Seeds to the Wind (The Medicean Stars Saga Book 2)

by McCullough Crawford

  The general pauses, watching the crew working. To his trained eye they appear sullen and untrained, but most notably they all appear exceptionally young. Their guide notices that they’ve fallen behind and turns back to see why.

  “Gentlemen, you need not worry about them, they’re just a work crew clearing up after a storm we had a couple of days ago.”

  “They look rather young. I’m surprised they were able to volunteer for this program. The Junior Space Corps was founded to help young people learn some skills before heading to university, right?” General Long asks as he watches them slowly fill wheelbarrows with debris and haul them off down the trench.

  “That is correct, sir. The majority of the recruits in the program are young adults who volunteered for service. In fact, the entire crews of the rockets are all volunteers as well. These poor souls, though, are all conscripted from various correctional facilities around the country. We’d only make hardened criminals work in these conditions. I don’t know the details, but I’ve heard that half of them are serving life sentences.”

  Their guide may have heard rumors or been told this by his superior officers, but to Phillip Long the figures in the trench do not look like hardened criminals, only bedraggled and exhausted teenagers. He glances at his aide. The man’s face would appear stoic to a casual observer, but General Long has known him too long. Something in that trench has disturbed him, allowing a new doubt to take hold and start to simmer in a corner of his mind. They make eye contact for the second it takes the general to shake his head minutely as if to say: “Not here, not now, remember why we’re here. I am nothing more than a figurehead on a ship built to be scuttled.”

  The guide politely clears his throat to regain his charges’ attention before leading them across the runway to a low building that seems to cower beneath the rockets. The building isn’t ugly, but it is clear that no one spent any time addressing more than the basics of functionality when designing it. It is a standard government-issue gray concrete box. Two stories of thick walls and sunken windows, the kind of building that should seem stout and invincible seems small and insignificant before the rockets as they begin to steam in the sun’s gathering strength.

  The lobby of the building is as inspired as its exterior: Plain beige unadorned walls greet them as they step through double glass doors and into the rush of the air curtain intended to keep the dust and heat outside. It isn’t clear why they bother. The walls are the same color as the dust, and the two uncomfortable couches bracketing the door are the deeper shade of brown of the rocks that stud the ground between the patches of bare earth. The only thing to break the brown monotony is a large red clock glaring from the wall facing the entryway. Its glowing numerals read forty three minutes, each second ticking by without heed to the world around. The general is momentarily transfixed by the descending numbers until, just as the doors are closing behind them, the roar of the jet taking off pushes through the white noise of the air curtain. So low is it flying that as it passes over the building, the windows vibrate, distorting the view beyond into a fuzzy brown smear.

  Once the jet passes, the vibration dissipates and the barren view is clear once more. The three men end up giving the view only a cursory glance though, because nearly as soon as they turn towards the rumble of the departing jet, the elevator gives a cheerful ping, and the general and his aide are ushered into its bland confines. Unlike the elevator that took them from the heart of the military headquarters, this one is uniaxial and slow: doors close, pause, upwards, one floor, chime, pause, doors open.

  The second floor hallway is no more exciting than the main lobby, except instead of beige tile, beige carpet stretches off to the left and right. Their escort leads them from the carriage and to the right, striding down the hall after checking that they are following. The doors leading off the hallway are all painted an identical off-white, each one closed tightly. The only variations between them are the ascending numbers printed on the small burgundy plaques mounted on the wall slightly above their handles. The hall ends in a door, about which the only remarkable thing—other than its perpendicular orientation to the others—is that its number plate has the highest value they’ve seen yet.

  They wait patiently as the guide punches what seems to be an inappropriately long code into the keypad inset above the handle. Finishing the code, the man stands up straighter and inserts a key into the lock but does not turn it right away. Instead he leans to the side and places his eye on a retinal scanner that is discreetly integrated into the door’s number plaque. He waits longer than they’d expect for the little lens to make its reading before turning the key and ushering the men into a small antechamber.

  The room is barely furnished. There is a low bench along one wall and several hooks for coats along the other, but beyond that the chamber is barren. Despite its lack of furnishing, the room hardly feels empty once the three of them enter. Once the door to the hall closes, their guide places his hand on a scanner set next to the door on the opposite end of the tiny chamber and mutters something into a tiny microphone. Finally the general and his aide are led into their holding pen. Unlike the entry chamber, this room is well furnished—not nearly as opulent as the jet that brought them here, but certainly on its way.

  Rich burgundy carpets and comfortable over-stuffed leather furniture fills the center of the room. Along its edges, several antique sideboards are visible, their existence made more noticeable by the glint of crystal arranged neatly atop them. The room is filled with the masculine scent of cigars and the oil used to polish the extensive wood surfaces. Even the ubiquitous ventilation fans are unable to remove the smell despite their faint, yet incessant, humming. General Long finds it both comforting and slightly disconcerting; the room is comfortable and feels well used, yet the building within which it is housed is a new, rapidly built government shed.

  Without asking, their guide has busied himself at one of the side boards. The clink of ice heralds another state-issued cocktail. When he brings them their glasses, the two men both smile and accept the refractive vessels, making the appropriate appreciative noises. They are all familiar with this dance and make their steps without error.

  “Gentlemen, if you will not be needing anything further, I must excuse myself,” their guide states politely. “The overseer has need of me for the final preparations.”

  “Of course not, we are quite comfortable,” the general assures him. “We are grateful for the exceptional hospitality.”

  “I will return when it is time to make your final preparations, until then relax and enjoy the view,” the guide says, indicating the floor-to-ceiling windows along one side of the room.

  The two longtime friends walk softly across the floor to stand before the windows. Both with a glass in hand, they stand with slightly spread legs as if bracing against the rolling deck of a ship, allowing the sun streaming through the glass to wash over them. The landscape is composed of warm, dry, and brown dirt that stretches all the way to the distant gray peaks, its smoothness occasionally broken by an outcropping of rock or a dried up wash. Before this backdrop, the crude hand of man has erected scaffolding, warehouses, and a series of rough dirt roads; this jumble seems to have given birth to the bulky rockets, which are spewing steam as various hoses are detached.

  As they watch, the crews that had been swarming to and fro begin to settle into a more consistent outward direction. As if by consensus, the chaos settles into something almost organized as crews and trucks make their way to the outskirts of the facility and a low line of hills that barely push above the plain. The general’s training and experience lead him to see the numerous flaws and inefficiencies in the organization of the support crews around the rockets, but as he examines them, he sees an anomaly: One truck is headed towards the rockets.

  Its load is covered in a tarp, but when it is forced to slow at a narrow patch in the road directly in front of their vantage point, a gust of wind exposes its cargo briefly. Underneath the green tarp is a wea
pon from a bygone era. So massive was its destruction and so filthy its lingering effects that the military had been shamed into destroying all such weapons in its arsenal. In fact, the only reason that the general can identify this particular model is that his favorite courtyard, where he used to take his lunch every day, featured one of them, decommissioned and rusting. The squat, imposing scaffolding that surrounds the bulbous heart of the weapon is unmistakable.

  He is granted no more than a glimpse of his doom before the driver of the truck sees a break in the oncoming traffic and revs his engine. Even through the thick glass of the windows, the men can hear the diesel cry out. The truck swerves back onto the main channel of the dirt road, kicking up dust and gravel as its wheels spin. General Long wonders if the driver would be so bold if he really knew what was sitting directly behind him.

  The truck disappears behind one of the low warehouses, but before it comes out the other side, their guide reenters the room carrying a flight suit. The general is lost in thought and does not notice until his aide taps him on the shoulder.

  “Phil, it is time.” Nothing more is said, nothing more needs to be said. It is time that they part. A shared clasp of shoulders, and they turn away from each other and away from the windows, the general to shed his uniform, his aide to find a way to honor the man who taught him so much but also to find some way to free himself from the man’s falling fortunes.

  The mood is funeral-like as the general slowly removes his trappings and places them neatly in the box provided by their guide. Where he is going, the decorations and honors that he has accumulated through his long years of service will hold no weight.

  Chapter 14

  Western Mountains

  Government Training Facility

  After arriving in the control building, the youths had been herded about, each by an unrelenting technician. The beige halls and drab rooms had flown by, but the result of their tour of government architecture did have some lasting impressions: gone are the bright jumpsuits they had worn for training, gone is the filth and grime that had built up all over their bodies, and gone is every single strand of hair they once had.

  Clean and clean-shaven, they sit ringed about the edge of a wedge-shaped chamber halfway up rocket number six. The chamber is cramped and sterile. Jill, the shortest of them by far, cannot stand fully upright or her freshly buzzed head would strike the supports for the floor above. Jackson almost had to crawl on all fours when they entered given his height and the low, white ceiling. In fact, everything in the chamber is white, a blinding hue that, if the overpowering smell is any indication, was only applied this morning. The door at the narrow end of the chamber leads into the core of the rocket, another whitewashed space completed with a white ladder whose coat is already visibly wearing from the hands and feet of those who have moved on to higher levels.

  The chamber, remarkably, had not felt that cramped despite the low ceiling until Mike had accidently discovered that the chairs in which they are sitting fold flat into narrow cots. For a several-hour flight into space, the tiny porthole on the curved wall of the chamber would be sufficient to keep the claustrophobia at bay, but when they realize that this seems to be intended as their living quarters for the foreseeable future, the walls seem to take a big step in on all sides.

  Florence is seated closest to the window, her long body relaxed into her restraints so her head can twist around and she can squint at the ground below. Ground crews are running away, dragging umbilical cables and pieces of equipment used to load the rockets. The crews’ movements are frenzied, and when she glances at the clock projected in red on the far bulkhead she can see why. Five. Deep beneath them in the bowels of the rocket a throaty rumble begins. Four.

  “Look! Oh no, they’re not…” her voice trails off as the rumble becomes a deafening roar that would have made it impossible to hear her anyway. Three. Through the tiny window, the figures she had seen, along with anything else upon the ground, are swallowed in a maelstrom of fire-streaked gray clouds. Two.

  The vibration and noise are so great, it is clear that the rocket is going to disintegrate on the spot instead of lifting off. Surely no man-made structure can withstand these forces that are going to powder the passengers’ bones.

  As the clock turns through one, the engines build to a crescendo before tapering off markedly. At first there is no other change, but slowly the force holding them into their seats noticeably grows. Out the porthole, the other rockets are beginning to rise, each looking like a shiny silver bud on the end of a growing stalk of fire, soot, and brimstone.

  The engines settle into a rhythmic throb, quiet by comparison to the initial lift-off but still too loud to allow conversation. The acceleration continues to build, driving Florence down into her couch, forcing her to lie on her back where the only thing visible through the window is an empty monochrome sky. The texture of the sky that is visible suddenly changes as they plunge into a bank of clouds, still gaining speed.

  Now the window shows only a swirling, a shifting gray chaos as the rocket tears through the fluffy constructions. Then as suddenly as they plunged into the clouds, they break free, and the cabin is suddenly illuminated by the stark white light that is only ever reflected off the tops of clouds.

  The pressure on their bodies continues to build as they fight to break free of Earth’s gravity. As William lies on his back staring through his feet towards the window, he slowly loses focus on the rest of the whitewashed room, and the porthole swells in his vision as the sky darkens to a deeper and deeper shade of blue. Just before he is going to black out, the acceleration stops. He gasps as he expands his lungs freely and floats against his restraints. They are in space.

  Chapter 15

  Foothills of the Western Mountains

  A University Town

  The first thing that he is aware of is a dull ache down his side. It grows in intensity and size until his entire left half feels like it is on fire. He groans. The feel of his voice in his throat and the sound it makes bring awareness to his ears. He realizes it isn’t the only sound he can hear; somewhere nearby an ice machine has gone wild and is spewing ice cubes across a tile floor at an alarming rate.

  As he continues to listen, the pain along his left side begins to clarify into distant regions and sensations. His knee and ankle feel hot and throbbing, each feeling like it has already grown to twice its normal size. His chest becomes a dull ache that instantly escalates into sharp pain as soon as he takes more than a sip of air. His shoulder doesn’t even begin to hurt until he tries to push himself upright, but then it and his wrist cry out in protest.

  The clacking noise is beginning to take on a sharper tone as the blackness that filled his vision lightens into vague gray outlines. Then there is a new noise, someone yelling, shouting the same thing over and over again. What is it? What could be so important? Can’t they see he is in a lot of pain? Whatever the word is, it sounds familiar, like he should know it.

  “Jon!”

  Everything snaps back into focus. The pain is excruciating, but a surge of adrenaline pushes it from his mind. The clattering resolves itself into automatic gunfire, spraying the trees and sending pine needles to drift lazily down around him.

  “Jon!” Ryan yells again as he darts between the trees trying to avoid the hail of bullets. The big man slides up next to him and scoops him up, throwing him over a shoulder like he weighs little more than a sack of potatoes.

  Weaving through the trees, they manage to make it to a small ravine that offers them some protection from the storm of bullets. The Professor is already there looking worse than Jon feels, his face a ghastly shade of pale with a hint of green around the edges. His leg stretched out before him is bent at an awkward angle, and his breath is coming in short gasps. Ryan sets Jon down, eliciting a small gasp as his foot comes into contact with the pine needle-strewn ground.

  Seeing that their targets are out of sight, the men who have been firing at them let off their triggers, leaving a silence
soon filled with a woman’s voice amplified by a PA system.

  “The campus is under quarantine. If you attempt to trespass again you will be shot on sight. This has been your warning.”

  As the voice clicks off, Ryan pokes his head over the edge of the ravine before muttering, “Some warning.” But at least as he slowly rises into a crouch and then to completely standing, no more bullets are sent his way. He sees movement up on the ridge and ducks behind the nearest tree, not interested in taking any chances. The patrol on the ridge must see his large mass ducking for cover, because after a brief lull the men can hear laughter, and the woman with the bullhorn clicks back on.

  “Silly kids, run along home now. If we’d been trying to hit you, you’d be dead.” Her voice has a chuckle in it, like shooting at them had all been a big joke.

  Ryan walks slowly back into the gully, testing the truth of her statement by providing his broad back as a target. Jon has managed to roll over onto his stomach and push himself up to a kneeling position. He can already tell that his left knee and ankle are going to swell up to the size of melons if he stays still any longer, yet putting even the slightest weight on that leg sends a stab of pain through his ankle.

  Jon pushes himself upwards, grimacing as his left foot brushes the ground, but he is able to claw his way up the bark of a nearby pine until he is standing. His breath is coming in tiny gasps as he sways slightly to the erratic rhythm of his heart, but one look at The Professor and he feels practically great in comparison. His skin is pallid, and if it weren’t for the almost imperceptible rise of his chest, he wouldn’t look like he is breathing.

  “You’d better carry him,” Jon says, nodding towards the form of The Professor. When Ryan, who appears relatively unscathed by their recent tumble down a small cliff, looks questioningly at him, he shrugs. “I’ll be fine, just have to walk it off.”