No eggs. She sighed and her shoulders slumped in a dramatic fashion.
“This isn’t a very good day, is it?” she asked. Jeanette just looked ahead, not reacting to the question at all. Even when Diego fussed, she barely took notice.
Why won’t she talk to me? Gabi felt a greasy knot in the pit of her stomach. She wondered if Jeanette was indeed upset, but hiding it from her. It wouldn’t be the first time that an adult had lied to her, and it hurt her every time she found out about another falsehood.
“Hey Gabi,” Marya called to her. She folded her dingy arms across her chest as she came face to face with Gabi. She had a sneer on her face, something that seemed perpetual whenever she wasn’t playing.
“What?” Gabi shot back. She had no patience with the older girl. It would shame Gabi to admit it, but she secretly dreamed about Marya being dragged into the jungle by a pack of jaguars.
“Who ya gonna stay with now, huh?”
Jeanette suddenly no longer seemed lost in her thoughts, and her thousand mile stare was gone. “Not now, Marya,” she said sternly.
“Huh?” Gabi asked, confused.
“I said who you gonna stay with?”
“Marya. Go away, now,” Jeanette warned. Gabi picked up on a hint of anger in her tone, and at once she instinctively froze in place, rigid as a board.
“You gonna live with them?” Marya continued, jerking her thumb at Jeanette.
“Marya. Last warning. Go away.” Jeanette stepped out of line, using her body as a barrier between the two girls.
Marya leaned out to the side, apparently undeterred by Jeanette’s stern warning. “What about Diego? Is he going with you? Are you his new mommy?”
“His new what?” Gabi gasped, horrified and confused.
Why would I be Diego’s mommy? Why wouldn’t Mama?
Jeanette’s hand flew through the air in a blur. There was a sickening smack, and Marya’s head twisted to the side from the open-handed blow. “You horrible little shit,” she growled. “Go home now.”
Marya cupped her hand over her eye and almost instantly burst into tears. She staggered off toward her home. Diego cried out in fright. Gabi stood fast, overwhelmed both with fear of Jeanette and her mounting confusion. Her questions repeated over and over in her head.
“Mama?” Gabi asked quietly. Her lip trembled, though she wasn’t sure why. Something inside her cried out that something terrible was going on.
“Oh, sweetie,” Jeanette knelt in front of Gabi, still cradling Diego in one arm. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “Oh, sweetie I’m so sorry. This wasn’t the way… I…” she seemed to struggle with her words.
“Mama?” Gabi repeated, choking up. Her suspicions were confirmed: something terrible had happened.
“I’m so sorry, Gabi. Your mama is with the angels now.”
There were no words. Gabi knew what that meant. Haruka was with the angels. She would never see Haruka again. She would never see her mother again. Her mother was gone, and all she had left was Diego, her tiny, four-month-old brother.
* * *
Chief James Vandemark
Two hours later
Shit, this is a mess.
“Fuck, Jeannie!” he bellowed.
“Don’t yell at me,” his wife snapped back. Her eyes glistened with tears, though her pain was matched by her fury. “What the hell else was I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know, not tell her that her mom fucking killed herself?”
“I had to tell her something!”
“You were supposed to break it to her easy. You were supposed to tell her that her mother was gone. You weren’t supposed to tell her how or why.”
James shouted an expletive and turned away from his wife. He couldn’t bear to look at her. What she had done to Gabi was devastating. Near unforgiveable. The poor girl had a hard enough time on Demeter without the day’s events. She woke up this morning blissfully unaware of what Maria Serrano had done. And in a matter of minutes, Jeannie had crushed what little good the girl had left in her life.
She wasn’t supposed to know. She didn’t need to know.
“She wasn’t supposed to find out from Marya,” Jeanette pointed out. “How the hell is that my fault?”
James let out a laugh that was twisted by sarcasm and disgust. “How isn’t it? You know how Marya and Gabi are together. What the hell were you doing even letting them get that close? Especially on a day like today. And then hitting Marya afterward?”
“Alright, it wasn’t my finest moment,” she growled.
“No. It wasn’t. Not by a long shot.”
“But you riding my ass isn’t fucking helping, James.”
“Neither is telling that poor broken kid that her mother killed herself.”
“God damn it,” she screamed, tearing at her hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to.”
“But you did it anyway,” he snapped. “So don’t tell me you didn’t want to. If you don’t want to do something like that, you just don’t do it. Don’t make excuses afterwards.”
She clenched her fists and screamed in hatred and anguish. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and she paced from one wall of the hut and back again, kicking at the dirt as she fumed.
James sighed heavily. He had only had one argument this heated with Jeannie back on Earth. It nearly destroyed their marriage. The venom that they held for each other lingered for weeks. Their children had felt the repercussions, and Kristin had broken down into tears in fear of her parents splitting up. His heart had felt as if a stake of shame and regret had been driven through it at the times, like seeing his then seven year old girl bawling her eyes out. This was somehow worse, fighting over what was to become of this girl who, though not related by blood, had become like family to them.
“Fine,” he caved. “What’s done is done. I don’t know, maybe if we just raise her as our own, she’ll forget.”
“Oh, you think you’re going to get off that easily?” she snarled.
“No. Blame me all you want. Scream at me, tear my head off for all I care. But we need to work out how to help Gabi.”
She stared daggers at him for a moment, but then nodded and folded her arms across her chest. “Fine. Say we take in Gabi. What about Diego?”
Diego, he thought. Diego will be lucky to survive without his mother.
“We take him in too. It’s not like he’s going to have better chances with anyone else. None of the other women…” James trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence.
Jeanette nodded, not wanting to finish it either. Diego was in a tough position. His mother was the only woman who could produce breast milk. Charlotte Bryant, Troy’s new wife, was still months away from giving birth. The tiny baby’s life rested on whether or not he could stomach boar’s milk. And whether anyone in the colony was brave enough to try milking a wild boar.
God, kid… your mom really screwed you, didn’t she?
Messis Pulvis
Gov Darius Owens
19 July, 1 yal, 07:22
South Concordia
Darius never had a green thumb. He could keep a cactus alive, but not much else. It hadn’t particularly bothered him until now. Not because he had great aspirations of growing a bountiful garden of his own, but because what he saw in the field before him frightened him. It didn’t take a degree in agricultural science or a lifetime of tilling fields to know that the short, withered corn stalks rustling in the breeze were not healthy. Ranging from pale green to slightly brown, each spear clung to the parched and cracked ground through roots that desperately needed rain.
The weather in Concordia had not been kind to a number of plants imported from Earth. The corn was one of the more striking visual examples. Darius reached his hand out to touch one of the stalks. It was coarse like sandpaper, and the leaves rustled under the soft touch of his fingers. The ears of corn were clearly underdeveloped, even to his untrained eyes. The orchard trees weren’t faring any better; their growth had been ground a
lmost to a halt by the dry weather. Though the orchard wasn’t expected to bear fruit for many years to come, the farmers had told Darius that this drought, if survived by the trees, would stunt their production for another year.
Drought. At least the scientists don’t think it’s going to be like this every year.
Concern had been slowly mounting amongst botanists and farmers alike that perhaps Demeter was not as hospitable as once thought. Speculation in the scientific community had led some to believe that the native life on Demeter required almost no water for survival. Others refuted this, pointing to the Fairweather River as evidence to the contrary. After all, if most life needed only a little water, any low-water plant life found near such a mighty river would surely drown from abundance.
As spring gave way to summer, fear mounted. It had been a long time since it had rained hard enough to soak the soil. Too long in the opinion of many. A comprehensive comparative study was launched to determine how Demeter’s flora was faring, and many native plants varieties also appeared to be affected. This led to the determination of drought as being the probable cause of stress to Concordia’s agricultural assets, both foreign and domestic. While the revelation eased the minds of the people, it did nothing to assuage Darius’s concerns.
“Alright, I’ve seen enough here. Give me some good news,” Darius said, turning to the three farm representatives.
The three men were almost absurdly stereotypical in appearance, bordering on comical. Heavy, dirt caked boots protected their feet, while durable denim and knit cloths wrapped everything above. Their arms were deeply tanned to where their clothing cut off, as were their brows. One minor detail threw off Darius’s image of farmers from the Midwest; the conspicuous lack of baseball hats. Only one of the three men wore one. The other two sported hats of woven straw with wide brims, crafted the previous summer from the tough native grasses.
George Kasch, the oldest of the three at forty-two years of age, nodded to the rest and motioned for Darius to follow. As they walked along a narrow foot trail that ran between two fields, he began his report.
“So the corn’s screwed for this year. Probably the wheat too. We should have enough seed stock to plant again next year. We’ve still got millet and sorghum growing. There’s a lot of it, too.”
Darius grimaced. Corn and wheat feed a lot of hungry mouths. That’s a lot to lose.
“Enough to feed everyone and the animals?”
“No,” George admitted. “But we’ve got a halfway decent crop of beans going. Most varieties you could think of, too. That will help a ton with feeing the people. Once the harvest is over we might get some fodder out of the stock, too.” He pointed out several wide patches still-green plants growing on the flanks of one of the small hills. Gabriel dominated the landscape beyond, masking Concordia from their view.
“What about native plants?”
The farmer shrugged. “So so. The pears, onions, and potatoes aren’t doing so well. Neither are the greens. Most everything else is at least okay.”
Darius stopped in his tracks. “Wait, the potatoes aren’t growing?”
“Not real well, no.”
“And what about Earth potatoes?” Darius waited for an answer. Without words, volumes were spoken. George exchanged glances with the other representatives. One cleared his throat. “Now wait just a minute. You’re now talking about three staple crops failing. I was uncomfortable hearing that two were going to be an issue. Now you’re telling me it’s three? And supplemental crops, too?”
“Look, it’s probably going to rain any day now,” George said, trying to assure him. “Craig’s been charting the weather and he thinks it’s going to change in a couple days or so.”
“And what if it doesn’t? Or what if it does rain, but only as much as last time? What if it all dries up the second it hits the ground?” Another round of silence confirmed his fear.
Then we might starve this winter.
They came to the main road to town. Darius thanked the farmers for their time and effort, and took his leave. As he walked slowly back to his temporary office on Gabriel, he weighed a number of scenarios surrounding the likelihood of food shortages. Every ending confirmed one thing.
I need to take action now. Waiting will only make it worse.
* * *
21 July, 1 yal, 11:04
Gabriel, South Concordia
“Come again, Governor?”
The corner of Darius’s mouth twitched once. He had told Roger numerous times that he didn’t have to use his title when talking. It felt somehow empty when the colonists addressed him as “Governor,” but it was outright bizarre to hear it from the man he had worked so closely with for years. From the time Darius arrived in Wyoming for training to the moment Gabriel touched down, they held the same rank, and sat shoulder to shoulder. Now Darius was governor, and Roger was his liaison. Darius was placed in high regard by the people, but Roger was just the quiet guy with the limp who did the governor’s bidding. It all seemed unfair to Darius, and the use of his title only heightened his awareness of the disparity.
“I know it sounds a bit unusual,” he replied, making sure to give eye contact to both of the men seated across the table.
“Unusual?” Tom countered. “Unusual doesn’t begin to describe it, Darius. You’re talking about scrapping all of the construction work that we’ve done so far this year.”
“Not scrap,” he corrected. “Place on hold. And it would only affect the unfinished buildings.”
“It might as well be scrapping them. If you stop construction on most of those buildings now, they’re not going to be standing come next spring. Hell, some of them might not even survive autumn.”
Concern was deeply etched on his deputy’s face. It was a concern that Darius shared, to which he couldn’t afford to give life. The construction of the market square in North Concordia was Darius’s pet project, idealized and set in motion during the dying days of the previous summer. But as Bravo blazed overhead, baking the ground relentlessly, he knew that something had to give. Securing more food for the upcoming winter was of far greater importance than construction of shops and apartments.
“If we still have time before the weather turns, we can put people back on those projects. Maybe even shore them up enough to survive the winter. But the reports I’m getting on the harvest aren’t pretty.”
“Reports?” Tom asked sharply. “I’ve only seen one. It wasn’t great, but we were still okay. When did you get these other reports?”
Darius sighed and rubbed at his shaved scalp. “The latest one was two days ago. I spoke with Kasch, Porter, and Lopez. It’s bad, gentlemen. We’ve got at least three staple crops that we can’t count on at all. What’s harvested will probably need to be used to plant next season. Fresh greens are also not doing well, which will put a strain on all the other vegetables.”
“My God,” Roger gasped.
“Three?” Tom echoed. “That’s going to severely impact our winter stores.”
“That’s an understatement, Tom,” Darius agreed.
“So are we clearing more farms with the extra labor you’ve freed up?”
Darius shook his head. “Planting more crops in dried ground isn’t going to get us anywhere. I need the townspeople split into four groups. Take most of the men from the construction projects. They’re going back on construction, but I have something else in mind.”
Tom nodded as he began to scribble notes with a well-worn pencil. “Alright, go ahead.”
“First, I want the construction teams to build an irrigation system. Go upriver if you have to, but take four of the portable pumps from the ships’ supplies to take the water from the river. Have them make it as extensive as they can. I know we’re short on time and materials, but they need to get creative.”
“Irrigation? Isn’t it a bit late?”
“Better late than never. The second and third groups are going out into the wilderness. Make sure they’re armed and have enough supplies
. Loan out all the crawlers if you have to. One group needs to collect native fruit and vegetables. As much as possible. The other group I want either hunting or fishing. Again, we need them to bring back as much as possible.”
“You’re asking for people to get killed out there, Governor,” Roger protested. “We shouldn’t be picking berries in the middle of reaper bear territory.”
“Let me ask you, Roger,” Darius responded with no hesitation. “Would you rather be killed quickly by a reaper bear or die slowly of starvation?” He waited for a moment before continuing, making sure that his liaison was thoroughly shocked by the question. “That’s what I thought. No one goes alone, got it?”
Roger nodded. Tom continued taking notes. “And the fourth group?”
“Preserving the food. If it’s picked from a bush, shot in the forest, or dragged out of the river, I want it in a can, jar, or barrel. We’ll measure success by how many cargo pods we fill. Our target is three per ship.”
“We only used two pods of rations per ship last winter.”
“This isn’t going to be as space efficient,” Darius replied. “And we don’t even have a week’s worth of those rations left. If we don’t get three per ship at a minimum, we’re starving. Remember that when we’re filling the quota. Also, I want to start rationing what we’ve already got. The sooner we start stockpiling, the better.”
“Rationing?” Roger complained. “That’s not going to make people happy.”
“I don’t care about happy right now. I care about what will happen this winter.” Darius cleared his throat, steeling himself for another unpleasant order. “All current supplies of fruits and vegetables that can be canned are to be processed immediately. Going forward, residents are only allowed two pieces of fruit and two servings of vegetables per person, per day.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“I can and I am. Now do it!”
Roger shrunk in his chair at the barked command. Darius felt a twinge of regret immediately, as his friend deserved better treatment than such an outburst.
Project Columbus: Omnibus Page 92