Charles Ingrid - marked man 02 The Last Recall

by Charles Ingrid

  "Thomas!"

  He looked at Lady. "No," he said. "I won't do it. I should have killed the dean the first time we met. My mistake has cost hundreds of lives. There is nothing good that can come of him."

  Alma shuddered again. Her pale fists were clenched and pushed into her stomach. "He's right."

  Lady hugged her fiercely. She looked up, saw Blade's implacable face. She knew she could not move him. "Then," she said, "you'll have to return without all of us."

  "You have no right to interfere with her choice!" Thomas' voice cut across the ghost road.

  "I have every right! I'm older. I understand life, she doesn't! She's been beaten and broken and humiliated and terrorized. What in God's name makes you think she can make a decision like this?''

  Thomas tilted his head slightly. "What makes you think she can't? It looks to me as if she already has."

  "Not before I caught her on the ghost road. It's all of us—or none of us. Now you make the decision."

  Alma grabbed her wrist. "Lady, don't. He loves you. He came for you."

  "I came for both of you," Thomas said. "But not the . . . other."

  Lady cried out, "You can't deny him."

  "My Talent is death. Yours is life." He took a step. She saw with alarm how weak he was, that it had taken all his effort to remain standing. The road had taken nearly all he had to offer.

  "I can't do it without you." Her voice caught. She turned her face away, hiding it as she bowed over Alma.

  He caught her wrist and brought her to her feet. Alma tumbled out of her arms. They looked at each other searchingly. Lady knew then that it would never be the same between them. He caught Alma and hauled her to her feet as well. Lady saw then what he had woven into each hand, like a kind of rope. "We're going home." He dragged her a step in the direction he'd appeared from.

  She could not fight his desperate strength. "Alma!"

  The girl hung back.

  "It's your choice," Thomas said, finally. "I won't kill it now. I may have to later.''

  The girl looked at him. "If he's . . . some kind of monster?''

  Thomas nodded.

  "He's ... my son."

  "I know that."

  Her face crumpled and she let out a tiny wail. "What should I do?"

  Lady reached out and took her hand, opening it to show the strand that Thomas had lain across her palm, her lifestrand, her colors, faint and commingled. "He's already part of you," she said softly, the tip of her finger disturbing the weave gently, separating purple from dark blue. "I'll be there with you. We'll understand, Alma. You're not alone."

  The girl stood transfixed, looking at the colors interwoven with her own. She had felt the shock of her existence the moment Sir Thomas had put the cord in her hand. Now she felt the flickering tug of another presence.

  Something young, and unformed, something fresh and untouched.

  She looked up into Thomas' level gaze.

  "I'll do what I have to," he repeated.

  She looked to Lady. The healer nodded. "As I will."

  Alma took a deep, quavering breath. "That's as much assurance as any life gets, isn't it?" She took a step forward to join them.

  Trout died on the outskirts of Orange County. They buried him in the shade of a stand of eucalyptus, the peeled bark scenting the cairn with its pungent fragrance. Ma-chander, his face tanned so dark his port wine birthmark barely showed now, planted geranium at the cairn's base. Winter rains were coming and the geranium would get a foothold. Once established, the flowering plant would grow and blossom through heat and drought. The boys stood around until Stefan finally mumbled a prayer of sorts and each of them said what they felt like saying.

  Watty felt more like crying. He didn't, though. He watched Jeong make a sketch of the cairn and grove and the haggard boys standing around it. He saw it before the boy flipped the cover over his sketchbook quickly. The drawing shocked him.

  He looked away quickly from the sight of their failure as it was etched into their faces, their posture, all of them. Their failure to map anything truly unknown, or even to have survived the trek. Their failure to have saved Trout.

  Stefan broke the silence a second time. He put his hat back on. "We'll move a lot more quickly now that we don't have to use the travois. Break it down and let's get going. Two more days and we'll be having lunch in Judge Teal's backyard."

  Home. Home in the Seven Counties. Soon they would be hitting the fringe of the cattle and sheep herds, and then the farms. Now they were crossing the broken terrain at the southeast lip of the foothills. They had swung east of the College Vaults, avoiding nester territory wherever they could. Stefan had been becoming increasingly

  tenser. The nesters appeared to be reclaiming old clan territory with a vengeance.

  "Come on," Stefan urged. "Or Bottom won't have meat for tonight's dinner."

  That prodded them all into motion. The burly cook shoved Watty aside and broke down Trout's conveyance single-handedly. They were not happy when they hit the trail again, but they were headed home.

  Stefan took his hat off, exposing his too-white forehead, and took the telescope from Watty's hands. They lay on their stomach in a wash. A brown alligator lizard took off over Stefan's back, but the young man never felt it, his gaze too intent on the base of a foothill.

  Watty squirmed in the dirt. Ants tickled his underside. He rolled onto his flank to scratch.

  "Stay down! And be quiet."

  The boy tried to do as ordered. He lay quiet for maybe a minute or two before asking, "What's happening?"

  "I'm not sure. That's a nester gathering, but they've got a machine, a good-sized one. Bigger than a car shell. I've never seen anything like it."

  Watty's curiousity peaked. "Is it working? What is it doing?"

  "It isn't doing anything." Stefan froze suddenly. The lines of his body became tense.

  "What is it?"

  "Son of a bitch. It's him. He's lost a ton of flesh . . . he looks lean and mean, but I'd still know him."

  "Him who?"

  Stefan took the telescope from his eye and looked back at Watty. "It's the one called the dean. The one who tried to kill all of us."

  Watty let out a low whistle.

  Stefan put the telescope back to his eye, muttering, "I could end it all right now."

  The flesh crawled on the back of Watty's neck. "What are you talking about?"

  Stefan began scooting backward out of the wash. "The best way to kill a snake is to cut off its head. I think I

  can save all of us a lot of future grief by taking care of that bastard now. Get the guys together."

  "What? Why?"

  "We're attacking the camp." Stefan snapped the telescope back into its case. "Now come on, hurry, before they find out we're here."

  "But they haven't done anything to us."

  The tall man stopped. Watty looked up at his creased face. He noticed that he no longer had to look up as far as he did before. He put his shoulders back defensively.

  Stefan said coldly, "That's one bastard you don't give a chance if you don't have to—and I don't have to. Stay to the rear if you want to." He pushed past Watty and began to order the boys together.

  Bottom stared at Watty as though he'd known Watty had protested. The burly cook said flatly, "The son of a bitch as good as killed Trout. Jenkies and Bill. Ngo. He owes us."

  Watty was afraid to say anything. He just stood by his horse as they unpacked them and loaded their rifles, checked their longknives in their sheaths, put together a rough plan for raiding the camp.

  "Jeong," Watty finally said.

  The artist looked over, no expression on his face or in his almond eyes. He gave a shrug.

  Bottom swung up, cradling his rifle. "Hell," he said. "You're probably still a virgin."

  Watty felt his blood go hot. He ducked his head down and gathered up the reins to his mount. A thick hand grabbed his shoulder. He looked up. Bottom was staring at him.

  "Just stick by me,
" the cook said. "You'll be fine."

  Watty swallowed past the hard knot in his throat and swung up.

  Dusty sat in a passenger seat on the hover. It had settled down to the dry ground and brush like a massive beast lying down on its stomach. She found a packet of fruit drink in her bag, opened it and sucked it down, wondering if she'd ever get rid of her sore throat. Lack of humidity, Kerry'd said. The ships maintained as nearly perfect a climate as they could. The real thing was hot and dry and windy, though the dean swore that rainy season was within a week of reaching them.

  "Rain now," he'd said, "was like the monsoons."

  Monsoons in Southern California. She never thought she'd live to see it. Klegg checked his instruments. He was running numbers through his keypad. He looked up as she took a deep breath.

  "Could be rain," he said. "And the barometric pressure's dropped a little. Nothing today." His skin was a bright pink, sunburned by overexposure.

  "And you'd love it if it was acid rain," she said and smiled back.

  The enviro wrinkled his nose. "We have been a little bloodthirsty, haven't we?"

  "A little. This is our motherland here and you guys are ecstatic about the thousand deaths she died."

  He ran a hand through spiky hair. "Occupational hazard. The ship maintained a norm that was almost boring. And my grandad worked on the last ground drop, so what's left for me? I forget you had a personal acquaintance with the area."

  "You're forgiven." She crumpled her drink pack and restored it to her bag for recycling. Old habits were hard to break, she thought ruefully, as she remembered the recycling plant was strictly a shipboard function. She watched the dean and Ketchum and a handful of other nesters showing what they claimed was a well site to Marshall.

  There was a dull booming, as of thunder. She looked up, across the broken expanse of landscape, and frowned. Klegg looked up, too. "What the hell—?"

  A wall of fire exploded in front of them. She rocked back, heat raking across her face. Klegg grabbed her by the elbow and threw her to the lee side of the hover. At the rear of the conveyance, she could hear Reynolds' deep voice.

  "Incoming! Riders, armed, about a dozen."

  The nesters scattered. Those who could get to the bony, slat-sided creatures they called horses mounted in a flying leap. Others ringed the dean, ready to defend his body with theirs.

  The dean called out, "Don't touch the flames. It's akin to Greek fire. It'll spread to anything it touches."

  The curtain of fire set heat waves rippling across her view as she looked across. Marshall crouched by the hover's nose. "Hold your fire," he said.

  "We're outnumbered." The dean pulled on Marshall's elbow. "You have to give your men the liberty to protect themselves—and us. Those are Countians coming in. They won't leave any of us alive."

  The hover swayed as Reynolds climbed it, gaining the leeside at the fair end. Dusty looked and saw her resting her elbows on the roof, aiming at the riders coming in.

  There was a melee on the field as the two forces engaged. Horses and mules squealed and circled one another. Dust rose, obscuring forces.

  "Christ," Klegg said. "They're using knives."

  Bullets, Dusty thought, must be beyond them. Then what was it that had exploded in front of them? A vial of some sort? Thrown or catapulted? She saw a man go down. The body was trampled under the wheeling hooves.

  The raiders swept in. The dean bellowed, "Pull out! Take your team and pull out!"

  Marshall looked over his shoulder. She could see the indecision in his face. He did not wish to abandon anyone. He turned toward them. "Fire as necessary," he said.

  Watty stayed in the rear. The whoops and calls of his buddies rang as they pounded over the brush and plain. Stefan had his rifle wound and shot his glass toward the machine, whatever it was. The vial splattered on impact, sending up sheets of flame. He cradled his own rifle, afraid to fire, thinking he'd never sent a bolt into anything hut coyotes and wolfrats or game. Nothing human, or remotely close to it.

  They were flanked by a handful of nesters. The outcasts crashed into them, blades flashing. Watty saw Ma-chander sit straight up in his saddle and then roll backward in a blossom of crimson. His left arm flopped disjointedly after him, nearly severed from its joint. He hit the dust with a scream drowned out by the trample of hooves.

  He heard Stefan curse. Saw the rifle swing around, butt first. Saw the nester collide with it and as his face disappeared, leave his saddle with a gurgle. And then Watty was too busy to watch out for anything but his own ass. He fought and stabbed and hit and ducked and then a handful of them burst into the clear.

  His horse paced Bottom's. The cook's face was mottled purple with anger. He reined his horse onto the heels of Stefan's. "I'm going to get that son of a bitch," the big boy said.

  They swept across the plain. Stefan was riding without hands, winding his rifle for a set of bolts. He was going to ride down the dean's throat. Watty swallowed and held on for dear life.

  There was an explosion. He felt a cold breeze pass his ear. "What—?"

  Jeong was on Watty's left. He threw up an ink-stained hand to the side of his face. Blood spurted out between his fingers. Another explosion and both mule and boy went down.

  "Jeong!" cried Watty. The horses swerved. He felt a sharp sting in his shoulder as if slapped but nothing more.

  And then they were within earshot of the machine, the dean, and the others. He saw strange faces and clothes, and weapons in their hands, bearing down on them. Stefan let out a yell of pain, tumbling away.

  Bottom grunted. He rolled over, hitting Watty and dragging him out of the saddle, going down. Crimson splashed into the air, a wave of blood. They hit the ground with a thud, Bottom covering him.

  The burly cook said, "I'm bleeding enough for both of us, kid. Stay down. They'll think you're dead, too." His chest gurgled as he fought for a breath. "When it gets dark enough, get the hell out of here."

  It was all Watty could do to breathe. He didn't wait until dark, but scuttled away in the dust and the shadows, sobbing with the pain that now flared in his sodden shoulder.

  He was the only one left alive.

  Lady Nolan came awake with a gasp and then a shuddering, deep breath. She bolted from the cot where she had been embracing Alma's still body, waking Drakkar who lunged to his feet with a startled curse.

  She made it to the door and bellowed, "Franklin! Stanhope!" with a voice that would not be denied.

  Alma came to, eyes rolling, the whites showing, and began to cough and choke almost immediately.

  "Get a basin for her," the Healer snapped. Her burst of energy sapped, she nearly collapsed coming back to the chair where Sir Thomas' inert body sprawled.

  Drakkar grabbed the basin from the nightstand and held it to Alma's mouth, not a second too late. She began to spew a black and bilious mass into the bowl. His eyes watered at the stink and his own stomach revolted at the sound of her retching. In the corner of his vision, he saw Lady Nolan sink to her knees beside Sir Thomas' body.

  "Breathe, damn you," she sobbed. "Breathe!" She made a fist and slugged him in the chest.

  Alma gave one last, gut-wrenching heave and sagged back into the cot. Drakkar put the basin aside and grabbed a cloth, the one he'd used to soothe her forehead while she had been . . . gone. He wiped her mouth gently after daubing her brow.

  Lady Nolan continued to half shout, half cry. ' 'What's wrong?'' he said to her.

  "He's not coming back," she answered bitterly. The doorway suddenly filled with Franklin and Stanhope, the man and boy splitting up. Stanhope had a kit in hand.

  "What is it?" he said to Lady. He set the kit on the table, ready for work.

  "She's taken an abortive, oleander, among other things. We've gotten most of it out. Give her a hot mustard purge and set her in a healing trance. She should be okay. I've lost Thomas in a healing trance."

  The lie startled Drakkar, but he said nothing, stroking Alma's hair back from her face.
>
  Lady took a deep breath, steadying. Her eyes were red and swollen as she looked up to Franklin's moon-round face. "I can't reach him!"

  "Sir Thomas has always gone his own way. Maybe you're looking for him in the wrong direction. I'll anchor you," Franklin said quietly. His gentle hand entwined with hers.

  Drakkar left Alma. "I've had enough of this sensitive shit." He stepped over them and kicked the chair back, sending Thomas' body lolling onto the floor. "Doesn't anybody know basic CPR?" He knelt down and placed the palms of his gloved hands on Thomas' chest. He began to pump as he'd been taught. He saw Lady's mouth open and shut in outrage, but he had no time. The first time he paused and exhaled into Thomas' airway, there was no response. Back to pumping. Exhale again. Nothing. The body resisted him. The throat seemed convulsively closed to all his efforts. Again, through the sequence. Then again. He was going light-headed taking in and expelling extra air. Again. Then he could feel it. The air going in instead of meeting an invisible resistance. He inhaled deeply a second time and breathed.

  Sir Thomas came to with a gulping, grasping motion, pulling Drakkar off his chest. He struggled to the wall and sat up, bracing his back against the frame. A set of dried finger bones tumbled out of his hand and onto the floor. He took several more deep breaths before the color came back into his face.

  He looked at Lady. "Never again," he said.

  In the corner of the room, on the cot, Alma began to cry softly.

  Dusty refastened her hair clip at the nape of her neck. Her hands felt numb, an unfeeling that went all the way through her. She sat down wearily on the bumper shield of the hover.

  "He won't let us get near the bodies," she whispered to Marshall.

  The Away Team commander patted her on the knee. "It's for the best."

  "No." She shook her head vigorously. Her thick auburn hair threatened to come loose from its clip again. "I got a look at most of them . . . they're boys, Marshall. The oldest couldn't be more than twenty, twenty-two. What were they doing? Why did they attack?"

  Kerry was lying down across two of the passenger seats. She lifted her head, the dusk obscuring the expression on her face. "Most of them were gilled."

  "Gilled?"