by Alex Wells
“Somethin’s comin’ in from the west,” Geri said. From the corner of her eye, she saw him sit up, saw him dig something from his saddlebags and shove up his visor: binoculars. “It’s a chopper. Coming fast.”
Nick’s voice was little more than a croak over the radio. “There’s some canyons, a few kilometers in. We can hide there.”
* * *
They made it to the flat-bottomed canyon system with the chopper still flying a search pattern behind them, and rocketed through the twists and turns, sticking to the bare rock where they’d leave no tracks. Half an hour in, Dambala called for a halt. The Wolves dove from their motorcycles, hid them behind little rock falls, in narrow gaps. Like she’d done it a thousand times, Hob dropped off her bike as soon as it came to a rest, pulled a camouflage net from her saddlebags and spread it over the machine, then ducked under it herself.
Only then, with everyone hunkered down and as safe as they could be, did they sound off.
No Makaya – taken down by two guards, one of them shooting her through both legs, Dambala said – and no Skoll, no Hukka.
It could have been worse, Hob told herself, shivering under the camouflage net. The rocks still radiated heat, but the air had gone freezing without the sun. With nothing to do but wait, the adrenalin leached from her blood, left her shaking, thirsty, and strangely hungry. They’d only lost three from a force of twenty. But even one death hurt, like a wound in the chest. These were people she’d known the majority of her life. Three more were wounded, doctoring themselves as best they could with the bandages they carried in their packs. Two motorcycles were also so badly damaged that they wouldn’t be safe to ride home. Even before the wounded were finished getting glued and sewn together, Hati the garagemaster crawled under the tarps concealing the damaged bikes and started rendering them to parts over the hissed protests of their riders. People healed. Motorcycles didn’t, and even now they had to be practical.
They all fell still and turned off their radios as the sound of chopper rotors climbed over the breeze. The chopper hovered for what felt like an eternity, shining lights down on them. Once the sweeping lights paused right on Hob’s hiding place, light leaking through the gaps in the camouflage net. She tried to not even breathe, specks dancing in front of her eye.
The chopper flew away. Hob breathed, but didn’t relax. It would be back. They’d kicked over a bloodleaper nest, good and proper. She pulled off her helmet and bellycrawled out across the rocks, searching out the spot she’d seen Nick pull in. Someone hissed at her to go back, and she ignored him. She’d hear the chopper before they’d be able to see her.
Without asking for permission – it wasn’t worth making the noise to just have her request denied – she crawled under his net. Nick lay curled up on his side, head pillowed on his helmet. It was hard to see how he looked in the dark, but his breath told tale enough – labored, rattling. Hob reached out, hesitantly put her hand on his shoulder.
He didn’t jump, or move away, just covered her hand with one of his own. She scooted around the motorcycle, still mindful to keep her head ducked and not disturb the net, and pulled his head into her lap, the way she’d done with Mag.
His face was wet, the cheek with tears, the chin with blood. She said nothing, just wiped her fingers clean on her pants. But it was terrifying, to think that Nick had even a single tear left in his one eye, let alone that many. She didn’t like it; his anger and affectionate abuse was the foundation she’d built everything on, because he was supposed to be that strong, that unchanging.
She didn’t realize at first that he was talking; she had to lean down, so far it made her back and hamstrings ache with the strain, and one of her braids slipped from her shoulder and rested over his eyepatch.
“I forgot,” he whispered. “I broke the only rule. I thought of myself first. Never do that. You always think of the Wolves first.”
His hand suddenly went tight around hers, so hard that her bones ground together and she had to bite back a yelp.
“You promise me,” he said, more strongly, though his voice was still almost worn to nothing, crackling with something wet in his chest. “You remember what I forgot. You always put your people first, before yourself. Promise.”
“I promise,” Hob said, to keep him happy. She wouldn’t have to worry about that kind of promise, ever. She was the fuckup, the omega. “Don’t give me any more of this bullshit talk, you crusty old fuck. I’m gonna take you home.”
The sound of chopper rotors grew in the distance.
Chapter Sixteen
The sound of the rotors loud over Ludlow woke Mag from a sound sleep. Only she knew she must have heard them for far longer, with her dreams haunted by images of a helicopter blotting out the sun, making a long shadow over the dunes that followed the fleeing, tiny form of her father. There had been no gunfire, not yet, but it was the dread of it that had her heart in her throat as she opened her eyes, because she knew it was coming. It had already happened.
Choppers in the sky meant that something had gone beyond wrong. Helicopters didn’t brave the unpredictable weather and the dust so far from Newcastle, didn’t cut back and forth across the desert just to see the sights.
She peered out the window, trying to see where the helicopter was, then padded downstairs, out the front door and into the street in her bare feet. The machine was a ball of light in the sky, floodlights sweeping over the streets, raking Ludlow. She ducked back into the doorway, swallowing a gasp.
Clarence joined her a moment later, wearing pants and suspenders but no shirt, his hair a gray-flecked whirlwind around his head. “They say anything?”
She shook her head. “Nothin’ over the PA. But they’re lookin’ for somethin’. Up and down the streets.”
Engines started up, deeper in the town. It wasn’t a sound Mag was used to, the deep rumble of liquid fuel-driven engines, far too low to be something fueled by sunfilled batteries like Uncle Nick’s motorcycles.
“Trucks,” Clarence said, one hand rasping at the stubble on his chin. “Those’re the trucks Mariposa owns. Hardly ever use ’em. Those aren’t things you want to be caught out in.”
The sound of engines grew steadily louder. Two trucks, the beds covered with tarps strung over a curved frame, lumbered down the streets.
“Where do you think they’re going?” Mag asked. Clarence looked more grim by the second.
“Don’t rightly know, but it’s somethin’ big, and somethin’ bad for all of us. If they’re sending so much of our garrison out, it means trouble the company wants fixed, and fast.”
“Bandits?”
“Mayhap. I’ve seen it before. But I also seen ’em roll out for times when the miners are causing trouble. And for that, they stir themselves a hell of a lot faster.”
She looked at Clarence; his brow was set in an angry line, his eyes dark. “And that’s what you think it is.”
“I do. But question is, which town. And what happened. And what it’ll do to us.”
“And what it’s done to them.”
“That too. But got to think of your own first.”
“Folk always say that,” Mag said. “Maybe that’s why we’re so easy to divide.”
* * *
By morning, they knew it was Rouse, and they knew it was ugly, though how ugly was lost in the spread of rumor after rumor. Mag slept only fitfully through the night, waking up immediately as people started knocking on the door, bringing tidbits of news. Most were things overheard from the guards, or maybe picked up on illegal radio receivers and pieced together through the static. No one had come from Rouse yet.
Mag gathered the bits of information in her mind, rearranging them over and over, trying to find a way they fit together that made sense. She knew now that there had been some kind of attack on Rouse: guards were dead, maybe the foreman. There was talk of a riot from the miners, but no word of what might have set it off – though deep in her heart, she knew that it had to be about Mama. And some small part of her was pleased, to
know that she wasn’t the only one raging at the injustice of it all, but she also knew Mama never would have wanted to see people hurt on her account. There’d been more fires, maybe one, maybe as many as four.
The fires didn’t necessarily mean anything. Fires happened all the time in a dry town in a desert. Synthetic wood wasn’t supposed to burn, but it went up in flame nicely after a couple of seasons of its flame retardants oxidizing in the sun. Fires didn’t necessarily mean it was Hob and Uncle Nick. It couldn’t be them, because she didn’t want to think about what they’d do, what could have happened to them. She’d already lost too many people, in too short a time. One more might just kill her, a shot through a hollow heart.
Through the afternoon, miners came by, just one at a time, to talk to Clarence like it was a casual visit. Some were scared, some were angry, all of them plain worried about what might be happening, because of course they couldn’t get a straight answer from the guards.
Mag sat herself down across the rough kitchen table from Clarence one of the times when he was alone. He had his pipe out, stem clenched between his teeth, but wasn’t smoking it. He just worried at it like a dog with a bone, fingers tapping out a rhythm only he could follow on the tabletop.
“What is it?” Mag asked.
“Latest I’ve got is that it was your uncle and his people, couldn’t be anyone but them, swept in an’ attacked the town–”
“That ain’t true, he’d never do that!”
Clarence cleared his throat, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. “Never said it was. But that’s what Mariposa’s sayin’. So more likely that they come in and mayhap shot some company men.”
Mag didn’t even have to wonder what might have possessed her uncle, if that was the truth of what happened. She crossed her arms over her chest. “And?”
“They’re makin’ a fuss about catchin’ ’em out on the desert last night.”
“But if that was the case, what’s the chopper still around for, all this morning?”
Clarence nodded. “Exactly. So they want us to think they got the Wolves, because they don’t want us getting no funny ideas about things.”
“Are you gettin’ funny ideas?”
“Some folk are. If they had any help inside Rouse, those people will be out on the sands by tomorrow. And even if they didn’t, company might take it as a chance to blacklist any troublemakers they been eyeballing, make an example.”
“We gotta be quiet, then.”
Clarence peered at her, his face unreadable. “That’s your uncle out there.”
“He’s either safe and will live to fight another day, or he’s already eagle meat and there’s nothin’ I can do about it.” Mag licked her lips, swallowed down a feeling of sickness. She didn’t want to think this way, but she needed to forget all of her love and hate and just think. No one else around here seemed inclined to do it. “Can’t let everyone here get too het up, neither. I know you said Papa wanted us to get organized, but we ain’t half ready for it. So we gotta keep everyone calm, make ’em be patient, because otherwise there’ll be talk of a strike and it’ll slip into some Mariposa ear and then we’ll all be dead.”
Clarence nodded, gave her a dry smile. “Glad we agree, then. Ain’t gonna be the easiest to keep folks calmed, but easier than if it was somethin’ that happened in our town. So what are you gonna do to get ready for when we got no choice?”
“Other mining towns are in the same boat as us. We can’t count on them to help, not when they all might be fightin’ their own battles at the same time. Send someone out to Blessid.” It was the nearest farming town to Ludlow, a long journey away, but something that could be managed with a little crafty train hopping. “See what kind of deal we might cut with them.”
“You volunteerin’ to go?”
She sat back, surprised. “Guess so.”
“I’ll give you some spendin’ money, and some different clothes. Best we get workin’ on this sooner rather than later.”
Mag nodded. “First thing Papa ever taught me was, never pick a fight you know you can’t win.”
“But if we get a fight picked with us, ain’t gonna do much good.” Clarence tapped his pipe stem on his teeth. “Wish I knew what changed. Time was, they squeezed us, they were rough, but you could still make a living and look forward to gettin’ the hell out with your hide intact. They never done what they done to you or your family before.”
Mag stood and went to the sink to dump her mug even though she would have liked to drink more. She didn’t want Clarence to see her face when she was about to lie. Let him assume she was crying again. “Wish I knew too.” Maybe she didn’t really know, but the memory of those little blue crystals from the tiny burlap bag, rolling around on her hands like gemstones, wouldn’t leave her alone, and her instincts told her: that. That’s the thing that changed. But she wasn’t going to whisper it to a soul until she knew what it meant, not when the only people she truly trusted were in hiding or dead.
* * *
She set out for Blessid the next day, by hiding in a boxcar filled with crates of nonperishable foodstuffs. Clarence distracted the guard with a question and she slipped into one of the cars, its doors open to allow ventilation during stops. Many people did their traveling that way, since it was expensive to buy train tickets on the salary most miners got.
Mag squeezed in between massive barrels of flour and hunkered down as best she could. The heat in the boxcar was near suffocating. She had two small canteens stashed under her skirt, but she’d need to make them last, just wetting her mouth as she went. She’d be thirsty, but alright when she made it to Blessid.
Sweat dripped from the ragged ends of her hair by the time a man in blue slid the train car doors shut. She moved out from behind the flour barrels, finding a few crates she could lay across to stay a little cooler as the train started moving. She didn’t venture too far from her hiding place, in case there was an inspector on the line.
As she stretched out on the crates, she rolled a stray thread from her skirt between her fingers, thinking about her uncle and all of his people, hiding in the desert. It was part of why she’d agreed to go so readily. With her life upside-down, she wanted to cling to Ludlow. But if she stayed in Ludlow and marked time, she’d do nothing but worry her stomach into knots, make herself sick, mayhap even make herself crazy, with no answer ever in sight.
* * *
The rhythm of the train was oddly soothing, and she dozed for most of the long journey, ears always listening for the smallest change in the sounds. At long last, the little slide back as they slowed, coming in to Blessid, woke her up. She scrambled back to her hiding place, hunkered down, and used up the last gulps of her water to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth.
The boxcar doors slid open, and she listened with all her might to the sound of footsteps and retreating voices. When they were probably a car or two away, she slipped from her hiding place and skittered to the door, poking her head out. There were two guards further down the train, but looking the other way. She scooted out and hurried away from the track, losing herself in the crowd that invariably formed when a train came in.
At first, Blessid didn’t look too different from Rouse or Ludlow: synthwood buildings and boardwalks, everything scoured smooth and shining with sand, any glass or plastic windows clouded up. But there were differences all the same: massive water tanks surrounding the town instead of mine works; far wider streets, echoing with the calls of animals; the scent of manure, earthy and strangely sharp in the nose. It wasn’t the rainy season, so there were no green fields to marvel at, though there was a small grove of fruit trees at the town’s center. Even knowing her task, Mag had to detour to look at those, just to gape. She’d seen little plants here and there in the desert, spiky things that were meant to preserve water, but never anything like this. She had to touch the soft, faintly waxy leaves of the trees to convince herself that they were real, standing in the cool of their shadows.
In the saloon she asked around about the crew leaders of Blessid, pretending that she was looking for work. The men in the saloon looked at her worn clothes and cropped hair dismissively; it was plain she’d come from a mining town. One man sent her to Tavris Meeks, the work gang boss – and the pitying look he gave her when she asked for one of the crew leaders put her right on edge. Mining and farming towns didn’t even share a common language.
A little boy with no shoes answered the door she’d been sent to, then ran to get his papa. Tavris was a small, lean man, not much taller than Mag and only a little heavier. His skin was dark brown, wrinkled and cracked from spending his days in the sun instead of underground.
He peered at her, squinting like he needed glasses. “Rains aren’t coming for months more, girl. Got no work for a new mouth to feed.” He started to close the door.
Mag stopped it with her foot. “Actually, that’s not what I’m here to talk about.”
His eyebrows, pale against his dark skin, crept up. “Then what is it you do want to talk about?”
“Mind invitin’ me in? It’s not somethin’ we should be chattin’ about, out on the street.”
He hesitated, eyes searching her face, then nodded. “Come in, then. Richie, go tell your Ma to get us some lemonade.”
The house wasn’t much different from anything she’d seen in Rouse. Neat and clean, calico curtains that had been hemmed by hand, floors clean but for the grit of ever-present dust that no amount of sweeping could defeat. He took her into a little parlor room that was barely bigger than a closet and oven-hot besides, nothing fancier to fill it than two cushioned plastic chairs and a small, plain table.
Tavris pulled one of the chairs out for her, then pulled the other around so he could sit down opposite. He examined her for a moment, one forearm resting on the table between them. “Which town you from?”
“Ludlow. Was originally from Rouse, but… things have a way of happenin’.”
