by Josi Russell
Sol heard himself gasp and laid his head on the table. The cool steel didn't stop the spinning. The death penalty was swift. The local law didn't feed and house murderers. If they found him guilty, he'd be dead before sundown.
He had stopped hoping that someone would find out the truth. Who was there? His mother and Uncle Carl couldn't go into the park to look around. Everyone who was at the gate with him was dead. Even if the real bomber had left clues, there was no one to find them.
35
Six months. Caldwell had been gone six months. That long his apartment had stood empty. That long the Ranger patrols had swept the backcountry on their spiders looking for him. But this morning they’d called them off. The park was fully in the grip of winter now, and the snow was deep. Karson didn’t see any reason to have Rangers out there looking anymore.
“We’ll find him after the spring thaw.” He’d said. They thought Caldwell had killed himself in the park. They had sympathy for him, and loyalty that Walt found hard to understand.
No one would entertain Walt’s idea that dead or alive, Caldwell was responsible for the destruction of the South gate. And that kid’s trial was coming up. If Walt didn’t at least try to prove his theory, it would be too late.
Caldwell’s door gave easily to the pressure from the screwdriver. Walt slipped the tool back into his pocket, slightly unnerved about how easy it had been to break in. Caldwell's apartment lay in its usual eerie order, pens lined up on the desk, shoes arranged in a neat row by the door, bottles on the counter turned with every label facing forward.
Walt didn't switch on the light. His presence in here would be hard to explain.
Walt started with the desk. It was as neat inside as outside. Files with pay stubs, health check records, and instruction manuals hung in neat rows in the bottom drawer. The top drawers held writing paper, blank schedules, and cables.
Walt closed the drawer, growing more uncomfortable by the minute. What had ever possessed him to come in here? He didn't even know Sol that well. Maybe the kid really was a complete radical who had blown up the gate.
But it wasn’t just destruction of park property now. They had found Allison and Henley, and if the kid wasn't guilty, he would die for nothing. If there was any evidence that Caldwell was behind this, Walt had to find it. If there wasn’t, then at least his conscience would be clear about the kid.
The bedroom walls were stark, and the window was covered with a thick blanket. The nightstand behind the bed was bare except for a clock and a strange gray cylinder. Walt picked it up and rolled it around in his hands. It was sleek and smooth. Both ends were capped, but he couldn’t seem to get the caps off. It looked like it might hold something important. It was about the right size to hold a sheaf of rolled paper. But Walt couldn’t get into it, so he laid it back on the nightstand and opened the drawer below it.
Sylvia had said she thought Caldwell had a hard time sleeping. He saw she was right. There were several kinds of drugs inside the drawer; their labels stated that they helped insomnia. One was even the kind that the doctors had given Sylvia for the nights when the pain was too severe for her to sleep.
Walt sat on the bed as he looked through the drawer. Underneath the pills was a book. Walt's stomach turned as he slid the book out of the drawer. It was a copy of James Scoble's radical diatribe against humanity called For Solitude. Why would Caldwell want to read that garbage? It was written just before the Terrene War, just before humanity had turned on itself and tore itself to pieces. In the book, Scoble proposed a cleansing of the Earth, a deliberate decreasing of the human population and a return of the pre-industrial ecosystem. Scoble looked at humans as a scourge on an otherwise perfect planet. He talked about removing them in the way others talked about removing mildew. Scoble was long dead, and his radical ideas had faded for most people ever since one single conflict—the Terrene War—and its consequences had reduced the population by billions.
Caldwell had been holding on to the book, and the ideas, for a long time.
Walt moved to put the book back, scooping up the bottles to lay it in the drawer, but there were too many things in his hands, and the book slipped, falling with a thud to the floor.
Walt froze. Would Ria downstairs have heard that? He listened, but nothing had changed. Glancing down, he saw that several photographs lay scattered around the fallen book. He dumped the pill bottles back into the drawer and carefully picked up them up.
Walt knew he was invading Caldwell's privacy. The moment he saw the first photo, obviously well-worn, Walt felt acutely the depth of his intrusion. It was a picture of a young Caldwell, the pale scar on his cheek already present, cradled in the arms of his mother. She held him protectively, and in her eyes was defiance.
But what held Walt riveted was the absolute terror in the boy Caldwell's eyes as he looked up at the person holding the camera.
Walt pulled another photo from the loose pile he had gathered.
A man, in a military uniform. The man had the same cheekbones, the same hair, as Caldwell. Walt flipped the picture over to see words scrawled on the back.
He squinted at them in the dim light.
Navin “The Viper” Caldwell
Interrogation Force
Consolidated Terrene Leadership
Walt had heard the name before, and he looked carefully. Was this Caldwell’s father? Walt had heard of The Viper. He had fought ferociously in the Terrene War and risen in rank quickly near the middle of the conflict. He had even been granted a position in the Consolidated Terrene Leadership.
Walt sifted through the other papers, piecing together the Viper’s story. There was a worn court document, detailing the Viper’s betrayal of the Terrene Leadership, his attempt on the life of the President of the Leadership. The report described the Viper’s flight and evasion.
More photos, surveillance shots that accompanied the text showed that the Leadership had tracked The Viper across the globe. Walt saw that Caldwell had been with his father on the run. And there was another child, a boy whose piercing eyes were vaguely familiar to Walt. The mother was gone. It looked to be a rough existence, the boys sleeping in ditches and barren wastes all over the world, laboring, hiding. The document described four attempts on their lives during the five years of tracking.
The last photograph showing the Viper slid easily from under the pile. Walt knew, from the moment he saw it, the real story of Caldwell's life.
In this photo were two half-grown men, brothers, one of them Caldwell, and one of them, unmistakably, Damen. That’s why the eyes had been familiar.
They stood in front of a low pen filled with pigs. The Viper sat on the fence between them, his hands on their shoulders. The young man on the right was relaxed, happy, even, and the Viper's hand on his shoulder laid easy.
But Caldwell's young face was a mask of pain, his jaw tight and his shoulder arched against the savage grip of the man's other hand.
Whatever the war had done to The Viper, he had taken out on Caldwell. Walt pushed the photo back into the stack. He had known that Caldwell's deep mistrust of people must have come from his early life, but seeing him young and vulnerable broke Walt's heart.
The Viper was caught and executed. There were a few more photos of Caldwell and Damen, but then only Caldwell. Walt saw now why Damen had left behind his last name. He wondered if the Leadership knew who their Agent In Charge really was.
Walt felt weary. He longed to be out of this grim place and back in his bright apartment with his family.
He opened the book. He was flipping through to find where the stack of photos might have been stored when he found something he could use.
A hand-drawn map of the South gate, with detailed notes on its voltage and safety protocols, and along the edge of the paper a violent, hate-filled tirade against everyone who had defiled the park by their presence and who threatened its sanctity.
Walt didn't know what to do. He had found what he was looking for, but how could he get Karson to
come in here and find it?
But Walt knew even as he tried to hatch a plan that he wouldn't try to pretend he didn't know it was there. There was no time for that.
He looked at his watch. Sol had less than an hour. He slid the map and photos back into the book, carrying it with him. He reached for his radio as he left the apartment.
But Karson didn't answer. Only Tillie's voice came on the line, "I'm sorry, Walt, Karson's gone to the sentencing for the bomber. He's incommunicado until tomorrow."
Walt thought fast. "Then I need clearance to leave by the West gate." He said.
She must have heard the urgency in his voice. "You've got it. I'm sending it over now." There was a pause on the line, "What is it, Walt? Is Sylvia okay?"
There was no answer to that question, so Walt ignored it. "I just have to get to Fruitland."
"You sound like it's urgent."
"Tillie," he said, "It's life and death."
Walt was at the door of the courthouse when he realized that he'd left the spider’s hatch open. But he didn't go back to close it. He flashed his TPS badge as he ran through the lobby.
The building was full of Rangers wearing their turnout gear, all speaking in angry tones about justice being done. They had no idea what was just, Walt thought, and their acidic words didn’t make the kid any more guilty.
Walt had been here before. Ten years ago, when the civilian had been killed and they had let Caldwell off with a slap on the wrist.
Hearings in Cascadia were public affairs. They usually had a big audience. Today was no exception. The imposing courtroom stood with its doors open.
Walt arrived just as the judge was about to pass sentence. The verdict had been decided. Two orderlies were near with a lethal cocktail of drugs that would end Sol's life before he'd even had a chance to live it.
The boy looked up as Walt strode past him. Their eyes met for a moment.
"Wait!" Walt said, his voice bouncing back to him from the sterile walls of the courtroom.
"What the—" the judge started.
Karson stood up from the prosecutor's table and looked at Walt with raised eyebrows. "Walt?"
The words poured out. "Karson, I've got something you need to see." He held up the book, and Karson came out from behind the table, gesturing apologetically to the judge.
"This will just take a second."
When he unfolded the map, Walt could tell that Karson knew what he was looking at. The director's voice was quiet when he walked forward and spoke. "We seem to have made an error, your honor."
As Karson went forward to discuss the new evidence with the judge in hushed tones, Walt glanced up at Sol. The boy's eyes were wide. If Walt couldn’t stop this, the kid’s mother would lose another person she loved to the park. He had seen her face splashed across the news screens, and he recognized it. He had seen her in his nightmares ever since that awful day ten years ago. Just thinking about it left shame burning in his chest.
The TPS had done nothing when Sol’s father was killed. Caldwell had walked out of this very room a free man.
Walt stepped over to Sol and Sol reached for his hand. Surprised, Walt took the boy's hand and leaned down beside him.
"I didn't do it," Sol said frantically.
"I know, son. It's going to be all right." He hoped that it would.
Karson came through. He convinced the judge that they'd made a mistake, and the boy was released. Walt watched the kid step out of his shocksuit and hand it to the guards.
“How will you get home?” Walt asked.
Sol turned wide brown eyes to him. It was obvious the kid was having trouble processing what had just happened. Walt looked around. There was no one here to look after Sol.
Sol grabbed his arm. “Please don’t leave me here.” He said. “The Cascadians know I’m from Liberty.”
Walt considered for a minute. They had taken half a year of this kid’s life. They could at least offer him a ride.
“I’ll drive you home,” Walt said. They walked out into the gathering evening and climbed in the open hatch of his spider.
Later, after he’d made the long trip down to Silver Lake Ranch, after he’d left the hollow-eyed boy on his porch and after he’d stared down the barrel of the uncle’s convulsion gun, Walt went home.
The scene he found there was like a dream. In stark contrast to the hatred and fear he’d seen all day, Zin'dri and Sylvia were cuddled on the couch, singing a Stracahn song and laughing together at Sylvia’s awkward pronunciation.
The smell of warm flatbread filled the air, and a pot of soup bubbled on the range in the kitchen behind them. The girls smiled up at him as he came in, and Walt was home.
36
The air in the little apartment felt chilly, pressing against Zyn’dri’s cheeks as she lay under her blankets. The blankets were heavy, and she lay in a little pocket of warmth. Lately, she’d been feeling exhausted as if she could barely crawl out of bed. And her bones ached in a deep and throbbing way. Walt and Sylvia had let her stay home from the village the last two days. They had also mentioned that other Stracahn were feeling this way, too. Zyn’dri closed her eyes against the thought.
She could hear Sylvia and Walt in the kitchen making breakfast. They spoke quietly to each other, and the warm murmur of their voices made Zyn’dri feel safe and whole.
She didn’t want to get up. Sometimes her new parents did what they called “sleeping in,” where they stayed in bed beyond their regular time. Zyn’dri thought that perhaps today she would do sleeping in. She rolled over, reveling in the softness of the bed and the fresh scent of her pillow.
But the sweet smell of sage and bison sausage drifted into her bedroom through the cracked door. And Walt was making something else, too. Something that smelled like Empyriad. Zyn’dri poked her nose out of the blankets and breathed in deeply. It was a familiar smell mixed with the tantalizing strangeness of the sausage. Zyn’dri’s stomach began to growl. She had to know what it was.
Zyn’dri slid out from under the blankets and stood, but as the cold air hit her she pulled the top blanket off the bed and wrapped herself in its comfort. It dragged along the floor as she made her sleepy way through the dim hallway to the kitchen.
She heard them talking. Sylvia’s voice held a note of concern. “What do they think is wrong with them? Is it another allergy?”
“Can’t be. The whole park’s slicked over with snowdrifts. There’s nothing to set them off. The Rangers sent out bloodwork and other samples to the CDC, and they’re running some tests. Of course, it’s setting off another real panic out there.”
Sylvia sighed heavily. “There is so much fear.”
“It doesn’t help that they are locked up in here, and nobody can get to know them. To most of the world, they are as alien now as they were when they were on Empyriad.”
“I don’t think it’s contagious, or at least that it can cross the species barrier,” Sylvia said, “because I think I would have gotten it by now.”
From the sheltered edge of the hallway, Zyn’dri saw how Walt’s face scrunched with concern. “Are you sure?” he asked, “You haven’t felt like you’re coming down with anything? No aches? You’re not too tired?”
Zyn’dri knew that Sylvia had more energy lately. She wondered if Sylvia had noticed the pattern Zyn’dri had been tracing on the old woman’s palms when they talked. It was an intertwining of softly curved lines she had seen in Laska’s notebooks, and later in the slanting rays of the sun piercing a raincloud.
The rays had seemed healing, somehow, so she had tried the design on Sylvia. After she traced it, Sylvia always seemed more vibrant.
If she had noticed, Sylvia didn’t mention it. “No, I feel fine. Better, even, than I have felt for a long time.”
“Good. Keep resting. I think you should keep working from here most of the time. No reason to take chances. Karson promised he’d let me know as soon as anything comes back from the CDC.”
Sylvia made a scoffing noise. “
I’m sure they’re getting right to work on it.”
Walt nodded. “It has already been a couple of weeks. They don’t seem to be in any hurry.”
“Too busy mapping the Stracahn genome.”
“And trying to splice their best sequences with human DNA.”
Zyn’dri wondered what that meant. She shuffled closer. When Sylvia saw her, she held her arms wide. Zyn’dri stepped close to her and felt her embrace. Walt smiled at them from the stove.
“What are you cooking?” Zyn’dri asked, crossing the little room to peer into the skillet he was stirring.
“Something I think you’ll like. I’ve been talking to Grandyn, and he says most children on Empyriad like fried orlyet root for breakfast. Are you one of those children?”
Zyn’dri felt a little thrill. “Orlyet root? Where would you find that?”
“Nevermind. Just give it a try and see if it tastes like you remember.” Walt used the fork he was stirring with to spear a piece of the thick, meaty plant in the skillet. He held up the fork and blew softly on it. When it was cooled, he held it toward Zyn’dri. She pulled it off the fork with her teeth and closed her eyes as a smoky, nutty flavor filled her mouth.
Zyn’dri closed her eyes. She could almost imagine being back on Empyriad, eating her morning meal in the hut between her parents. Their memory overwhelmed her, and she found it difficult to swallow.
But she wanted more, wanted to taste home again. When Walt served the Orlyet root, she ate every morsel. After breakfast, when they were cleaning up, she opened the refrigerator and found a bowl full of strange plants with pointed, lacy domes.
“What are these?” she asked, lifting one and inspecting its bell-shaped top and long, thick stem.
Walt looked proud. “Those are your orlyet roots, or at least, the closest thing we have to them. We call them morel mushrooms.”