He used a bit more of the valuable soap to finish washing and rinsed himself, dried himself and dressed in fresh clothes. Even clean clothing was to be rationed when washing meant stirring them by hand in a great pot of hot water and hanging them to dry. Lynelle had brought the first bit of washing in and promptly divided Denholm’s clothing into three sets.
“These’re fer fields and these fer at-home an’ these fer go-to-town, love,” she’d said. “An’ if ever the tri meet, it’ll gae poorly for you.”
The smell of dinner on the table made his mouth water as he left the bathing compartment, but he took the time to check that the monitor was turned on and working properly. The little device perched atop the dome’s windmill would scan the surrounding area for motion or heat and alert him if anything approached. He also checked the laser rifle he kept by the shelter’s door. Both the loaded capacitor and the spare read as fully-charged, which would give him a dozen shots between them — more than enough if the creature he couldn’t help but call a weasel came after the chickens. Perhaps enough if the hulking, shuffling shape Sewall Mylin had reported seeing up in the hills on his property proved to be real. With some new species it wasn’t so simple a matter of hitting them with the shot as it was finding the spot that would be fatal and not simply irritating.
Denholm eased himself into a seat at the table. He winced as the weight came off the leg that had been stung and the pain he’d become used to during the day eased. He closed his eyes and sighed, keeping them closed until he heard the click of a plate on the table before him and hands begin to knead his shoulders.
“A hard day, then?” Lynelle asked.
Denholm groaned as her hands continued to work on his shoulders. “No harder than the one before, nor tomorrow. And yours?”
Lynelle slid her arms around him from behind and held her hands up in front of him. The tips of her fingers were red and worn.
“I hope y’find the chicken on yer plate tasty, love, for the plucking’s a chore, it is.”
“Chicken?” Denholm looked down in surprise. He’d not seen meat on a plate for weeks. No wonder his stomach had reacted so to the smell of it cooking.
“She weren’t laying, and I’ll have no freeloaders in my farmyard.” Lynelle took her own seat. “Is the plowing finished, as ye’d hoped?”
Denholm nodded, mouth full of chicken and gravy. He swallowed and used a biscuit — a bit burnt on the bottom, but he’d neither mention it nor care — to sop up the juices. The chicken was as much celebration as they’d allow themselves for finishing the plowing, and he’d not waste a bit of calories or flavor. Rice, beans, and nutrition bars which had made the trip to Dalthus stuffed into the ship’s hold had grown old and tiresome long ago.
“Tomorrow’s the slurry, and it’ll take both of us for that.”
Lynelle nodded, her own mouth full.
Now that he’d plowed the land, the next step was to lay down the slurry, a concentrated mix of terrestrial nutrients, bacteria, and insect larvae shipped out in dense, meter-sized cubes. They’d only need one of the cubes, dissolved in water, to treat the land he’d cleared so far, but a week after treatment the land would be able to support their crops as the terrestrial bugs took over and drove out anything local. The rest of the cubes would go to treat other fields, both the additional home fields for the indentures, who’d be arriving in a few months. More of those cubes would arrive with the indentures for use on the eventual commercial fields for export crops.
Once these first fields were planted, though, he could begin to concentrate on other things. All the other things that seemed to multiply with every passing day.
“It’s deathly sick o’ potatoes, we’ll be,” Lynelle said between mouthfuls. “One wonders if the indentures e’en know what it is they’re in for.”
“Aye.”
Potatoes and sweet potatoes were the first crops — hardy and nutrient rich. Lynelle was starting a house garden for some variety, and the indentures would as well, but until the second year’s crops came in with something more than root vegetables, they’d all be mightily tired of the sameness of it. But their calorie content meant less land to plow and their hardiness meant more time for those other tasks, so they’d have to suffer through.
Start a road … path, really, toward those hills and meet up with Mylin. Get samples of that varrenwood off on the ships that bring the indentures — that’ll be our first real export for cash, and the quickest to see a return. Scout out the locations for the first commercial fields.
He sighed.
And that all with seeing that our first crops don’t fail and we all starve next year.
Eleven
Denholm ran his eyes up the trunk of the tree. It was two meters across at the base and nearly a hundred meters high.
And this is a small one, he thought, pulling the laser cutter from the wagon.
The mature varrenwoods could measure twenty meters at the base. Not much higher, though. The trees grew upward quickly in their youth, racing for the scarce breaks in the canopies of the older trees and spreading their branches at the top to force out competition. The clearing this one had sprouted in was the result of one of those massive trees falling to clear both its canopy space and that of the others its fall took down.
Sewall Mylin had found the clearing and brought it to Denholm’s attention. It was situated on a saddleback that would make an easy route over the hills between the two properties and they’d decided to place their first small mill at the site. Not a large one, just enough to prepare the logs for transport to Landing by antigrav hauler or trim them to manageable size for dragging back to the homesteads. A second, larger mill would be sited once they had the beginnings of a road from their holdings to Landing.
Denholm smiled at the thought of their new buildings being made entirely of a wood those on New London would pay a fortune for, even as a veneer.
The site for the mill was already laid out, with posts and string marking the corners and walls. They’d cleared a bit of the brush together, but they’d have to wait until the first round of indentures arrived in a week’s time to raise the building. Denholm had solar panels arriving on those ships as well, which would go to power the mill and charge the laser cutters on site.
This tree, though, was in the way, and cut into manageable chunks and dragged the ten kilometers back to the homestead, would become the boards the new indentures would use to build their bunkhouses. Until then they’d be housed in the large tents also arriving.
Denholm keyed the laser cutter on, spared one last glance down the slope to be sure of where he wanted to lay the tree, and began cutting. Varrenwood had an oddly pleasant scent when it burned; almost like vanilla but with a hint more spice. The cutter made short work of the tree’s thick, knobby bark, exposing the cream-colored wood beneath. That cream was shot through with pockets of dark purple sap, the distinctive pattern and coloring that Denholm hoped would make varrenwood a very profitable export.
He notched the trunk then moved to the back and cut almost through. The remaining ten percent or so of the trunk would act as a hinge and send the tree down in the direction of the notch. He turned off the laser cutter and took up a wedge and mallet to send the tree on its way.
There was a rustling sound and one of the horses picketed near the wagon neighed loudly.
Denholm froze. The sound came again and now both horses were alarmed, jerking against their halters and stamping their feet. The wagon and horses were fifty meters down the slope and to one side of Denholm.
The horses screamed and tried to rear and then Denholm could see what they did coming around a tree trunk only ten meters from the wagon. It looked exactly as Mylin had described it after his own brief glimpse of the beast. More than three meters long and two at the shoulder, thick, dense fur that was mottled almost like camouflage, wide, heavy paws tipped with claws, and a muzzle full of teeth.
Aye, the unnatural offspring of a grizzly and a puma, as Mylin said.
The horses screamed again and the beast moved, faster than Denholm thought possible for something so large. It was on the horses in an instant, felling one with a blow from its paw and taking the other’s neck between its jaws.
Denholm took a cautious step back, hoping to get behind the varrenwood trunk and out of the beast’s sight. His rifle was on the wagon and he cursed himself for leaving it there and not having it to hand. He had a flechette pistol on his hip, better suited to small vermin than the massive beast.
Three hundred kilos, maybe more.
The laser cutter would make short work of anything it touched, but that would mean getting within reach of those claws. Not an event Denholm thought he’d long survive.
If he could get out of sight, then perhaps the beast would eat its fill of the horses — a loss Denholm felt dearly, but not worth his life — and be on its way. He took another step backward. Something cracked underfoot and the beast raised its head, muzzle red and dripping. It cocked its head, caught sight of Denholm, and spun to face him.
Denholm grasped the butt of his flechette pistol, but eyeing the beast’s mass he didn’t think he’d be able to bring it down before it reached him. Even if the beast reached him as nothing but dead weight he’d be in for a bad time. Running was out of the question, as fast as he’d seen it move.
The beast surged toward him, and Denholm, without conscious thought, began scrabbling up the varrenwood’s trunk. The bark was knobby and coarse, with deep fissures that gave him hand and footholds. He was five meters up before he was really even aware of where he placed his hands and feet at all, and still moving upward.
One of his footholds crumbled beneath him and he dropped to hang by his hands, feet seeking another hold. There was a roar and he looked down to find the beast on its hind legs against the tree, paws stretched upward and bare centimeters from his feet.
Denholm’s body seemed to move on its own accord and he was several meters higher before he paused, breathless, and looked down again.
The beast was back on all fours, shuffling around the base of the tree and occasionally looking up at Denholm.
Bearcat? If I’m to be the first one eaten by the beastie, do I at least get to name it? No, bearcat’s a silly name — I’ll not be eaten by something named that.
The thing paused in its circling of the trunk and went up on its hind legs again. It clawed at the trunk once, twice, then flexed its hind legs and hopped onto the trunk. Its claws dug at the bark and it began moving upward in a hitching, jerky gait a few centimeters at a time.
“The bloody thing can climb?” Denholm began inching higher himself. “Look, you! There’s a thousand kilos of horseflesh there for the taking, what do you want with me?” He made sure his grip on the trunk was solid and let go with one hand to draw his flechette pistol. “You can’t even digest me, damn you!”
Aiming was difficult, being down the trunk, but he managed a shot that sent darts into the beast’s paw. It let loose with a howl of pain and fell to the ground, rolling down the slope away from the tree.
Denholm took aim again as it got to its feet, gnawing at the paw riddled with darts. His next shot took it in the shoulder and the beast went to its hind legs, roared in anger, and rushed the tree.
“Oh, hell,” Denholm muttered, nearly dropping the flechette pistol as the massive tree shook from the impact.
Denholm fired again, but missed. He began climbing higher to gain more distance before his next shot, but the beast was eeling its way up the tree faster than before, as though anger at being shot was fueling it. Denholm’s next shot hit it, but it simply paused, roared, and resumed its climb. Denholm climbed higher as well.
He reached up to find a new handhold and felt the entire tree shift, forcing him to clutch the rough bark desperately.
The tree jerked again as the beast continued to climb.
He’d cut through most of the trunk at the base, leaving only a bit of it to act as a hinge, but the tree had been stable, resting on that thin cut. Now, though, with hundreds of kilos climbing higher on the downhill side, the side with the notch cut, that solid hinge of wood was giving way.
There was a loud crack, from below, the tree jerked and a second, louder crack sounded.
Denholm looked down. The beast had stopped climbing as well and Denholm wondered if it was smart enough to realize what was happening.
The tree tilted downslope a bit, another crack sounded, and it tilted more, then there was a roar of tearing wood and the massive trunk began to tumble.
Denholm scrambled around the trunk to the uphill side and had barely a moment to wonder whether it would be best to ride it down or try to leap off at the last moment, and then it was too late to think.
Twelve
Denholm opened his eyes to pain, cold, and a star-filled sky. Which, given the alternative, he thought he should be quite happy about. Then he rolled to his side and the blinding pain that shot through him gave him pause to reconsider.
No … no, still better the pain than the alternative.
He lay still for a moment, testing his muscles and feeling out his body. Everything hurt, it seemed, but particularly his left side. He could wiggle his toes, and that was a good sign, but moving his left leg was a very bad thing indeed — the same with his left arm. He thought something might be broken in each of them. He ran his right hand over himself and quickly found the break in his left forearm. His ribs were tender, but didn’t seem broken, and his left hip appeared unhurt. He couldn’t reach the pain in his lower left leg to check it, he quickly found. Any attempt to sit up or raise his head sent waves of nausea through him.
That would be the thing of most concern, he decided, how badly he’d struck his head.
He tried again to sit up, keeping his left arm tucked close to him and gritting his teeth against the pain and nausea.
This time he made it. He rested for a moment, propping himself up with his right arm, until the feelings faded and he could move again.
The light from the stars and Dalthus’ two moons gave some light in the clearing, enough for Denholm to take stock of his situation. If he’d been under the forest’s thick canopy it would be totally dark. He was midway down the slope, but on the opposite side of the fallen varrenwood from the wagon. He shifted so he could see both up and down the slope, wincing as pain shot up his leg.
It was possibly the worst place he could have landed, short of directly underneath the varrenwood itself, of course. It was fifty or more meters up or down the slope to get around the varrenwood’s trunk, then that same distance up or down the slope to get to the wagon. Both ways were difficult and he had no way of knowing what state the other side of the slope was in, but he had to manage it. He had to get to the wagon. The wagon held his food, his water, and the tablet that would connect to the satellites and let him call for help. The wagon meant life.
Lynelle would be worried that he hadn’t arrived home before dark and hadn’t used his tablet to call her, but she wouldn’t have noted that until after dark and would wait until morning before coming to look for him. The path up into the hills was too rough to risk a horse on in the dark — he’d needed the antigrav generators from both wagons installed on the one he’d brought up here. If he could get to the tablet and call her, they could call for an antigrav hauler to fly him to Landing and medical attention. He wasn’t too worried about the broken bones, those could be repaired, but he was concerned about injuries he couldn’t sense — whether internal or his head.
He started up the slope, right hand and right foot working to drag himself over the rough ground. Up would be better to start, he thought, now when he had the most strength, then the downhill slope to finish it.
Fifty meters up, fifty meters down … call it five meters to get to the other side of the trunk where it’s clear. A hundred and five meters, more or less.
He planted his right hand and pushed with his foot, dragging himself a few more centimeters up the slope. The broken arm was not so bad as the
broken leg — with every bit of movement, his foot dragged on the ground, pulling at the break.
Ten centimeters at a time … bloody hell … twenty-one hundred or more …
Again he planted his hand to brace himself and pushed himself up the slope, crying out at the pain.
“Three! You motherless bastard!”
And again.
“Four! Bloody bearcat’s too good a name for you! Five! It’s shite-weasel for you! Six! I’ll look up the bloody Latin for that!”
He had to pause, arm trembling and he’d broken out in a sweat that had gone clammy in the night air.
“Seven! Keep your bloody rifle in bloody arm’s reach, you bloody fool!”
By the time he was halfway up the slope, his arm was trembling, barely able to lift him off the ground for the little bit of ground he gained, and he’d stopped counting.
Silly thing to start anyway.
The bones in his leg ground together with every movement and he realized that he couldn’t feel his left foot anymore, but he clenched his jaw and kept going. Any damage short of it actually falling off could likely be repaired with the medical equipment in Landing, he only needed to get there alive.
The horses … damn.
Half their carting stock gone in an instant, and the other two were with foal. That one loss would cost them half the funds they’d kept in reserve — they’d have to buy two new carting horses when the next ships arrived. Unless he could find someone on-planet who’d part with a pair for less, and that was unlikely.
He reached the stump of the fallen tree and edged around it, then paused. He rested his back against the stump and closed his eyes.
Just for a moment, I’ll rest.
It was past dawn when he opened them again. He couldn’t tell how far past, but he cursed himself for falling asleep. The numbness in his leg frightened him. If the circulation had been cut off and it went too long, they might not be able to repair the damage in Landing. It wouldn’t be the end of him, he could get a prosthetic, but that would be even more cost to order and ship the thing. Worse, he felt hot — more so than the morning sun could account for. Either the chill and damp of the night or his injuries had left him feverish, and that wasn’t a good sign either way.
Alexis Carew: Books 1, 2, and 3 Page 102