Trade (Deridia Book 2)

by Catherine Miller

  Copyright © 2017 Catherine Miller

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1544035365

  ISBN-13: 978-1544035369

  For Boy, who never lets me win an argument. Especially about all things fantasy.

  Table of Contents

  Fly

  1. Propose

  2. Drown

  3. Claim

  4. Marzon

  5. Alone

  6. Welcome

  7. Rebuke

  8. Endow

  9. Bond

  10. Collect

  11. Receive

  12. Hide

  13. Implore

  14. Accord

  15. Trust

  16. Sister

  17. Torn

  18. Want

  19. Snow

  20. Fever

  21. Wife

  22. Husband

  23. Kin

  24. Renna

  25. Treaty

  Also by Catherine Miller

  Fly

  She awoke with a start. The night was cooler than most, a welcome respite from the eternal heat of the Wastes, the oasis in which they lived only making the temperatures somewhat bearable. She shifted, seeking out her thin blanket, a remnant from the craft that had been lost upon this world so long before.

  There was a sound in the air that frightened her, and not for the first time she regretted the loneliness of her quarters. At first she thought the wind had found some new crevice with which to whistle, but there was a pulse there also, a foreign thing that added to her unease.

  The shouts began soon after, and she heard the rustling of neighbours as they emerged from their own shelters, and she recognised the voice above the rest.

  “There are enemies coming, coming to take us! To enslave us!”

  She peered out from her own lean-to, childishly holding onto her blanket, but unable to coax her fingers into dropping it.

  She looked about at her fellow colonists, if colonists they truly were when they crashed upon the wrong planet, when they could not farm or build with so little materials. They had only lived upon the good will of the Arterians—what small measure of it could be found. Most of their food came from trade with their kind, and coveted Hasart beetles were the currency for their continued survival. Her days were spent in the Wastes, digging through sand until her fingers bled, calluses unable to form as new skin was scrubbed away by the never-ending tunnelling. She was not alone, small clusters of people working together as they tracked and scavenged for the rather gruesome creatures, but there was no joy in it. Not when the suns threatened to roast them alive daily.

  Her people looked tired and worn as they always did, and she knew she appeared much the same with her continually aching fingers and her sleep now interrupted by their leader’s warnings.

  “So?” one of her neighbours questioned, voicing what she was certain was thought by many.

  Desmond smiled, his eyes earnest. He had seen them through much. She had known his occupation once, had been told it as a child, but she could not remember now. He had been a survivor of the crash, had helped form the original treaty with the Arterians—that at least she remembered.

  “So,” Desmond continued, nodding his understanding at their quiet acceptance of what was to come. “The coil has been found. You hear that?” The sound persisted, the hum a reminder that something had indeed changed. “We can leave these accursed Wastes. We can go and begin a true colony. But we must leave quickly! I don’t know when they will come, only that they will, and I will not see us enslaved. Not any longer. Not when we at last have the ability to leave.”

  He looked at them expectantly, almost as if he waited for a gasp of recognition, of hope to filter through them.

  She held her blanket a little tighter, wishing she was more brave, more sure. But instead she merely wished to hide away, to pretend he had not spoken at all. Not of invaders, not of a ship that had been more myth than reality, of an elusive coil that could make it work again. Not to fly as her parents had told her it once had done, but enough to see them through the endless sands, enough to see them to arable land.

  Or so they hoped.

  Crops, they had told her. Trees and bushes bursting with fresh things to eat, the air more than a dry heat that parched her mouth and throat, that sometimes made her lungs burn and wheeze when she was away from her lean-to for too long.

  Of grasses that grew upon the ground, of rich brown earth and large bodies of water, both salty and fresh.

  Of flowers that once grew in a world so far away.

  Could she imagine it?

  She once could, when she was a child and everyone still believed that their lives could be salvaged, that their mission to Deridia could be complete, even if they had crashed upon the third planet instead of the fourth of the system. Or so they had supposed, the wreckage making any certainty impossible. She had been born here, her parents having been survivors themselves, still full of promise of the colony they would be able to create.

  But now...

  All she could think of was her empty belly, of the work that would have to be done come morning, before the suns were too high and tasks were suspended until the heat would not cause one to collapse of exhaustion.

  And yet Desmond was asking them to have hope, to pack their things and journey into a world entirely unknown to them. The Arterians were not exactly kindly, had killed more than a few of the colonists throughout their time here, but generally not without first being provoked by someone who preferred death to the continued hardship of living here. She couldn’t say she didn’t understand the impulse, but whenever the trade convoy had appeared, she could not bring herself to remain anywhere near them, instead hiding away as best she could until they’d gone.

  Large and strong, they were an intimidating presence in physical appearance alone, but it was the blades they carried that were even more so. Long and sharp, they knew well how to use them, and what demonstrations she had heard described even now made her shudder.

  Desmond was still speaking, coaxing people to join him at the ship, to see for themselves that it worked. Some eyed him sceptically while others merely sighed. “We can hear that it’s running,” another grumbled—Ben, she thought it was, thought she was at a poor angle to see properly to confirm. “Our ears aren’t broken. Just don’t see much point in rushing off into the Wastes without putting some thought into it.”

  Desmond frowned. “We have dreamed of this day. What more is there to consider?” He looked about, must have seen the weariness in his people for his tone softened once again. “I wish more for our children. For their children. I wish them to be free of this place, to build upon lands where they might someday thrive. Am I alone in this?”

  A few mothers tugged their children closer, holding onto small shoulders, their eyes betraying their worry. She looked purposefully away, a familiar pain pressing down on her at the sight of it.

  “No,” a few of them murmured, shuffling about and looking as uneasy as she felt.

  Desmond nodded, stepping forward and ruffling the hair of a nearby boy, barely hip high yet. “I only ask you to be brave for a little while longer. We will find new lands, we will make peace with any we find there.”

  A woman asked how he had come to know of this threat, but he merely shook his head, urging them again and again to pack their things. “Food, water, the barest of essentials.” That was nearly laughable, for they possessed nothing beyond the barest of essentials. Some had even less than that. “We can afford little extra weight if we are to take everyone.”

  Some wandered off, grumbling under their breaths about going back to sleep, Desmond watching them go with a frown upon his face. A few of the younger men urged their famil
ies back, promising him with a nod that they would be ready.

  Desmond scanned the rest, satisfied that at least some were preparing to follow his order, until his eyes briefly settled on her. She scrambled back, ready to feign sleep, knowing quite well that to pretend so was a ridiculous reaction. He rarely spoke with her—she kept to herself, mostly, and didn’t want trouble with anyone, so she had little cause to seek out their leader—and he most certainly did not have reason to single her out now.

  She relaxed when time passed and she was left alone with her thoughts, her blanket curled around her as she considered what would soon happen.

  People would leave. She could go with them and leave for the unknown, to find creatures and lands she could not even begin to contemplate. But things could improve. She could find the world her parents had promised her existed.

  Or she could stay. It was obvious that a few of the families would do so, their disbelief and weariness finding it better to remain.

  But either way, if she stayed or fled, things would change.

  She never did much care for change.

  The brush at the flap covering her lean-to was unexpected, signalling the presence of someone at the entrance.

  She nibbled at her lip, considering, before she took a shuddering breath, shuffling closer so she could part the tarp, blinking as Desmond’s crouched form was revealed at the entrance. “And what about you?” he asked, his eyes as kind as they always were. “Will you be joining us?”

  She eyed her few belongings, the tattered blanket, her extra shirt folded as neatly as she could make it, the rest of her things still on her person. She didn’t want anyone filching anything while she slept. “Why’s it matter?” she asked bluntly, though she did not quite meet his eye. She was still confused why he was asking her at all. He had not come to her immediately, and perhaps he was merely checking with any who seemed doubtful, but still, it seemed strange.

  Desmond hummed low in his throat. “It has recently come to my attention that I have been... remiss in seeing the potential in some of our members.”

  She glanced up at him uncomprehendingly. “I dig for beetles. That’s what I’ve always done. I think that means I’ve already reached my potential. Don’t see how that’ll do us much good in a new place unless you think they’ll have more Hasarts there.”

  She certainly hoped they didn’t—was pretty sure she didn’t see a point in going if they did.

  Even if the thought of slavers sent a shiver of terror through her.

  But slaves were kept to work, which meant perhaps she wouldn’t die right away, and that was something at least.

  She looked down at her hands, grimacing at the fresh wounds to be found there, and belatedly realising the tone she had used when speaking to Desmond. “Sorry,” she murmured softly, not wanting to think she was criticising his perspective.

  He smiled, brushing away her concern with a wave of his hand. “There is no need for apologies. I’m encouraging everyone to come. This is our chance to start over, to find a new way. And I hope you’ll decide to join us. And,” he said, standing on knees that creaked as he did so, “if it should help, I will ensure there are no more insects in your future when next we pass out jobs.”

  He was so optimistic. He genuinely believed that they would make it somewhere new. Somewhere they could prosper.

  Her parents had been like that, once, and they had tried to pass it along to her. And when she was a girl, she had believed them, had thought that life could be fair and good and decent.

  Until circumstances had made it abundantly clear that optimism was foolish. Bad things happened, and it didn’t matter how much you cried, how much you tried to keep those bad things away, they would happen anyway.

  She should simply stay, work as she had always done, then work some more when next those slavers came. If they came. She still wasn’t quite sure she believed Desmond that they were coming at all.

  But they had a chance to leave. A chance for things to be better. And if she should refuse to even make the attempt...

  If she stayed, her parents would be ashamed of her. Dead or not, that mattered to her.

  And maybe if she pretended she would brave, pretended long enough, and hard enough, someday it might be true.

  So with that, she found herself poking her head outside, calling out to Desmond as he moved along to the next shelter.

  “I’ll go.”

  1. Propose

  “Those things are back again.”

  She did not bother looking up, knowing immediately to whom her companion referred. “You shouldn’t call them that.”

  Sue shrugged, picking another fruit. “Marzon then. The Marzon are back. Happy?”

  Happy was a strong word, one she did not think quite fit her current temperament. Contented, perhaps, was better suited. She plucked another waiting fruit, being careful to keep to the green offerings and away from the spiked yellow. With her parents gone, they had only one remaining botanist among them, and he had made it very clear that the mature fruit would prove disagreeable to their human digestive systems.

  She hummed a little, not looking away from her task. Sue huffed out an annoyed breath, probably upset by her lack of response, but did not bring it up again.

  Desmond had been true to his word, and her days digging through the sands for Hasart beetles were over. But there were still insects, small, hissing creatures that nested in these trees, covetous of the fruits she had been asked to gather, and she had yet to decide if she disliked them more than the Hasarts. Their venom stung less, so perhaps that was something.

  She shivered a little, the breeze cold against her skin. Even now it was a foreign sensation, and she remembered crowding near the other colonists as they emerged from the Wastes for the first time, the suns low and the world suddenly plunged into an extraordinary coolness. She had yet to become used to it, this feeling, the shivering and huddling under the stars, her thin blanket now less a fond comfort and more practical than she could ever have anticipated. She had seen others eyeing it covetously, and she had taken to folding it and tucking it away on her person as she worked for the day, lest she return to find it missing.

  Things here were different than she expected. Better, of course they were, now that the suns could be blocked by the abundance of trees, as they were in talks with the neighbouring Marzon to claim these lands as their own. Desmond refused to settle without a treaty firmly in place, this the third of their attempts to select a site for colonisation.

  The first two had ended poorly, the loud whirring of their craft alerting the natives long before they arrived, the people already frightened and wary before Desmond even approached, threatening and unwilling to listen to any talk of truce between them.

  The Marzon however, seemed to be a different sort. She had stayed away from them mostly, catching only the occasional glimpse when they happened to walk past where she worked. She always shied away when they nodded to her, bowing her head as they had always been taught to do if the Arterians were close, her heart beating wildly that perhaps she was now doing the wrong thing.

  There were few similarities in appearance between the two races, so why should their show of respect be the same?

  The Marzon were equally as tall as the Arterians, though there seemed to be a great deal more variety in their appearances. Some scaled, some had ridges on their foreheads, some had a great deal of hair while others were completely without. The only truly unifying mark about them was not a physical attribute at all, only a silvery cuff warn about the upper arm, strange etchings in the metal signifying... something. She had asked a few of the others if they knew what they meant, but they had merely shrugged. “If they’re rich enough to have jewellery, maybe they won’t mind us staying on a bit of their land,” one mused. She supposed there was some truth to that, but she still wondered what it meant.

  She also wasn’t entirely certain that this was Marzon land. The leery part of her worried that they were attempting to trade for
a neighbouring people’s property, and they would be caught between warring factions, murdered before they even fully understood what they had done wrong.

  But so far no one had approached them with weapons, no one had died as they had set up their temporary camp. Desmond would only announce their settlement if a treaty had been formed, with all parties satisfied, and until then, they would scavenge during the day and keep close to the fires at night—the first time they had been used for warmth instead of simply to heat the hard meats the Arterians had given them into something more palatable.

  She glanced over at Sue, the older woman eyeing her closely, a frown about her lips. She should enquire, should ask what was troubling her, but she could not seem to convince herself to actually speak the words aloud. She was not a talkative sort, and she knew well that it proved an irritant to the other women who liked to chat and gossip as they toiled. Her silence left her typically overlooked and ignored, but that was quite all right with her.

  Yet Sue evidently wished for a more active partner, for she finally huffed out another breath, no longer picking the fruit. “Can I give you some advice?”

  She sighed, but continued working. “I suppose.”

  The other woman frowned, her answer apparently unsatisfactory. “You’re a pretty enough girl, and a hard worker. But that doesn’t mean much if you can’t be friendly now and again. Might even get yourself one of the boys if you’d smile once in a while.”

  She swallowed thickly, pushing down her retort, commanding her eyes not to water even as her hand kept picking the green fruits, steadily and calmly. “No one would care if you asked to switch work details,” she answered, ignoring Sue’s advice entirely. “If you want somebody nicer.”

  Sue shook her head, her frown deepening. “Must be lonely, that’s all. Without any friends or a boy to keep you warm at night. Just think about it.”

  She counted slowly in her head, as her mother had taught her when her ire rose, when sharp words quickened on her tongue. “Snapping back never helps anything,” her mother would reprimand gently, her eyes firm even as her voice was soft. “It only hurts the hearer, and then you when you’ve calmed enough to remember what you said.”