1: Sky Fires
2: Between the Storms
3: Flood Waters
4: Raveling and Knitting
5: Whiffs of Grape
6: Harvest of Woe
7: When the World Falls Apart
8: Surges of War
9: Alliances and Beginnings
About the Author
Books by Alma T C Boykin
(For copyright information, ISBN, and other editions, please see Publication Details.)
Well, Peter Babenburg thought, studying the water system’s master plan for the thousandth time, we’ve finally got enough labor. I just wish to hell it hadn’t happened like this. Dear Lord, how I wish it hadn’t happened like this. The last of the refugees had streamed in that morning, carrying nothing but the clothes on their backs. They looked behind them with almost every step, as if afraid the very hounds of hell were on their tracks. No, just two-footed hellhounds, Peter sighed, rubbing tired eyes.
A meaty hand gripped his shoulder. “Easy there, Peter,” Arturo Montoya said. “Worry about the water and organizing supplies for the city. Let Ann, Martin, and I worry about defending the farms and everything else.”
Peter rubbed his eyes again, then ran his hand through thinning brown hair. “I am. Worried that is. We need a miracle.”
The former space marine colonel—turned colonist—grinned, white teeth shining against dark tanned skin. “We’ve had one already, Pete. Now it’s our turn to show our gratitude by doing the next bit ourselves, as best we can.”
He’s got a point, Pete told himself. Water and tunnels are your thing. Fighting is his. And Ann’s. And if you don’t get some sleep, you’ll nap through the next meeting and find yourself elected mayor or something equally horrible. “OK, I surrender. You keep the bad guys out, and I’ll keep the water in.”
“Deal. Because I’ve seen what happens when you try to shoot. No offense, but I’d be safer standing right in front of you than anywhere else.”
“Uh huh.” Pete straightened up and folded his arms. “And who was it that didn’t believe me when I said don’t drink from that spring, hmm? And how long did it take you to recover?”
The angry growl answered his question. Pete slapped Arturo on the shoulder and went to his napping room, just off the hall from the engineering offices. Only one out of every four lights shone, giving the long hall an air of depression and weariness, if a building could be weary.
After Pete finally got home late that evening, and he and his wife put Pete Junior to bed, he poked at his supper and grumbled, “There’s something I need to do. I just can’t tell what it is.”
Cynthia shook her head and smiled a little. “Pete, love, Arturo’s right. Two years without being attacked is a miracle and you know it. Let him and Ann do their thing and we’ll do ours.”
“Mrgf,” he said around a mouth of beans and mystery meat. The tang suggested it came from the native pig-like species. Shit, Bettina and her mob will scream if they learn we’re eating the native fauna. But eating the wildlife beats starvation. Who’d have thought we’d reach this point so fast? Besides the marines—they always plan for the worst, and they’re rarely disappointed.
“Does it need salt?”
“No dear, it tastes fine. What’s the meat?”
“Pseudo-boar. I know,” she raised her hands, fending off complaints. “Can’t eat the natives, respect for all species, yes, yes. It was tearing up the vegetable plots so Martin Krehbiel shot it. This isn’t five years ago.”
Peter swallowed another bite. “Nope, it isn’t and our food comes before the native non-sapient fauna. And it doesn’t taste at all like chicken.” Actually, it tastes better than our pigs do. Five years has turned me into a xenovore. What will the neighbors say? Not that he really cared at that moment, not with his mouth full of good, hot food, his children safe, and his wife sitting at his side. Five years, only five years, and everything has turned upside down and inside out, and the Company failed us all.
Five years before, he’d stood on top of a low ridge overlooking the new city, jaw agape, staring up at ferociously beautiful crimson-and-green curtains dancing and spinning, turning the night to day and hiding the moon. Spots of brilliant white light swooped up to the zenith, part of the waves of furiously energetic electrons. Gerald White and Don McAllen had stood beside him, watching the results of a powerful solar flare in stunned silence. Waves of light advanced and retreated, billowing like draperies in a breeze, or marching with the steps of ghostly soldiers, fading only to return even brighter. The hissing and popping from the sky almost drowned out the sound of blowing transformers in the hills behind them. “I don’t think we’ll be arguing over the water plan at the meeting tomorrow,” Gerald observed after some length of time.
“Nope.” Don agreed from the shadows. “Those are scary beautiful.”
“Yup.”
After several more awe-struck minutes Gerald sighed. “I hope we don’t get any forest fires from those transformers or from static on the wires.”
The shadow that was Don shook its head. “It’s plenty moist up here, and the trees are in good health. We should be fine. In the dark for a while, but fine. I’m starting to recall all those jokes about lowest bidder again, though.”
Pete grimaced, even as a little bit of him danced with glee, both for getting to see such an amazing aurora in person and because his basic water system would keep running even without pumps and electrical switches. We’ll need to arrange for buckets or something from some of the low reservoirs, unless Don can jerry-rig a river-run pump for the moment, at least until we get power back up. Although having one in reserve might not be a bad idea, if the Company will allow it. He added it to his mental list.
He heard a large, loud yawn from beside him. “Scuze me,” Don said. “Short night last night.” The warning from the solar weather monitors had jolted everyone out of bed, even those who should have been left asleep.
“No argument here,” Pete agreed. They left Gerald oohing and aahing at the curtains of light and walked back to their work cabin, near the head of the main aqueduct feed tunnel’s final run into the city.
Pete’s antique desk watch rang all too early the next morning. They had a four-kilometer walk before they got to the city council building, and the meeting had been scheduled for 0800, solar storm or no solar storm. In a sane universe, the planning committee would cancel the meeting in order to deal with the problems caused by the storm. I wonder if I’ll live long enough for us to locate that universe? Pete mused. “I don’t suppose the rover is running,” Pete said, but only after watching Don gulp half a container of choco-coffee.
“No. And I don’t know if we have spares for the electronics.”
Pete grunted, shrugged, and finished tying his shoes. “Hope last night was it.”
“Last night wasn’t supposed to happen.” Don pulled his pocket computer out of its safety shielding and tapped it back to life. “Aaaannnd the water plan meeting is still on.”
“Oh for flap’s sake, that’s . . .” Pete heaved his middle-aged self to his feet, grabbed his rucksack and stormed out. Don slapped him on the back as he passed and locked the door behind them. They walked down the long, low ridge, squinting into the rising sun.
Long, black, slow-moving shadows showed where farmers at the Rural Heritage Center complex and their families were already out working in the fields. Pete nodded. The presence or absence of electrically powered technology meant little to them. They’d come to Solana on what might have been the strangest transportation contract Pete’d ever heard of. In exchange for passage for themselves and their animals, they’d agreed to live without modern technology for ten years, using animal power and pre-petroleum fuels alone, with an except
ion for oil lamps. Some of them belonged to ancient religious sects, including Mennonite and a few he still didn’t understand. Others just wanted, well, Pete didn’t know. They provided color and atmosphere to go with the new city’s quasi-Earth-medieval design, something the colony’s sponsors encouraged. Maybe those stories that Colonial Plantation LTD really wanted this to be a continental park were true.
“So, what’s Bettina going to pull out of her . . .” Don winked after they’d covered half the distance to the council buildings.
“I have no idea. I really don’t.” Pete thought for a few minutes as they walked, enjoying the cool spring morning air and listening to the sounds of birds, human voices, animal baas and moos, and harness bells. At first, the relative quiet had made him nervous—he’d been too used to city noises, to the constant tramp of people, human and otherwise, to the unending rumble of vehicles and construction. Now he relished the empty air of open green space and an unbuilt environment. Cynthia, born on an agricultural colony world, had adapted faster than he did. Their grown children preferred the bustle of Carmarlen and had not joined their parents’ move to Solana.
Pete shrugged. “She’ll have something to complain about. Probably that we failed to properly ground and protect the electrical grid, such as it is.” That’s why we always use the fail-safe thorium-sodium reactors for the first four generations at least. And one for each settlement. But not this time. No, the Board of Governors had decreed that the new city would have a reactor for electricity and would also supply the outlying settlements in the hills and on the other side of the Donau Novi River. What a silly name for a river.
“You engineering types are up awful early,” a morose voice observed. Pete smiled to see the lean shape of Professor Sergeant Major Martin Starhemburg standing in the shade of the grey “stone” blocks of the city wall.
“No rest for the wicked, but the righteous don’t need any,” Don called back. “What are you doing out? I thought fresh air made your hair fall out.”
“Helga’s cleaning. The light show got her all wound up and she decided to clean the house.” The retired academic gave them a pitiful look. “It’s safer outside the wall.”
“Really.” Pete sympathized, not that he would ever say such a thing.
Martin straightened up and dropped his guise of a poor, pitiful male. “Actually, I wanted to see if anyone had any of the vehicles up and running, and, after getting blessed so thoroughly that I was tempted to look in a mirror to see if I’d grown horns and a forked tail, I stepped out for a while.” He sounded disgusted. “Someone left most of the vehicles on the chargers.”
“Shit,” Don snarled. “Idiots.”
Pete grimaced. “I know what the meeting will be about.”
“Hoh yeah.”
Bettina Monsiérvo, Colonial Plantation LTD’s Donau Novi Sub-District Regional Senior Administratrix, glowered at the engineers and town administrators. Pete wondered which of her long list of irritations had upset her this time. She’s a great manager, so long as everything goes according to the proper forms and databases. Too bad reality won’t always cooperate. She’d gotten worked up enough that her bright black eyes had started to bulge, never a good sign for Pete’s tranquility.
“What do you mean we have no electrical power for the vehicles? The lights are on.” She waved her hand in the direction of the ceiling. “No one’s started the reactor failure evacuation procedures.”
Andrea Okofor repeated, “I’m sorry, Ms. Monsiérvo, we have no electrically powered vehicles at this time. The electromagnetic storm yesterday and overnight destroyed the power and control circuits in all but two of the ones in the central parking area, and those two were, and still are, in need of repair.”
Bettina glowered at the black-skinned power system manager—and acting chief of transport—for the settlement. “Well, fix them. They need to be functional by the time I send the quarterly status report to the district office.” She flipped the screen on her computer to the next topic. “Why have we not heard broadcasts from New Benin, New Amsterdam, ColLandPlat, or the other major cities yet today?”
“Because we can’t hear from anyone unless we use the emergency surface relays—too much ionizing radiation still in the air. Should have something tomorrow.” Arturo Montoya’s clipped report left no room for argument or debate.
“And whose fault is that?” Bettina demanded.
Pete cleared his throat. “The sun’s fault, Ms. Monsiérvo. The solar weather observers warned that the magnetic storm that hit yesterday would do this. The effects should taper off over the next two days.” He did his best to sound soothing. No point in saying anything about the shorted-out equipment, or that you should have heard and read about all this in yesterday’s bulletin and briefing.
“Humpf.” Several minutes of silence passed while everyone checked their files and tried to look inconspicuous. After a long pause she said, “What’s the progress with the water supply system studies?”
“They are complete, and routes and requirements have been selected and determined.”
Bettina’s shadow spoke up at last. Raymond Young, Bettina’s smooth and polished secretary and technical assistant inquired, “There are only two power units on request for this project, Mr. Babenburg. Where are the rest of the equipment lists?”
Here we go again. “There are none. The system is straight gravity flow until it reaches the city.”
“I do not see any infrastructure on these plans, Babenburg,” Bettina added. “Where are the tanks and purifiers, the warmers and flavoring adjusters?”
“There are none,” he repeated. Pete glanced over to see Don making an invisible tally mark on his imaginary scorecard. “The system runs subsurface the entire route.”
“But without visible infrastructure, people won’t believe that anything has been done,” Harding Korso protested. “My voters want to see where their credits are going. They want pipes and towers and pumps,” the municipal administrator told Pete.
Don faked a cough to cover a rude word. Pete glared down at his stylus before answering, “Mr. Korso, would they prefer blue-painted pipes or fresh running water that does not require electricity to obtain?”
“I like buried pipes,” Montoya reminded everyone. “Buried pipes and low tech for the same reason we have stone walls.” He glared from under shaggy black eyebrows. “We’re too far out to yelp for help if the Gormonigons come sniffing around.”
He wanted to high five the semi-retired space marine officer. Instead Pete nodded, “Precisely.” I saw the images of what happened on Deepak’s Planet after the Gormies first hit. If it wasn’t stone or underground, they slagged it. Took a generation to rebuild, and all we have is a truce, not a treaty with the Gormies. “And before anyone protests that the Gormonigons or other unfriendly cultural groups would never cause problems in this sector, might I remind you that Colonial Plantation Limited’s charter and basic terraforming manuals all put weight on low-visibility, high-durability infrastructure through the fourth post-settlement generation—which describes the gravity-flow water supply system expansion that has been planned for this municipality.” I can quote file number and subsection if I have to, Bettina. Don’t push it. You want numbers? I can argue numbers.
Arturo shrugged, “We still need to finish laying out the route for the western road. It’s going to be a causeway in places because of the old river channels, so we could compromise and bury some pipes and power cables there if need be.” Andrea Okofor gestured her agreement.
In the face of logic and numbers, Bettina, Raymond, and Harding backed down, if only for the moment. “Speaking of numbers, how long before the transportation and communications systems are back up? Everyone I’ve talked to says their food producers and preservers are off-line and need parts,” Mr. Korso said.
It was Don’s turn to shrug. “Depends on how well the other depots prepared for the storm. I’d say at least two days for full communications, just given the atmospherics,” and he nod
ded to Arturo and Pete. “We should have some communications equipment back up and running before then. As for parts,” he shrugged. “I’m a big wires and junctions guy, not a little circuits guy. Sorry.”
The meeting shifted to other topics, and Pete made notes, mostly about what he needed and worst-case scenarios. At last Bettina reached the final point on her long list. “I have heard rumors that people are trying to consume native species.” She shuddered, Raymond Young turned faintly green, and Korso looked disgusted at the very thought of eating the local plants and animals. “And, worse, the rumors about attempts to tap the indigenous mineral resources are getting more numerous. This must stop at once. You know very well that autochthonous life forms are to be left untouched unless human life is in direct and immediate danger. And,” she shook her finger at everyone in the room and glared out from under delicately shaped black eyebrows, “any form of mining or drilling except for water is strictly prohibited by the planetary charter. Unique geological features are to be preserved for future generations to observe and appreciate,” she recited.
I wonder who got caught? Pete glanced at Arturo and Don, both of whom made little “not me” hand signs. Probably some kid on an educational enrichment trip picked up a pretty rock, or accidently squished a worm or something. Pete made a note of the reminder so that, if asked, he could say he’d made a note.
“The meeting is adjourned.”
Arturo caught Harding Korso’s elbow as they were leaving the room. “Say, is there any progress on coming up with a formal name for this settlement?”
The acting mayor shook his head. “Not yet. ‘Donauton’ was rejected because it means something obscene in Deeparka dialect.” Korso shook his head. “We’re back to square one, since no one wants to name it what the company recommended.”
Because Vlaatplaat is an invitation to giggles and ridicule, not to mention confusion. Pete nodded and attempted to look sympathetic. Once clear of the bureaucrats he and Don shared grimaces. “Because having two urban areas with similar sounding names won’t cause any confusion at all, noooo.”
Fountains of Mercy Page 1
