“Thank you,” he replied curtly as he took the offering.
Traci’s mouth twitched into a fleeting smile, and she turned away. After only four steps she stopped and slowly turned to face them again.
“I’m sorry, Calvin,” she uttered in an eerily soft voice.
“For what?”
“For everything I’ve done to you. For everything I’ve put you through since we’ve been here, and every snarky comment I made to you on Michael. For threatening and bullying you. I was wrong. I couldn’t see how wrong I was about you until it was almost too late.”
“Traci, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” she cut him off. Tears began to stream down her face, though Cal could tell she was fighting off a complete breakdown. “Jesus, I had the gun in my hand and I was going to shoot myself. I failed my mission, and only you and Neil were left. You should have hated me. But you stopped me.”
Cal felt Alexis wrap her fingers into his forearm, almost digging her nails into his skin. “Traci, please. This isn’t the time for this.”
“I know, Alexis. I’m sorry.” Traci wiped her eyes with her bandage and fixed her attention on Cal once again. “I just thought you should know that you saved my life. I know that I’m supposed to give you guys a gift on your wedding day, but I don’t really have anything. All I can give is my deepest thanks, and my sincerest wishes for the best. For both of you.”
Cal was struck speechless. After a moment’s hesitation and dozens of responses rattling through his head at the same time, he stepped forth and hugged Traci and whispered, “Thank you. That’s the only thing I could wish for.”
The embrace ended, and Traci nodded before walking away, just as distraught as during her confession. Cal looked numbly down at the bottle of Irish whiskey in his hands.
Every day, work is our reality. But I guess it’s not just tilling fields, building homes, or cutting trees. At least not for all of us. Traci’s wounds may have healed on the outside, but she’s still wounded on the inside.
Cal closed his eyes and remembered the small, private burial ceremony for Elaine Montoya, and the utter grief that her family wore that day. The dead silence that engulfed Michael’s bridge as Cal broke the news of Cameron’s death to the crew haunted him, even weeks later. And even though he had never seen the face of a single refugee or crew member of Raphael, he could feel the sorrow echoing subtly through the colony every day.
The wounds we all bear are deeper and wider than the Fairweather. So I guess healing is our reality, too. We still have a long way to go with that.
He opened his eyes and looked again over the revelers. Among those gathered closest were familiar faces from both sides of the river, engrossed in conversation and laughter.
But it’s a start, he thought, and his bright smile again broke through.
“Is everything alright, Cal?” Alexis asked.
“It is. And it will be,” he replied as he removed the stopper from the bottle.
He raised the bottle in the air and whistled loudly for the crowd’s attention.
Gov. Darius Owens
15 August, Year of Landing, 09:42
Gabriel
Darius tried to concentrate on the stack of reports in front of him on the table, but the air had become insufferably hot and stagnant over the course of the morning. Bravo lingered in the sky at its apex, turning the bridge into a greenhouse and much of the upper gallery into a sauna. As the first beads of sweat dripped from his brow onto the crinkled pages he decided to collect his work and relocate to just inside the cargo door on the lower floor. The temperature was considerably cooler, and the shape of the open tail allowed the wind to form small eddies just inside.
The first summer on Demeter had been quite warm, and though there had been rain through much of June, the skies had been fair for weeks on end. The landscape around Concordia had taken on a sepia color, broken only by the green of hardier trees and farms, the murky blue of the river, and the gray hulks of the sleeper ships. Earth-based crops only grew modestly when planted away from the river due to the lack of available irrigation. Native plants grew much better, but Darius knew it would be some time before the farmers of the fledgling colony fully understood their growth patterns and requirements. As Darius dangled his legs off the end of the cargo platform he cast his gaze out to one of the fields at the very edge of the encroaching town boundary.
It’s going to be tight, that’s for sure, he thought.
Early projections from the farms were less than stellar. There would be plenty of food for everyone at harvest time, but supplies were sure to be stressed during the winter, especially if it was harsh, as the livestock would likely need to share the grain supply with the humans.
Darius worried far less about supplies of protein since a small group of intrepid colonists had become trappers, as had their ancestors two hundred years earlier on Earth. He was thankful for the food that this venture provided for both Concordia and Rust Creek. New businesses had also spawned that processed the hides of these animals into new clothing and blankets to replace articles that were wearing out across the colony, further evidence of the populace’s understanding that waste was as big of an enemy as any other factor on Demeter.
As he flipped through several pages of detailed reports, he heard Tom approach from inside the ship. Roger was with him, evident from the limp that he walked with, though he at least no longer needed crutches.
“Done with the inventory?” Darius asked.
“Indeed,” the reply came from Tom.
“How much is left?”
“Almost three months’ worth, evenly divided between the two ships.”
“Three? That’s more than I thought we’d have.”
His deputy grimaced as he sat on the deck next to him. “It’s less than I’d hoped for. I don’t think Colonel Eriksen was thinking that far forward. Either that or his botanists weren’t as sharp as ours.”
“In any case, it might just make the difference in getting through the winter. If we have to burn through our stores keeping the livestock alive, we’ll be thankful for those ration packs later on. Even if they do taste like rubber and hot sauce.”
“Nothing like a little home cooking to put perspective on things,” Roger added.
“After harvest, you can kiss that goodbye for a while. Or at least the kind of cooking we get right now. We’re going to pull up stakes on the camp kitchen as soon as the weather turns.”
“So only the lucky few with homes will be able to cook with fire,” Tom finished the thought.
“That reminds me,” Darius said as he snapped his fingers and rose to his feet. “I haven’t talked to Calvin yet about his situation. Has he had any success in making biodiesel?”
“So-so. His last batch didn’t gel up, which is a good thing. I still wouldn’t put it in anything that we want to keep running, though. Give him time and I bet he’ll come up with usable fuel. He’s been experimenting with other stuff, though.”
“Oh?”
“He’s figured out how to make soap from his waste and errors.”
Darius chortled. Though the ships still had plenty of soaps and detergents in their stores, it was somehow comforting to know that the townsfolk could still wash themselves once these supplies ran out. It also seemed that every week someone figured out how to produce something that filled either an immediate or short-term need. As everyone fell into their niche, Darius found himself spending less time micromanaging the labor force and freer to look to the future.
“Go get him, Tom. I want to talk to him.”
“Alright.”
Tom descended the ramp and made his way toward the river. Cal McLaughlin resided on the north side of the river, and it would be some time before Deputy Governor Dayton would return with the young man.
Darius occupied his time by reviewing construction reports with Roger, all the while trying to shove aside the feeling that his boon for Calvin might spark resentment in a few families that he k
new of. He had decided not to back down from his decision, though that didn’t quell his uneasiness at all.
The two men finished their work over the course of the next hour, culminating with an order that would pave the way for an ambitious construction project for the next spring. Darius had visions of a bustling market square in Concordia, with residences above shops allowing for a smaller metropolitan footprint. He selected the site of Michael’s current camp kitchen, as it would be a familiar location for all, at least on the north side. In turn, he envisioned that this would allow the existing farms to stay in place longer while the town grew out of its canvas infancy.
Maybe next winter we won’t all be cooped up inside the ships for protection. Maybe our home will actually look like one.
Just as Darius was contemplating lunch, Dayton returned with Calvin, whom he greeted with a firm handshake. Calvin wore a patched and threadbare flight suit, marred along the arms and lower legs with oil stains of varying sizes and colors. Dark smudges adorned both cheeks, and his hair was a greasy mess. Despite this, Calvin had taken the time to wash his hands, a courtesy that Darius appreciated at once upon clasping the younger man’s hand.
“Thank you for coming to see me.”
Cal shot a timid sideways glance at the other men in his presence. “Sure. Is something wrong? Dayton wouldn’t tell me anything; he just dragged me away from what I was doing. I barely had time to take off my apron and clean up.”
Darius’s smile evaporated. “I hope it wasn’t something important. I didn’t mean for him to disturb you like that.”
“It’s okay. I had just finished up anyway.”
“That’s good to hear.” Darius paused and began pacing the width of the deck. “I know you’ve been making progress on your diesel project. Would it make things easier if I could manage some better equipment and a more consistent work space for you?”
“That would probably make a huge difference.”
“Roger has an inventory of what’s left on the ships, and knows what’s already been allocated. Go over what you need with him. Hopefully we can scrounge up something that would help you out.”
Cal smiled broadly. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
Darius moved directly in front of Cal, just about an arm’s width away. The sense of apprehension he carried suddenly melted away, replaced by muted pride. He mirrored Cal’s facial expression.
“It’s we who appreciate you, my friend. From your efforts to produce fuel for our equipment to your role in unification, we all owe you something. Perhaps more than we can repay. I’m willing to try, though.”
Calvin’s grin was swept away as confusion washed over him. “What are you talking about?”
“Solving your workspace problem and giving you something that we all believe you deserve. Your own home.”
His eyes shot wide open and his jaw slacked as he stammered. “W-what?”
“There’s a shop and home just a little upriver from the smelter on the north bank that we think will suit the needs of your project, and give you and your wife privacy at the same time,” Darius replied, fighting back the urge to show anything other than polite gratitude.
“N-no,” Cal stuttered after a moment. “No, I don’t deserve that. There are so many others who I know would want a home like that. I just… no, I couldn’t take that.”
“The shop is well suited to your needs,” Roger jumped in. “It’s got a storage room and a small reception area on the main floor, and the workspace is under cover out back. You can do your dirty work without getting wet, and keep the fire hazard down also.
“There’s a small apartment on the second floor,” added Dayton. “Well, apartment might be a generous word. It’s a converted loft. But it’s much bigger than the inside of a tent or sleeper berth, I can tell you that. For the two of you, it’s perfect.”
“No,” Cal protested. “I mean, I appreciate the thought, but I just can’t. Someone else deserves it. We can wait our turn.”
“It is your turn, Calvin,” Darius extended his hand again. “Now don’t make me tell your wife that you’re turning down a house. I get the feeling I know what she’d have to say about it, and where you’d end up sleeping tonight.”
Cal gulped and froze for a moment. Then the smile crept back onto his face, growing wider than ever. He gripped Darius’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you. Thank you so much,” were the only words he could muster. He repeated them over and over as he shook the hands of Dayton and Miller.
“Go tell her the good news,” Darius beamed. “Come back later when you’re ready to talk about what supplies you need.”
“Thank you,” Calvin hollered back as he tore down the ramp like a frenzied brush dog.
Darius crossed his arms across his chest and leaned against the outer airlock bulkhead. For a moment, in his mind, he could see the elation on Alexis McLaughlin’s face as her husband delivered word of their fortune.
“Ready to make more people jump for joy?” Tom asked, bringing his attention back to the task at hand.
“I wish I could make them all that happy today.”
“Soon enough, Governor. Soon enough.”
“Not soon enough,” he replied. With that, his smile faded into nothing. “Two houses north of the river and four small apartments on this side, right?”
“Right. Who’s up first?”
Darius pursed his lips and breathed deeply to clear his thoughts.
“Bring me the Montoya family,” he said as he eyed the continuous activity in the camp beyond.
God knows, if the McLaughlins deserve a home for what they’ve given us, the Montoyas deserve one for what this planet has taken from them.
Columbus: Winter
Project Columbus, Book 4
By J.C. Rainier
Original Publication: 26 November 2013
Per Defectum Unitate
Connor Hammond
28 Mar, 1 year after landing (yal), late morning
Western coast of Raphael Island
Instinct made Connor turn his head as a wave crashed into the jagged rock spit. Instinct that was conspicuously lacking when he made the decision to crawl onto it. Salt water washed over his head, dislodging a week’s worth of sand from his shaggy, curled locks. His eyelids shut in an instant, keeping the coarse grit from flowing down into his eyes. The tips of his fingers trembled even as they clutched at the sharp stones. He crept forward, keeping in a low crouch. The further away from shore he got, the more he realized how rapidly the tide was rising.
That will only make this easier in the end, he thought, fighting back his fear.
Connor glanced back at the shore. Three men scrambled for footholds on the spit, closing in on him from the glittering white strand of beach far behind. His heart pounded as his nerves tingled. He didn’t want the strangers to put themselves in peril, but it was necessary. If they got too close to him, the consequences would be dire. He moved forward, slowly picking the safest path along the increasingly treacherous and narrow finger of land. The seas swelled and churned ahead of the young man. He paused for just a second at the thought of being soaked in the salty water, then laughed at how dumb it was to worry about something so trivial. After all, he was about to die. His only concern was to go far enough out that he wouldn’t be followed, but stay close enough to shore that his pursuers would still be able to hear him out.
His foot slipped, splitting the tattered remnants of his shoe open. Pain shot through his ankle as it turned under him. Flailing for a hand hold, he tumbled backward, hitting the ground hard. The pain as his head slapped the rock shot through him with furious intensity, and he swallowed a lungful of sea water as he started to curse. His vision blurred; whether from the blow to his skull or from the rinse of sea water, he couldn’t tell. Connor struggled to sit up and wiped away the stinging water from his face. His pursuers were closing the gap, and seemed motivated by his fall.
“Stay back!” he shouted. They continued undeterred. He repe
ated his warning, again to no avail.
Connor struggled to his feet, the nerves in his ankle and head taking turns with searing warnings of the damage done. He pressed his fingers to the back of his head and drew them away, tinted pink with diluted blood. Connor crouched again and moved two steps to the side, to the brink of the roiling surf.
“Are you crazy? Get away from there! You’re going to get yourself killed!” The shout was barely audible over the thundering waves.
“Stay back!” he repeated.
The men approached slowly, one with his hand extended in front of him, as if the simple pleading gesture would bring Connor to his senses and compel him to follow them. For a moment he wanted to give in. He yearned to surrender to the selfish voice inside and ignore the consequences in exchange for a solid meal and restful night’s sleep. Connor could see the smoke rise from the distant hill that marked the final destination for the survivors. For weeks he and his comrades had journeyed through jungle and sand, searching for the settlement in a desperate last bid for help. Only Connor seemed to see the folly for what it was.
“Come on, kid,” the leader shouted as he crept closer. “It ain’t safe out here. Supertide’s gonna come in and wipe us all off these rocks in a couple of minutes. I don’t want you to drowning out here or getting smashed on the rocks.”
Connor rose up slowly, trembling. “Stay back or I’ll kill you.”
“Y’ain’t got no weapons, kid. Now come on back and we’ll talk ‘bout whatever’s eating you up.”
“No, you don’t understand! I’ll kill you if you get near me. If you touch me, or get too close to me, you’re as good as dead.”
“No need to threaten me. I’m here to help you.”
“Then help me, but don’t come any closer,” he retorted, his voice starting to become hoarse from powering over the waves.
“I can’t help you if you won’t let me get near you, kid.”
“Yes, you can. Just listen to me.”
The men paused, still about ten or fifteen feet away. “Alright, I’m listening.”
Project Columbus: Omnibus Page 90
