“If you’re interested, you can take my motorcycle.” He nods in the general direction of the shed and its gleaming piece of antique metal. “I haven’t ridden it since I got surgery on my shoulder. She still runs pretty good, I’ve been able to take care of that, but a machine like that belongs on the open road, cruising, and that’s just not going to happen for me anymore.”
For the second time this morning, Sara is stunned by the old man’s casual announcement. The beauty of the machine had taken her breath away the first time she had seen it, and yesterday when she was helping him re-hang the shed door, the afternoon sun had struck the deep green paint on the fuel tank, sending shivers down her spine. She’d grown up dreaming of motorcycles like that but always assumed they would remain a fantasy. But here, a man who has already shown her so much unwarranted kindness is offering her not only her freedom and a chance to escape the government agents chasing her but also a chance to do so astride a childhood dream.
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen how you’ve been stealing glances at her every chance you’ve had,” he says with a wry grin. “I’d wager you’ll take better care of her than I have. Plus when I die I don’t want the debt collectors just auctioning her off to the highest bidder. It’d make me happy to know she is with someone who loves her.”
Sara stammers out a thank you, taken aback by his generosity and casual fatalism, yet excited to receive such a gift. He brushes aside her thanks as if he had merely passed her the homemade blackberry jam sitting by his elbow. Seeming to remember something he had forgotten, he pushes back from the table and disappears down into the cellar. Sara busies herself clearing the table, feeling overwhelmed by his generosity and not wanting to crowd him.
After several minutes of muffled bangs, strange clicking noises, and the occasional muffled curse, he comes back up the stairs with an oblong bundle clutched to his chest. He lays the bundle on the table, and several metal objects within the dirty cloth rattle against each other.
“You might find this useful,” he says as he pulls back the oil-stained cloth. Beneath it lies an old hunting rifle, obviously lovingly cared for yet predating anything she has ever fired before. “You might need something to protect yourself with.”
“I do have this,” she says with a slightly feral grin as she produces a knife from the sheath strapped to her lower back. The knife’s blade is long enough that despite the thickness of the old man’s chest, if she were to stab him in the heart, the blade would end up sticking out the other side. It curves slightly before the tip, and when the light catches the edge of the blade it seems to gleam with a sinister internal light. She deftly returns it to its sheath, once more an innocent-appearing young woman.
“If I’d known you were packing that I might not have let you hide out here,” he says with a wry chuckle. “Maybe you are one of those roving bandits they keep mentioning on the news.”
“Sorry to disappoint. My parents just taught me a few valuable lessons before I left for university, one of which just happened to be how to gut any pig dumb enough to try something,” she says with a shrug.
“I guess it’s just the times we live in,” he responds after a pause, clearly taken aback by her casual acceptance of her need to protect herself with violence. Mentally gathering himself once more, he continues. “That being as it is, this old rifle has killed its fair share of deer and might come in handy when you’ve got a different type game in mind. Sometimes you can’t just walk up to them and stick them like a pig.”
Raising his hand to forestall any protest, he turns around and steps into the hall. It only takes him a moment before he returns with two vintage leather saddle bags that appear almost as old as the motorcycle in the shed and begins raiding the pantry to fill them with food.
Caught up in the rush of packing, she soon finds herself outside helping the old man strap the saddlebags to the sides of the motorcycle without a clear recollection of how she got there. Once the leather bags are attached to the motorcycle, he stands up awkwardly uttering a grunt, both hands pressed to his sore back.
“If you head west to the mountains and then make your way south and west, I’ve heard rumors that there are folks out there who will be supportive of your situation. Stick to the back roads and keep to yourself, and you should be fine.” She nods in understanding, smiling in thanks, then impulsively throws her arms around him and gives him a hug. He returns her embrace gently but firmly for a few seconds before gently pushing her away.
Feeling strangely emotional about leaving the kindly stranger, she throws her leg over the bike and kicks it to life. The engine roars before settling down to a grumbling idle.
“Go,” he shouts over the engine, and with a gentle push on her shoulder he guides her out into the sunlight as she lets out the clutch.
With only one glance over her shoulder, she tears across the farmyard and onto the small road. She has a long way to go, and the sun is still well short of its zenith.
Chapter 27
Space
Rocket Fleet
The airlock is crowded, but it is a testament to the effectiveness of the Junior Space Corps training program that the proceedings are unfolding in an orderly fashion. The rockets lack any sort of shuttle vehicle capable of carrying people, so The Watcher is forced to maneuver each rocket individually as close as possible to one of the mountain’s airlocks, and the passengers then must jump across the remaining void.
The doors open, and one side of the stark white airlock falls away to reveal a vast nothingness with a seemingly illogically floating mountain, trees still clinging to its sides and a cap of pristine snow on its summit, hanging before the deep velvet backdrop of space. Some of the congregated forms sag limply in their space suits and would fall to the floor if the simulated gravity were not turned off in conjunction with the opening of the doors. Others bend over to retch, overcome with vertigo from staring at the mountain, which their instincts tell them is upside down. But instead of pulling themselves downward, the lack of gravity allows them to float up, tugging their peers away from the floor as well by the tether that binds them all together.
It isn’t far between the two vessels, and guided by a select group of guards who have volunteered to lead the transfers, each trip across the emptiness is relatively short. But to the members of the Junior Space Corps still aware of their surroundings, the gentle glide seems to both take forever and be over instantly as they are absorbed by the majesty of the view.
William and his teammates float in a line. The reality of their situation has brought them closer together than any grueling months of training could. They each have their hands clasped to the utility belt of the person in front of them, not relying on the tethers to hold them together. William draws comfort from the two small lumps of Florence’s fists pressed into his back as they grip his belt. Even Mike, who had been frustrating and troublesome when they were on Earth, has loosened up as if he is trying to integrate into the team. In fact he has asked to be called Antonio again. William feels a little burst of pride. This certainly isn’t the situation in which he had imagined himself, nor had he cast himself as a leader before the mantle was thrust upon him, but now with the excitement of their new adventure before them, a chance to start anew, a chance to build something that is entirely their own, he has begun to embrace his role.
Before he can be completely swept away with emotion both at this thought and the expanse surrounding them, they pass along a ridge line protruding from the mountain, and looking up, a rocky cliff seems to tumble towards them. Trees clinging to the rock face jut out like spears from a phalanx. Beneath the trees, where the stream that once cut the rock face should have been, the mountain ends, and a black field studded with the occasional star seems to tug at William’s senses. He looks down towards his feet, in the direction indicated by the trees. The cliff face extends to an abrupt stop. Once a waterfall cascaded over the edge, its bed now dry but its course clear. Beyond the river’s bed, the mountain peak soars—upward? Wil
liam isn’t sure. Without the orientating pull of gravity, terms like up and down are meaningless. He tears his eyes away from the strange sight and focuses on the rapidly approaching airlock.
From his vantage point, it feels like they are falling sideways towards the opening in the cliff face. A dirt track leads a short way towards where the base of the cliff once was before terminating abruptly. The opening itself is made to look like a natural cave, but as they glide closer William can make out the artificial shapes of a control panel, security camera, and in the recesses of the cave an outline of the door itself.
They sweep through the opening. The vehicle tracks that marked the road on the cliff face continue, the wear of countless tires leaving parallel tracks along the cave above William’s head. The airlock itself is hardly an exhibit of advanced technology; retrofitted from a blast door required during a war long past, the massive concrete monolith opens slowly and deliberately. If there was an atmosphere, William would expect to hear the whirring of gears and the hum of whatever motor is responsible for moving the door. Instead in the emptiness of space, the door opens with an eerie silence.
Beyond the slab of concrete is another brightly lit sterile room, like the one they left aboard the rocket, but whereas they were cramped there and jostled to find space apart from each other, here they have space to spread out, the chamber being large enough for a tank. Instead of floating freely, they cling in tight knots scattered throughout the chamber.
Even though the mountain is not accelerating, there is a gentle force guiding them slowly towards the floor. It is not strong enough that any of them risk injury from falling head-first to the ground, but it incessantly guides them down. Once they are all seated, barring a few mishaps when some shifted their positions too quickly and found themselves floating above their peers once more, the door behind them begins to close. It crawls shut with the same nonchalance with which it opened.
Once the blackness of space is cut off, the bright lights installed overhead seem to increase in intensity, their glare brightening until William is forced to look down at his suit and the ground for some relief. The gray concrete and white of his suit hardly help, reflecting most of the light back through his faceplate and making his eyes begin to water. It is with tears in his eyes that he looks up and through the opening internal door of the airlock and sees his new home.
The ceiling of the chamber into which the door opens is easily twice as high as the airlock, and instead of a smooth white surface, it appears to be hollowed directly from the rock, rough and uneven. The lights hang from the protrusions, casting their illumination on the assembled vehicles below.
The first thing that William notices as his gaze travels down from the ceiling and across the cavern while they are led from the airlock is a woman perched on the hood of a transport truck to their left. Her arms are crossed as she listens to one of the uniformed men standing on the ground beneath her. The strange half gravity that is allowing them to move across the ground in a half shuffle, half bound causes her hair to burst loose as she shakes her head, violently disagreeing with something she is being told. The sudden explosion of her deep red hair catches William’s eye.
He stumbles into the person in front him having, while distracted, followed the gentle pull of his tether, but the group is no longer moving. Before them are several bored looking guards with their arms crossed and pistols at their waists.
“Remove your suits and fold them neatly before placing them in the boxes, then assemble by the tunnel entrance 1B,” the guard in the center of the group says, languidly waving towards the far wall of the chamber where the letters 1B are stenciled above an opening in the cavern wall.
William quickly removes his pressure suit before helping the rest of his team gather theirs together. He realizes that he has a smile on his face, and before it can fade he catches sight of Jackson and Florence, both of whom are grinning tentatively. He lets his smile widen, and they follow suit. Once they are all stripped down to their coveralls, they make their way towards entrance 1B, unsure of where they are headed but excited that it will certainly be better than the Junior Space Corps.
* * *
“I don’t care if they really are just a bunch of convicts. I’m not going to let any more of them die if there is something we can do to help,” Angelina says, fighting to contain her hair and pull it back into the neat bun it had started the day in. Then with a wave towards the latest group to come through the airlock, she continues. “Look at this lot. The oldest can’t be more than twenty. I’d bet most of them were in school before they ended up in the Junior Space Corps, whatever that is. I doubt they’re hardened criminals deserving of a slow death suffocating in darkened space ship.”
“But ma’am, the weapon they brought to attack us with would have left nothing but a pulsing energy signature,” the sergeant before her counters. “There would have been no matter left to mark where we or their armada of rockets once were.”
“That may be true, but hasn’t The Watcher confirmed that besides small arms carried by what appears to be their guard force, we’ve confiscated all their weapons? Anyway, you think willing participants in a suicide attack would require a guard force?”
“No ma’am,” the sergeant says, glancing away from the fire in her eyes.
“We will get over to rocket number five. We will discover why they aren’t responding. And we will help the life signs The Watcher detected. Gather your squad together. We’ll suit up once the next batch comes through.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Angelina sighs as the sergeant scurries off to round up his squad. Ever since the assembled generals and bleeding heart Gavitte decided to rescue their would-be attackers by consolidating them all within the mountain, her morning had turned hectic. She silently curses each of them under her breath but quickly has to hide a smile as she thinks back to the conference that started this transfer. When General Long had provided the details of their circumstances, the fact that General Lampard had not even contemplated retribution for the attempted attack reminded her why so many times she had willingly laid her life upon the line to follow his orders. And Gavitte, bleeding heart he may be, always searching for the good in people, and certainly not a philosophical realist, but when The Watcher balked at helping their would-be attackers, the way he took over the situation and why he did it, not for some calculated reason but because it was the right thing to do, it was enough to reaffirm why she was so willing to open up to this man and give him her heart.
But for all their big noble thoughts, someone still has to see the plan through. She unfolds her arms and floats to the ground, giving up on her unruly hair, which seems intent upon billowing behind her even when she is stationary. Walking across the cavern floor to help expedite the sorting of the newest arrivals at the 1B entrance, she is intrigued by the sensation of walking. Her body feels weightless, but her feet seem drawn to the floor as if gently being pulled by gravity.
It doesn’t seem like a particularly long span of time passes, but by the time she has the last group organized—assigned to a temporary housing cavern and an escort—the light above the airlock is blinking again signaling the arrival of the next batch from the rockets. Glancing around, she sees she is the only person currently unoccupied, the sergeant not having returned with his squad yet, so she starts jogging towards the portal as it opens to welcome aboard their newest recruits.
As the door opens further, she senses something is wrong, causing her to slow her jog. This group isn’t acting like the others who have come before. There is no awe and wonder, no star-struck, glassy-eyed looks. Then her mind registers the obvious thing it had skipped over at first. All of them except for a limp body near the door have shed their pressure suits and are wearing tactical gear instead of the utilitarian jumpsuits the rest have been wearing. Angelina stops in her tracks when she realizes they are all carrying rifles and are aiming at her.
Her training kicks in, and she dives for cover behind a truck. But her
shock had slowed her too much, she realizes, as the roar of a volley hits her ears and her body hits the ground before rolling against one of the oversized tires of a transport truck.
Propped against the black rubber she feels like she is cocooned in warm constricting wool. None of her limbs will respond to her commands, and when she attempts to yell a warning, only a gurgle of blood makes it past her lips.
An irresistible warmth spreads up her body as if the cavern floor is turning slowly liquid and allowing her to sink into its embrace. Slowly her eyes begin to lose focus. The harsh edges of the military vehicles soften, and the color begins to fade as the world turns to a deepening shade of gray.
In her final thought, she hears a gentle voice whisper.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
Releasing a breath she hadn’t been consciously holding, Angelina relaxes and dies.
Chapter 28
Western Mountains
Backroads
If Sara were to make one observation about classic motorcycles, it would be that while they are beautiful to look at and sound amazing, take one on a long-distance ride and you’re soon going to be cursing the outdated suspension and worn seat cushion. The scenic two lane strip of blacktop winding through the mountains has been nothing short of gorgeous, but the most welcome sight she has seen all day is the glow of a neon sign hanging in the window of a rundown roadside watering hole.
She pulls in, letting the engine idle as the tires crunch across the scattered patches of gravel that comprise the parking area. The building itself is only a single story, and only two windows face the road, each of which boasts a glowing sign and blackout shades to keep headlights from shining in.
The first sign reads “Beer” and the second “Open.”
“Sounds good to me,” she mutters to herself.
Seeds to the Wind (The Medicean Stars Saga Book 2) Page 19
