“Because no one from Camp Eight would ever be mistaken in what they saw,” she added through clenched teeth.
“I don’t need aspersions cast on the honor of my men to know that your people inflicted as much damage as they did. Your other lieutenant, Mina, was armed when she was killed. Along with about a half dozen others.”
“So?” Karen replied. “Most of the adults are armed. I don’t doubt that a few of them shot back. You’re a fool if you think they wouldn’t have, or shouldn’t have.”
James waved his hand dismissively. “I’ve had enough. I see this is going nowhere. Feel free to come back when you’re ready to tell the truth.”
“So you’ll let me go as soon as I tell you what you want to hear?” she mocked. Silence answered her.
Of course. How silly of me to expect that he would ever let me go.
Karen opened her eyes. The suffocating stillness of the prison hut soon began to press upon her, and she felt as if she needed fresh air. She moved to the doorway and drew the curtain back a few inches, letting in a rush of tangy sea air. She drew in a deep breath, reveling in the refreshment it provided.
Tran leveled his rifle at her. His hands trembled ever so slightly, and he seemed surprised that she would be so bold as to open the curtain herself.
“Back inside,” he ordered.
Karen paused for a moment, catching a glimpse of a four-winged gull in flight. It twisted in the air, then dipped and rose in exaggerated movements. The gull seemed to be enjoying its freedom, something that Karen knew she’d never have again. She sighed, and turned to go back into the hut. But something stopped her.
“I want to speak with Chief Vandemark,” she said.
Tran hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He led her at gunpoint through the town square, past two burned out huts, to a larger hut on the outskirts of town. She was shown inside, and James dismissed two men with whom he was conducting a meeting.
“To what do I owe the pleasure after all this time, Sergeant?” he said coldly.
She knew that the use of her formal title was a slight against her, but it was easily ignored. She was too tired of games to engage at that level. What Karen planned to do was unsettling enough, though she knew it was the only way she would get her freedom.
“Chief Vandemark,” she addressed him. “I would like to make a formal proposal.”
He regarded her incredulously at first, then burst out into laughter. “What could you possibly offer me that I’m interested in?”
“I could ask the same of you,” she replied. The scowl returned to his face. “I’ve been locked up so long that I’m not even sure what I want is something that even exists. But I have to try.”
“Alright. Let’s get this over with.” The passivity in his voice made her think that James had already rejected the proposal, even without hearing it.
“I’d like peaceful reintegration of any Lake Raphael survivors back into your village.”
His hands froze and he blinked at her twice. “And what do I get in exchange for such an exceptional request?”
Does that mean there are survivors?
“My life,” she replied.
“Now, you see, I already have that.”
“Alright, let me be more specific. My confession and execution.”
James slowly removed the beat up glasses from his face, then crossed his arms. He paced back and forth for a moment in silence. “And just what are you confessing to?”
Karen swallowed, forcing down her pride and indignation. “The plan to oust you from leadership and take over Camp Eight.”
A wry grin crossed his lips. “I knew it. I knew that your man didn’t just snap.”
“Oh, he did,” she shot back immediately. “I hate to crush your dreams, Chief, but there wasn’t any actual plan. That’s still all in your head. What happened was all just a horrific, tragic incident that got way out of hand in an instant. But if it helps my people at all, I’ll say you were right all along. Then you’ll finally have the right to kill me, just like you’ve wanted.”
She could see his jaw grind as he nodded slowly. “You’re dead whether I let you rot or you confess your sins.” He paused. “Why now?”
“If there’s anyone still out there, they need help now. And if not, then you can at least let Tran here go back to something more important than babysitting me.” She glanced back at the young guard to gauge his reaction, which was rather confused.
“He’ll still have to watch Erin.”
Karen sighed and shook her head sadly. “She’s already dead. Her body just hasn’t figured it out yet.”
“And just what am I supposed to do with her, then?” he grumbled.
“Not sure. She’s your problem, though. As I understand it you had someone in a similar situation before. Didn’t end too pretty from what I heard.”
His brow furrowed deeply and a snarl formed on his lips. “Fine. I accept your offer. Prepare your confession, since you’re going to be executed tomorrow. Now get out.”
The truth stings, doesn’t it, Chief? Karen took a small measure of satisfaction that she finally managed to inflict a wound on her arrogant opponent, even though it sealed the deal that would cost her life.
Tran escorted her back to the prison hut. Erin lay on the floor exactly where she had been left. Karen knelt over her and gave her a brief hug.
“Never let them forget your boy,” she whispered in Erin’s ear, reaching one more time for the soul trapped in the empty shell. “Never let them forget the truth.”
Motus Domi, Act II
Gov Darius Owens
8 July, 2 yal, 10:10
Temporary Government Offices, Michael
Slowly rubbing his temple with his thumb did little to quell the stress that seemed to squeeze tighter with each petition brought across his desk. His forefingers were firmly planted to his brow and his elbow was locked to the table. Darius drew papers one at a time from the thick stack in front of him, read them carefully, and put them aside. It seemed that every adult in Concordia was perfectly content to commit their grievances to paper.
This is just sick.
Bureaucracy was a special level of hell that Darius never liked, even though his title demanded it. The men who had shut down the ships’ reactors must have known this, and they came up with the idea of allowing the townsfolk to bring their own personal problems up for negotiation. The past two days had been spent reviewing the submissions.
Initially, Tom and Darius tackled the problem with solemn determination. After the fiftieth request to do something about the sewage smell in Concordia, he knew there was a pattern. But then they reached a section of requests that were truly a bizarre, mixed bag. Requests for annual pig races. City-sponsored flower beds for every residence. Demands to name this animal or that the official colony mammal. Mandatory alien invasion drills. Creating a position where the sole responsibility was to wash the hulls of the ships. And those requests were some of the more tame ones.
But Darius had promised to read every demand, even if Tom felt they were being toyed with. It didn’t help that in a number of cases an individual would submit both a genuine problem and one or more false complaints. Those were the ones that aggravated him the most. Now he was on the last stack of papers, and he could finally end the spiteful charade. Darius was able to pick out a handful of legitimate demands from the hundreds of complaints. As the last sheet passed from his hand into the completed pile, he ran through the list in his mind one more time.
Improve the sewage system. Improve the irrigation system. Increase the production rate of timber, stone, and iron resources. Have homes for every family built by the end of 3 yal. Enact mandatory colonial food stockpiling.
The last demand was the easiest to meet. After a cold, bitter winter that saw fifteen colonists die of starvation or exposure, the stockpiling programs that he instituted the previous summer had been credited with saving hundreds of lives. It was commonly acknowledged that without being forced to,
the people would not have saved enough food, and the toll would have been unfathomable. Yet as the second full year on Demeter unfolded, some had resumed their gluttonous ways. It was possibly psychological in many cases. Darius couldn’t fault those individuals; he had gorged himself once or twice when bountiful root and fruit harvests became available. Still, rationing might be necessary even in good years. There was no doubt that Darius would give in to this demand without an argument.
He leaned back in his chair to consider the other four, each of which posed a unique set of logistic issues. Tom arrived on Michael’s bridge at that moment, bearing two plates of potato and pork hash. Fresh flatbread accompanied the main dish, still warm and moist to the touch as Darius tore a chunk and popped it in his mouth. Tom took his customary seat across the table. He pushed his food around with his fork, but didn’t seem interested in it.
“Something wrong, Tom?” Darius asked. The deputy governor sighed heavily. “Don’t tell me it’s worse.”
“It’s worse,” Tom replied, almost too quickly.
Darius slid his plate away from him and leaned back in his chair. Three days of complete work stoppages in the industrial district seemed to be a pretty hefty price so far. About half of the construction force had joined in the strike and refused to work, which halted progress of the housing demand. A handful of other colonists also joined their ranks. At least the agricultural community was adamant about not letting their fellow colonists starve by joining in the madness, and kept working as normal.
“How much worse?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“We got word from Rust Creek this morning.”
Darius closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could see where this was going. The miners and foresters of Rust Creek didn’t exactly make social calls, and the timing was obvious.
“Striking?”
“Yup. The whole town.”
And there goes our raw material supply. No iron. No lumber.
“Did they say why?”
“They did. They have a list of their own demands.”
Darius opened his eyes to see Tom’s hand outstretched, offering a single, folded piece of paper. At least Rust Creek wasn’t playing games. Darius wouldn’t need to spend an afternoon trying to find out what their real objective was. He took the page and unfolded it.
“Run the power grid to Rust Creek. Relocate the smelter closer to the mines. Build a market in Rust Creek,” Darius read aloud from the page. He creased it between his fingers and looked up at his subordinate. “Power to their town? How serious are they?”
“Very. I met their representative myself. He said that they won’t send another ounce of ore or scrap of wood downstream until they get what they want. No juice, no metal.”
“They do realize that we have no power to give them in the first place, right?” Tom nodded. “And they realize that we won’t have power until we get the building materials we need, right?”
The deputy nodded again. “It gets worse.”
“How the hell can it get worse?” Darius growled.
“They don’t want to deal with you directly. Something about not wanting to listen to a politician trying to spin his way out of things.”
“Spin things?” Darius was floored. “What have I been spinning?”
Tom shrugged and sank deeper into his own chair. His voice was deflated. “Beats me. I had no idea how deep the resentment ran. Between the stunt that the dung draggers pulled off and what the miners are now doing, I’m starting to wonder if there’s anyone left that still supports us. Hell, I’m surprised they haven’t just yanked us off the bridge and given us the boot.”
Darius didn’t bother to object to Tom’s usage of the sanitation squads’ nickname. Had they not crippled the colony’s power supply he would have defended them, but at the moment the label seemed appropriate. They were dragging everyone through the dung, and didn’t seem to care about the consequences. But Tom was also right about something else. They could have just as easily had a coup on their hands, considering that several Militia officers were among the strike’s leaders. The political damage already dealt would no doubt be felt on both sides of the river for years. But the more immediate damage was the delay of progress. Damage that the strike both caused and railed against. Just how much damage they were willing to inflict on the colony before their demands was met was anyone’s guess.
That depends on you, Governor, he recalled the mechanic saying the night they cut the power.
It depends on me. They’ll hold out forever. How long before the colony suffers too much? How long can the work stoppages at the mills go without jeopardizing everything we’ve worked for? His shoulders felt heavy as he let out a long sigh. Can I even make enough promises to mollify them all? Or is this already the end of Concordia?
He was suddenly aware that he had been silent for some time. Tom regarded him with silent concern, scratching at his ever-graying beard.
“We need some sort of response,” Darius broke the silence. Tom nodded in reply. “And it needs to be one that will get their attention.” He brushed his hand across the table, sending a flurry of paper flying. The release of frustration felt good, if unproductive. He sat back down and thought for a moment. “Obviously they think we’re a joke, if they’re willing to waste our time by shuffling their real demands in with the fakes.”
“Obviously.”
“Maybe we can use that to our advantage.”
Tom returned a puzzled look. “How, exactly?”
Darius slid his chair forward, picked up his fork, and scooped up a bite of the hash. “Who’s the one person you never hear anyone joke about?”
The deputy governor leaned forward curiously. “You think Devereaux’s the key.”
“No. Not Devereaux. Someone else that everyone knows and respects.”
* * *
Calvin McLaughlin
17 July, 2 yal, 18:04
Rust Creek
Why do you keep letting them talk you into this shit?
It wasn’t the dozens of pairs of glowing, sinister eyes piercing through the night from both near and far that made Cal’s skin crawl. It wasn’t the calls of alien nocturnal creatures weaving through the dark stands of Demeter pine either, or the fact that his companion’s lantern barely cut through the inky mantle that shrouded their path. What bothered Cal most was the memory of what happened more than two years ago, less than a mile from his destination. With every step the young mare took, the image of Elaine’s gruesome death grew more vivid.
His body shivered involuntarily, as if another ghost from his past had reached from beyond the grave with icy fingers. An escort and a rifle were no match for spirits, imagined or real. He coaxed the mare to quicken her pace ever so slightly. Jake followed suit, making sure to keep just ahead of Cal in an attempt to return them to their previous pace.
“Something wrong?” Jake asked.
“Just want to get there before midnight,” Cal deflected.
Jake was looking forward to spending the night indoors. He had not weathered the previous night’s camping well. No matter how much Cal tried to convince his neighbor that reaper bears weren’t nocturnal, he wouldn’t calm down. This resulted in Cal spending much of the day leading Jake’s horse along the narrow road with Jake slumped over, asleep. Cal credited him with having an abundance of balance. The uphill slope and rocks that jutted from the ground made the ride that much more challenging, yet somehow his slumbering companion managed not to fall off his mount once.
But with nightfall the trail had become downright treacherous. The upper reaches curved with the contour of the hills, climbing at a rate that the ore wagons could navigate safely. Erratic wheel ruts were cut into the dirt; narrower ones created by the wagons would suddenly flare into wide, deep holes where a crawler’s steel treads chewed up the terrain, only to fade away into bare, flat patches where the terrain leveled off. After his mare had nearly thrown him when she stumbled on a rut, Cal decided it wa
s best to ride at the shoulder of the road. Given the small equine population he was sure that bringing back a lame animal would be worse than failing his mission.
After fifteen more minutes, a familiar sound tickled Cal’s ear. Burbling, babbling water greeted him from ahead, and the pungent smells of aquatic flowers and wood smoke filled his nose. To his companion this probably signaled a source of fresh water, a place where during the daytime one might take a break and reflect at the edge of the pond. To Cal it was an old wound. Again he spurred on his steed, trying to keep a step ahead of the gunfire that echoed through the years, and the visage of the snarling monstrosity that ended Elaine’s life and shattered her family with a swipe of its paw. His effort to outrun the past nearly earned him a face full of pine branch, though he managed to duck just in time.
Why do you keep letting them talk you into this shit? He berated himself again.
Jake pulled up next to him. “Seriously, take it easy. We’ll get there in one piece if you’d just stick to the pace.”
Cal clenched his teeth and nodded. He let Jake lead the way, though the pace seemed to slow to a torturous crawl. He relived every painful moment since his first trip to Rust Creek, before the settlement even existed. Elaine. Josephson’s suicide attempt. Almost losing Alexis because he couldn’t say no to Dayton. Cam’s death. But the most excruciating moment was when he relived the torture of watching Alexis nearly waste away from disease and starvation. It was a fear that Cal still clutched closely, despite the reports of bountiful harvests. And he was reminded of it every time he thought of his companion. The neighbor so desperate for food that he was willing to kill for it. The man who had never looked Cal in the eye afterward, much less thanked him.
Why did I pick him?
Cal knew the answer. Jake wasn’t a negotiator, a bodyguard, or a statesman. He was there to paint a picture. Darius didn’t understand Cal’s selection of companion. The governor had given a half dozen alternatives who might be better suited for the task, but Cal refused them. Darius had expressed his grave concern, but Cal won out in the end.
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