by Piers Platt
“It’s down,” Falken assured him.
“I know.” Weaver stirred at his food listlessly.
“You’re thinking about Elize and your kids,” Falken guessed.
“Yeah.”
Falken sighed. “There’s nothing you can—”
“No!” Weaver shouted suddenly, interrupting. The nearest inmates turned to stare at him, frowning. “Sorry.” He lowered his voice, but Falken could still hear the frustration in his tone. “Don’t tell me there’s nothing I can do.”
“Sorry,” Falken said. “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know what I want,” Weaver said. “I’m just … doing nothing is driving me crazy. I’m losing my grip.”
Falken could see the smaller man’s hands trembling. Then Saltari and Ngobe arrived, sliding their trays down beside the other two men.
“What bland potage will we be forcing down today?” Saltari asked.
Falken stayed silent. Finally, Weaver shook his head. “Corn porridge, Salty.”
“Ah, excellent. It’s been at least two meals since we last ate that,” Saltari said, rubbing his hands together in mock anticipation.
Ngobe eyed the two younger men inquisitively, and then decided against prying. “I believe we are due for an eclipse next month,” he said, instead. “A solar one – it should last an hour or so.”
“Is that so?” Saltari asked. “Have you refined your model, then?”
“I think so,” Ngobe said, non-committal. “Time will tell. Where were you two this morning?”
“Along the north shore,” Falken said. “Catching a blue-ball for the herd.”
“You weren’t sunbathing and building sandcastles?” Ngobe joked. “Fishing, perhaps?
“Are there fish in the ocean?” Falken asked.
Ngobe shrugged, looking at Saltari. The old doctor wiped a piece of corn from his chin. “No,” he said. “At least, nothing ever washes ashore, and no one has ever seen anything swimming in the shallows. My theory is that the ocean doesn’t get enough circulation to support life. There are no waves, no tides – nothing to stir things up and move nutrients and oxygen around.”
Weaver frowned. “Aren’t the tides on Earth caused by the moon?”
“They are,” Ngobe said. “Or rather, the tides are caused by the moon’s gravitational pull, attracting the water toward it as it rotates around the Earth.”
“So why are there no tides here? We’ve got, what – five moons?”
“Six. But their orbits and masses balance each other out, negating their individual effect on New Australia’s oceans.”
“Do we know what’s across the ocean?” Weaver asked.
“There were other islands in the orientation video they showed us,” Falken remembered. “A few of them, at least.”
“True,” Ngobe said. “One of them is about ten miles off the north shore. You can just make it out, on a clear day.”
“What’s on the island?” Weaver asked.
Ngobe and Saltari shared a look. “You can tell them,” Saltari said.
“A number of years ago, a pair of inmates here at the colony decided they were going to find out. Tifkill and Bearnes. They built a small boat and rowed across to the island. They were hoping to find another space elevator, or a ship … anything we could use to get out of here.”
“And …?” Weaver asked. His porridge had gone cold, forgotten in front of him.
“About a month later, Tifkill returned – barely – on a different boat, a crude raft made of tree branches,” Ngobe said. “According to him, the island was much smaller than this one, and it bore no signs of life.”
“Why did only Tifkill come back?” Falken asked.
“Because Bearnes was determined to continue on. When they got to the island, they argued for a while, and in the night, while his friend was sleeping, Bearnes set off on his own, obsessed with finding another island. He was convinced there was more land just over the horizon. Tifkill waited for a week, stranded there on that island, and when Bearnes didn’t return, he built himself another raft and paddled back here before he starved to death.”
“And no one saw Bearnes again,” Saltari added, sternly.
“I’m going to that island,” Weaver said.
“What?” Saltari asked. “Don’t be an idiot.”
Saltari’s right, Falken thought. Trying to explore Oz … that just sounds like a fool’s errand. Dangerous.
“What if Bearnes found something?” Weaver asked. “What if he was right?”
“He wasn’t right, he was stupid,” Saltari said. “Damn fool tried to act like Christopher Columbus, and probably starved to death out in the middle of the ocean somewhere. Which is about what he deserved. And which is what will happen to anyone that tries to follow in his footsteps.”
“I don’t care,” Weaver said. “I have to know.”
Falken could hear the determination in his friend’s voice – determination, and a hint of desperation.
He needs this, Falken thought. Six months ago I would have just wished him luck. But now …
“I’ll go with you,” he told Weaver.
Chapter 16
Falken opened the door to the infirmary and walked inside. With a flourish, he set a plant on Saltari’s desk, interrupting the older man, who had been making notes on one of his many stacks of paper. Saltari eyed the plant suspiciously, and brushed at the dirt that now littered the table top.
“What is this?” he asked.
“A pomato,” Falken said, grinning.
Saltari looked back at the plant. “No ….”
“It is,” Falken insisted. “Look at it.”
Saltari picked up the plant by the leaves and studied it. He wiped dirt off of the plant’s roots, and examined a cluster of bright green fruit hanging below its leaves. Then, frowning, he walked outside, holding the plant in the sunlight where he could better see it. He rubbed at the tuber-like root again, licking his thumb this time to remove the earth.
“Yes, it is,” he muttered, looking at Falken again. “Potato for a root, with tomato fruit above. You grew a pomato.”
“Or a tomtato,” Falken said.
“Well, it’s your creation,” Saltari told him. “You should name it. And ‘potato-tomato hybrid’ doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. What finally worked?”
“I was rushing the grafting process,” Falken said. “I let the two separate plants grow together and finish healing the cut, then I cut off the top of the potato plant, and the roots of the tomato vine.”
“Well done,” Saltari said, slapping him on the back. “This could increase our yield quite substantially next harvest.”
“I want to try cross-pollinating a carrot and potato next,” Falken said, still beaming. “Then we could call that a ‘parrot.’ ”
“I don’t think that will work,” Saltari warned him. “Humorous name aside, potatoes self-pollinate, if I remember correctly.”
Falken looked down at the plant. If you had told me six months ago I would be grafting plants on some colony world … He shook his head. The weird part is, I’m kind of good at it.
Falken heard a whistle, and looked up to see Weaver approaching at a fast trot.
“A new drop!” Weaver called. “At landing site four this time.”
“Did you talk to Mayor Luo?” Falken asked.
Weaver nodded. “He said as long as the main scavenger team gets four of them, we can keep the other one. Assuming Archos’ men don’t beat us to it.”
“I still don’t think he should have agreed to this project of yours,” Saltari complained.
“He wasn’t exactly happy about it,” Falken admitted, stooping over to tie the laces on one boot. “But as long as we don’t go telling everybody about it, he’s letting us do it.”
“But why?” Saltari asked.
“Because he realized that it would be good to know more about what’s out there,” Weaver said, gesturing out across the island. “Come on, Falken. We ha
ve to go.”
Falken nodded, and tapped the tomato-potato plant in the doctor’s hands. “Salty, can you replant it?”
“Mm,” the doctor agreed. “I’ll see to it.” He watched the two men set off across the fields, jogging side by side. When they had disappeared into the woods he frowned, and shook his head in disapproval. “Tilting at windmills.”
*
Falken and Weaver ran hard, and as they neared the landing site, they caught glimpses of the crate descending slowly beneath its parachute canopy. The scavenger team had left the colony at the same time, but without a supply sled to drag behind them, Falken and Weaver made it to the landing site first, emerging from the tree line a short while after the crate touched down.
Weaver headed straight for the parachutes draping over one side of the crate. Falken gave him a boost, and he clambered to the top of the crate, hurriedly yanking on the tangled cords until he separated a single parachute from the rest. He pulled it to one side, then drew a small knife and cut through the cords near where they were attached to the crate.
“I’m going to take some of these ropes, too,” he told Falken. “We’ll need some to make lines.”
“Okay,” Falken agreed. He could hear muffled voices from inside the crate. “Hurry.”
“Almost done.” Weaver finished sawing at the cords, then bundled the parachute awkwardly and dropped it over the edge of the crate. He slid over the side and dropped to the ground just as the scavenger team arrived.
“You just took one, right?” The scavenger leader asked warily, walking over.
Weaver nodded. “You want us to unroll it so you can check?”
The inmate glanced at the fabric in Falken’s arms, and then back at the parachutes still lying over the crate. “No. That’s alright. I just need as much as I can get. Gonna need sleeping pallets for these new arrivals, and about two dozen harvesting sacks to replace the ones that wore out last season.”
“If we have any extra, we’ll bring it back,” Weaver promised.
“What are you doing with it?” the scavenger leader asked, as several other inmates began hacking at the wood of the crate.
“Science experiment for Salty,” Weaver lied.
“If it doesn’t work out, we’ll turn the fabric back in,” Falken added. He glanced around the landing site, watching the trees for any sign of Archos and his men.
The man grunted. “I won’t hold my breath.”
“We gotta go,” Falken said. “You guys stay safe.”
They left the clearing behind and jogged through the woods, setting an easier pace this time. After a time, they stopped, and folded the parachute cleanly, tying several of the cords around it to make it easier to carry.
“You want me to take a turn?” Weaver asked.
“Naw,” Falken said. “It’s not heavy, just bulky.”
Finally, they neared the shore, and the strange oblong plateau known as Lookout Hill, with its thin covering of trees. On the far side of the hill, sheltered between two small spurs of earth, sat their worksite. A canoe-shaped craft lay in the middle of the site, its hull built of rough wooden slats they had scavenged from several crates. The boat listed slightly to one side on the sand, a few yards from the waterline. Falken and Weaver unfurled the parachute flat on the ground next to the craft. Weaver reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pencil and his knife.
They worked slowly and methodically, with Weaver using his feet as a measuring tool, and marking the parachute carefully with the pencil. Then Falken held the fabric taut, and Weaver used the knife to slice along the measured lines. Eventually, he had two similar triangles of fabric – when he laid them on top of each other, the edges very nearly lined up.
“Close enough,” Weaver said.
“Why two?” Falken asked.
“A mainsail and a backup,” Weaver replied. “First rule in boating: always have spares, for everything.”
They folded the spare sail up and tucked it into the stern of the boat, near several large baskets. Then the two men clambered into the boat, and using a small stepstool they had constructed, they ran a line up the mast, passing it through a simple cleat at the top of the mast, before feeding it back down again. Weaver cut a small hole in the top corner of the mainsail, and then carefully tied the other end of the line through the hole. Then he cut two smaller pieces of rope, and used them to attach the bottom corners of the sail to the boom, a single wooden pole which stood out at a right angle from the mast, parallel to the ground.
Finally, Weaver took hold of the free end of the line, and tugged on it, pulling until the sail was all the way up. He grinned at Falken. “We’ve got a sailboat.”
“Just like the ones you sailed as a kid?” Falken asked.
Weaver frowned. “As best I can remember. But I’m probably forgetting something.” He circled the boat slowly, studying it. “Mast and boom. Sheet at the end of the boom. Daggerboard. Tiller. Spare sail. Set of oars, just in case.”
“Food for two weeks,” Falken added, pointing at the baskets near the ship’s stern.
“Mm,” Weaver said. Then he sighed. “Well, if I’m forgetting something, I don’t know what it is.”
Falken started at a sudden noise, and turned around. But it was just Saltari and Ngobe, rounding the lower slope of Lookout Hill.
Ngobe’s eyebrows shot up when he saw the boat. “It’s bigger than I thought it would be. Looks sturdier, too.”
“That doesn’t make it any less pointless,” Saltari snorted.
Ngobe ignored him. “When do you leave?”
Weaver looked at Falken, who shrugged. “We hadn’t decided yet,” Weaver admitted.
“Our friends from the facility just stopped by to pilfer the colony’s food stores again,” Ngobe told them. “I wouldn’t dawdle, in case they’re in an exploratory mood and happen to find your boat.”
“We’ll leave now, then,” Weaver decided.
“They had a message for you, Falken,” Saltari said.
Falken raised an eyebrow. “For me?”
“Mm,” Saltari said, nodding. “Seems you made an impression on Archos. They said to tell you he’s glad a coward like you ran away, but that he’s watching you. And if he sees even the slightest sign of trouble from you, apparently he’ll kill you himself, and burn the whole colony down.”
Falken frowned. “I’m a coward … but a dangerous one? That sounds like Archos.”
“Well, Mayor Luo wanted me to be sure you got the message,” Saltari said.
“I got it,” Falken said. “Tell him I’m not going to cause any trouble with Archos.”
“All the more reason to get going now, though,” Weaver said, stepping over to the bow of the boat.
“Remember the constellations,” Ngobe said. “If you decide to strike out to sea again after reaching the island, they’ll guide you.”
Falken nodded. “Center of the spiral is north,” he recited.
“Roughly,” Ngobe agreed. “And the handle of the shovel always points east in the early evening. But if you go far, you may lose sight of the shovel. You’ll need to find a new constellation to use as your guide.”
“They’ve only got two weeks of food, for god’s sake,” Saltari said. “How far do you think they’ll get?” He turned to Falken, and waggled a finger at him. “Remember what happened to Bearnes,” he warned.
“We don’t know what happened to him,” Weaver said.
“Well, I very much doubt he’s sitting back on Earth right now, living the high life,” Saltari said. “And he had far more food than you’re taking, and only himself to feed, once he left poor Tifkill behind.”
“This was all the food Mayor Luo would let us have,” Falken said.
“I’m merely pointing out that you are unlikely to get as far as he did, however far he managed to go. And he’s likely dead.”
“You can stay here, and eventually die here, if you like,” Weaver said. “But I have a responsibility to my family to do everything I can to get
out of here.”
The old scientist sighed, and turned to the astrophysicist beside him. “Professor, in your expert opinion, as someone who has studied planets like this for a living, and lived on this one for many years now, what lies across that ocean?”
Ngobe shook his head. “In all probability, whatever other islands there are on New Australia are widely dispersed, and completely uninhabited.”
“It’s still worth trying,” Falken said.
“So try,” Saltari said. “Go, sail out there, explore. But ration your food wisely. Know when you need to turn back. Don’t die chasing a false hope. And don’t pin all your hopes on this one plan.”
Weaver took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right. Thank you, Salty.”
“And if you find a new species – plant or animal – bring it back with you,” the old doctor said, grudgingly.
“We will,” Falken said, smiling.
They shook hands, the four of them, and then Falken and Weaver pushed the boat slowly across the sand of the beach and into the water, until it floated freely.
Falken held the boat steady while Weaver climbed in, and then pulled himself in as well. Weaver pushed the boom out to one side, and the sail filled out in the gentle breeze, snapping once as the fabric tightened. The flat ocean gurgled under the ship’s bow as they gathered speed, and a ripple of wake spread out behind them.
“Good luck,” Ngobe called.
Chapter 17
The silk of the sail shone brightly in the light of New Australia’s moons, the red and white stripes of the old parachute clearly visible in the night. Weaver checked the sails, pulling the sheet in slightly, and then cleating it off against the ship’s gunwale.
“We’re getting close,” Falken observed, peering under the boom at the island ahead of them. “I think I can see the beach now.”
“Another few minutes,” Weaver agreed. He dipped one hand into the water over the stern and brought it to his mouth, drinking. “You want to land and explore on foot, or continue sailing around the island?”
Falken shrugged. “I’ll follow your lead, Captain.”