The Sky Woman

by JD Moyer

  “What did you disagree on?”

  A sudden pain arced between Adrian’s shoulder blades. He grunted and shifted in his chair. This was not a casual line of questioning. Townes was homing in on something. He had to be careful. He found himself surprisingly disappointed to drop the sexual scenario. Still fantasizing, like a boy. He sighed.

  “Are you all right?”

  A young man brought him his Corsican mint. He waited to answer until the server had left. “Fine, yes. Just a muscle spasm.”

  “Did Car-En see a reason to Intervene? Was that it?” Townes had dropped any pretense that this was a casual social call. She was digging.

  “All her reports are available for public viewing, Penny,” he said icily. Penelope Townes was smart and ambitious, but she was incapable of being subtle. She’d have an easier time of things if she just admitted that to herself and played her cards straight.

  Townes furrowed her brow, ate a shrimp, and slurped from her cocktail. “What’s your opinion, Adrian, of Non-Interventionism during the Remnant Age?”

  It was a non sequitur, and also an odd way to put the question. The isolationist policies of the ringstations during Earth’s greatest crisis were commonly called Watching, and were universally regarded as the great moral failing of the Ringstation Coalition. This moral failing was not debated, it was accepted. There was a consensus among respected intellectuals. All but a few eccentrics and attention-seekers agreed that the highly organized, highly functional, resource-rich ringstation societies should have done something to prevent the total disintegration of Earth societies that followed Campi Flegrei.

  But what could have been done? On this question, there was no consensus. What could half a million souls in orbit do to correct the problems of the billions below? There was not enough food to feed them. There was not enough military force to control them. And there was no moral authority to command or inspire them. To those left on Earth, ringstation citizens were considered elite cowards, even traitors. They had fled their home planet. They were Others now, aliens.

  Modern intellectuals soothed their consciences by imagining they would have done things differently, acting more compassionately. But Adrian had no conscience to soothe; he saw things clearly. The ringstation governments of that era had acted correctly. They had remained above, aloof, in orbit, staying far away from the space elevator docks. In some cases, this precaution hadn’t been necessary; vandals below had severed the lines, allowing the ultralight cables to whip across land and sea at great velocity, disintegrating anything with which they happened to collide.

  But Penelope Townes knew exactly what Adrian thought. He had shared his opinions freely decades earlier, when he was a student, when it was more appropriate to openly explore taboo lines of thought. Why was she asking now?

  “What are you getting at?”

  “You know that eventually we’re going to have to interact with them, right? And probably help them?”

  “Who?” he asked.

  She put down her drink and leaned forward. “The Harz villagers. They’re dying. The kibbutzniks may need our help as well. Though they’re better off, and they don’t seem to want anything to do with us.”

  “You should share your views with the Council. I’m sure you’d start some lively debates.”

  “Non-Interventionism is a temporary measure,” stated Townes. “It’s appropriate for this phase of research, but it was never intended to be a permanent policy. We can’t risk repeating the mistakes of the past.”

  “Watching, redux,” said Adrian, smiling. “That’s what you’re scared of?”

  “Look, you might be right about ringstation isolationism historically. Who knows? Everyone thinks that we should have done something….”

  “Connolly’s Eleven-Point Plan,” offered Adrian.

  “Right,” Townes said. “Perfect policy in hindsight. It would never have worked.” She ran her fingers through her long, silver hair, pushing it back. “But we have a chance to get it right this time. There are communities on Earth that could use our help.”

  “And you want me to get behind this,” said Adrian.

  He picked up a fork and speared a shrimp. It was tender and garlicky.

  “A gradual policy change. We could start with fixing their cancer problem. Either help them relocate, or contain the radiation. We could even vaccinate them, for starters.”

  “That would make Car-En happy,” Adrian said, allowing himself to imagine that she was still alive. “She really cares for them. You do too, don’t you?”

  She gave him a long look. She knew his emotions operated differently, and with her he didn’t bother to maintain a pretense. They knew each other too well. So she didn’t ask, “Don’t you?”

  But she didn’t really know what he thought, or she wouldn’t be asking for his help. Pre-literates could not (and would never be able to) integrate with more advanced cultures. Nothing good had ever come of any attempt to do so. The Harz villagers should be allowed to die off. Or be killed off, if necessary.

  “Honestly, Penelope, I think it’s too soon to revisit Non-Interventionism. We’re just beginning to understand these new cultures. We have no idea how they might react to us – to space aliens, essentially.”

  She drained her orange drink, then unfocused her eyes, ordering another with her m’eye.

  “I called Car-En,” she said.

  “And….” he said, keeping his face open and relaxed.

  “Her fans are going nuts. It’s been weeks since her last update.”

  “I know that better than anybody. Believe me, I’ve been nagging her – it doesn’t do any good. What am I going to do, go down there?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe you should. What if she’s in trouble? She didn’t respond to my patch – she could really be out of air. When did you say you last spoke with her?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “Would you mind forwarding me the conversation?”

  The server delivered her drink. Adrian took advantage of the pause to collect his thoughts. “Actually, I would mind. She shared some things that were confidential.”

  “Then just send me the metadata.”

  Pushy. “Why?” he said. He could push back.

  She answered with a question. “Why didn’t you use any of her m’eye feeds during your last report?”

  “Because she locked me out,” he said. That much was true. “I think she’s hiding some things from me. I’m not sure what.”

  “You should have included that in your report. It’s a big deal. Is she competent?”

  “I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. If I shared something like that with Repop, or even Academic Conduct, she’d be immediately recalled. So I’m giving her some time.”

  Townes leaned back and gazed at him. He locked eyes with her and pretended, for a moment, that she was seducing him instead of interrogating him.

  “If I get behind your research camp proposal,” she said, “it passes. It’s that simple. And I’m not necessarily opposed to it. Especially if Xenus is Research Coordinator.”

  So she’d spoken with Troy. And she still considered him to be her ally.

  “I’m pleased to hear that,” he said. “I think Troy would be an excellent choice. The obvious choice, really.”

  “So if Xenus and I introduce a policy change on Non-Interventionism, will you get behind it?”

  Was this the same proposal they had tried to introduce at the last Council meeting? They really were pushing forward.

  “Have you read his thesis?” she asked. “He makes a persuasive argument that the existing human settlements should really be classified as Phase 1 Repop, as opposed to late Survivalist tribes. All the groups are culturally distinct, not only from each other, from but the prevailing norms of the Remnant Age. In his model, our own settlements would constitute P
hase 2, with Phase 3 being a gradual integration, facilitated and assisted by the Ringstation Coalition.”

  Adrian smiled. Penelope Townes was old, but not wise. She was as naïve and blindly optimistic as a first-year field student, thinking the villagers would be peaceably inclined toward modern humans. Rista orn, was all he could think. The blood eagle.

  “I’m sorry, Penny, I just don’t agree. Non-Interventionism is the right policy for now. We shouldn’t open that can of worms.”

  She looked away, visibly angry. Fine, let her be. He held the cards now.

  “I don’t get you, Adrian,” she said. “I never have and I never will. I thought I was doing it your way, you know? Making a deal?”

  He reached for another shrimp. They were good; buttery and perfectly salted. The sauce was mostly parsley, maybe a touch of sweet basil, some garlic but not too much. Vick’s Lounge – he’d have to come back for dinner sometime.

  “I’m going to keep calling Car-En. She’ll talk to me eventually.”

  No, she won’t.

  Townes got up. “The shrimp and the drinks are on me. It’s your last freebie – enjoy it.”

  She left. Adrian ordered another Corsican mint and basked in the warm, natural sunlight streaming in through the long viewing port.

  Footnote 4. Paranoid Maintenance Culture (P.M.C.)

  A term describing the obsessive nature of ringstation citizens (especially technicians) with regards to double- and triple-checking safety systems, backup systems, and various layers of redundant life-support systems. Life in space is hostile, and borderline OCD is adaptive in environments where miscalculations and maintenance failures lead to death (as in the Hedonark catastrophe).

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Scowling, the old woman handed Elke a small bundle wrapped in worn leather.

  “Do you have something to say, Ilsa?” Elke asked.

  The crone looked away and shuffled down the hall. “You will only need a small amount,” she muttered, over her shoulder.

  Elke tucked the bundle into her sleeve and left the old woman’s house. Outside, she breathed in the fresh spring air with relief. The smell of the sickhouse overwhelmed her.

  She walked in the direction of the smithy, nodding at Farrel as she passed by. He sat on his stump, smoking, and, more importantly, watching. At dusk he would stop by Elke’s house, fill his tankard with Arik’s öl, and tell Elke the day’s tales. Always there was something worth hearing. Every so often her husband complained at how quickly his cask seemed to drain, but he complained softly. Not a week went by when Arik did not come to Elke for advice, asking for insight into the thoughts and feelings of the villagers. If Happdal ever had a mood, Elke knew it. And Farrel was not her only pair of eyes and ears.

  She passed the smithy. The bellows station stood empty; the forge was cold. Trond was gone, and she had sent Jense to find him. Had that been wrong? Who would she send to find Jense, if he did not return? Would she send the whole village into the forest, one by one, until only she remained, alone in her empty house?

  Most of all, she missed Esper. She loved both boys, but the sight of Trond still filled her with shame. Arik knew, and had forgiven her long ago, accepting Trond as his son. Most others guessed. It was not hard, when one looked at Jense, then at Trond. The boy himself had no idea, and no one was brave enough to tell him. Not even Esper. Or perhaps Esper was too kind.

  Elke loved her daughter too, if not as fiercely as she loved her sons. Katja was willful, impatient, and slovenly. Trond and Esper obeyed Elke (usually) and respected her, but Katja thought only of herself. The girl was well-loved in Happdal; others did not seem to notice or mind her selfishness. They admired her beauty (which Elke did not see) and her strength (this, Elke acknowledged) and found her charming (a quality lost on Elke entirely). Arik loved Katja; she was his shining jewel. And Trond and Esper would do anything to protect their beloved sister.

  Bile rose in her throat. Would she lose the best two in the search for the third? Had they both needed to go? She suspected it had been Esper’s idea. Her anger cooled a little, and she smiled, remembering the look of horror on Esper’s face as Trond had lifted her, moving her aside so they could pass.

  Esper, her middle child, was her favorite. He had her wit and her will, but he was also kind and gentle like his father. Esper would take Arik’s place one day. Secretly, she dreamed he would unite the Five Valleys. Why not? Who would not follow strong, wise Esper?

  First, though Haakon had to be dealt with. Until yesterday she’d been content to wait and prepare, to be ready to defend Happdal. No longer. She had not told Arik of her grim discovery. Her husband was a patient man, but this news would force him to act, bringing grave danger to himself and to the village. Her way was better.

  She smelled the cows long before she reached Harald’s barn. The cheesemaker had recruited some of the bellows boys to help with spring milk. They had agreed to help without too much protest; Harald’s daughter was pretty and buxom. The wench still could not look Elke in the eye (on account of her indiscretion with Arik), and when Elke was near she found somewhere else to be. Perhaps that would be the case today. It made no matter, her business was with neither Harald nor his prize heifer.

  She found the boys working over a long wooden trough, pouring the clotted milk through fine cloth, collecting the curds. The clear whey they poured into ceramic jugs; it would later be delivered to the baker to make rich bread and dense cakes. Grundar, the blond one, wore his usual scowl. The tall, lanky one, Karl, bore a stoic expression, though he had more of a right to be miserable. His mother Buried, his father slaughtered, his sisters raped (and one killed), and yet Hinrik’s son pushed on, accepting the foul dish life had served him.

  Now Elke would add more bitterness to his plate. Though maybe also something sweet.

  “Do you miss my son, boys? Pumping the bellows is hard work, but it might turn your twigs into arms. Making cheese looks too easy. Perhaps you should be churning butter instead.”

  “Women’s work,” said Grundar.

  “Could you best a milkmaid in a fight, Grundar? Her shoulders are strong from the yoke, and her arms are like iron from turning the paddle. Instead of water she drinks whey, which makes her stronger still. Shall I find a milkmaid and arrange a contest?”

  Grundar blushed and looked away. Karl grinned – he seemed happy to see her.

  “And you, Karl, do you miss my son, and the bellows? Did you think when Harald gave you work that you would gaze upon his daughter while you labored? That the hours would pass quickly? That she would smile at you, and tease you, and offer you cream and honey? Yet I see no trace of her.”

  It was Karl’s turn to blush. “She was just here!” Grundar protested.

  Elke laughed. “Perhaps she heard me coming. Or someone saw me coming up the road, and warned her.” She went to Karl and pulled on his sleeve. “Come with me – the cheese can wait a few minutes.” Karl nodded. Grundar shrugged, and collapsed into a nearby pile of hay.

  She took Karl to a quiet corner of the barn and sat him down on a bale. She noticed a tear in his trousers, a smear of dried blood beneath. “What happened to your leg?” she asked. He looked down at the injury as if noticing it for the first time. “Make sure to clean that wound. You know as much – even a small cut might fester if not washed. If it becomes infected, go see Ilsa.” The boy nodded, avoiding her gaze.

  “Brace yourself, young one – I have foul news. I went to check on Jesper, and found him dead.”

  Karl paled, but said nothing.

  “His head was crushed, as if squeezed in a vise. There were no blade wounds on him.”

  “Haakon?” asked Karl softly. The strength of the jarl’s grip was known throughout the Five Valleys.

  Elke nodded. “Others were with him. Egil the Bard, I think, for I saw marks in the dirt from the stick he carries. I made out tracks for thre
e, maybe four others.” She did not tell Karl that she had smelled the scent of three men she knew (Haakon, Egil, and Einar the Lame), and one more whose scent she did not recognize.

  “I remember Egil from Summer Trade,” said Karl. “His voice is not sweet, but I remember his poems.”

  “Do you wish to avenge your friend?” she asked. The boy nodded. “Speak!” she snapped. “Do you want me to give you this task?”

  “I wish to avenge him. And my father and my sisters too.”

  “And what will you do?”

  The boy had no color in his face, but his jaw was set. “I will kill Haakon,” he said. Elke nodded, satisfied. His voice was low – she saw a boy but heard a man. More importantly, she heard truth in his timbre.

  “Good. Then I will help you. Here, take this.” First looking to make sure no eyes were on them, she took the bundle from her sleeve and gave it to Karl. He took the object wrapped in soft leather and regarded it solemnly.

  “Put it away,” she said. “Look at it later. You will go to Kaldbrek – you know the way, yes? Go there and deliver it to Haakon. In the dead of night would be best, while he sleeps. Then run back to Happdal as fast as your feet will carry you. If your lungs burn, keep running. Do you understand?”

  She liked the boy, and did not wish to see him flayed.

  She patted Karl on his head, feeling sad. Why was it her job to send men into danger? Karl tucked the bundle away and went to rouse Grundar.

  From outside she heard a commotion, yelling and shouting. She ran to the road and looked. Was she too late? Had Haakon come raiding so soon? She was not ready. The lookout post was empty. She cursed herself. Of course the raiders came now, after discovering they were being watched, and slaughtering the boy. The men of Happdal had armor, leather boiled until it was stiff and hard, but they would not wear it while they worked; it impeded movement too much. They had spears, probably leaning up against walls, inside their homes, while they labored elsewhere. They were not ready. All Elke’s work, and fear, and worry – for nothing. Where was Arik?