Unreconciled

by W. Michael Gear

  “Can we offer them anything?” Mgumbe asked. “Maybe a chance to relocate the nonbelievers?”

  “Put them where?” Talina asked. “Three Falls? Wide Ridge? Rork Springs?”

  Dya had turned introspective. “Interesting moral question, isn’t it? What do we, as the surviving humans on the planet, owe these people?”

  Raya leaned back in her chair. “Someone’s going to have to go give the Irredenta the bad news.”

  “Want to draw straws?” Mgumbe asked.

  28

  Working outside on the farm, out past the fence, felt like a tonic. The heat from Capella’s rays was in the process of baking Dek Taglioni’s hide. He’d peeled off his thin jacket and was down to an undershirt. Not only that, but he’d drunk four liters of water from the jar Reuben Miranda had provided.

  Nor was the heat his only problem. Every muscle in his body was aching and his joints were creaking. The gravity was sapping every bit of reserve, but he was feeling better. Toughening up by the day.

  Nevertheless, he kept shooting glances at the bush, that aqua-and-green-colored band of scrubby trees and low vegetation beyond the edge of the fields. The sensation was eerie, the kind a person got when hidden eyes were watching him. Judging his every action and thought.

  Get over it. It’s just trees and wilderness. There’s no sentience behind it. Donovan’s only a planet. Not a consciousness.

  “Yeah, right,” he whispered under his breath and forced himself back to the task of picking peppers.

  The quetzal-hide boots Reuben had loaned him shot rainbows of color along their length with each step he took. He looked like a vagabond, wearing the light claw-shrub-textile pants of local manufacture. A wide-brimmed fiber hat topped his head. And on his hip now rode his Smith & Wesson 3-41 electro-rail pistol. An expensive, engraved, and elegant weapon made with sculpted grips carved from finely figured black walnut. Gold inlay gleamed along the three rails and in the scroll work on the receiver.

  So now, not only did he look like a pirate, he felt like one, too.

  Pirate he might be. Nevertheless, he’d picked five whole baskets of peppers and was almost finished with a sixth. Something about that filled him with an incredible sense of purpose.

  This wasn’t just work, it was food. Until Ashanti had found itself in trouble, he’d never given a second thought to what he ate. Food was just there, ready, whatever he wanted to order, prepared in any way he desired, and provided for his gustatory pleasure. No limits. Not on variety. Not on quantity. Nor had he ever so much as wondered where it came from. How it was produced.

  That had all changed when Galluzzi ordered rations cut. When Derek Taglioni had gone to bed hungry. When he’d laid, night after night, tortured by the craving in his belly. Knowing it wouldn’t be filled. Not tomorrow. Not the next day, or the day after. He had lived with the knowledge that hydroponics couldn’t continue to feed the number of people they had on board. That when the tanks finally broke down far enough, he and everyone around him would starve to death. Didn’t matter that he was Derek Taglioni. He was just as condemned as the lowliest ship’s tech.

  His relationship with food had been forever altered.

  Panting in the heat, he blinked sweat from his eyes and reached down to pluck another couple of jalapeño peppers from the bush. These he dropped into the basket Reuben had provided. Feeling crafty, he slipped over to the poblano plant and used his little knife to cut the stems on two large green peppers. They brought his basket up to the brim.

  All it would take was another . . .

  “Dek?” An irritated call carried over the chime.

  He straightened from the row of green plants, seeing Talina Perez as she came striding across the field at a no-nonsense pace. The woman was dressed in a black chamois-hide one-piece that was most likely supposed to be utilitarian but conformed her curves in a most enticing way. Still, there was nothing feminine about the utility belt with its pistol and knife, or the service rifle hung from her shoulder.

  He pulled the wide-brimmed straw hat from his head and wiped sweat from his face with a sleeve. Reuben looked up from where he was plucking beans. “Hey, Tal!” He threw the woman a lazy wave. “You didn’t need to come out. I’d ’ave had one of the kids drop off the latest at your dome.”

  “I’m not here for beans, Reuben.” She stopped before Dek, gave him a distasteful appraisal, and then shot Reuben a sidelong squint. “Dek here isn’t supposed to leave the compound. You know better than to bring soft meat out past the fence.”

  Reuben’s expression bent into an amused quirk. “Since when are you getting between me and my hired labor? The man asked me for a job.”

  “And what are you paying him?”

  “A tenth part of whatever he picks.”

  “He’s soft meat. And not the kind we can let get eaten by a slug. The guy doesn’t know a bem from a toilet plunger.”

  Dek crossed his arms, feeling that old irritation raising its ugly head. “Hey, I’m right here. That’s right. Look me in the eyes. Now, what’s the trouble?”

  “Do you know the repercussions if something happened to you?”

  “I’m not an ornament.”

  “You’re a Taglioni.”

  “Congratulations. You’ve read the passenger manifest on Ashanti.” He raised a hand, cutting off the response that was bubbling up on her lips. “Stop it! That’s an order.” Turned out he could still summon that old brook-no-nonsense tone of voice.

  To Reuben he said, “Thanks for the chance to get outside. If you don’t mind, the security officer and I have to clear some things up.”

  “Yeah, Dek. Take that last basket. We’re square.” To Talina, Reuben said, “Cut the man a little slack, Tal. He’s got grit.”

  Dek picked up his basket, adding, “I’ll get the boots back to you.”

  “No, you keep them. You’re gonna need ’em, and they’re too small for my feet as it is.”

  Tucking his basket of peppers under his arm, Dek started through the rows of crops, Talina matching stride.

  “Look at this,” he told her, patting the basket. “Aboard Ashanti I could trade this to someone for a whole month’s work scrubbing hydroponics.”

  She ignored him, snapping, “Do you have a death wish?”

  “Not on me right at this moment, but if you’re in desperate need of one, you might try the Unreconciled.”

  “Hey, don’t fuck with me!”

  “That makes two of us.” He shot her a look of warning. “Yes. I got the message the first time Supervisor Aguila gave it to me: Donovan is dangerous. It’ll kill me, and I don’t have the first clue about what to look out for. So I asked around. With the exception of the Wild Ones and some of the security folks, the farmers know best how to stay alive. They live on this side of the fence. And among the farmers, the best are Miranda and Sczui. Some folks said Terry and Sasha Miska, too. I ran into Reuben first. Good man. Said he’d trade a part of the harvest for the labor.”

  “Yeah, they’re good and solid. All of the farmers are.” He could hear a little give in her voice. “Well, at least you’re armed. You know how to use that thing?”

  “I have an implant. Spent a lot of time at the range. Same with the rifle.”

  “An implant and range time. I am so reassured.” The sarcasm in her voice was heavy enough to sink a ship.

  “Talina, here are the facts: Transluna and Solar System are thirty light-years away. As incomprehensible as it might be for anyone back home to even conceive, on Donovan being a Taglioni—along with a one siddar coin—will get me a beer at Inga’s.” He lifted his basket of peppers. “This might get me supper and breakfast along with a beer. For the time being, it’s all I’ve got.”

  She was watching him sidelong through her alien-dark eyes. Walked quietly for a time. Then asked, “What do you want, Dek?”

  He stopped
, turned, and pointed to the bush where it lay beyond the verdant fields. The aquajade and thornbush were shimmering in the mirage. “I want to learn the things I need to know in order to go out there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have to. You see, when I ordered my name added to Ashanti’s manifest, I was coming here to show Miko and the rest of the family that I was a man to be reckoned with. When things got bad on Ashanti, when I realized I was going to die, I wanted to die with the knowledge that I’d done everything I could to keep the ship and crew alive. Now that we’re here, I want to know and savor Donovan.”

  “I’m not sure that anyone can ‘savor’ Donovan. It has its own agenda.” A pause. “You know why Aguila has all those scars?”

  “Said it was mobbers.”

  “But for a handy crate, they’d have stripped her down to a skeleton before anyone could have saved her. And that was inside her compound, surrounded by her people, behind her fence. The point I’m trying to make is that Donovan kills nine out of ten people who come here. You ready to accept those kinds of odds?”

  Dek shifted his basket. “I am.”

  “You might talk to Mark Talbot, ask him about the way people die on Donovan. What it’s like to be eaten alive from the inside or digested over a couple of months as a nightmare’s tentacles wiggle their way through your guts. Nothing about death on Donovan is glorious or noble.”

  “Who’s Briggs?”

  That got a start out of her. “Well, that might be Chaco or Madison, or their boy, Flip. He’s eighteen, just finishing his studies in minerology and chemistry here in town. Wants to go to work for Kalico down at Corporate Mine. Where did you hear of them?”

  “Over a beer. Heard about a lot of people, Wild Ones, who live in the bush. Makes me think they know something the rest of us don’t. Like maybe I could go and learn what they know.”

  “And what would you do with this stuff you’d learn?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” He glanced back at the distant bush. “But here’s the thing: Do you think I’m bonked out if I tell you that I can feel it? Like some sort of summons.” He gestured off toward the west. “It’s out there, like a siren’s call. I really need to go find it.”

  She took a deep breath, slowly shook her head. “What is it about me and men who hear Donovan calling?”

  “So, there have been others?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I talk to them?”

  “They’re all dead.”

  THE TERROR

  Terror is nothing new. I have known it before, during the Harrowing and Cleansing. In those days I feared my fellows. Lived with the constant knowledge that with even a small shift in alliances, I’d be the next meal. We all spent our days that way. A shared anxiety that made it impossible to sleep. Hard to explain the psychological impact it has to anyone who’s never suffered that kind of fear. What it does to a person. How it can wear away at hope and endurance until a part of you screams: “Get it over with! Just kill me!”

  There’s a worse kind of terror compared to that anything-is-better-than-this fear of one’s fellows.

  It is the terror of knowing that the whole of the universe is depending upon you. Looking up to you. Expecting you to be perfect, omniscient, and omnipotent.

  The realization that you are not any of those things is like acid poured upon the soul. It eats into your every thought, and the fumes bring tears to the eyes—sear through the nose and into the very brain.

  I live this terror: I am not good enough. Smart enough.

  That knowledge is indeed my personal acid. Not only has it eaten holes in my resolve, in my faith in myself, but I can see it the eyes of those around me.

  It is the middle of the night.

  I sit alone on my throne of bones, the symbol of our strength as a people.

  “You are no longer the Irredenta.” The words uttered by that damned Perez woman rattle around inside my head like loose parts. The implications are too disturbing to even consider.

  I finger the long-bone scepter, stare at the intricate carvings of people who are struggling up a spiraling ramp. The little figures are no more than a centimeter tall, and perfectly rendered in the slightest detail. Fodor Renz spent a year in the carving of it. Rendered it from the thigh bone of the first woman I ever ate.

  Now, I fear it is a mockery.

  What is the fate of a false Messiah? One who cannot intercede with the universe on behalf of his people? One who can no longer understand the sacred voices of the Prophets? One whose people are dying all around him?

  29

  Sunlight amazed Fatima Veda, as did soil, plants, color, and the magical terror of an endless sky. She had just turned six. That wonderful age where awe, fear, and curiosity seesawed back and forth, each constantly giving way to the other. At first, she and the other children had been terrified of the open. The unsettling notion that there were no walls had slowly given way to curiosity.

  On Deck Three, the only off-limits had been the temple and the observation dome. Children were not allowed to disturb the Holy Prophets. Otherwise they could go where they wished, play where they wished. Every nook and cranny had been known.

  Once the great dome had been explored, the next fascination was the outdoors. A huge, awe-inspiring universe of space, places, sights, and light.

  Fatima, at age six, was one of the oldest children. And, because she was, the little ones looked up to her. Shimal, Bess, her mother Shyanne, and the rest of the women had told her she was to help keep the little ones out of trouble.

  And she would do that. Just as soon as she decided where they could and could not go. The women were all in the kitchen. Cooking something called vegetables.

  Fatima wasn’t sure she liked vegetables; ration was what food was supposed to be. Mother had assured her that there was no more ration. How could that be? Ration just was. Instead, in this new place, there were vegetables. That they pulled out of the dirt. Seemed a lot of work when ration just fell off the conveyor.

  Fatima stepped outside, raised a hand to block the hot light pouring down from Capella. Hard to think that wasn’t a ceiling. Just open space forever overhead.

  She blinked around. Amazed at the smells, the moving air, the feel of loose dirt under her feet. She giggled as she scrunched her toes in the stuff. So different from hard and smooth deck. The air sounded magical, the rising of the chime, the breeze in the forest. She giggled in delight.

  Everything here was new. She wandered over to the pieces of machinery. Wondered at the purpose of each, and ran her fingers over the steel, duraplast, and sialon, amazed at the shapes of hoses, fittings, and levers. At six, she was old enough to know the machine was supposed to do something. It even had a weathered seat that she climbed up to perch on.

  Tired of that, she hopped down, stomped her way across the green plants. She bent down for a closer look. Mother had said they were alive. Like people. Fatima fingered the leaves and stems, pulled one of the stems loose and sniffed and nibbled it.

  She made a face at the bitter taste. Tossed the stem away.

  A change in the musical chime drew her to the edge of the cliff to stare out at the forest. She tried to imagine the ends of it, couldn’t. And looking down brought her heart into her throat. She instinctively stepped back, vertigo causing her to gasp. Long way down! She’d never felt anything like that.

  Something red flashed down by the vegetables, and she turned, trotting to see. The thing was pretty, the brightest red she’d ever seen. Something else alive. And it flew, fluttering through the air as it dropped down to snap something up from among the plants.

  “A bird!” Fatima cried with glee. Mother had told her about birds. Animals that flew. She’d seen her first animal!

  Giddy, she chortled to herself, clapping her hands. Rubbed her shoulders, surprised at how hot the light was making her skin.


  One of the pipes running down from the dome dribbled water onto the ground next to the plants. When she stepped in it, her foot sank. Stepping back, she stared in amazement at the impression her foot had made. Stepping forward, she pressed her foot down into the mud again. Felt it squish up between her toes. A sensation like she’d never known. Again and again, she stomped her foot down. Each time she made another track.

  Delighted, she stomped her way to the end of the muddy spot.

  And with the last jump, a stinging pain made her scream.

  She dropped to her butt, pulled her muddy foot around, and stared at the bloody puncture in the sole of her foot. She screamed again as the pain burned its way through her foot.

  She’d known pain. She had wailed and screamed during the Initiation. This was as bad. And worse, it was moving.

  Moving inside her foot!

  She tried to stand. Couldn’t. Hurt too much!

  “Mother!” she screamed.

  But the women were inside. Cooking in the kitchen.

  The only sound was the rising and falling of the chime, and it seemed to mock her.

  30

  Talina was sitting on her stool in Inga’s; the tavern was full of locals and a few Ashanti crew. The rise and fall of conversation echoed from the high dome. The occasional scrape of a bench across the flagstone floor was augmented by Inga bellowing an order to her kitchen.

  Talina’s gut kept tying itself in a slipknot, and then releasing. Half of it, she was sure, was Demon making a nuisance of himself. The rest was the result of her conversation with Dek Taglioni. Shit on a shoe, what was it about the guy?

  So what if he had rich-man’s designer eyes and a dimple in his chin?

  “The chemicals say you would mate with him.”

  “Oh, go fuck yourself.”

  “Quetzals do not fuck.”