He carried Lynelle upstairs, ignoring the trail of water and mud they left behind, and stripped her wet clothes, drying her and settling her in bed before building up the fire.
The village was only a kilometer away, but he couldn’t set a horse to a gallop in this storm. He’d have to go slower and it could be as much as a quarter hour before he returned. He’d tried to call someone in the village to have them bring the midwife up to the house, but no one answered — likely everyone with a tablet had left it indoors while they secured things outside in the rain and wind.
Once he was certain Lynelle was as settled as she could be, he rushed back out to the barn. He threw a bridle and saddle onto one of the riding horses and mounted.
The wind and rain seemed worse as he set off, blinding him to the path, not quite yet a road, between farmstead and village. He kept a tight grip on the reins for the horse didn’t like being out in the storm and balked at every flash of lightning.
It seemed to take forever, but the lights of the village finally came into sight.
Denholm began calling out as he entered the outskirts and rode toward Mistress Henton’s cottage. A tidy little place not too close to the village square, but not so far away as to make the marketing troublesome, either. He’d had to outbid three other first settlers for Henton’s indenture. Doctors were hard to come by on colony worlds, most preferring the modern technologies available in the Core, so anyone with any medical knowledge, but especially around birthing, was in high demand.
A crowd of his farmhands had formed behind him as he arrived at Henton’s cottage. Denholm slid from his horse and met her at her door, struggling to make sense over the rising wind and his own breathlessness.
“Is it just the baby coming, Mister Carew?” Henton asked.
Denholm shook his head. “Something else — something’s wrong.”
“I’ll get my bag,” Henton said, then laid a hand on Denholm’s forearm. “All fathers think there’s something wrong when a babe comes early. It’s likely just the storm brought it on and naught to worry over.”
Denholm didn’t care if she thought him a worrier, hoped she was correct, just so long as she came along quickly. Which she did, back in a moment with a large bag and a heavy, waterproof cloak.
He’d driven his horse hard on the ride here, harder than he should have even if the conditions were good, but some of the hands had ridden and there were other mounts available. One of the hands, Tully, a fine horseman himself, took Mistress Henton up behind him and they followed Denholm out of the village back toward the farmstead.
All the trip Denholm worried about what they’d find when they returned. That he hadn’t done enough for Lynelle before he’d left for the village, or that he’d spent too much time seeing to her comfort and they’d return too late, or even that he’d put too much wood on the fire and it might have jumped the hearth and set the house ablaze.
All was much as he’d left it, though. Mistress Henton left her cloak in the mudroom and took her bag upstairs. Denholm followed.
Lynelle was lying still, her breath still ragged and it seemed shallower to Denholm. Her hair, despite how long she’d been inside, was still damp and there was a sheen of sweat on her face.
Denholm watched Henton set her bag down and check Lynelle. He waited for her to turn and smile, for her to tell him he’d worried needlessly and dragged her out into the storm for no cause.
Instead she frowned.
“May I use your tablet, Mister Carew?”
Denholm handed it over and she began tapping and swiping at it. Every farmstead had its own data core, the technology was fairly simple and the size, even for a huge amount of information, was negligible. Learning cores for the children of the farm and village, all kinds of other information, especially that which would be needed for farming, mining, and the million other things that kept the small society going, thousands of hours of entertainment, all in one neat package. Along with a library of medical texts and instructions that everyone prayed they’d never need to access.
Henton studied the tablet. She poked and prodded at Lynelle, whispering to her and frowning at the soft responses. At one point she drew a needle from her bag and pricked Lynelle’s finger, setting a drop of blood into an analyzer she plugged into Denholm’s tablet. All the while frowning more and more.
She sent Denholm for a bowl of cool water and a cloth.
When he returned with it, she wet the cloth and gently bathed Lynelle’s face. The two women shared a look, Henton’s concerned, Lynelle’s glazed, yet somehow peaceful. Denholm suspected he’d been sent for the bowl more to give them time to speak without him there than for any real need.
“Mister Carew, sir,” Henton said quietly without turning. “Would you be so kind as to send to Landing for Doctor Purdue?”
Twenty-One
“Aye, Denholm, I’ll be … way quick as may be.”
“How long?”
Denholm gnawed the inside of his cheek with frustration. It had taken nearly a quarter hour more to raise Witcomb Hatridge and the colony’s antigrav hauler. The storm blocked the signal to the satellites and it had taken that long for either the storm to weaken somewhat, though from the sounds outside that wasn’t it, or for a satellite remaining after the pirate attack to draw closer.
“I’m on … coast,” Hatridge said, voice coming with odd gaps through the tablet’s speaker. He paused. “Fifteen hundred kilometers … Landing, then on to you … two hours … more.” Another pause. “But I’ll have to unload the hauler here … it’s half loaded and the inertial compensator’s been … since the pirates … can’t take the risk of the load coming loose in the storm with that not working.”
“Witcomb, damn you, we need the doctor here!”
One of the farmhands laid a comforting hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Denholm didn’t see who it was, the house was crowded with men and women who’d followed them back from the village. He took a deep breath, knowing he should remain calm.
“Doctor Purdue won’t get … faster if my hauler’s broken up and … across the plains from a shifting load, Denholm.”
Denholm took another deep breath.
“I know, Witcomb, but … please?”
“The lads here … dab hands with a pallet jack … forklift, Denholm, fast as ever … seen. They’ll have us unloaded … quarter hour, no more, then I’m on … way, I promise you.”
“Thank you.”
The hours dragged on. The storm worsened, let up some, and then worsened again, while what information Denholm could get from the weather satellites showed that it had no intention of ending anytime soon.
The house, if anything, grew more crowded as men and women from the village braved the storm to visit and speak a few words, none of which Denholm could remember. Someone made a bitter herb tea, only somewhat sweetened by honey, and forced a mug into his hands. Through it all, the hauler still didn’t come with the doctor and Denholm grew more and more desperate with each call he made to Hatridge, adding the doctor in Landing to the calls only increased his sense of urgency.
“Witcomb, please.”
“… trying, Denholm … swear,” Hatridge’s voice came from the tablet, his image and audio skipping and pausing as the storm degraded the signal. “Crew’s working … repair.”
Hours ago, the crew working hurriedly to unload the hauler had damaged it. A forklift raked the craft’s side, tearing open the hold and damaging an engine.
Hatridge was certain it could be repaired, but it would take time — time Denholm didn’t think Lynelle had. Hatridge, though, wasn’t willing to risk flying the craft at speed with that damage.
“Air gets in at speed … rip the hold apart.”
Denholm closed his eyes and nodded. He believed Hatridge would take any reasonable risk to get Doctor Purdue to Lynelle — if he said the risk was too great, then Denholm would take him at his word.
“… not wait …” Doctor Purdue was saying. “I’ve two men who’ll ri
de with me. We’ll ride now and … hauler … along the way.”
Denholm’s heart fell. He should feel grateful, he supposed, that the doctor and others were willing to risk riding in the storm for hours to get to his holding, but he couldn’t help but wonder how dire Lynelle’s situation must be to make the doctor do so.
The babe came an hour before dawn.
Outside the storm still raged and there was no sign of Doctor Purdue nor was the hauler repaired. It seemed that every time Denholm contacted Hatridge for an update there was some new issue preventing the craft from flying.
Mistress Henton brought Denholm upstairs and left him to sit with Lynelle.
“Have y’seen our son, love? Isn’t he a bonnie lad?”
Denholm squeezed Lynelle’s hand. It was the third time she’d woken and asked him that and her New Edinburgh burr had grown stronger each time. Her hair was wet with sweat and her face pale and wan. Her normally brilliant green eyes were watery and unfocused, as though she were seeing something he couldn’t, something a great distance away.
“I have, love,” he said, as he had before. “He’s a fine lad.” He swallowed hard to keep his composure. “Strong, he is.”
He’d been to the nearby cradle where the boy was swaddled. The lad had looked up at him, seeming to see Denholm, though he knew that wasn’t possible so young. And he’d not cried yet, as though he knew that … knew what Denholm dare not even think.
“I’m so glad it’s a boy, love,” Lynelle said, her eyes cleared and she stared at him with a sudden intensity. “Lord knows the proper muck you’d make o’ raisin’ a wee lass all on yer lonesome.”
“Shh,” Denholm said, smoothing the hair from her forehead. “I’ll have you to set me to rights, just like always.”
Lynelle shook her head. “No, love,” she said. “I’m sore tore up inside and more.” She winced. “E’en yer doctor gets here … I’m done, love.”
He shook his head, jaw clenched, willing her to take back what she’d said.
“Don’t say that, Lynelle. It’ll be but a short time — he’ll see you right.”
“Do you remember what I told you, love? Back on New London, a’fore we left? ‘Bout bein’ yer mate an’ all?”
Denholm racked his memory … back on New London? They’d been in Beal’s aircar, hadn’t they? On the way to the port? He’d made some joke about going for a’merchantship instead of for a colony.
Oh, God, if we only had instead. A proper surgeon aboard … however long we wished in a modern port. Why, sweet lord, why didn’t I?
He’d joked that she could be his first mate, and her eyes had flashed, “Only mate, by god,” she’d said, “if you know what’s good for you.”
“I remember, love,” he said, swallowing hard to hold back the tears. Hold back the despair and give her hope to keep fighting.
“Never expected this,” she said. “Didn’t see it coming.” She grasped his hand hard. “Don’t you dare live your life alone, love.”
“Don’t say that, Lynelle. The doctor’ll be here soon.”
“Don’t you dare, love,” she insisted. “Harlyn’ll need a mother … not just you. An’ after …”
Her brow furrowed and her gaze grew distant.
“Oh, look’t what we made, love!” She smiled. “I’n’t she a wonder?”
“She is,” Denholm said, wanting to reassure her, but not understanding, as Harlyn was a boy.
Lynelle patted his hand.
“Y’can’t see yet, love, but y’will” Lynelle said, wonder in her voice.
“Aye,” Denholm said.
Lynelle grasped his hand hard, her gaze intense. “Stand by her, love. It’ll be so hard fer her.” Her eyes filled with tears. “So hard without a proper clan.”
“I will,” he said.
Lynelle’s eyes cleared. She grasped his hand and stared at him. “Not only,” she said. “But, by god, I’m first, y’hear me?”
“Always,” he assured her.
“Bring our Harlyn over, will you, love? Then lay here and hold me? It’s grown so bloody cold.”
Twenty-Two
Denholm made his way through the crowds milling about the landing field.
The sun was strong and bright, high in the sky above Landing. The grass of the landing field was brown in late summer and dusty from lack of rain. There was a motion before the Conclave to pave the field, thinking it an improvement that would bring more merchants and shippers to the system. Denholm supposed it was a good idea, but he couldn’t summon the interest to read the proposal in full. He supposed he should do that before the Conclave met the next day, but he was concerned for Harlyn, just four months old and left so many days in the care of others. More than anything he wanted to return to his home and son, but he needed more hands from the indenture ships which had arrived and wasn’t comfortable giving his proxy to another holder for the Conclave vote.
He checked his tablet and looked around the crowd again, searching for the roped off section that would be his next stop. Of all the things involved in a colony world, it was these indenture fairs that Denholm still disliked the most. Unlike the first round of indentures, who were generally just those who wanted to move on and make a new life for themselves and were contracted specifically for Dalthus, many of these were men and women who’d taken to the indenture ships one step ahead of the debt collector or gaoler — or a step behind, if they were taken up and given that choice.
Three ships had arrived in-system, with over a thousand men, women, and children packed into their hulls as tightly as could be done and still make the journey around the Fringe in some semblance of health.
A fair number of holders had made their way to the port to bid on new hands, bringing with them their foremen, families, and whatever servants they felt necessary. The population of Landing was more than doubled by that, even before the crews of the three ships were counted, and the port’s residents were taking full advantage of it.
Every spare bit of room, from a shared bed to folding cots, had been rented out. Every wheeled vehicle in the port was set to hire getting people to and from the landing field. And every settler or indenture with a bit of free time and any skill at craft or cooking had set themselves up with a booth of sorts at the site of the fair itself, selling all manner of food, drink, and handicrafts, or advertising more expensive wares they kept at the growing number of shops in town.
Denholm found the festive atmosphere at odds with the newly arrived indentures themselves, and in no little poor taste.
They were pale, weak, and tired from their time aboard ship. Each had a numbered, roped-off square of space on the field where they could sit and wait for a holder to come and express interest before, hopefully, making an offer. Men, women, and families who’d left their home planets for something new, and possibly better, amongst the colony worlds. Each had a story, ranging from the search for work and opportunity to being transported for debt or minor crimes, and each hoped that they’d hear a reasonable offer here on Dalthus, so as not to be herded back aboard ship for the long journey through darkspace to yet another world.
Denholm checked his tablet for the stall number of his next prospect then looked around to orient himself. The stall he was looking for was just across the walkway. The man was younger than Denholm would expect to have three children, still in his early twenties. He stood at the forefront of the stall, arms crossed and watching the holders wander by. His wife was at the rear of the roped off square with the children. They sat on the pile of four canvas bags which would be the only belongings the family could afford to ship with them. She had an infant in her arms and read to a younger boy from a tablet while an older girl of perhaps seven sat nearby.
The girl clutched a much-loved doll to her chest and Denholm nodded to himself. Any man who’d spend part of the tiny mass allotment indentures could afford on his child’s toy was a man Denholm wanted on his lands.
“Brandon Hulse?” he asked, stepping forward and offering his h
and.
“I am.” The man took Denholm’s hand.
“Denholm Carew. I’d speak with you if you’ve not yet found a place.”
Hulse smiled and stepped back and spread his hands. “Step into my parlor, Mister Carew, I’d be happy to speak with you.”
Denholm laughed and moved with him into the roped off space.
“Would you like to have a seat, Mister Carew?” the woman asked, starting to rise and indicating one of the canvas bags. “They’re not much, but better than standing.”
Denholm waved her back down. “No, thank you, Mistress Hulse. I’m comfortable on my feet and you and the children have had a long journey.” He waited while she nodded thanks and settled into her place again, then said to Hulse, “You’re from Waheed?”
Hulse nodded.
“Waheed’s a fairly new world still — there’d be work there. Why did you leave?”
The indentures were on-planet for so little time that there was no point in not being direct in his questions. He’d read the records of each of his prospects beforehand, but some things weren’t included and he wanted to hear the man’s answer with his own ears. Hulse hadn’t been transported for any crime, at least not officially, which put him ahead of many in this group.
Hulse scratched his neck. “My father was transported and wound up there — I’m not shamed by that, his crime wasn’t mine.” He paused, meeting Denholm’s eye as though waiting for some reaction, then nodded as though satisfied and continued. “Mother followed him.” He shrugged. “Waheed’s a religious world. Not so strongly as some —” He shrugged again. “— but not mine. I don’t want my children looked down on as they do there if one’s not of their faith.”
Denholm nodded. They talked for a time about what skills Hulse had and what he’d done on Waheed. The details were in the record and Denholm was more interested in getting a feel for the man, and the longer they spoke the more Denholm liked him.
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