by Josi Russell
“Laska isn’t on this ship.” The voice was rough and angry.
Zyn’dri’s mind flashed back to the journal. Laska. She walked forward. As she peered around the open door, a man sat alone in a small room filled with screens. He was writing on one of them with his finger. His notes seemed to be about the photos of humans which flowed across the screens, and she watched as he peered at them. He appeared to be talking to himself.
“He has to be. He had all the data.”
Zyn’dri ran a hand over the bag she was carrying. She used her best human inflection as she spoke, “Excuse me?”
The man whirled. “The registry is in the center of the deck. Keep going.”
Zyn’dri stepped back, trying to compose herself. She was still unused to such strong emotion in adults. “Yes. Thank you. But you said Las-ka.” She slipped the bag over her shoulder and held it out to him. “I have something of his.”
The big man looked surprised. He reached toward her, his eyes cold. “Bring it here.”
Zyn’dri crossed to him. He didn’t look as if he trusted her.
“Open the bag,” he said, “and get it out.”
Zyn’dri extracted one of the books and offered it to him. As he leaned to snatch it from her, she saw a nameplate on his uniform that said, Ormes. Zyn’dri wondered briefly if that was pronounced Or-mz or Or-mez.
Ormes flipped through the book and spat out a rough word that Zyn’dri didn’t recognize.
“Where are Laska’s files?” Ormes asked, accusation in his voice.
Zyn’dri offered the bag once again. Ormes pulled it from her grip and dumped the other books out on the table. A few loose papers fell out as well.
“This is more like it.” He said as he studied the loose sheets. He set them aside and snatched up the other books. One by one, he searched them. They were all full of the drawings.
He opened one and read aloud. His tone was disbelieving, “These beings are so interconnected with the world that gave them life, that it has taken their turmoil for its own. It is not only geology but Stracahn conflict, that is tearing Empyriad apart.”
“I send a geologist, and he gives me social commentary?” He asked, “Are you kidding me?”
Zyn’dri shook her head. “No.”
Ormes turned to her and spoke slowly, as if she couldn’t hear or maybe as if she couldn’t understand him. “I need the geologic reports that Laska made during his time on Empyriad. I need the mineral analyses. I need the computer models of Kin'achyt'la. I need the reports of the chemical composition of the gasses. Where is the data?”
Zyn’dri sensed his anger, felt his frustration and disappointment.
“This is all that he gave me.” She said, holding up her now-empty hands. “All that he put on the ship.”
Ormes drummed his fingers on the table. “Then this must be the data.” He said under his breath. He flipped through the pages as he continued to talk to himself. “Maybe he had a native writing for him? Maybe it just needs to be transcribed.” Ormes leaned close to Zyn’dri and barked, “Read it!”
Zyn’dri blinked. He was pointing to the designs. “I’m sorry?” she said, trying to understand what he wanted her to do.
The man took hold of her arm. “I said for you to read it. What does it say?” His voice was intense, and the pressure of his fingers made Zyn’dri’s arm throb. She couldn’t concentrate on his words through the pain, and she tried to move away from him, but his grip only grew tighter. He leaned forward menacingly. “Are you trying to hide something from me? What does it say?”
Zyn’dri shook her head. “No, it says nothing. It has no words. They’re just drawings.” She heard a trembling in her voice, and she tried to tap into the inner calm her mother was always trying to describe to her, but Zyn’dri found no peace within herself.
“Not words? These pictures aren't Stracahn language?”
“No, sir. Our words are like this,” Zyn’dri reached forward and drew with her fingertips on the edge of Ormes’ drawing screen the dots of the Stracahn language:
They lay as dull as stones next to the intricate swirls and spikes of the drawings in the books.
Ormes squeezed her arm, hard, one last time, then pushed Zyn’dri away. “Send a volcanologist to an alien planet and you should get some return. Laska’s observations should have revealed the principle seismic and chemical patterns behind the eruption. He’s been here for so many seasons, and we should have so much data. Instead, what do we get?” The man slammed an open palm on the table. “Folk art!”
Zyn’dri backed away. She had delivered the books, and she wanted her mother.
“Where are you going?” Ormes growled. “Get this junk out of here.” He swiped a big arm across the table, knocking the books to the floor.
Zyn’dri stooped to gather the books. “You don’t want them?”
“I’m not having a bunch of cave drawings count against my recycling allowance. You get rid of them.”
Zyn’dri tried to figure out how long his big arms were so she could stay out of his reach. She gathered the books and stuffed them into the bag. She backed toward the door and left him searching the screens.
Zyn’dri felt that her cheeks were wet. She wiped at them impatiently as she slipped down the corridor, staying close to the wall and away from the doors. She heard low voices coming from a room ahead.
Without warning, the ship suddenly pitched. Zyn'dri cried out and clawed frantically at the smooth wall as the hallway tilted around her. The ship rocked sideways, then righted itself.
Zyn’dri lay on the floor, her ribcage throbbing where she had fallen on it, and her cheek pressed to the fins of the rubber matting, waiting to see if it would happen again.
Zyn'dri noticed that the voices in the room had stilled. There was a flash of lavender, and she looked up to see her mother beside her, stroking the hair from her eyes. "My child, my child. I heard you cry out." She gathered Zyn'dri into her arms and suddenly the strange ship felt like home.
3
Solomon Brooks tried to breathe through the rush of wind tearing at his face. The mountains of Earth’s Liberty region blurred around him. He felt his palms burning as he gripped the rack on the back of Briian’s solar skimmer. The craft was long and narrow, a small flying machine with a bulky engine up front, a domed cab just big enough for two people in the middle, and a wide, flat, cargo area in the back. It was too light for the eight of them to be hanging on it like this, and his mother would freak out if she saw him now, laying in the cargo area, flying behind the skimmer like a flag.
Water streamed out of the corners of Sol’s eyes, but he tried to keep them open as Briian hit the accel and the skimmer’s engine screamed.
They were climbing. Before they got too high, Sol heard Juice Hastings yell from beside him, “I’m out!” and saw his friend let go. Juice disappeared into the dark pasture below. It was so quick. The skimmer was moving faster than Sol had realized. He was glad Juice had let go before it had gotten too dangerous.
Sol gulped what air he could. His arms hurt. He wondered briefly if his shoulder would pop out again. He didn’t look forward to having the guys pop it back in again. Last time it took him three days to get over it, and Uncle Carl had no patience for a kid who couldn’t work. But the fear of it dropped away as they climbed higher and higher.
But Sol had little time to worry about it. The skimmer was topping out, almost imperceptibly losing speed as it reached its maximum altitude. A wave of nausea washed over Sol, and he ducked his head, trying to get more air. He saw his friends below, their skimmers making a circle of light. It was all tiny—small enough that when his foot got in the way, all of them were covered by the toe of his boot.
The skimmer arced and started the drop, and for a moment Sol couldn’t breathe. The air was ripped from his lungs. He heard his own voice, high and thready, as he screamed into the night.
Guys began to let go as soon as the craft leveled again. Sol held on a little longer. When Briia
n banked the skimmer back into the deep grass of the pasture, Sol finally unlocked his hands and let go, tumbling over the smooth top of the skimmer and rolling hard to the ground. His heart was beating against what he was pretty sure was a cracked rib, but he was caught up in the heady mix of adrenaline and pain that drew them all back time after time.
Juice came running. Sol was glad he was okay. Juice leaped at him, cheering. “You guys are crazy! That was higher than we’ve ever gotten!”
Around the field, he heard the calls of his friends as they popped up. They all ran for the circle of light, where Briian had parked the skimmer and was leaning against it.
“Whooo!” Sol couldn’t manage anything more articulate. His brain was alight with the rush.
Briian was cool. But he should be. He’d been inside the skimmer. “Liked that, huh, Shoreline?”
Sol wasn’t as jarred by the nickname as usual. There were too many guys slapping him on the back and too many smiles around him.
Tavish, who was a couple of years older than they were, spoke up. “That was nothing. Kid’s got a lot bigger rush comin’.”
Briian nodded. “No kidding.” He looked at Sol. “You’ll see. The ‘duction is so much more.”
Induction, Sol mentally corrected him. The mention of it began to dissipate the excitement. More than this? How could it be more than this? How could anything be more than this? Sol hopped up and down a little, trying to hang on to the feeling. But his mind had been turned to the induction, and it wouldn’t let go.
“What’s so bad about it?” he asked.
If he could just get a little more information, Sol could decide. His mom kept saying it was his choice whether to join the Milguard and go through with the induction. He didn’t know if he wanted to. But he couldn’t say that to these guys.
“I totally lost it at my induction,” Juice spoke up. “It was pretty embarrassing.”
Leave it to Juice to admit to something like that in public. Leave it to Juice to completely derail the conversation. Sol looked with affection at his friend, pale in the glare of the skimmer lights, his unkempt brown hair falling in his eyes. Even if Juice wanted to, Sol didn’t think he could seem tough.
“You would,” Briian said, not meanly.
Juice ducked and came up smiling. “You just about did, too.”
Briian shrugged. “It was intense.”
Sol wanted to ask. He wanted to come out and say Why? What happens? But he’d learned a long time ago; the Milguard didn’t say anything until you joined. And he hadn’t committed yet. The adrenaline was wearing off fast, and the nausea was returning.
Someone pushed a cup into his hand, filled with bubbly, sugary electrolyte drink. He sipped it gratefully and stared over the rim of the cup into the acorn-brown eyes of Mezina Marik.
Working on her father’s ranch had turned her honey skin a deeper shade of amber. Her teeth flashed, striking white, and Sol smiled back.
“Thanks,” he said, “I needed that.”
“I thought so. You were starting to sway a little.”
He hadn’t noticed, but now he reached out to lean against the nearest skimmer and realized he was swaying. The velocity did funny things to your equilibrium.
“Go sit down,” she said, and he wondered for the hundredth time if she was trying to send him signals like Juice had told him she was, or if she was just nice. Her dad was in the same Milguard division as Uncle Carl, and Sol was sure that at least some of her attention to him was plain neighborliness.
He followed her gesture outside the circle of light, where there was a fire burning. He sat gratefully on the ground and leaned against a log. Sol closed his eyes.
Around him, he heard the sounds of the weekend. Kids laughing, cursing their studies and talking quietly. This was their free time. Soon enough, they would all be married and fighting for the Milguard. They’d have responsibilities. Sol tried to imagine what that time would be like.
Mezina had wandered over to talk to some of her friends, and Sol tried not to notice her. He wasn’t successful.
“Uh-huh.” He turned to see Trenton Avery approaching. “I know what you’re thinking.”
Sol cringed. No, you don’t, he wanted to say.
Trenton dropped onto the log beside him and pulled out a short silver pen with several buttons on it. He played with it, dragging the tip across the back of his hand as if he were doodling.
“You made up your mind yet?” Trenton said.
Sol didn’t have any words. He couldn’t just say it. “I—I think I’ll wait ‘til I finish school. I want to be able to focus on the induction—”
“Shoreline, man, chill. I don’t care about the Milguard. I meant this.” He gestured at his pen.
Sol looked away. He should have known that.
“You really need one,” Trenton said.
“You really need my money,” Sol said, meeting his gaze again.
“That too.” Trenton had one of those cool grins that never reached his eyes. “Come on, man.”
Sol looked at Trenton’s banners. They covered his arms and had started to creep up his neck. They did look tough. He thought a moment. “What can you do?”
Trenton leaned forward. He must have known that Sol was more serious this time. “I could do a Milguard star or something.”
Sol shook his head quickly. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to join. Why would he brand himself with their symbol? But he considered a moment. A star might help these guys see him as one of them. Wasn’t that the point?
Trenton must have seen him slipping. “You’ve got to, man. Look, everyone has one.”
Sol glanced around. It was true. He saw the jet black lines on almost everyone. Even Juice had one, and Juice was not the toughest guy he knew.
He knew what he wanted. He dug his money out and stuck a few bills in Trenton’s hand, trying to ignore the victorious look in the kid’s eyes. He leaned over and told Trenton what to draw.
Sol didn’t mean to scream when Trenton laid the argo-pen against his forearm, but his eyes had gone again to Mezina, and he wasn’t ready for the searing pain.
Trenton snorted and kept going. Sol ground his fist into his thigh and watched as Trenton drew the pen across his skin. Everyone was looking at him now, and he didn’t want to cry out again. He kept his eyes on the tip of the pen, trying to stop them from filling with water. Trenton pressed a button on it every few seconds, and the pain intensified every time he did.
Suddenly, Mezina was next to him. She ran her fingers across the back of his neck, where his newly-cropped hair left his skin exposed. He focused on the feeling of her fingers, trying to distract himself from the fire on his arm. There was a sharp smell in the air, and a metallic taste in his mouth when Trenton finally switched off the pen and laughed.
“I didn’t think you were going to make it through that.”
Sol leaned back against Mezina. “Not that bad.” He said, running a hand over the stinging tracks of the pen. The light was dim, and the smoky tinge of his skin made it hard to see where the design was. There were no apparent marks. The hair had been burned off where the tracks ran, but other than that, there was no change.
“You sure this is going to work?” Sol asked, wondering if they’d tricked him.
Trenton pulled his sleeve up, showing a roughly sketched bear on his bicep. “I’m sure. Wait ‘til tomorrow. You’ll see.”
Sol reached for the pen. “I can’t believe I just let you use this on me.”
“It’s good enough for the cows.”
Sol stared him down. Maybe everyone else here believed that, but he knew better. “It’s a little modified, though. When we use them on the cows, they don’t smell like that.”
“That’s because we’re only using the nitro on the cows. On you, we’re using the nitro and the silver and a couple of other things I just cooked up in my grandma’s sink.”
Sol felt a little dizzy, but he closed his eyes briefly against it and pushed the feeling aside. �
��I wish I was a cow.” He said.
“Get used to it,” Trenton said. “They say induction’s worse.”
Sol glared at him. Trenton hadn’t been inducted yet, and Sol suspected he wouldn’t be. The argo artist was making enough money off the rest to get out of Liberty and do something else, and he didn’t have a dad—or an uncle—to pressure him into it. He had choices.
“Not that you’ll know.”
“We’ll see,” Trenton took his pen back.
“You’re making okay money on this, huh?” Sol asked, still a little dizzy.
Trenton’s expression was guarded. “Okay.”
“And you’re of course making sure Damen gets his share?” Sol teased.
Damen was the Agent in Charge, sent by the Consolidated Terrene Leadership to oversee all aspects of their lives. He especially interfered in anything that made money: cattle production here in Liberty and fruit production in Cascadia, the region to the West, and grain production in Harvest, to the East. He mostly worked alone, or with a few aides, but everyone knew that the Consolidated World Leadership stood behind him.
“Damen always gets his share,” Mezina said, sliding off the log to sit next to Sol. “And both of you better watch out for him. He’s been digging deep for info on locals.”
The sound of her voice bothered Sol. He looked carefully at her. “What do you mean?”
“He hangs out downtown and waits for kids to come by. He chats them up to see if their folks are in compliance with all the regs. They busted Harley Schneider last week after Damen got it out of the Schneider kids that their ranch had new calves.”
Sol nodded, shifting uncomfortably. Uncle Carl had seven new cow/calf pairs in the back barn right now. By the Leadership’s regulations, calving was supposed to be completed no later than March first. They were weeks beyond that deadline now. The problem was that the Leadership made those regulations from an office building in Melbourne and had no idea how many calves froze to death in the bitter Liberty blizzards. They had no idea how many cows died delivering those calves because greenup hadn’t happened yet and there wasn’t enough forage for them to regain their reserves after the long winter. The cattlemen of Liberty did what they could to get around the regulations for the health of their herds, but it was a risk.