by Lyn Gala
“I liked glass work,” Temar answered.
“He’d mentioned that,” Ben agreed. His hands were huge, and for a second, he concentrated on pulling on the yoke of the sled, forcing it south of the rock without slowing at all. Ben wasn’t as dark as most men, but his arms and hands were tanned as dark as Naite Polli. He wasn’t like George Young, who ran his farm from inside his house.
“He’d wanted you to have an apprenticeship.” Ben pulled the levers that retracted the guide sails as the sled finally slid to a stop near the south gate to the valley. Temar’s father had always made big promises about buying him an apprenticeship when they got a big crop in, but they’d never had a crop of anything other than pipe trap plants. Temar would probably spend the next ten years pulling weeds grown from seeds blown over from his father’s old farm.
Ben stopped, sat behind the yoke, and stared out at the heavy gates that protected the valley from wind and sand. The gates could only be opened in the afternoon, when the sand drifted south and the blowers could clear the gates. Open it in the morning, and sand would blast through the gate and bury good farmland. The blowers on the gate had only recently kicked on, and dust devils twirled and danced in the air as the machinery cleared the area.
“It’s going to be a long ten years if you don’t plan to talk to me.” Ben’s voice was gentle and soft, and that fatherly tone made Temar’s guts tighten. His own father had emotionally left them long before the pipe trap juice had finally killed him.
“I’m not trying to not talk,” Temar offered. They weren’t even at the farm, and he’d already disappointed his new master.
Ben reached over and put a hand on Temar’s knee. “Your father sometimes….” Ben grimaced. “Sometimes he talked bigger than he could carry through.”
Temar blushed. He knew he didn’t have a right to tell Ben to shut up about his father, but none of that made this conversation any less uncomfortable. Ben sighed.
“I don’t say this to make you silent again. Your father was a kind man, and the way he was at the end—that was more pipe trap juice than any choice of his. I’m asking if you’re as good with math and equipment as your father always claimed. Based on your adventure over at George’s place, I wouldn’t call you mechanically talented.”
“That was an accident.”
“I didn’t think you had done it on purpose. If I had, I wouldn’t have paid your slave price. What happened, Temar?”
While Temar was quiet by nature, he could feel Ben’s concern seep down into him. Pulling his bound hands into his lap, Temar stared at them and wondered how he could have ever been such an idiot. He should have gone to Ben Gratu for help in the first place—then he would be sitting, talking to him, landholder to landholder, instead of slave to master.
“Landholder Young was siphoning father’s water,” Temar said softly, fully expecting Ben to order him to stop making such wild accusations. Instead, Ben leaned back in his seat and studied him.
“What proof do you have?”
Temar looked up in surprise at the interest in Ben’s voice. “I built my own flow meter and installed it on the irrigation. Water was taken from our pipes. And I tested the soil on Young’s land and ours. If it was leaking equipment, as Young claimed, I would have found saturated patches of ground where the water was escaping.” Temar looked up, encouraged by the surprise and belief he could see in Ben’s face. “I did tests every ten meters, over the full length of the irrigation pipe, and there wasn’t any leak. I would have found a leak and fixed it. And the pipe trap plant absorbs a steady four to seven jignots a week, more than that and the plant splits. The plants on our land show signs of wrinkling, so they’re getting three to four jignots a week, and we have a plant density of twelve per square rod, so that doesn’t account for the missing water, even if you assume there was a leak somewhere. Water is being stolen.” Temar could feel hope swell in him, pulling his words out faster and faster. Ben was staring at him in clear shock.
“Have you shown these results to the council?”
Temar shook his head.
“Great gods, boy! You have proof of water thievery, and instead of going to the council, you trespass on another’s property and destroy two tanks of water? What were you thinking?” Ben slapped the sled’s yoke.
“I wasn’t. Cyla wanted—”
“Cyla has a temper like a sandcat. I would think you had more sense.”
“We had gone to the council last harvest end,” Temar defended himself, feeling stupider by the second.
“With the evidence?” Ben leaned forward, his face tight with anticipation.
Temar shook his head. “I started collecting the data after the council dismissed father and Cyla when they made their accusations.” God, he was stupid. “Cyla thought we would find something conclusive. She thought I could find how he was siphoning the water from the system.” He should have talked Cyla into waiting a couple of months and going back to the council with all his calculations. They might not have taken his word for it, but he had detailed enough notes to get them to send someone to check his work.
Ben turned and stared out the front of the sled at the huge gates. The blowers had cleared the sand from the area, but he didn’t move. Slowly, he began to shake his head. “Your father always said you were far too bright to be a landholder. He should have found a way to buy you an apprenticeship.” Ben reached down to the floorboard between their seats and pulled the lever to release the wheels. The sled jumped and jerked and then settled on its fat, wide tires. “Boy, you sit put. This may not be as bad as it seems,” Ben said before he got out of the sled and headed for the main gate. For the first time since being grabbed, hope outweighed Temar’s despair.
Once they were through the gates, the sled rolled through the valley, the green crops just starting to push up toward the sun, and the sun filter making the air feel a little less oppressive with heat. The moment Ben passed the boundary onto Gazer property, the neat rows of seedlings gave way to clumps of pipe trap plant. The plants grew in a circle around a bare center. A newcomer might mistake one for a dozen different plants, but the real plant was underground, inside that ring of green leaves, waiting to trap anything heavier than a grasshopper that stepped on it. Of course, a person was far too heavy and big for a pipe trap to eat. A person’s foot would go right through the fleshy meat of the plant’s stomach and probably kill the plant. However, falling into a pipe trap was a good way to break a leg.
Ben stopped the sled in front of Temar’s home—what had been his home. Ben reached over and let his hand rest against Temar’s shoulder. “It’s infested with pipe trap seeds. They’ll more than likely burn all of this.” His voice was sorrowful, but Temar imagined he’d be glad enough to get rid of the source of so many weeds. “So, where do you have these notes?”
“My room.” Temar started reaching for the sled door, realizing a second too late that he needed permission before running off. He looked over at Ben.
“Go on, get them.” Ben waved him on, and Temar pulled the door open, the movement awkward with his hands tied. Hurrying through the house and trying hard not to look at all the possessions that would soon be stripped by whomever the council chose to give the land to, Temar reached his room. The sloping wall created a small niche on the floor, where he kept all his work, and he pulled out the box with all his carefully detailed records. Picking the box up might be a problem with his hands bound, however.
“Let me,” Ben said from the door. He walked in and picked the box up and settled it on the bed. “Did you show anyone these records?” Ben asked as he pulled the top off and started looking at the first notebook. Each page had observations that Temar had recorded as carefully as if he had done the work for class or for an apprenticeship application.
“My father.” Temar gave a lopsided shrug. By the end, his father hadn’t been able to comprehend much more than a child. The pipe trap juice made him high and happy by killing the brain cells that reminded him what a miserable life
he had. From the time their mother had died, he’d been slowly killing himself. It’d taken nearly fifteen years, but he’d finally accomplished his goal. “I showed Cyla, but I’m not sure how much she actually listened to. She was angry.” Angry didn’t even cover it. Temar had actually been afraid of her temper, for the first time in his life. He didn’t think she’d hurt him, but he didn’t know how far she would go in her fury. Clearly she’d gone too far.
“She should have listened to you.” Ben sounded distracted as he flipped though pages of observations and calculations. “If anything, your father underestimated your math skills. Come sit here.” Ben patted the bed next to him, and Temar obediently sat down, resting his tied hands on his knees. His hands were starting to tingle, but he didn’t want to distract Ben from his intense concentration. His father and Cyla had never taken his notebooks very seriously, but Ben clearly did. “Do you have more?”
“No, that’s it. Isn’t it enough?”
“Oh, it’s enough. This could have been disastrous.”
“Could have been?” Temar asked, a bit of his old humor returning as he realized that Ben wasn’t dismissing his work.
“Yes, it could have been. If you’d shown these to someone….” Ben shook his head. “I’ll take these home to burn.” He dropped the notebook into the box.
“You’ll… what?” Temar started to stand up, but Ben reached out and grabbed his bound hands.
“I’ll burn them, and you won’t mention this to anyone.”
Temar’s chest tightened so that he could only take little rabbit breaths. Oh shit. He wasn’t just an idiot, he was the chosen high idiot of all idiots.
“You stole our water.” Temar’s voice was trembling, but he managed to get the words out without stuttering.
“Watch your mouth, slave.”
“I’ll tell. The minute anyone sees me, I’ll tell.” Temar scooted away so that their hips no longer touched, but Ben was so much stronger than he was that he couldn’t pull his hands away from Ben’s grip.
“I doubt that.” Ben’s smile had turned feral, and Temar suddenly found his voice. He screamed as loud as he could. If one of Ben’s or Young’s workers heard him, there would be questions. They would have to get the council. They would have to stop Ben from burning his work. Temar hadn’t even finished his scream when Ben lunged at him, pressing him flat to the bed, so that his weight pressed down on Temar, forcing him to gasp for air. With his bound hands pressing into his stomach, Temar felt as though he were suffocating, and his weak struggles couldn’t move Ben’s massive body off him.
“Since you won’t be quiet, I’ll have to quiet you,” Ben said. He reached over and pulled the pillowcase off Temar’s pillow. Ben’s forearms corded with muscle as he pulled at the fabric until it finally came apart, with a ripping sound. He pulled two long strips of material off the pillowcase and dropped the rest of the torn thing back onto the bed.
“No,” Temar begged, his eyes stinging with tears as Ben wadded one strip up. Temar squirmed and pinched Ben as hard as he could. He got a heel into the bed, straining to turn his body. He did everything he could, but nothing helped. Ben held the wad of fabric against his lips, and Temar tightly closed his mouth.
“Boy, you’re making this far harder on yourself,” Ben warned. His voice had a paternal tone that turned Temar’s stomach, and he only pressed his lips more tightly together. Bracing his fingers behind Temar’s head, Ben pressed his thumb into the soft of Temar’s jaw. Tears escaped and rolled from the outer corners of Temar’s eyes, the pain forcing him to open his mouth. Ben pressed the fabric in.
“For someone so smart, you have some things to learn about life.” Ben placed the second strip over his mouth and pulled it around to the back, tying it tightly. Between the gag and Ben’s weight on him, Temar struggled to get air into his chest. Gray blurred the edges of his vision until Ben finally rolled off him.
For a second, Temar could only lie in his childhood bed and gasp air through his nose as his body tried to get oxygen back into all the places that needed it. Ben’s strong hands flipped him over to his stomach, and Temar was too weak and trembling too badly from fear and lack of oxygen to argue. The leash that dangled from his bound wrists was brought up between his legs and then tied tightly to the back of his belt, so that when Ben flipped him over again, Temar could only blink up helplessly.
His breathing still came in ragged gasps, and Ben reached over and pinched his nose shut. Temar panicked, flopping like a dying sandcat caught in a pipe trap. The hand released him, and he gasped for air again.
“Listen, young idiot!” Ben shook his shoulders, and Temar stared up at him in terror. He’d throw up, only he was afraid Ben would leave him gagged, choking on his own vomit. “Take one deep breath,” Ben ordered.
Temar tried. He got some air in, but just when his body demanded that he push it out and gasp for more, Ben pinched his nose shut again. “I won’t have you hyperventilate. Slow down. When I let go, breathe out.” The fingers released his nose, and Temar blew the air out, hurrying to get more in right away, but Ben pinched his nose shut too quickly. The gray started fuzzing the edges of his vision again.
“Deeper breath this time,” Ben said, letting go. For long minutes, Temar lay on the bed with Ben pinching and releasing his nose, until Temar finally figured out that he could only get enough oxygen if he breathed as Ben ordered him to. His vision cleared, and his breathing evened out, but the terror still clawed at him.
“I knew you were trainable,” Ben said with a friendly slap on the arm that made Temar flinch away. Immediately, a hand was around his neck. “You don’t ever flinch away from me, understand?” Ben’s eyes were hard, and his fingers pressed into the soft of Temar’s neck painfully until Temar gave a small nod. All he had to do was play nice until he could talk to someone, ask them to send word to the council. The farms might be isolated from the town, but there would be unskilled workers on the farm all the time. Young’s workers would pass by on the road to get to town, skilled workers would have to come out to calibrate solar equipment and test water. He could get word out somehow. Right now, he just had to keep Ben happy.
Ben smiled down at him and then used the hand he had wrapped around Temar’s throat to pat him on the cheek. “Good boy.”
Ben sat up, and then, as if testing Temar, patted him first on the arm and then the stomach and then the thigh. “You never flinch from me, boy,” Ben said again, but this time he sounded far more friendly. Of course, this time Temar had held himself still as Ben did as he liked.
Reaching into his inner vest pocket, Ben pulled out a communicator and slipped the listener into his ear. Temar’s eyes went wide. At one time, communicators had been common enough, and most people had grandparents or great grandparents that still grumbled about missing them, but very few still worked. The search team at White Hills had two and the council at Landing kept one for emergency searches, but no one owned one. Ben pulled one out as casually as one might pull out a handkerchief. A few taps, and someone on the other end must have answered.
“The Gazer boy has evidence. A lot of it.” He waited as he listened to the answer. “No, he was such a good little boy that he didn’t tell anyone other than his sister.” Ben smiled down and gave Temar another pat on the cheek. For a second, Temar really thought he was going to throw up, gag or no gag. “I think he’s under control. I do want a little insurance, though. No one was bidding the slave price on that sister of his, and the council is not going to like the idea of turning her over to George Young. Why don’t you come in and make a bid on her. If she’s in another territory, I think our boy is going to be very careful to cooperate. He doesn’t want to see his sister hurt.” Ben gave him another pat on the cheek and a smug smile.
Temar had to hold himself stiffly still under that touch, because there was nothing he wanted more than to rip Ben Gratu into tiny little shreds. If he hurt Cyla…. Temar snuffed, struggling to clear his nose as more tears escaped.
“No,
I don’t think killing them should be the first choice. If Temar gets free, I’ll call you, and you can kill the girl. Between his father’s insanity and his sister’s death, any madness he spews will be dismissed as more paranoia from the Gazer family tree. God knows the family doesn’t have a great reputation.” Ben listened to the voice on the other end, and Temar realized that Ben was right. Without the notebooks, without proof, he would be no different from his father, accusing neighbors of terrible crimes with absolutely no evidence.
“The plan’s still safe. We move forward,” Ben told the person on the other end, and then he pulled the listener out of his ear, ending the conversation.
“So, let’s get this crap and my new slave back to the farm,” Ben said in a voice cheerful enough to make Temar wish, for the first time in his life, that he had the power to kill another human being. “We can discuss a few ground rules as we head back to the farm.” Ben stood up and pulled Temar to his feet. With his hands tightly bound and his mouth gagged, Temar couldn’t do anything except walk in front of Ben. All around him were the artifacts of his childhood—the old worn couch where he’d bed down his father when he’d staggered home, the picture of his mother with the yellowing edges, the red streak on the wall where Cyla had dropped the stain when she’d tried to apply sealant to the ceiling. But Temar wasn’t part of this life anymore. Temar’s life had just taken a definite turn for the worse.
Chapter 5
BEN’S house was four stories, tall and narrow and pressed tightly against the cliff wall. The area above the house had been blasted and then reinforced with metal struts to keep the rock wall from threatening the structure. They had done that in the early days of the terraforming. Back then, the drop ships with their weak engines would be cannibalized for parts, as soon as they got the settlers safely down-world. Metal had been far more common then. Now that the inner planets were too busy warring with each other to finish the job of terraforming on Livre, such huge metal struts would never be used for the benefit of one lone farm.