by Josi Russell
And then Walt saw them. Wolves, their lithe bodies sliding through the shadows at the edges of the field like shining fish along the prow of a boat. He never saw a whole wolf, just a silvery side here and a triangular head there. He froze. Sylvia froze beside him. Wolves almost never attacked humans, especially amid the abundance of summer and fall. Still, the wolves were most certainly circling, and Walt’s family was at the center.
He paused, peering through the darkness toward the river. It could only be a few hundred yards away. His arms and back ached from carrying Zyn’dri, but wolves always went for the smallest, weakest prey. He’d seen many a baby bison fall to the snapping jaws, and he couldn’t bear to put the little girl down. He gritted his teeth against the pain.
Zyn’dri started to speak, but both he and Sylvia shushed her, realizing that their only hope was if the wolves didn’t detect them.
Zyn’dri, usually so obedient, spoke louder. “No. Wait! Over there.” She was pointing to the bright spot at the center of the clearing.
Walt looked, and his breath stopped in his chest. There, under the pearly light of the moon, was a figure dark and ominous. The figure moved as if oblivious to the creeping wolves. It crouched, working with its hands on something Walt couldn’t see. What Walt could make out, past the figure, was a shapeless lump. As a breeze touched his cheeks, it brought with it a singular stench and he knew what the lump was: carrion. He squinted and saw the curve of antlers. The dead animal was obviously an elk. They had stumbled onto a wolf kill, after all.
What the figure was doing at the kill was hidden by the night. Walt couldn’t guess what would have drawn someone to such a place, especially in the dark. The figure was focused on the kill, but Walt couldn’t see why. Whatever it was, it caused a cold terror to seep into Walt. Slowly, he eased Zyn’dri to the ground and stepped in front of her. The wolves became his secondary fear.
As the figure straightened, Walt pulled his twister gun from its holster. Though he’d walked these mountains and basins for nearly forty years, and he had sent many warning shots into the air and tearing through the bushes, he had only fired his weapon at a living being once. He had fired at the bear that had taken Sean’s life. But he had fired too late.
Walt wouldn’t make that mistake again. He pulled his gaze from the figure just long enough to catch Sylvia’s eye. He was not surprised to see that she’d drawn her weapon, as well. She had her free arm wrapped around Zyn’dri. She nodded encouragement at Walt, and he gestured her to back into the woods.
As she moved with Zyn’dri into the shade of the tall pines, Walt advanced along the edge of the meadow. He stayed in the shadows as much as he could.
When he got nearer the kill, Walt had to breathe through his mouth. The stench of the dead animal was suffocating. The wolves continued to call to each other, no doubt growing impatient with the figure whose presence was keeping them from their meal.
Amidst the chorus of howls, Walt suddenly heard another sound. It was weeping, coming from the direction of the dark figure. The figure stood, and Walt was close enough now to make out a heap of deep blue fabric on the ground at the figure’s feet, precisely framed by the two sweeping antlers of the dead elk. It took him several seconds to realize that it was the robe of a Stracahn Avowed. The cries were coming from that heap. Walt realized that O’neva’s disappearance was solved.
Walt braced himself, took aim, and set up for a shot before he called out, “Hey!”
The figure whirled, and Walt could see it was a man whose mouth and neck were hidden by a full, scraggly beard. But the eyes Walt knew. The wild, angry eyes were Caldwell’s. Walt was close enough to see that his hair had grown long, and his cheeks were lean.
Caldwell threw his arms wide. “Are you going to shoot me, Walt?”
Walt readied himself. “I’d rather not,” he called back. “Just tell me what you’re doing there.”
“Walt, I’m doing what we all should be doing,” Caldwell said. His voice was rougher than Walt remembered it. Probably the effects of Yellowstone cold and prolonged exposure to campfire smoke.
“Why don’t you tell me what that is, specifically?”
“We swore—swore—to preserve this place. To protect it. Didn’t you swear?” Caldwell was talking fast and taking short, jerky steps forward and backward. “Because I swore. And I thought we were all on the same page. But when the idiots out there,” he threw an arm wide, and Walt forced himself not to shoot, realizing that Caldwell was talking mostly to himself, “said that we shouldn’t protect it anymore, we just rolled over. Just rolled over and opened the park to everyone and anything.” He kicked at the figure on the ground, and the Avowed in the blue robes let out a pained cry.
“Don’t do that, Justin. Don’t.” Walt took a step forward, keeping the twister aimed at Caldwell’s chest.
“I’m protecting the park, Walt. I’m doing what none of the rest of you cowards will do.”
“You’re hurting people, Justin.”
Caldwell ran a hand down his beard and then gestured at the huddled Avowed. “This isn’t people, Walt. This is alien.”
Walt struggled to stay in control. A flame of anger was kindling in his chest, and Caldwell’s hatred and cruelty were fueling it.
“And they don’t belong here. Even they know that. The land has been rejecting them since they came. Remember when they were all dying? That was the Park, Walt. It was the Park cleansing itself. It will cleanse itself if we let it. If we help it.” He crouched, suddenly, and ran a hand gently along the blades of the dried meadow grass. “The Park is the one that’s suffering, Walt. The Park needs us now. These aliens break its grasses when they walk. They scare the bison and make them change their natural grazing patterns. The wolves are avoiding Hayden Valley now, and if it keeps up, they’ll starve because they can’t get enough to eat without the bison and elk calves. These Stracahn are hurting the Park. And I’m going to stop them. I have stopped them. When I found this one and the other one off the boardwalks in Biscuit Basin, didn’t I stop them? Didn’t I stop them from breaking the fragile crust of the Basin? Didn’t I stop them from ever trampling the grass in the Valleys again? Didn’t I?”
“Did you throw Wan-seh into Sapphire Pool?”
“I wouldn’t leave anything to block the vent. I was going back for him. But they found him and took him out, and I had this one to take care of.” He gestured again at O’neva. “But I was going back to get that one.” Caldwell was agitated and defensive. “I wouldn’t hurt the Park.”
“But you’d kill people?”
Caldwell nearly shouted. “They’re not people!” and then, more quietly, “Don’t you understand? This makes sense. I didn’t kill them. The Park did. I’m helping the park to help itself. I’m letting it rid itself of them.” He gestured to O’neva, who’d gone quiet and still at his feet. “See? She’s alive. When I leave, she’ll still be alive. The wolves will exact from her pound for pound what her presence here has cost them. It’s about balance, Walt.”
Walt swore. “That’s not balance, Caldwell. It’s murder. But that’s not new to you, is it? The civilian you shot when you first arrived? That was just the beginning. And Gilette? That wasn’t an accident either, was it?”
Caldwell wrung his hands. “Gilette. Gilette said she could live in the backcountry with me. She said she wanted to be one with the Park. I let her try. Living in the backcountry means you gather food and bathe in the rivers. I took her to Tower Falls, and I let her swim across so she could become strong. But she didn’t. She was weak.”
“She was ill, Justin.”
“She was weak. And Tower took her.”
Walt flinched. “You let her go over the Falls?”
“I didn’t stop Tower from taking her.”
Walt didn’t know why he was trying to make Caldwell see. Maybe it was because of the kid he had seen in the pictures, who had never had a chance to see the world without cruelty. The kid Caldwell used to be.
“What about
Allison? And Henley? They were your friends.”
“The Park took them, too.” He said, “It buried them under its boulders.”
His callousness fanned the flame of Walt’s anger. “We’re done talking, Caldwell. You’re going to lay down, and I’m going to take you back to Karson.”
“I’m not going, Walt.” Caldwell’s teeth flashed white against his beard. “And I doubt you will either.” He looked up at the sky. Walt watched as he cupped his hands around his mouth and made a perfect wolf howl. Caldwell lowered his hands and began to back away.
“The Park is coming for you, now, Walt. Because you aren’t committed enough to it. You stopped protecting it. I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t go any farther, Caldwell, or I’m going to—”
Walt was interrupted by a jagged sound that shredded the night air around him. Walt turned to see Obsidian, the black Alpha male of the pack. His teeth showing, his head stretched out low, he had come in response to the call. And he wasn’t alone. At the periphery of his vision, Walt registered at least six more dark bodies moving deliberately toward him.
Walt looked back to see Caldwell slipping past the elk carcass.
Without pausing, Walt took three steps forward and shot. The twister projectile left the gun, and a wave of heat blew back over Walt’s face. Before he could blink, before he could breathe, Caldwell screamed and went down in the meadow.
Walt turned toward the wolves, and aiming the twister above him, fired again. He heard the wail of the projectile and felt the wash of heat again. Obsidian paused in his advancing.
Walt aimed at the ground between them and fired again. Dirt and rocks kicked up, spraying both he and the big Alpha in the face.
Obsidian shook his head and began to back away. Without warning, another shot landed on the ground between Walt and the rest of the pack. They backed into the shadows, too. Walt looked up to see Sylvia standing at the edge of the meadow, Zyn’dri at her side.
“Keep me covered!” he called to her, then turned and crossed to O’neva. She was hunched over inside the cage of the big bull’s antlers. The thick, rancid smell of the elk carcass penetrated the night, and it grew stronger as he moved toward her. He ignored it, murmuring a few of the Stracahn words that Zyn’dri had taught him.
“Tr’scha. Tr’scha. Unorlaa aschki.” He said. It’s all right. A friend is here.
Slowly, she raised her head, and Walt clenched his fists at the sight of her.
O’neva’s face was awash with pain and fear. Walt had never seen an adult Stracahn without their characteristic composure, and the sight was wrenching. Her long hair was matted around her face, and her eyes were pleading. She raised up onto her knees. Walt noticed for the first time that she was bound. Her arms were taut behind her; her shoulders arched backward.
He crouched beside her. A stake was driven into the ground just above where the elk’s head rested. O’neva’s wrists and ankles were bound to the stake.
Walt pulled a knife from his belt. Carefully, he eased the tip of it under the cords that held her and began to saw.
He knew the wolves were not far away. He could hear their howls and listened for the branches breaking to hear how close they were. They wouldn’t leave a kill this size. Even now, he could hear them moving in on the other side of the elk.
He holstered his weapon and lifted the Avowed free of the elk’s antlers. She was light and balanced in his arms.
Walt threw a glance toward the crumpled heap that was Caldwell. He could hear the man moaning, and saw him reach a hand out, dragging himself forward toward the woods. Just in front of the wounded man, two young wolves peered from the bushes, the moonlight shimmering on their silver fur. Walt shook his head, feeling a deep regret over the choice he had to make. There was no way to save them both, and he must help O’neva. Caldwell had left him no choice, and, Walt admitted, there was an ugly kind of justice to it. He turned away and carried O’neva to safety, leaving the wolves to their kill.
46
There was no doubt about it: The Milguard was preparing for war. Sol had moved to the barracks at the armory. He rarely saw his friends or Uncle Carl, and he missed his mom. He didn’t like thinking about her out at the ranch by herself.
Sol hadn’t been assigned a specialization yet, so he just did what needed to be done, working nonstop on everything from fetching tools and parts for the mechanics to inventorying weapons.
This autumn day he was distributing new wristguards to all personnel. The small pieces of armor that fit between the sleeve and the glove had just arrived from Megalopolis, the manufacturing region in the top eastern quadrant of the continent, and everybody was supposed to get a pair of them and two lengths of cord to bind them to their uniforms. Sol glanced into Uncle Carl’s office and counted: Uncle Carl, Commander Hastings, Tavish, another sergeant, and Mezina, who had just been promoted to head up the Comms Specialists. Sol lifted five pairs of wristguards and their accompanying cords from the cart and walked into the office.
“What do you mean they know where we are?” Tavish was sitting in one of the chairs in front of Uncle Carl’s desk, and he took the wristguards without looking at Sol.
“They have intel about the location of the armory,” Mezina was saying. “And that’s not all. I think they’ve got info on some of our people and our equipment.”
“How could they have that?” Uncle Carl was asking. Sol froze.
It had been months since that cold spring night when he’d watched Sonny run off into the darkness. But Sonny had been here so long, had been right in the center of the Milguard’s fortress. If anyone had inside information, it would have been him.
And Sol couldn’t blame him. If Sonny led his fellow Cascadians directly to their door, it was no more than the Milguard had coming for keeping him here so long.
Sol was torn. He had fired the weapon into the ground so a round would be missing, and he had told Hastings that the task was done. He hadn’t followed orders; he had lied to a Rank Five, and now he realized that he’d caused a major security breach. He couldn’t even imagine what kind of punishment there was for that combination of offenses.
“Sol!” Uncle Carl was barking his name. He realized that he didn’t know why.
“Yes?”
“Get out of here. This is above your rank.”
“Yes, Commander!” Sol laid the other wristguards on the table and hurried out of the office. He glanced up in time to see Hastings watching him go.
In the hall, he tried to breathe. Nobody had found out what he’d done that Spring night. Now, Autumn was ending. Sol saw it in the barren trees outside the window, in the low gray sky hovering over the armory. He smelled it in the crisp air and tasted it in the wood smoke from the chimneys in town. All this time and nobody had found out about Sonny. Nobody had even ever asked about it after his report to Hastings.
After delivering all the wristguards and cords, Sol took the long way around the building to avoid running into Hastings on his back to the uniform supply room. He was pushing the cart around a corner on the upper balcony above the main repair hangar when he nearly ran over Damen, striding down the hallway with his aides in tow. The armory was off-limits to the general public, but the Leadership had an all-access pass to anywhere in the world. Uncle Carl said the quickest way to bring them down on you was to try to keep them out of somewhere they wanted to go.
“Sol,” Damen said, pausing to smile benevolently.
Sol tipped his chin up in greeting but tried not to make eye contact.
“It has been so long since I’ve seen you. I didn’t know you’d joined the Milguard.”
Sol didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure how much he could say.
“You’ve got the code of silence mastered,” Damen said. Sol could see by the way the man was lacing and unlacing his fingers that he was getting impatient.
“I’m sorry, sir. Welcome to the armory. Can I help you find anything?”
“I am just checking in to
see if I can find out when that winter stock sale is going to be. The Consolidated Terrene Leadership’s market analysts are saying we’re going to see a surge in demand for beef over the next few months, and they want to know if Liberty can meet that demand.”
Sol wanted to say that Liberty could meet it, but the events of the last few weeks: the scrambling to arm themselves, the strategy meetings, the ground troop drills, had kept them from their ranch work. He wasn’t even sure there would be a winter stock sale this year. At least Silver Lake Ranch wasn’t anywhere near ready for one. They hadn’t identified their culls yet or even checked to see which cows were going to calve.
But admitting that to the Leadership was akin to admitting that you hadn’t paid your taxes: it suggested irresponsible citizenship at the least and at the worst outright rebellion.
It was hot on the balcony, and Sol wiped a hand across his damp forehead. He forced a smile. “I can find someone to talk to you. C’mon with me.” Sol led Damen toward the Commanders’ offices.
“This place is busy lately,” Damen said, fishing.
“Yes, sir. The Milguard likes to be prepared for anything.”
Damen stopped and gazed out over the hive of Service Specialists that were under, on top of, and beside the spinners and haulers. Every craft had been fitted with weaponry, even the light spinners. “It doesn’t look like you’re preparing for just anything. It looks like you’re preparing to fight.”
Sol froze. Again he didn’t know how much to say.
Uncle Carl’s voice came from behind them, strong and confident. “Better safe than sorry, Damen.”
Damen turned, and his hands rose slightly as if to block a blow.
But Uncle Carl was smiling widely, and he gestured them into his office. Sol tried to slip away, but Uncle Carl said, “Pull up a seat, Son.” So he found himself next to Damen across the alloy desk from his uncle.
They finished discussing the winter stock sale within minutes. Uncle Carl showed none of the hesitation that Sol had felt. He assured the Agent in Charge that though the sale would probably be postponed, that was simply because the Rangeright systems under the pastures were struggling with the extra cold winter they were having. The feed had been sparse, and it would take a bit longer to fatten up the culls. Of course, Uncle Carl and the others wanted to put the very best animals on the market rather than rush a sale of inferior stock. Damen could understand that, couldn’t he?