Windrunner's Daughter

by Bryony Pearce

  The men around her sniggered. “Would you let her in, Tee?”

  “No–one would have her to wife, but we always need fertile wombs for the exchange programme.” The woman smiled. “Is that right, Runner-girl, are you sick of running errands for fly-boys, do you want to come and join Tee’s noble girls?”

  “Shut up!” The words, flung into the air, seemed to float between them, shocking red. Wren’s eyes widened. “I mean, please, I do have a petition, but not that.”

  “And why should we listen?” A third man spoke, his voice rasping, like tearing skin. “Send your Patriarch, or your Sphere-Mistress.” He turned his back on her, as if she’d already left.

  “I need to use the communicator.” Wren called. “It’s-”

  Laughter rolled through the hall; loud as cannon fire, it ricocheted from the low ceiling and surrounded Wren, mocking her trembling fingers and reddening ears.

  “The nothing wants the use the communicator!” Hawkins thumped the table, making the water jug in the middle jump.

  “What’s wrong? Got a boyfriend you want to talk to? Won’t the other fly-boys carry yer love notes?” Tee nudged the frowning man on her left and he barked in acknowledgement of her joke.

  “Use the communicator!” The final man, whose beard covered half of his face shook his head as the laughter petered out. “Even if it wasn’t a fragile piece of equipment with irreplaceable components that are breaking down, even if we didn’t have to save it for essential use only, why on Mars, would we allow someone like you to use it? You’re just a girl. What possible reason could you have?”

  Wren opened her mouth.

  “That wasn’t an invitation to speak.” Tee sat straight. “You Godless Runners believe you’re more important than us. You think the rules of the colony don’t apply to you. If we let you play with the communicator and it breaks down, what happens when an adult actually needs to send an important message? What then?”

  “This is important.” Wren lurched forwards, her fists clenched.

  “I’m sure you think so.” The bearded man, who Wren now realised was the colony Smith, nodded indulgently. “Let a Runner take your message, girl. They might not charge you more than a kiss.”

  “You have to vote.” Wren was horrified to find that tears made her voice almost unrecognisable. “That’s the rule, you have to vote in response to a petition.”

  Hawkins sighed. “Let’s vote.”

  “You can’t do it without Win. Where is he?”

  They ignored her. First Tee, then Hawkins, then all five, closed their fists around their pendants and lifted them into the air.

  Black, black, black, black …

  The smith looked at her with something approaching sympathy and, for a moment, Wren’s heart rose. His hand closed around one of his pendants, the other remained in his shirt; she couldn’t see which he had chosen. He lifted the bulb slowly, his big hand obscuring the colour. Wren leaned forward, her breath solid in her lungs. Then his fingers opened. He held black.

  “Five of six, a clear majority, we don’t need Win to tie-break.” Tee dropped her chain back onto her breast. “Vote’s against yer Runner girl. Now get out.”

  “But -”

  “The decision’s been made and recorded.” Hawkins was tapping on a sticky keyboard.

  Wren clenched her fists. “At least tell me where he is.”

  “Meeting people a lot more important than you.”

  Wren backed out, her blood roaring like thunder in her ears. She wouldn’t turn her back on them. She flayed the Councillors with her eyes until the door slid closed on the chamber; then her shoulders sagged. What had she expected - that they’d just allow her to use the communicator?

  Maybe this was better: she should have asked Win himself to make the request in the first place. She would wait at his door for as long as it took him to come home.

  Wren ran past the trees and under the bunting, weaving through stinking shafts of recycled air. She saw hardly anyone. After first worship ended, Kiernan’s Day was a family occasion. Warily, she approached the gaping gateway of the large property at the far West edge of the Dome. There she made an effort to slow to a walk, but her knees shook and threatened to tip her forward. She grabbed the gatepost, which was almost as tall as she was, and caught sight of Win. The old man was standing in the garden, speaking earnestly with two Senior Technicians and a uniformed Green-man. The three were gesticulating widely, their voices angry.

  “We haven’t had a Runner in for three weeks and Tir Na Nog haven’t yet replied to our hails-”

  “Yet you can see that we are managing perfectly well. The seedlings have taken, we have samples of the last set of drugs being reproduced, so why do we need them? I say we cut ties-”

  “Cut ties! What about the baby exchange? Genetic diversity is-”

  “We can manage four more generations before inbreeding becomes any sort of problem.”

  “And what then?”

  “By then the Runners will be under our control.”

  “It’s true that they have too much power over trade and distribution … great hells Win, what’s that supposed to be?” The youngest of the Technicians had spotted her.

  Wren’s ears were ringing; she staggered into the garden where chunks of rocks and coloured dirt formed patterns around the pathway. “You can’t be serious?”

  “How much did you hear?” Win flew forwards, his jacket billowing. Boney, like a wing-stand, he loomed over her, and long fingers on spidery hands grabbed her wrists.

  “You can’t be considering cutting ties with the other Nine colonies!”

  “This doesn’t concern you.”

  “I’m a Runner.”

  Win sneered. “Whatever you are, you’re not a Councillor, you’ve heard a tiny piece of a long discussion and drawn your own conclusions. More importantly, you’re derelict in your duty. Why are you here, instead of at the Runner-sphere waiting to service incoming Runners? No landings have been reported.” He cocked his head, silently demanding an explanation.

  “I-” Wren drew herself up, but Win refused to release her, twisting her wrists painfully, so that she had to hunch to keep them straight. She stared as his scornful face, a weathered parody of her mother’s, curved into disdainful lines.

  Then, as if bored, he shoved her to one side. “Go back to Avalon, Wren, and tell no-one what you heard.” He began to stride towards the house.

  Wren chased after him. “But Grandfather, I need to talk to you.”

  When he turned and she saw his face, she faltered.

  “Don’t call me that. I’m no Runner relation.” The old man’s eyes flickered. “How could your mother let you come to the ‘sphere looking like that?” He marched towards her and pinched her elbow. “Wild. Uneducated. Useless to the colony. You’re an embarrassment.”

  “I’m not uneducated. I can run the whole of Avalon and I'll be Sphere-Mistress one day-”

  “Useless.” Win spat again. “Get out of here.” He drove her through the gateway and towards the nearest airlock.

  “Wait.” Wren tried to pull free as his grip left marks on her skin. “I need you to get permission for me to use the communicator. I have to contact Father. He’s in Convocation at Lake Lyot.”

  Win snorted. “Ridiculous. The whole point of having Runners is that we don’t need to overuse the communicators.”

  “It’s essential that I get hold of him.”

  He strode on, dragging her behind him. “I do nothing for any of your brood. Mia knows that.”

  Wren heaved a breath. “She’s sick.”

  Win hesitated for only one step. “So what?”

  Wren closed her eyes and spoke the words she could barely make herself say out loud. “I think she’s dying.”

  Win yanked Wren in front of him and her eyes flew open. “Are you lying to me?” His nose, with its network of tiny veins, almost brushed hers as he bent to look into her face.


  “No,” Wren whispered. “She’s had a fever for three days.”

  The old man straightened up. “Let your father deal with it.” He renewed his hold and marched on toward the edge of the settlement.

  “Lyot’s the longest Run there is and who knows how long Convocation will be convened. He might not be back for a month. He’ll be too late.” Wren gasped. “I have to get word out. I need help.”

  “Help yourself,” he spat. “I told Mia to get pregnant before the Choosing.” His eyes swum with nostalgia and Wren could almost see a picture of her young mother in the dark of them. Then he shook his head. “She could have been married to an honourable Grounder. She could have joined the exchange programme and increased the genetic diversity of the colony, but she disobeyed me. She accepted your father’s offer to become Sphere-Mistress when his sister died and now she’s paying the price.”

  Wren blinked at him. “You’d rather she was in the Exchange programme than married to Father?” She tried to pull away, but her grandfather’s grip was pitiless.

  “She allowed herself to be chosen by that Runner, so let him take care of her. Living in that Runner-sphere, exposed to the storms, our every conversation monitored in case ‘the ex-Grounder’ reveals the secrets of flight. She might as well be dead.”

  Wren gasped. “But she might really die. She’s your daughter.”

  “She disobeyed me; she’s no daughter of mine.”

  And now, finally, their raised voices attracted attention. Loping around the corner like Creatures scenting blood, the boys. They took position around the airlock, lounging, bodies relaxed but eyes sharp, predatory. Seeking entertainment.

  Wren’s vision blurred. “She never asked you for anything,” she shouted.

  Win made no reply, only dragged her past the line of watching eyes. One pair in particular snatched at her attention. Green eyes that burned through a long curtain of hair with more than scorn: they glittered with hatred.

  Wren’s eyes snagged on the face below the eyes. The whole left side was scarred; a twisted landscape of grey islanded with patches of pink skin. When he curled his lip, the flesh pulled tight. Painful. Caro’s disease, untreated for too long. He covered himself with his hair, but everyone knew that face, even Wren. The boy's name was Raw.

  Wren stumbled as her grandfather pinned her against the airlock and slapped his palm onto the pad.

  “Looks like you’re cleaning house, Councillor,” Raw murmured and Wren clenched her fists. She and Raw were the same age: fifteen. The other boys were younger. Despite, or perhaps because of, his scarring, Raw inspired worship. There was something about him. His cruelty fascinated.

  Her grandfather ignored him, simply waited for the airlock to cycle green as though Wren wasn’t struggling beneath his arm. As soon as it opened, he tossed her through.

  “Don’t come back again without a chaperone,” he growled. Then he turned his back and walked away.

  Clutching her arms to her chest, Wren heard Raw’s laughter through the opaque walls that shut her out of Elysium’s Dome.

  Chapter two

  With the biosphere at her back Wren climbed the cliff path. The afternoon had become close, a minor dust storm must be blowing in. Sweat dripped down her neck but she dragged her feet, mind racing. What could she do now?

  Behind her a hiss told her the airlock had opened. It could be a Green-Man checking on the belt. Still she turned, her heart rising in the hope that Win had changed his mind and was following her out.

  Instead she saw Raw striding up the path after her, his mask covering half of his scarred face.

  Wren considered running from him, but her heart wasn’t in it. Her mother was dying, what more could he do?

  She turned her back to him and kept walking. Raw’s legs were longer than hers, he caught her in moments. Then he simply walked beside her. Wren shivered as the shriek of a Creature whispered up from the flats. As they drew level with the belt, she lifted her eyes to Raw’s narrowed gaze. “What do you want?”

  Raw moved to block her and Wren blinked. He was big; more muscled than her brothers, despite their wing-training and he had a wiry leanness that made her step backwards out of his reach. Her heart thudded.

  “Is your mother really dying?” Raw asked eventually, his green eyes gleaming.

  Wren caught her breath. “You heard …”

  “So she is.” Raw rubbed the scar on his face, massaging the tight skin above his mask. “Good.”

  Wren flinched as if he’d struck her after all. “You can’t mean that.”

  Raw met her eyes once more. “I really do.” He smiled then stepped to one side, out of her way. “Oh, and happy Kiernan’s Day!”

  Wren opened her mouth then slammed it shut. She’d never wish death on anyone. And wouldn’t he have died from Caro’s disease if the Runners hadn’t brought medicine for him? He’d pay for his words. One day.

  With a sob clinging to the back of her throat, Wren set her feet back on the path. With half of her mind she noticed that red dust was beginning to rise into swirling eddies around her feet.

  By the time Wren had reached the cliff top, tears were making mud of the dust on her face. If only her brothers would come home. They could fetch a cure from the scientists in Aaru and do something about Raw. So where were they?

  It was possible that one or both had both found their future Sphere-Mistress. They could be courting. Wren knew that one day, probably soon, Colm would leave and Runners would begin to come for her, hoping one day to take over the Patriarchy of Elysium from her Father.

  Yet it seemed too early for either of her brothers to leave and the idea of being married off to some hoary Runner her father liked, made her own skin crawl.

  Then again, the possibility that Colm was moving on his own ambitions was better than the other … she dashed away fresh tears and tried not to look over the cliff towards the bone-yards. She would wait for news before she believed them gone.

  Her mind had room for only one problem now. Inside their sturdy little home, built to outlast mega storms, their mother was dying and Wren had failed to get a message out.

  As Wren sloped towards Avalon, the dust rose to her ankles like a flood back on dead-Earth. Still she faltered. She had to get home but she paused again, driven to search the sky above the Martian delta.

  Surely this time she’d see a Runner coming in?

  The wind shoved her dangerously towards the marker posts, so Wren lay flat, rested on her elbows and shaded her eyes with her hands.

  Russet mists churned over the flats. In a few weeks, when the wind was at full strength the desert would disappear completely, but today the sand flirted with the ground. She looked higher into a vast purple sky, hazed with streaks of gauzy grey cloud. The sun glowed to her right, a half-light, she had been told, compared to that of dead-Earth. She could barely imagine brighter. She peered directly into its corona, desperate to see figures racing the storm.

  “Colm, Jay, where are you?”

  There was nothing. They weren’t coming.

  Wren waited one more minute as the spark of hope was doused. Then she jumped as horns blared from the roof of Elysium.

  Her eyes widened. “What? No! It’s too early!” She tried to stand but the wind snarled and knocked her off her feet. “It’s Kiernan’s Day!” She shrieked, as if there was anyone to listen. It was only just Perihelion, the big dust storms were days away, weeks even.

  But the alarm wailed.

  The dust wasn’t going to remain low on the ground. Elysium had detected a big front; it was going to rise and rise and …

  “Oh, Kiernan!” She shrieked as she crashed back onto her elbow. Dust clogged the filters of her mask and she gasped as stinging crimson particles whipped into her eyes. Panic began to cloud her thoughts. If her mask failed she would suffocate. The atmosphere was years off breathable, even this close to the green belt.

  The alarm was one continuous shriek now
and the dust had risen already. She was almost out of time. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Wren dragged herself forward on her elbows. She used her instincts to keep her on the invisible path and felt out to the left in case she encountered a marker post, or worse, dead air.

  Suddenly the wind crept under her shoulder and inflated her shirt. Wren was boosted a hand’s width from the ground and tumbled sideways.

  “No!” With fingers curled into claws she stabbed at the path and rolled, deflating her shirt. She thumped onto her back, her O2 canister digging painfully into her shoulders. Wriggling frantically, she tucked her shirt into her pants, flipped onto her belly and continued to crawl, panting sharp little breaths that now tasted frighteningly of sand. Her lips dried and she tasted grit on her tongue. How much longer would her mask operate? With a full tank on her back, she could die from a lack of O2. A giggle forced its way through her lips and Wren bore down on bubbling hysteria.

  Her lungs tightened and she gasped into the darkness, bright lights flashing in front of her eyelids. She daren’t stop, if she wanted to live, she had to keep moving.

  Gritting her teeth, Wren reached ahead, gripped what felt like a marker post and pulled herself towards it. She could use the posts like this as long as she kept far enough to the right.

  After an eternity, Wren’s fumbling fingers bumped into what had to be the porch of the Runner-sphere, where she knew safety lines were coiled in a box on the first step. They hadn’t been used in years, but Colm maintained them. He liked backups, safety nets; he planned for every possible eventuality. Thank the skies.

  The clips were slotted into a grooved post for easy access. She reached for the lowest and her fingers brushed silver fibres that glimmered even through the whirling dust. Growling, she pushed once more until she was right underneath the box and stretched. The line was too high for Wren to unclip without raising herself higher.

  With a yell, she drove upwards, but as she lifted her chest the wind howled its triumph and took her. Wren’s fingers brushed the line and a scream dragged from her mouth as she was tugged back towards the cliff edge. Her feet lifted and she felt the ground drop away. Then the gale changed direction with a fickle huff and hurled her as hard towards the box as she had been torn away.