Torn (Arcadia Book 1), page 15
“That’s as maybe. There was no need to flood the Council hollow.” His mother again. “It will be restored, and you will find an alternative.”
He would have liked to merely nod in answer but daren’t risk moving his head. “Agreed. My people had already started enlarging a wash hole over by the south branch for another dam. We’ll use that instead.”
His father bought it, just. Maybe he’d blown out the worst of his rage.
Or maybe not. “Agreed—if this site is as you’ve said. We leave in five minutes.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Not anymore.” What that cost his father, he had no idea. It was the Old Man who had taught Caleb the poker face trick.
His mother frowned, narrowing her eyes as her gaze swept over him. “No. He is going back to bed, now.”
Caleb badly wanted to do exactly that, but he had no intention of staying here a minute longer than necessary. Especially not under the care of a mother who knew him too well. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be with you.”
He would too, if it killed him.
Somehow, he made it out to his father’s truck and through the bumpy ride out to the second lake site. They lifted off hard, hugged the contours so tightly Caleb felt each bumpy hollow in the thrumming of pain beats in his head, and landed with a whump that forced him to ask for a stop so he could stumble out of the cab and give in to the constantly threatening nausea.
“Not a word to your mother,” was his father’s response to the spasms racking his gut.
It was a relief when they pulled up and he could climb out onto solid ground. His father stumped over to the lake edge, took note of the new diggings, the plantings, the soil that looked as settled as if turned over weeks ago rather than during the furious frenzy of the previous night. Even the bushes showed the odd sprout of new growth, as if having passed through transplant shock already and begun to settle into their new home.
He walked down and stopped beside his father, the water lapping at his toes. The hollow they’d used for the dam was a natural soak hole, a place where water could be found by digging in the driest of years; surrounded by sandstone cliffs on three sides with the red dirt beach sloping down beneath his feet. Bare, barren and starkly beautiful.
One day, the plantings and the wind break shrubs would shade a clear pond that people would class as a pretty spot. Fee would like it, he guessed.
“It should rise another metre, once the ground water soaks through, but that’s about it.”
Some of his team were nearby, down by the shore, but he didn’t risk looking up to see if there was any signal from them. Not with the glare of the sun in his eyes and the sick feeling still in his gut. A quick lift of his hand had to be enough. None of them were stupid.
His father put up a hand to shade his eyes, staring out at the shallow pan of water. Caleb’s landscaper and botanist were classified geniuses, as far as Caleb was concerned, and he hoped they’d managed to grab a few hours’ sleep after the hurried planting and filling of the new lake.
“Seen enough?” he said.
A grunt. “Yeah.”
“Drop me off at camp. Unless you plan to hold me hostage?”
For long minutes, the Old Man looked to be considering it, till he turned to walk back to the ground skimmer. Caleb let out the breath he’d been holding and followed.
“We’ll go by the Council Rock first, then to the doctor’s.”
Caleb stopped and stared. “Are you serious? The doctor?”
“Your mother’s orders,” muttered the man he could never quite repudiate, “for that bump on your head.”
Maybe that was remorse in the Old Man’s face and maybe not. He was beyond caring. “The doctor? No.”
With which he marched over to the truck and climbed in.
At least his father took it slower this time, pacing the trip to match the pounding in his head, and when they got to the Council Rock, he said nothing when Caleb refused to leave the vehicle to go with him to inspect the destruction in the muddy basin.
The Old Man climbed back in.
“Satisfied?” said Caleb.
“For now.”
“And the stock lake at the south wash?”
“Can stay.”
It was the nearest to a concession he’d get from the Old Man. Ethan agreed with him that this area was useless for solar arrays—too prone to scouring wind patterns—but the Old Man was another matter. Maybe he’d actually been listening to them. Though what would he do when the cloud cover changed was another matter.
His father drove, his men banished to one of the backup vehicles, and he was relieved to see them set off in the direction of the camp. Hopefully to deliver him home. So maybe the day hadn’t been a total disaster.
His father climbed out first, holding the door while Caleb made his painful way out.
“Send your mother a copy of the medic’s report.”
Caleb grunted. Not until the last of the vehicles roared out of camp did he give in to the sick pounding in head and gut, crumbling to the ground.
Old Jim got to him first. He could tell by the smell of worn leather that clung to him always; then the warm flour and spices of Marabeth.
He came to slowly, letting his senses confirm his safety before lifting his eyelids. The dry grit of dust coated each breath and he felt the beat of his heart measure the pulse of the earth.
Still alive and able to function. It would have to do. He opened his eyes.
Jim’s strong hand came down and as so often before, it was his brawny shoulder he leaned on as he levered himself up.
“So what has your Da done to you this day?”
“Not the Old Man. One of his flunkies. A bang on the skull is all.”
“Ah well, thick as it is, nought to worry about then.”
But Jim kept firm hold of him and Marabeth stood on his other side.
“Get me Suze.”
Jim’s mouth dropped open at the medic’s name.
“Promised the Old Man I’d get checked out,” Caleb said by way of explanation as Jim helped him onto his bed while Marabeth put through the call.
From the speed she got to his rooms, he guessed Suze had seen him arrive home. He could have done without the next ten minutes, retching badly when she felt the back of his head and he needed Jim’s strong arm again to help him to sit up. A scan, complete with all the annoying routine of a medical examination. At the end, the older woman leaned back, her mouth tight. He lifted an eyebrow.
“If you were anyone else, I’d tell you to rest and take it easy.” Suze had known him since he was a kid, knew how likely that was. She sighed. “At least they hit you on the head. Thickest part of you.” She packed up her bag and took the dask Marabeth handed her. “Up to you now,” she said to the cook. Both women exchanged a smile he’d seen too many times before. “Try to get him to rest, will you?”
Marabeth saw the medic out shortly after. She came back in, hands on her hips, and studied him as he leaned back against his headboard, unsure how long he could stay upright.
“A hot bath and a good feed.” It was her stock remedy, claimed to fix anything. If only it was that simple.
Yet bathed, rested and seated much later with a bowl of warm broth filling his stomach, he could almost have believed it was that simple. Then he asked a question.
“The den Coille woman, Fee, where is she?” and the silence told how lacking in simplicity it all was. “She is back?”
Marabeth busied herself at the stove and Jim sat, legs stretched out before him and eyes set on the window.
“You might as well spit it out.”
Jim set down his feet and leaned forward. “She was watching from the cliffs when you stopped at the south lake.”
There was an ominous note in Jim’s voice and an anxious look from Marabeth.
“I seem to be missing something here.”
“When you climbed out with your Da.” Jim paused, knotting his work scarred hands together. “It didn’t look so good.”
Caleb stared at him, mind blank. Till the meaning of the words hit in a cold spike right through his gut. “She saw me climb unrestrained from a Solaris truck?” Jim nodded, and he cursed. “It was either climb out into fresh air or stay and puke my guts out.”
“Guessed it was something like that.”
“So where is she now?”
It was Marabeth’s turn. She left off fiddling round at the stove and came back to sit beside him. He had known these two since he was a small boy and had rarely seen either look at him as seriously. Something was very wrong.
“Where is she?”
“Ben’s monitoring her.”
“I repeat, where is she?”
Jim paused, crossed his legs and leaned back into the chair with a long Hmmph. “Well now, as Ben tells it, she took one look at you climbing out of that skimmer and jumped to all the wrong conclusions.”
“She thinks I’m working for my father—yes, I got that.”
“No. Not just you. The whole crew of us.”
And he’d thought this day wasn’t turning out too bad? “So what did she do?”
“Swung round and marched off.”
“And Ben?”
Marabeth reached out a hand to hover just over Jim’s. The older man finally looked up from his study of the table. “Nothing—leastways, not yet.”
He rarely feared anything but right now, a sharp edged terror slammed into him. “You mean . . .?”
“She marched out into the South March, and was walking still, last we heard,” said Jim.
Marabeth jumped in. “Ben’s keeping a close watch on her.”
“He’s with her?”
The cook twisted her hands. “Not exactly.”
“How, not exactly?”
Marabeth refused to meet his eye and the old man shuffled. “He tried to, but she wouldn’t have a bar of it,” said Jim. “He’s back aways, keeping her under his eye.”
He opened his mouth, forced down one breath, then another before he was able to speak. “Let me get this straight? A mountain girl with no idea of our land is marching out into one of the driest, most dangerous washes on the plains, and all of you let her?”
Jim reddened. “It seemed best. Leave her be to blow off her steam, then we can ship her back on the morrow, away from trouble.”
Caleb’s fist banged on the desk. She’s Survey, and you heard Central. She’s needed for this project. We do not let her go, or let her be, or whatever else you want to call letting her head off into danger.” He banged open a cupboard and grabbed out the painkillers. Swallowed a couple and shoved the rest in his pocket.
“Anyone want me, I’ll be in the South March.”
He opened the door of his skimmer but a hand clamped down on his shoulder. “You’re not driving in that condition, son,” and Jim settled himself into the driver’s seat.
“Long as you know I’m heading for the South March?”
“I’m not your Da.” With which Jim slammed the skimmer into action and set out rather more bumpily than was good for Caleb’s head. He said nothing, sheer horror riding him hard. He had to get to Fee.
A call came through.
“Boss.” Ben’s voice, urgent and tense. “You need to get out here, quick. There’s a blow up coming.”
Jim poured on the juice and Caleb let out a string of oaths that had the old man grinning. “You learned more than book stuff at that college of yours.”
Caleb ignored him. Jim could think what he liked, as long as he kept up the acceleration. A sandstorm, that was a blow up out here. Unless Ben and Fee got under cover, they were in real trouble.
“You have transponders on you?” Survey transponder signals could get through weather that beat the best civilian gear.
“Yeah, for me,” said Ben. “Fee; far as I know.”
She’s not stupid. She wouldn’t throw it away, no matter how angry or how much she mistrusted him. “Can’t you get any more out of this thing, Jim?”
Already in the sky Caleb could see the ominous thickening that heralded a big blow. Out on the March, the cloud was moving fast.
“We’ll be in the middle of it soon,” signalled Ben.
“You safely under shelter?”
“Tucked tight in a hole in the cliff face, boss.”
“And Fee?”
A scary pause, then a slow answer. “Last I saw, she was heading for a pile of rocks at the foot of the hillside.”
“Not in a shelter?”
“No,” said Ben, “but that pile will block the worst of it. She has some protection.”
“Unlike us,” said Jim. “Time we got under shelter too, boss.”
“Step on it,” was Caleb’s only reply. Ahead of him, too close now, a thick, boiling wall of dust and sand rolled inexorably onwards. “Set up the receivers.”
The relief in him as first one, then two beeps sounded loudly in the cab was immeasurable. Ben was where he expected, buried deep in one of the holes on the honeycombed side of the cliff face. Water and wind had gouged a maze of caverns through the low hills, creating a series of holes known to be safe in a blow. The March itself was a dry, flat plain open to the worst of the scouring winds at one end and surrounded on the others by a jagged bank of hills that funnelled and twisted the wind to a tearing fury. When a big blow hit the March, all the locals, man and animal, knew to take shelter or perish. But a Mountain raised girl? What would she know?
They drove into the nearest of the pocked hills, Jim steering the skimmer into a long, open cave that would protect them till the sky cleared. It was the only real option in a blow.
Caleb pulled out the survival pack on the back seat and pushed it over to Jim. “Get into the west chamber. You’ll be safe there.”
Jim began to follow orders but heard that last bit and glared angrily. “Don’t you mean we?”
Caleb shook his head. “Fee’s in danger. She’s Survey, she’s needed—and she was entrusted to me.”
Jim’s hand on the stick eased not a jot. “Not at the risk of your life.” The stockman eased the skimmer neatly into the west branch of the cave system and locked the doors to the cab. Caleb merely leaned across and thumbed the master switch. This was Winter territory, and a Winter thumbprint overrode the controls on any machine, even a Survey cab. He opened the door, threw out the survival kit and lifted a locator tag for Jim to follow, sending it after the kit.
Jim grabbed his arm. “Ain’t letting you head off on some fool errand.”
“You don’t get a say in this.”
The old man opened his mouth. Caleb reached across and shoved him neatly out the door. It was soft sand below, he would not be hurt. Caleb locked the door and was in the driving seat and backing out before Jim could scrabble up. The old man would be safe here, but he still sent through a delayed call for a pick up in case he couldn’t do it later.
Yeah, and why would that be?
Ignoring the voice, he set the controls to Track, following the insistent beep of Fee’s transponder—a woman who knew little of the dangers of this land, an outsider soon to be exposed to the full force of the storm’s fury, at the mercy of those roiling banks of dirty brown.
She was still walking, but thankfully hard up against the hill face. He checked the readouts. There were two safe holes close by her—if she knew they were there. Plus, she had a survival tent in her kit bag. It was compulsory for any traveller venturing onto the plains, and Ben had confirmed she’d taken a complete kit when she marched off.
Did she know what was in it, or how to use it?
He gunned the vehicle, heading straight for the furious tide of sand. Her beep had paused, no sign of moving towards the safe holes. So she didn’t know how to read the local codes in the plasguide bag. He switched up his gearing and changed to crawler mode, then smashed full on into the whirlpool of garbage that was the storm front.
He’d helped design these vehicles, with triple propulsion, ground skimming for normal use and thick wheels and caterpillar tread when needed. Their engine filters were the most efficient the Survey made, which meant they exceeded anything else available. Today, they kept it going for another couple of kilometres.
He jiggled the systems, flushed vents and cursed in every tongue he knew. It made no difference: the truck choked to a halt.
He checked the readouts, calculated, swore again, and grabbed the full survival suit in the emergency locker. Hoisting his own emergency kit onto his back, he took a slug of clean, grit-free water, pulled on a protective coverall with face mask and breathing rig, before he overrode the door controls. A membrane slid in behind him, protecting the interior of the cab from the whirling dust, but did nothing to help him get where he needed. For that, all he had were two ground sticks clamped to his hands, each with claws to bury into the grit and anchor him against the furious wind.
Then he stepped from the shelter of the cab and the full force hit him.
He’d stopped close to where the hill face reared up from the plain in a jumble of scoured boulders and broken shards of rock. There were places there to hide, so many safe shelters, but he set his head against them.
What he was aiming on doing, it was singularly ludicrous; a foolhardy attempt to rescue a virtual stranger. He checked the readout on his wrist com again. Mark four: survivable for another hour if he was lucky. And Fee den Coille, poorly protected and untrained? Far less than that.
He dug in his left stick, felt the claws reach into the dirt and grip tight, painfully lifted the right and dug it in, anchoring it in front of him. Then used that to drag himself forward, before hauling out the left to plunge it down and secure his next anchoring point. Over and over, crawling tediously over the broken surface of the March plain, guided only by an insistent pulse of sound and an insane belief in survival.
Suddenly the pulse on his readout changed. She was moving, away from any safe hole. He dug his sticks deep into the ground and surged forward.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Her feet hurt, her mouth tasted of grit and on top of it all, the harsh scrape of a coming storm buffeted her face. A scarily dry and unforgiving wind, blowing her hair one way then another, the strands a vicious whip that lashed her cheek and obscured her eyes.
