by Lyn Gala
Ben looked up when they came close and shifted his bag of weeds from one shoulder to the other. Ben held an arm out, and Temar went immediately to his side, leaning into him as though seeking to soak up the other man’s strength. Shan had never seen a man weakened so much by slavery, and he’d never seen the psychological damage take hold so fast.
For a second, Ben held Temar in a one-armed hug, and then he gave the boy a slap on the arm. “Take this up to the incinerator, will you?” He held out his bag. Temar nodded and took it in both hands. “Are you in control enough to do this?” Ben asked, and again he brought a finger up under Temar’s chin, pressing his head up. Left on his own, Temar did spend a lot of time staring at the ground. Temar nodded. “Good boy,” Ben praised him and then patted him on the arm.
Temar headed toward the house with the bag clutched to his chest, and Ben leaned backward, cracking his back and stretching. “So, you’ve seen the mess on my north border? I used to like Erqu Gazer, which is why I didn’t make complaint about the water that would go missing from my share—it was never enough to publicly humiliate a man who had already lost so much. But I have no qualms about humiliating George. I’ll lay claim to workdays from him and have his fat ass out here pulling weeds blown down from his farm if something isn’t done.”
Shan nodded, his attention still focused on Temar’s retreating figure. “It’s your right,” Shan agreed. Really, what else was there to say?
Chapter 8
CYLA was sitting under the sloping eaves of a windbreak with large vats set out in front of her. “See? She’s fine. I don’t know why you’d assume she wasn’t.” Ista Songwind was angry. Angry might be too strong of a word, but she definitely didn’t like Shan.
“I always assumed she would be well cared for, Worker Songwind,” Shan said mildly. “I would not have signed off on the slave fee otherwise, but as the priest, she is still my responsibility, even if she’s in another territory.” Shan was stretching that a little, but he assumed that God would differentiate between a lie and a stretched truth told for the greater good. If not, he could always confess to Div later. The man would love a chance to have Shan reread “Ecclesiasticus” for penance.
“She hasn’t asked to go to the church, or I would have let her. I know the law.”
“I have no doubt you do, Worker Songwind,” Shan agreed. “I have heard people speak very highly of you, both your skills with computers and your fair temperament.” Shan didn’t say that he was beginning to doubt the latter. Their conversation was cut short when Cyla looked up from her work.
Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and the wisps that had escaped were plastered to her face with sweat, but she didn’t look emotionally or physically beaten down. In fact, she frowned when she saw Shan standing at the edge of the windbreak.
“Shan? Did something happen?” Pulling a sheet of computer chips out of the mild acid wash, she set them to the side and started to stand.
“Neutralize the acid before you even dream of it, girl!” Worker Songwind didn’t sound particularly cruel with her order, but she made it clear there was no room for debate. Cyla gave her an unhappy look, but she took the sheet with the computer chips attached, and she moved to a second vat.
Putting the sheet on the wire netting over the mouth of the vat, she picked up a spray bottle and started spraying the cloudy solution onto the board with an even hand. Before Shan when into the priesthood, his father had purchased him an apprenticeship with a mechanic, and Shan still remembered enough to know that Cyla had been carefully taught this skill. After ten years, she might be able to challenge the mechanics’ council and claim a title as a skilled worker.
“Is Temar okay?” she asked, her hands still working their task.
“He’s fine,” Shan said. Physically the young man was fine, and Shan was not an adequate judge of his mental state.
Cyla sighed and paused for a second before finishing the spraying. Shan glanced over at Ista Songwind, hoping she would get the hint and give them some privacy, but the woman was standing with her arms crossed in a pose that suggested she was not moving. Shan turned his back on her and moved closer to Cyla.
“I promised Temar I would see how you were doing. Worker Songwind says you aren’t going to church.”
Cyla frowned and put the board to one side. Now that the acid had washed away the impurities, someone would have to go over every circuit board to remove any residue left by the base solution. But that residue would be large and crystalline and easy to remove, compared to the tiny impurities that would coat a computer surface after any time exposed to Livre’s atmosphere
“Church was more his thing than mine.”
“Maybe he needed it more,” Shan suggested, trying to give the girl some opening to explain what might have happened. However, if she didn’t know about her father’s abuse, he didn’t want to tell her. Cyla carried enough burdens now, and he knew the guilt that came with having been ignorant when a loved one had suffered.
“Maybe he just liked to sit in the back and pretend that his life wasn’t fucked up from the time he was born,” she said with bitterness. “Not that anyone did anything to help either one of us.” She looked him up and down with disgust, making it clear that she considered him one of the people who should have done something. Shan leaned back in surprise. Okay, slavery had not dulled her tongue.
“You seem to be learning a good trade.” Shan changed the subject, hoping that a more neutral subject might put her at ease. After all, few slaves had the advantage of learning a trade, most, like Temar, labored at unskilled jobs. “Are you washing the circuits, or are you learning to scrape crystals, too?”
Songwind took a step forward. “That work’s too delicate for someone who can’t remember to neutralize the acid immediately.”
Shan sat silent for a moment, not wanting to return barb for barb with Ista Songwind. At least Cyla had found an owner who could match her, sharp, bitter comment for sharp, bitter comment.
“No doubt, after ten years under such a capable woman, you’ll know skills enough to either become a skilled worker or easily earn an apprenticeship to finish your training,” Shan said with a smile.
“And Temar?” Cyla demanded. “What skills will he learn in some farmer’s fields? Tell me that George Young didn’t get his contract, because if he did, I’ll trade with him right now. Hell, Temar would be better with this crap than I would, anyway,” she said with a wave of her hand at the table of circuits. Shan looked at the work table. The circuits were lined up by type. A wide control panel circuit was on the far end, its pink glass structure winking in the sun. A half dozen small circuits were attached to a board that had been covered with a dust shield, and the panel Cyla had just finished had a dozen more small-scale circuits. Obviously, Red Plain had suffered some storm that had required them to pull many of their circuits for cleaning. The loss of this many computers must have the town functioning on minimum resources. Shan was surprised that they hadn’t asked Landing or Blue Hope for some equipment to tide them over.
“Ben Gratu bought his contract. He’s as well as he can be,” Shan reassured her. “Worker Songwind, if you have need of assistance with so many computers down, Landing can send a few trained workers or some equipment over to assist you,” he offered. Worker Songwind scowled at him, but that seemed to be her most used expression.
“We’re fine.”
Shan didn’t have an answer for that, so he turned his attention back to Cyla. “Is there anything you would like me to tell your brother?” For the first time since Shan had seen her, Cyla looked honestly remorseful. Her lips pulled down into a frown, and her pale face pinked.
“Tell him that it’s my fault. Tell him that I’m sorry, and I’m glad that Ben got his contract and not George. Tell him….” She took a deep breath. “Tell him I should have listened to him.”
“I’ll tell him that,” Shan promised as he pushed himself to his feet. Cyla was still unabashedly Cyla, so he didn’t think s
he was carrying any deep wounds, and from the fact that her questions had focused on Temar’s contract, he didn’t think she knew about any abuse Temar might have suffered before his slavery. This had clearly been a false trail. Whatever was wrong, he would only get the answers from Temar.
“If you need to talk, consider going to the church, or ask for me. I’d be happy to come back down,” Shan offered.
Cyla gave him a distrustful look. “You’d cross seven thousand rods of deep desert to talk to me again?” She didn’t even hide the disbelief.
“I would,” Shan promised her.
Instead of looking grateful, she rolled her eyes. “You sure didn’t go out of your way for us before. But if you have any spare time, spend it tracking George Young’s water use,” she suggested. Clearly Cyla still had all of her ego and confidence intact. She was a beautiful woman. She had the same blue eyes, the same high cheekbones and long fingers as her brother. On him, the features were ethereal. He had a beauty that made people look twice. On Cyla, the same beauty was sharp and almost uncomfortable to look at for too long, as though her personality was leeching out through her skin.
“I think George Young’s water use is a subject you had best avoid,” Shan advised her before he turned to leave. Ista Songwind was watching him as he passed, but then perhaps Shan had offended her. Cyla’s work certainly depended on timing, and Shan had not called ahead to ask when he could see her. No, he’d allowed his suspicions to guide his actions, and he’d shown up at Worker Songwind’s door with no warning. Cyla was not the only one who needed to work on being a better neighbor.
“Is your valley gate disabled?” Shan asked.
“What?” Songwind looked at him with far more alarm than the question warranted.
Shan tried to give her his most charming smile. He’d been told that he could be quite a charmer when he put his mind to it. “The control panel circuit… I noticed you’re having to do repairs on it. If your valley gates are down, Landing really would be happy to send some skilled workers over. You have quite a large task ahead of you with so many computer chips to clean.”
“We don’t need help,” Songwind said in a voice far sharper than friendliness would allow. Shan decided she was simply in an unpleasant mood, either that or she was an unpleasant person. For Cyla’s sake, Shan hoped that the first was true. Then again, it wasn’t like Cyla was some helpless child who needed a soft hand. She’d give back as good as she got—slave or not.
Ignoring his growing dislike for Songwind, Shan smiled. “If you change your mind, I’m on the council, and I know we would be happy to help. After all, the day may come when we need to ask for help in return.” When her weathered face remained just as hard, Shan decided that a change in topics was in order. “I hope the calm holds until I get home. The winds made the trip slightly more exciting than I would prefer.” He stopped near his sand cycle, but Songwind looked at him, her expression hidden behind a dark, wrinkled face.
He nodded respectfully. “Thank you for letting me pass on Temar’s message.”
“Next time, call before interrupting my work,” Songwind said without a bit of grace.
“I will,” Shan promised. Throwing a leg over the sand cycle, he gave the woman one last smile that she didn’t return. His engine whined to life, and Shan tightened his dust veil over his face and settled his weight back onto the seat. Then he guided the bike carefully out of Songwind’s area. The woman was badly misnamed, and Shan suspected that if he threw sand up or dislodged a windbreak post, the woman would demand labor days from him. It’d been a long time since he did mechanical work, and he really didn’t feel like doing it under Ista Songwind’s eye.
Before he’d quit it, his own apprenticeship had been under a white-haired man named Holmes who had chewed a reed and watched silently as Shan made his own mistakes… well, unless Shan was working on something like computer circuits, which were both sensitive and rare. Then Holmes had become a sharp-eyed taskmaster, so Shan could hardly blame Songwind for being equally sharp. Cyla had only been working for a bit over a month, and computer chips were too valuable to have an apprentice ruin a whole board of them. The fact that Ista taught her at all was a boon that none of them could have hoped for, yet something felt wrong.
Shan guided his cycle past the low, slanting roofs of the town and toward the open desert. The guidance system in his bike beeped to tell him he was off path, but he ignored it as he steered around a ponderous scoop hauler that slowly trundled over the sand toward town. Holmes would never have allowed Shan to tend so many circuits without watching, and Shan had been talented with machines. The computer command boards were too rare and too important. With the inner worlds off on their ridiculous wars, the promised tech had dried up as quickly as spilled water on the sand.
The cycle’s back tire spun as Shan leaned too far forward, his weight uneven. Shan settled back and let his mind chase random thoughts as he turned his front tire toward home. The facts were like a broken piece of glass. Parts fit, but other edges wouldn’t marry up, no matter how Shan considered things. It was like some piece was missing, and he couldn’t figure the shape of the whole.
The first deep desert dune commanded his attention, and Shan leaned back and focused on guiding his machine up the shifting sands. The feeling of it under him was familiar, and the task at hand demanded all his attention. For a time, he allowed himself to feel the cycle and the desert and the rhythms of life on Livre. The sand sparkled, red and gold, the patterns shifting as the gentle midday wind tugged at the surface of the dunes. About an hour into his long journey, a whining hiss made Shan tilt his head and focus on the straining engine. He could come up with a hundred reasons for a straining engine to whine in protest, but none would have that high-pitched tone that cut off so suddenly. The second whine came a half second before a tuft of sand spurted up from the ground, right in front of him.
For a half second, Shan couldn’t figure out what was going on. He looked over his shoulder, and a sand hunter was roaring toward him. The wide vehicle had one driver and a second person standing on the side board with a weapon on his shoulder. The cycle started sliding out from under Shan, and his body shifted instinctively to correct the balance. At that moment, the gun flashed, and another whine warned Shan a half second before a bullet hit the sand next to him.
God’s mercy. Surely there was some sort of great confusion or perhaps a great bout of drunkenness. Nothing else made sense. However, rather than debate the senselessness of the situation, Shan aimed his bike toward the top of the dune and opened the engine. The cycle screamed to life and lurched madly under his grip, but Shan rode it to the ridge and then felt the cycle fall out from under him as he hit the backside of the dune. Normally, Shan would fishtail the back of the bike to slow his descent, but this time he threw his weight forward as he went into a near free-fall down the front of the dune.
Sand whipped by his face so fast that individual particles worked their way through his sand veil, and his eyes started to sting. More sharp, whining cries warned him that his pursuers hadn’t given up. As he reached the bottom of the dune, Shan threw his weight onto the back tire and opened the engine to full throttle. It screamed and then sent the cycle roaring toward the next dune.
Since the pursuers now had a clear shot at his back, Shan pulled the control yoke right and left and took a winding path up the face of the giant dune. The fact that a bullet hadn’t yet torn through his back suggested that his strategy had worked so far, but a number of bullets hit so close that Shan could feel a cold panic rolling through his guts. He had almost reached the ridge when his cycle bucked under him, and the smell of burning metal stung his nose. The cycle pushed him up to the ridge of the dune, but already the engine was sputtering and failing.
Pushing his weight forward, Shan let gravity pull him into a near free-fall as he studied the land around him. Livre was full of deep valleys and ravines and rock ditches that made travel difficult, so he just needed to find one deep enough to hide i
n. And then he needed to find a way to get rid of his pursuers. And then he needed a set of mechanic’s tools to fix his cycle. He needed a lot. When he spotted the ridge of rock that marked the mouth of a valley, Shan sent up a quick prayer of thanks and aimed his cycle toward the opening.
He’d gained ground on the sand hunter, which had to slow on the downslope, but he didn’t have much time. Shan started studying the ridge for any narrow break in the rock that would let the bike through but block the wide sand hunter. As the bottom of the dune approached, Shan started to slow, and the engine on the cycle sputtered under the strain.
In the desert, size and distance could trick the eye, and Shan realized that the stone ridge was both farther away and far larger than he’d thought at first glance. The rocks cast long shadows over the sand, and dust devils—small whirlwinds of sand and air—swirled at its edges. Sanity dictated that Shan slow down and approach such a large valley with caution, but the armed attacker behind him made that rather difficult. More tufts of sand rose in front of him, but Shan steered toward the bullet marks, hoping the shooter would assume he’d turn the other way and overcompensate. A narrow gap opened in the rock, and Shan steered the cycle toward it.
At this point, prayer and not falling off the cycle filled Shan’s mind, and he focused on both with a determination born of fear. The bike smelled of hot metal and burning plastic, the frame shivering between his legs, but the gap in the rock grew closer. Dust blew up like a curtain rising from the ground, and Shan realized that this was a major valley he was about to fly into blind. If he was coming out at the top of a cliff, he would only have seconds to regret the decision. However, given a choice, Shan would rather fall to his death than take a bullet in the back.
The engine made the squealing death cry of broken belts, but Shan focused on the rocks ahead. The whine of a bullet went past his head and then ricocheted off the rock with a dull, ringing sound. Shan ignored the instinctive need to slow down and aimed for the gap. The cycle bounced as it hit the rocky ground, and the fat tires made it fly up into the air. Shan had a half second of warning before he realized that he was, in fact, heading straight for a drop far too steep and too deep to survive.