Far away, echoing over the mountains, there came an answer. Distant, but drawing nearer. Help would come before the night was through.
With that promise in her heart, Jennilee took off through the forest. With long, distance-eating strides, she chased that whisper of a scent. Every step made hope blossom larger in her chest. This would work. She knew it.
Hours later, she’d found the small herd of deer that had piqued her interest. Her help had arrived as well. It was not the pack of the gray wolf, but rather a small pack of only two wolves: a mated pair. They were young and eager. Jenni couldn’t have said how, because language as she knew it just didn’t apply, but she was able to communicate her quandary, and the pair of them were pleased to help her in return for a share of her hunt. Together, the three of them cut a young doe and her fawn from the herd. The pair of wolves watched Jenni with eyes filled with curiosity (though not hostility) as she changed form and began to dress the doe. They shared the fawn between them, and were more than happy with the arrangement. Jenni took the doeskin and bound it around the meat. While not a perfect solution, this made a bundle that she could carry with her jaws.
Jennilee started back toward the company’s campsite, then stopped suddenly as the pair of wolves started to follow her. She looked back at them in inquiry.
We would come with you, the female said. The line of her body was friendly, and intrigued. Taking man shape is an interesting trick. We would stay with you and see you do more interesting things.
Jenni considered. Her biggest concern was, of course, that the wolves would either threaten or be in danger from the humans she proposed to help. Once again, she remembered the gray wolf’s warnings.
We have seen men before. We know how to not be detected. And we will not harm any who do not harm us first, the male assured her with a dipped head and a bump to her shoulder.
Come then, Jenni acquiesced. And be welcome.
* * *
—
Dawn crept over the tops of the trees as Jenni finally drew near to the camp. She slunk, belly low in the mud and remaining snow. Her nose told her that someone was awake, working on starting a fire to boil water. The scent pulled at a memory that she hadn’t known she had: hands, warm and firm, holding her close. Safety.
Ina.
Jenni squinted in the increasing light, and lifted her nose to the air. If she could get Ina alone . . .
“J-Jennilee?”
Jenni’s head snapped up, and her eyes met the wide, terror-filled eyes of her mother. Jenni straightened from her crouch, her head above Ina’s waist. Ina took a step backward in fear. Jenni opened her mouth and dropped the bundle of meat between them. Jenni was about to change, to take her human form once more and hug her mother, when the unmistakable sound of a rifle shot cracked through the morning air.
“Ina! Get down!”
Jenni didn’t wait to hear more; she spun and fled as fast as her four feet could carry her. She heard Ina’s voice crying out, calling her name, but the safety of the trees beckoned, and before the rifleman could reload, she was gone.
* * *
—
Her new packmates waited for her. Together, they hunkered down in the den site, and gradually calmed Jenni’s shaking fear. Though none of the three of them wanted to risk being shot, Jenni had to know if her family had used her gift. Her packmates refused to let her go alone, and so the three of them eased through the trees until they could scent the camp. They’d remained! And there was the scent of cooking venison!
Jenni turned to the other two wolves. This was what she would do. She would follow these people and keep them safe. Whether it be starvation or other predators or even other men, Jenni would defend them, because they were her family. She thought these thoughts, and she could see the comprehension in the other wolves’ eyes as her body language spoke for her.
The female looked at her mate, and then at Jenni. We will come, sister, she said. If we are your pack, and they are your pack, then they are our pack too. We will help, and we will not be seen.
Were she in human form, this instantaneous, unconditional love would have made Jenni’s eyes fill with tears. As it was, she lowered her muzzle to the female’s and brushed her cheek against her new sister’s. Her new brother came and nipped lovingly at her shoulder.
I am blessed, thought Jenni. Her sister met her eyes, agreement in every line of her body. They were blessed indeed.
EPILOGUE
FROM AN ARTICLE ABOUT THE EARLY MORMON SETTLERS
In the autumn of 1852, carpenter Dalton Abrams and his family entered the Great Salt Lake Valley. They’d had a hard passage, and lost several members of their family. Among these were Abrams’s second wife, Anna, and his eldest daughter, Jennilee. The Abrams family wintered in the Salt Lake Valley before being called to settle south in Deseret the following year.
An interesting folk tale sprang up around the Abrams family. It was said that wherever they went, a pack of wolves would follow. When the family branched out into sheep ranching, it became a custom for the family to stake out one of its flock in the nearest stand of woods. When asked about the custom, the family told a fantastic tale about a female ancestress who ran away to live with the wolves. It is said that if an Abrams is ever in dire need, there are wolves who will respond and help. This researcher can find no documented evidence of a wolf ever interacting with a member of the Abrams family in a positive way, but the story points to a certain fanciful nature common among the early settlers who saw the hand of God in all things.
Russell, “Oral Histories of the Mormon Settlers,” Trailblazers, 3rd ed., Deseret Press, 122–3
BROKEN SON
GRIFFIN BARBER
Well, shit.
It’s not the getting caught that pisses me off. I mean, I knew the risks. No, it’s the long, drawn-out process of negotiating the terms of incarceration I detest. Just let me do my time and get it over with.
—ETAT DU NOUVELLE GENEVE CONTRE PROMETHEUS BORGES, AUDIENCE DE DÉTERMINATION DE LA PEINE
PAYING THE PIPER
I guess that’s it, then.
My attorney looked more upset than I felt. After all, the writing had been on the wall for a while. I considered dropping a few choice words about her failures, decided it wasn’t worth it.
I was the moron who hired her, anyway.
As I dislike seeing women upset, I felt the need to say something. “Don’t worry, judging from the way the magistrate acted, the gavel already slammed down on my case a year ago. Every minute since then has been borrowed.”
Time I’d used to put my affairs in order, setting Vytas up as head of anything that even touched on illicit activity. Someone with an iota less of a history than he and I shared would have thought I was setting him up rather than cleaning my own hands while awaiting trial.
She looked at me, brown eyes wide. “Yes, but I thought I’d be able to get a better deal for you, Mr. Borges.”
I leaned back in the rather comfortable courtroom chair I’d spent far too much time in the last few weeks, shrugged, and answered, “I did, too, but what’s done is done.”
“But five years for these charges? It isn’t fair.” She looked close to tears. Fucking do-gooders, always with the “feelings.” I had a momentary but strong urge to strangle her. Instead, I kept my hands and mouth shut.
My mother had taught me that, back at the dawn of time.
The bailiff approached. A big man, he reminded me of the officer . . . what was his name? Venkman. That’s right. Venkman. This one was prettier, though.
“Sooner begun, sooner done,” I sighed.
My mother had also taught me that. Not that she would appreciate my adherence to her little foibles of speech. She’d had neither time nor patience for criminals. And I was one, despite my attorney’s arguments to the contrary.
UP AND AWAY
Th
e roar of rockets receded and was eventually reduced to a rumble in the bones as the atmosphere around the shuttle thinned and slowly gave way to vacuum. Eventually even that ended as we stopped accelerating and were no longer pressed into the acceleration couch.
The expanding conflict between my stomach and inner ear rapidly informed me of two important facts: one, we’d reached orbit, and two, the drugs that the corrections doctor had administered only blunted zero-g sickness, didn’t prevent it. From the sickly expressions pasted on everyone in view, the same could be said for the rest of the cargo of Nouvelle Geneve Corrections Shuttle Alpha-Seven-Two.
“You ain’t local, are you?” the man sitting across the aisle from me asked.
I spared him some attention and revised my earlier assessment. He, at least, showed no discomfort from the lack of gravity. In fact, he looked at ease.
“Why do you say that?” I asked, study completed.
“We heard you talking,” the man said, left eyelid twitching uncontrollably.
Certain I hadn’t said a word all day, I gave him one of my harder stares.
“What you looking at, Prometheus? We didn’t say a damn thing!”
“How do you know my name?” I hissed, surprise sparking anger. I glanced around, wondering if he was setting me up.
Nothing out of order.
Nothing but another twitch from the man across the aisle. “We know lots of shit, man. Renaud’s brains is doubled and redoubled on the bubble of our space, man . . .”
I blinked, slid my gaze from that twitching face to his jumpsuit. While we both wore inmate orange, his jumpsuit had a thick black stripe running from neck to ankle.
It took longer than it should have, but I figured it out.
He was Broken.
In my defense, they weren’t common, not anymore. In the days of my youth there had been a lot of them running around, but that was a long time ago. Even before the Perfected War. Those that suffered from conditioning failure were thin on the ground these days. Survival wasn’t easy when you had twenty and more instances of your personality constantly warring for control of your mind.
I turned away.
The man continued to speak, but I studiously ignored the words and eventually reduced his monologue to the burbling of an untended teapot. I was out of practice at it, but old skills come back quick.
The hatch slid open. A guard and another woman, this one in a yellow jumpsuit with “TRUSTEE” emblazoned across the chest and back, appeared at the hatch to the cabin three rows forward. I admired their grace, if not their general appearance, as the pair maneuvered with ease, one hand always in contact with a handhold.
“How you like the ride, wellers?” the hatchet-faced guard asked as she came to a halt above the central aisle. The trustee sniggered like the guard had told a great joke.
Almost everyone recognized a setup when they saw it.
Almost.
“Come over here and let me loose, bitch, and I’ll show you how much!” the couch-mate seated closest to the bulkhead shouted.
All eyes turned to him. The heavily muscled and veiny bulk spoke volumes; a tale of someone who’d come by their augments on the cheap and had them implanted without the least concern for concealing their advantages.
The thug probably thought it was good advertising, the idiot. I had climbed over the corpses of more than a few such in my time.
“What’s that, weller?” the guard asked.
“I said come over here and let me up. I’ll show you a good time.” He stuck his tongue out and flapped it at the woman.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
Some people deserve the beatings they get. My father always used to say you can’t beat the stupid from people, but it sure beats listening to their stupidity.
The guard executed a flip, set her boots on the cabin wall, and launched herself across above the acceleration couch in front of us and out of reach of the convicts seated in that row. She said something into her mic, too soft for me to hear. She winked, winked at me as she floated by.
The convict’s laughter was tinged with eagerness. I thought for a moment he might be another of the Broken, but his jumpsuit had no stripe.
No, the thug was just a moron out to prove himself a hard man.
Moron’s restraints released with a pop.
He launched himself at the guard, knuckled fist leading the charge.
She seemed to writhe in the air, leaving him to bounce from the bulkhead without landing a blow.
Moron flailed, trying for another grab, and caught a magnetic boot in the teeth for his trouble. It proved the lightest of blows she administered.
I later learned she had been All-Navy in Z-G-Ryu.
Any reputation he might have made for himself for taking the beating was lost by the time the guard was done slapping him around. Groveling for mercy through your few remaining chipped teeth and a broken nose tends to make it hard to maintain a hard rep among criminals.
I committed her face to memory. Such skills were not common, and she might prove useful to my ends someday.
What, you wonder what use such information would be to me? Well, in my long, misspent life, I have learned one true thing: not everything that is, always was, or is destined to remain so.
INFIRMARY
The work the penal colony required wasn’t all that bad, especially when you possessed the means, opportunity, and experience necessary for gentling the grinding of the wheels of justice, as I did.
On the whole, it wasn’t anywhere near as dangerous as my experience of Imperial Supermax prisons. We had to mine, but we had good hardsuits, a modicum of useful training in their use, and my team, at least, wasn’t worked particularly hard. That said, the work wasn’t without risks. About the fifth month there, a mining unit slipped and ripped a good chunk out of my suit and left thigh.
My augments kept me alive, but I was recovering from decompression, blood loss, and the great, ugly wound itself when I saw Renaud again.
“Sol Boy!”
I flinched on hearing my old moniker shouted aloud. It had been centuries and several star systems distant when I’d last heard it, after all. No one living was supposed to know it. I had gone to great, bloody lengths to ensure that.
The Broken was staring at me from the next bed, left eye twitching. He was in a head-to-toe restraint system meant to keep him calm.
“Think you can get me out of here, Sol Boy?”
I considered ignoring him, but noticed he was speaking in the singular.
Besides, I didn’t want him shouting my name again.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
His lip raised in a half snarl. “I did a bad thing, of course.”
“Yeah, but you’re Broken.”
“Sure, but even the Broken have their uses.”
“No, I mean you can’t work the mines . . .” I realized he wasn’t talking about physical labor.
“Didn’t say ‘mines.’ Said ‘useful.’ Look, you gonna help me out or not?”
“Maybe. Tell me, what are you here to do?”
“Find something. We can hear it singing.” Sweat had popped out on his brow.
“What?”
“Not sure. Can hear it singing.” He grunted, screwed his eyes tight as if something pained him.
“Alright, then who?”
“Who, what? Be specific, Sol Boy.”
“Stop calling me that,” I snapped, still mystified as to how he knew. “I meant to ask who it was that brought you here.”
“The song.”
“But—”
He shook his head as much as he could in the restraint system. “Been hearing the song for a long time.”
“But—” I was distracted by a nurse entering. The man walked over to my bed, smiled down at me, and adjusted some arcane d
iagnostic tool built into it. By the time I returned my attention to Renaud, he was gone, replaced by the madness that lurks in all Broken.
“Twenty-eight jumps before we broke,” Renaud said, launching into an incomprehensible tirade of filth. It was the last coherent thing he said that day.
The nurse went to fiddle with Renaud’s bed as he had mine. Renaud’s speech slowed, slurred, and eventually subsided into snores.
“Pardon me, Nurse,” I said, counting on my reputation for civility and, of course, generosity, to pave the way for me.
“Monsieur?” the nurse asked, bright, perky tone assuring me he knew who I was.
“Would you do me a great favor and tell me what you know of him?” I said, waving at my roommate.
The nurse nodded. “Renaud Foucault. Six years for attempted murder.”
“Why send him to a working colony?”
“His records indicate he was functional at trial. Even passed the psych examination.”
“Bullshit.”
“I thought so, too, but I saw the files myself. I can send it your way if you like,” he said, obviously on the make for more money.
“Yes, please.” I said it thinking someone had obviously played the system to get Foucault sent up the well. Even if it didn’t contain any useful information, I had deep pockets, and medical people were good friends to have.
There was no treatment for Broken, so he could not have been compos mentis at trial. Their minds were broken on a level we still did not fully comprehend, even hundreds of years after the invention of jump technology. We could condition minds to resist the brutal duality of a mind stretched, duplicated, and rewritten by the contortionist physics of interstellar jumps, but if that conditioning failed, we could not put minds broken by such stresses back together.
“And before that?” I asked of the still-waiting nurse, not wanting to think too much.
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