Water Rites

by Mary Rosenblum

  “I don’t know, sir.” Arris’s face was stone. “No excuse, sir.”

  Shit on that. Families lived on this base and this could turn into a war zone any day. “Go find it,” Carter said gently.

  “Yes, sir.” The captain saluted, spun on his heel, and marched out.

  “I could have found out, sir.” Delgado studied the ceiling. “If we’d arrested Greely.”

  “We don’t play that way, Major,” Carter snapped. Easy, he told himself. He needed this man, whether he liked him or not. “I’m going to be feeling my way around for awhile,” he said, making his voice warmer. “The general warned me about Greely, and I’ll keep my eyes open. If he’s behind this, we’ll get him.”

  “I hope so, sir.” Delgado didn’t sound convinced. “Just watch yourself, sir. They shot Colonel Watanabe in cold blood.”

  He needed to look into the evidence there, find out what had happened. Not now. The clock on the desk glared at him. “We’ve got a staff meeting in five minutes,” he said. “Afterward, you can give me a tour.” And tell me about Greely, Watanabe, and what you think is going on here, he didn’t say.

  *

  The staff meeting was everybody’s chance to size up the CO, and Carter’s chance to take their measure. Operations, Communications, Pipeline Maintenance, Base Support, MPs, and even Battalion Aid; they all gave Carter a brief evaluation of their situation. It wasn’t as bad as he had expected, and he felt a cautious relief as he listened. Tension here, yes, and hostility toward the locals, but morale seemed to be solid. Sabotage — aside from the two sniping incidents — had been limited to shooting out the guts of the wind turbines or busting the solar arrays that powered the pumps. The chief surgeon reported that stress levels on the base were within normal parameters for a low-threat combat zone. This wasn’t a war. Yet.

  That feeling was borne out as Carter toured the rest of the base. The comments he overheard were that the locals weren’t too bad as a whole, but there was an open hatred for the few terrorists who had been doing the shooting. No, it wasn’t a war yet, and he was going to make damn sure it didn’t end up one.

  *

  It was midafternoon before he got a chance to tour Operations with Delgado. This was the nexus of the job — the air-conditioned heartbeat of their sector of the Pipeline. Carefully protected from dust by a double set of doors and an autonomous air-filtration system, the room was a maze of electronics. Inset terminals lined the four walls and the long stations that ran down the center of the room. Screens glowed with multicolored schematics, blinking numbers in green and amber monitoring water flow, turbulence, temperature, and pipewall stress. One entire wall was covered with a detailed topographical map of The Dalles sector of the Pipeline. Uniformed men and women sat at their stations, faces intent.

  “This is the readout on the main flow.” Major Carron, who had been conducting the tour, stopped beside a bank of four monitor screens.

  “Everything is within normal parameters, sir.” A small, red-headed lieutenant saluted, her eyes sweeping Carter with one quick, appraising glance.

  “Tell me what you’re doing.” Carter leaned over her shoulder.

  “Monitoring flow turbulence, sir.” She pointed. “These screens give us a veiw of the Pipe’s interior wall via optical fibers. Those screens give a readout from the flow sensors. An increase in turbulence means a leak. A sudden decrease indicates a failing pump, sir. The water backs up into the sumps.”

  “You see a lot of pump problems?”

  “Yes, sir.” The lieutenant’s face was expressionless.

  Courtesy of the locals. The lieutenant wasn’t going to say it.

  Carter frowned. Apart from the main Pipeline, The Dalles sector was responsible for the first miles of the Klamath Shunt, a major diversion that led down through the Klamath Aqueduct to augment the output of California’s vast desalinization plants, watering the fertile Sacramento Valley. Turbulence and wear on the Pipeline was intense at the enormous valve complex of the Shunt. The Corps also monitored every local diversion line, every branch, and every individual tap line. Consumption was recorded by individual ration meters, but the Corps kept flow data on every line, no matter how small. If piracy was suspected, the flow rates could be retrieved and reviewed for evidence of a tampered meter or an illegal tap.

  Diversion and branch lines were big enough to require leak monitoring. Carter prowled the Operations room, checking line codes against the big map, getting a feel for what water went where and how much. To his casual eye, it seemed like the local farmers used a lot of water. Carter resolved to look up some of the production stats for the high farmland in the Gorge, then compare it to what was coming out of the Willamette Valley, say. You didn’t have the right to be wasteful. Not any more.

  Carter jumped as a beeper went off. It snapped heads up from monitors, stiffened shoulders.

  “Leak,” The red headed lieutenant called from her station.

  “How bad?” Carter leaned over her shoulder.

  “Flow turbulence in the ninety-second subsector indicates a third stage leak, sir, with a priority rating of twenty-three point four percent.”

  The weary hours spent with the manuals and briefs were paying off. This was a small leak, possibly too small for a spotting crew to find on a chopper sweep, possibly a waste of their time when they might be needed elsewhere. Carter scowled at the numbers, aware that Delgado and the lieutenant were waiting for some kind of decision. The question was whether to send out a crew or not. Wasted crew hours would reflect poorly on the efficiency rating of the sector, but the leak might get worse if it went unpatched. Eventually it might graduate to a second stage leak with some measurable loss of flow in the lines. That would be bad for the farmers downflow, and bad for his record.

  “Do we go?” Delgado asked.

  Carter glanced at the map. Damn. Subsector 92 was clear out at the far end of their territory, near the west edge of the John Day sector. “Right away,” he said. “Draw an APC from the motor pool.” The teams had been using the standard 4x4s for patrol, but after Chicago, he was damned if he’d send people out in soft-skinned vehicles.

  “With a gunner?” The glitter was back in Delgado’s eye.

  “Self defense only.” He raised his voice slightly. “I don’t want any accidents.”

  “Yes, sir.” Delgado saluted, his face expressionless again.

  Carter looked around the room, registering both the positive and negative reactions to his order. “Keep me posted.” He turned back to the lieutenant. Carson, he read from her uniform. “Page me when the leak is patched.”

  “Yes sir.”

  She looked relieved. He wondered why. The order for self defense only? Carter looked at his watch. It was late. He sighed, smelling his own sweat, wishing for a shower and a few peaceful hours to relax and assimilate the day. Those hours would be better spent going over reports. No time to relax yet. The wind tugged at the loose fabric of his coverall as Carter left the building, and the level beams of the setting sun edged the rim of the dam with gold. A crumpled candy wrapper skidded along the concrete sidewalk, bounced over the low curb and into the street. Three lanky young enlisteds in khaki shorts crossed at the end of the street, laughing and talking loudly. The tall black kid in the middle carried a basketball, spinning it lightly on his fingertips. Showing off. Carter smiled as the kid flipped the ball easily to his buddy. It was cool enough for a pickup game now. Carter felt a little wistful.

  He wouldn’t have much time for basketball for a while. He turned down the narrow alley between two storage buildings. This was a natural shortcut to his quarters, and the buildings cut off the infernal wind. It was quiet, already dark with evening shadow. He passed a door and heard it open. Turning, he caught a glimpse of fast motion behind him, then someone slammed into his back and sent him stumbling forward. A hard forearm clamped across his throat, cutting off his air. Carter stabbed backward with his elbow, felt it connect. His attacker grunted hoarsely.

 
; Carter twisted, lungs burning, stabbed back over his shoulder, aiming for eyes. Black spots wavered in his vision as someone grabbed his hair, yanked his head back and sideways. Carter caught a glimpse of red hair, a face. He gasped as the choking arm relaxed beneath his chin, sucked in a desperate lungful of air and something else, a cold, stinging nothing that numbed his lips and throat, numbed his chest, soaked upward into his brain and downward into his knees.

  Floating, weightless, Carter watched the pale wall of the shed slide past him as he fell into a dark, cool, blackness.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Heat woke him, searing heat that glared red through his closed eyelids. Thirst. He opened his eyes, squeezed them shut as light and pain lanced through his skull. Stones grated beneath his cheek. He was lying facedown in the dust. The alley . . . vague memory of a choking arm . . . darkness. Where was he? Carter got his knees under him, got halfway to his feet. Dun land and light. It began to revolve slowly and he lurched onto hands and knees again, retching bile onto the sunbaked clay between his palms.

  The spasms eased finally, leaving him sweaty and shivering. Memory was coming back, slowly and in pieces. Cautiously he eased himself back into a sitting position; this time, the land stayed still. Empty hills stretched away on all sides, streaked with afternoon shadows. No road, no buildings — just dirt, sun, and rock. The shivering had stopped, and Carter wiped vomit from his chin, trying to think through the fierce ache in his skull. Someone had grabbed him right off the base and had dumped him out here. Nice going, he thought bitterly. Great start. Great security. He was naked except for his shorts. He touched his arm and winced. From the look of the sunburn, he’d been out here for a long time.

  Here. Fear tightened his stomach and dewed his face with sweat. Where the hell was here? The dun, dead land marched away on all sides of him, broken by tilted bands of rock and gray clumps of struggling sage. Empty. He swallowed, his mouth dry as the ground. The riverbed and the highway could be in any direction.

  He had better choose the right one.

  He straightened, examining the horizon. The sun was setting beyond the shoulder of a mountain peak. West. So that was probably Mount Hood, unless the people who had jumped him had hauled him an awfully long way to dump him. Which they could have done. Better to assume he wasn’t that far from the riverbed. It would be north. That way. Carter shaded his eyes. Walk that way and sooner or later he’d hit a road, a house, something.

  Question was . . . would he reach it in time?

  Carter clenched his teeth and staggered to his feet. He owed someone for this. For a moment, he swayed as the world revolved briefly, then it steadied. So far, so good. He had a couple of hours of daylight yet. People lived out here even if it didn’t look like it. He’d see lights even a long way off. Carter picked out a thumb-shaped lump of rock to the north, fixed his eyes on it so he wouldn’t wander, and started limping toward it.

  It was tough going. His head stopped hurting after awhile, but thirst tortured him. He tried to chew some of the dusty sage leaves, but the stems cut his mouth and made him feel thirstier than before. His back stung. When he touched his shoulder, blisters burst beneath his fingers, spilling sticky fluid. He must have been unconscious in the sun for hours. Bastards.

  Twilight was a blessing when it fell. An early moon rose, three-quarters full, shedding enough light to get by. It was harder to find north, but he managed to identify the Big Dipper, found the pole star and used that. The pleasant cool turned cold quickly. Before long he was shivering. And the landscape didn’t change. He could have been walking in place. Going in circles.

  Somewhere, he thought, they were laughing at him, sitting around, drinking beers. He clutched at that thought, squeezing hard rage from it, and for awhile it kept the cold and thirst at bay. Then a sharp piece of obsidian sliced his foot and tripped him onto his knees. He clutched at a rocky outcrop and hauled himself to his feet. His arm hurt and he touched the bend in his elbow gingerly. In the colorless moonlight he could just make out a dark bruise. Someone had shot him up with something. To ask him questions? For a moment the ache in his head intensified, and he had a vague memory of a voice.

  Carter forced himself to keep going, limping badly now, barely able to swallow. Step by painful step, he kept going, feeling slippery blood on the stones beneath his cut foot. He started fuzzing in and out of consciousness, saw Johnny watching him with a smile, but his mouth was too dry to yell at him. Then Johnny turned into the kid in the VW, and Carter wanted to ask him what he’d meant to do, when a thin cry banished his ghost, bringing back the night and the cold and the pain.

  The sound came again, like a baby crying. Coyotes? Wild dogs? Carter looked around, barely able to stay on his feet, searching for something he could use as a weapon. The moon had been so bright earlier, but it was dim now. Or maybe the darkness was thicker. The coyote or dog baby-cried again. Close. His foot slapped down hard, jolting his teeth together. A road. He stared at the pavement beneath his feet. Then something moved in the darkness behind him, coming at him. The coyote? Carter reached down to scoop up a rock, staggered, the moon wheeling overhead, his balance gone..

  The road slammed against his hip and shoulder, knocking the breath out of him. It didn’t hurt. It should have hurt. Hands grabbed him and he swung a fist, remembering hands holding him down, a voice asking, asking, asking through the pain in his head that tore him apart. He swung again, blindly.

  “Hey, knock it off.” High pitched voice. A hand locked around his wrist. “I’m trying to help you, okay? Take it easy.”

  Carter stopped fighting as his vision cleared. He was lying on his back on a road. The moon floated overhead, casting its pale light.

  “What are you doing out here?” A woman knelt beside him, a thick, dark braid dangling over one shoulder. “What happened to you?”

  His tongue wouldn’t work right. He tried to ask for water, managed a noise, at least.

  “Hang on.”

  She walked away and Carter struggled to his elbow, afraid suddenly that she would vanish, like Johnny, like the kid. But she reappeared in a few moments, a plastic jug and a cup in one hand, lit by the small, solar lantern in the other. She set the lantern down and water gurgled as she tilted the jug. The sound made him tremble.

  “Here.” She slid an arm beneath his shoulders. “Take it slow, okay? Or you’ll just throw it all up, and it’s all I have until we get to The Dalles.”

  He forced himself to sip the water when he wanted desperately to gulp it down. Nothing had ever tasted that good. She refilled the cup and he emptied it again. “Thanks,” he gasped, finally able to speak. “Thanks a lot.”

  “I’m sorry if I scared you.” She tilted her head and the lantern light burnished her skin to dark copper and pooled shadow beneath her high cheekbones. “I called but you didn’t hear me.”

  “I thought I heard a coyote,” Carter said. She was young. Twenty, maybe, dressed in faded jeans and a patched denim jacket. Hispanic, with a wide face and dark, tilted eyes. “I’m glad you weren’t.”

  “Me, too. I’m Nita Montoya,” he said gravely. “How did you end up out here? You might have died. Who did this to you?”

  “My name’s Carter Voltaire.” He started to add that he was with the Corps, caught the words in time. Not out here. “I don’t know who dumped me out here.” He pushed himself into a sitting position. “But I’m sure going to find out.”

  “Not tonight.” She touched his arm lightly, then got to her feet. “I’ll bring my stuff here. I’ve got some extra clothes that might fit you.”

  She left him the light. He listened to the reassuring sound of her footsteps, the crackled of the dry sage. In a few minutes she reappeared, lugging a frame pack and carrying a bundle in her arms. “You don’t have to be afraid of the night,” she said as she laid the bundle on the ground. “Don’t blame the land. It isn’t evil.”

  “I’m not . . .” He stopped. “Yeah, I guess I am.” He hunched his shoulders, winced as the bli
stered skin puckered. “It’s so damn big. And empty. You could die out here and nobody would know.”

  “That’s true.” She sat down beside him and reached for the pack. “But you can die anywhere. I know what lives out here.” A smile warmed her voice. “I know what can eat me and how to avoid being eaten. Towns scare me,” she said softly. “People can be so full of ugliness.”

  Ugliness? Carter thought of Chicago. “Maybe, but it still bothers me. All this dead emptiness.”

  “Empty yes, but not dead.” That smile glimmered in her voice again. She pulled a tight roll of fabric from her pack, shook it out. “You’ll find life in the cracks, even if you don’t see it; mice, insects, the tough weeds, even flowers. This shirt should fit and maybe the jeans. They’re David’s. My husband’s.” She handed them to him.

  He reached for the clothes and sucked in a harsh breath. His sunburned back had stiffened while he sat, and it felt as if his skin was splitting open.

  Nita knelt behind him with the lantern, hissed between her teeth. “I didn’t realize it was so bad.”

  Carter winced as she ran her flingers lightly across his shoulders. “I was out in the sun for awhile.”

  “Yes, you were.” She fumbled again in her pack and took out a small plastic tub. “This will help. You’re bad all over, but your back is the worst.”

  “No kidding,” he said dryly. Even the cool touch of the salve hurt like hell. “What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “It’s not the middle of nowhere.” The smile warmed her voice again. “We’re not too far south of The Dalles.” She capped the tub and tucked it back into the pack. “I’m on my way there. To meet David. He works for the Army.” She reached for the shirt. “I’ll help you. You’ll be warmer.”

  “What’s his last name?” Carter gritted his teeth as he eased his arm through the shirt sleeve. “Maybe I know him.”

  “You’re from there?” Hope leaped in her voice. “David Ascher. He’s in his forties, with curly brown hair. It’s just going gray. Do you know him?”