’s face when he entered and asked, “What is it?”
When he told her about the brief reflection in the trees and his gut feeling, she nodded, a vague smile tugging at her full lips. She patted the bench beside her, indicating he should sit.
“I wouldn’t discount your instincts, Zack. If you can sense an empath touching your mind and can project at her when she does so, perhaps there’s more to the male version of whatever the Sisters of the Void have. Think about it. In past times the female talent we know about would have been valuable in nurturing the clan. Why not a male talent useful in protecting it?”
“Or it’s just because I’m a damn good Pathfinder and not due to mind-meddling mumbo-jumbo, darling. I know a wild talent like you believes in possibilities the Sisters deny or pretend to deny.”
He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She had held her side of the deal over the weeks, yet they had discussed the subject more than once, often late at night before falling asleep.
“Sometimes, what passes as a sixth sense is merely a hyperactive subconscious in a well-trained brain connecting raw data in new and weird ways.”
She squeezed his thigh and stood.
“Have it your way, Mister Hyperactive Subconscious. If you intend to spend the night on sentry duty, perhaps a good supper will set you up.”
“It would, but I guess I have to be satisfied with whatever you serve me, right?”
“Hey!” She gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. “Be polite, big boy. I can still fetch a bucket of fish guts for you.”
“How would you like to sleep alone tonight?”
A peal of laughter echoed off the bare walls.
“I thought I’d already been condemned to that by your suspicious mind.”
“On the other hand, I don’t have to show up until midnight, my dear. That leaves a few hours to fill.”
*
“How are they hanging, Gish?”
Decker stepped out onto the watchtower’s wooden platform, several meters above the guardhouse. It was high enough to give sentries a clear field of view for several kilometers in every direction. He had a bow and a quiver of arrows strapped to his back, and a short sword — more like a long knife — hanging from his belt.
The sentry turned his head and grinned at the Marine, his teeth seeming preternaturally white in the moonless, cloudless night.
“Hey, Decker! Still hanging side-by-side. It’s quiet out there, as far as I can tell. The night birds are doing their thing, which means they’re not disturbed by critters who don’t belong.”
“It’s still early.”
“Depends on how your day went. For some of us, it’s late. You plan to run another spear-thrower session tomorrow? I heard it was a hoot and a holler.”
“Yep.” Zack joined Gish at the railing that encircled the platform and leaned forward to scan the fields and distant wood line. “But if you’re no good with a spear, the atlatl will only make things worse.”
“So the guys tell me. I’m pretty decent. Not as good as Mikkels, but better than many.”
“What are you not as good at?” A voice asked behind them.
“Spear-chucking,” Gish replied. “And with your arrival, I will assume it’s midnight, meaning I can go rack out for two hours.”
“Yep.” Mikkels clapped Gish on the shoulder. “Try not to play with yourself. We’re hot bunking tonight.”
The sentry laughed.
“No promises. Vera hasn’t been sweet to me lately if you know what I mean.”
“Learn how to wash in every nook and cranny,” Decker said. “It’ll do wonders for your love life.”
“Now there speaks the voice of experience. Enjoy your turn.” Gish vanished down the ladder, leaving Zack and Mikkels to stand watch in the still night air.
“How do you like this life?” The militia commander asked in a soft voice as he slowly walked around the platform’s perimeter, senses alert for anything unusual. “You’ve certainly integrated faster than most I’ve seen, and you work your ever-loving ass off.”
Decker shrugged.
“It beats a penal battalion or the grave for that matter. Otherwise, it’s still a prison, only island-sized with no guards and a distinctly primitive theme.”
“Don’t forget the lovely, talented, and sometimes strangely prescient Delia Ward. She’s taken a real shine to you, my friend.”
The Marine grinned at Mikkels.
“True, but that’s only because she doesn’t know the real Zack Decker yet.”
Mikkels clapped Zack on the shoulder.
“Trust me, buddy. She knows the real you by now. That woman has an uncanny ability to read people. Comes in really useful when newbies show up and we have to decide where they go. You wouldn’t believe what kind of bullshit some people try to feed us.”
“Ever get any that can’t fit in at all?”
“Rarely. Give the Correctional Service its due. They filter out the ones who shouldn’t be exiled for various reasons and redirect them to one of the other facilities on the mainland.”
“And if you’re sent misfits by mistake?”
“We’ll give them a chance to integrate, but if they’re disruptive, lazy, or outright dangerous, they’re expelled. After that, either another settlement, with different rules and such might take them in, or they live on their own. There are a couple of hermits who come by every few months to trade for things they can’t find or make.”
“Or the misfits head for the hills and join one of the wild gangs?”
“Could be. We’d never know if they did.”
“Meaning the gangs might have members who’ve been inside Valla�
��s walls and know your protocols?”
“Sure, it’s a possibility.” Mikkels frowned. “What are you getting at?”
“Nothing beyond a sudden urge to work on my threat analysis. It’s a Pathfinder thing. We eat raw data and spit out action plans.”
“And here I thought you guys chewed on iron ingots and spat out nails. Goes to show how much I know about the military.”
“Yet you’re running a pretty decent medieval militia.”
“True, but when the next elections come around, you might get the job and quite frankly, you’ll do a better job than any of us. We don’t see many ex-Fleet on Desolation Island, but strangely enough, you’re the second Pathfinder to come through in the space of a year.”
“So I heard. Ariane Redmon. Matt Hikaru told me she left with the recruiters.”
“Yep. She didn’t stay long, but pulled her weight while she was here.” Mikkels fell silent. After a moment, he asked the question Zack had expected. “Do you intend to give reenlistment a go?”
“I’m a little older than what they’re looking for,” the Marine replied. “And I’m not convinced I want to go through their version of basic training. It makes a penal battalion look like summer camp.”
Both statements were true, but Zack was sure the recruiters would take someone with his background, age notwithstanding. And if it meant tracing Redmon without tipping off the opposition, he’d go through basic again, even the kind designed to turn the hardest cases into useful Marines.
Should the Marine Light Infantry not take him, he’d activate his transponder so Hera could fly in on a rescue mission. Of course, then they’d have to come up with a new plan. Either way, he didn’t intend to stick around longer than necessary.
But it wasn’t the time to tell Mikkels, or anyone else for that matter, that he was just visiting.
“Besides,” he continued, “their casualty rates in combat are insanely high, and I prefer to live.”
“Even if it’s a low-tech existence?” Mikkels asked
“This place has its charms.”
“You mean Delia has her charms.”
“That too, but I won’t dwell on them right now.” Decker nodded towards the dark fields surrounding Valla. “A stiff prick makes a lousy sentry.”