Excalibur #3: Restoration, page 21
. . . why the hell did she?
For that, she had no answer.
“Captain . . . with all respect . . .” Garbeck was pausing at the door.
Shelby braced herself. Any sentence that started out with those words never came to any good. “Yesss . . . ?”
“You might want to try to get some sleep. You look exhausted.”
Shelby laughed at that. “Kind of you to say so, Number One. I appreciate the concern.” And the truth was that she had been sleeping fairly poorly lately. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want you at less than full capacity if we find ourselves in the middle of a battle.”
She didn’t bother to tell Garbeck that some of her most inventive and daring exploits on the Excalibur had come when she was so looped that she hardly knew where she was. Somehow she didn’t think that would add much to the luster of her reputation.
RHEELA
“MA! LOOK! LOOK!!”
Rheela was feeling in a particularly good mood as she came in from having harvested some of the liquid crops. The plants had been especially generous, providing her with a goodly amount of juice that she would be able to bring to town and trade with. She had decided to get an early morning start on it, and was pleased that she had much of the rest of the day remaining to her to head into town. Not only that, but it was surprisingly cool, thanks to the strong and steady wind that was gusting off the plains. She could feel it in her bones; she would be able to produce rain again quite soon, perhaps even today.
“Look at what, Moke?” she said, trying to contain her laughter in the face of such uninhibited exuberance. He literally could not stand still as he bounced back and forth in front of her. “What do you want me to look at?”
“That!” he said, and he pointed to the shed. She saw where he was pointing and then gasped in amazement.
Calhoun had just emerged from the shed, and he was rolling a very familiar device in front of him. He was grinning lopsidedly, in a self-satisfied manner that was quite evocative of Moke.
“It’s a sailskipper! We built it! Mac and me! We built it!” Moke kept saying the same thing over and over, apparently under the impression that Rheela was stone-deaf and wouldn’t hear it the first fifty times.
“You built it!” she said, with that tone of approving wonder that came instinctively to mothers throughout the galaxy. “You and Mac? Together!”
“Together!” Moke said emphatically. “From spare parts of stuff we had lying around.”
It certainly did appear cobbled together. It wasn’t remotely as slick and of a piece as the sailskipper that she’d seen Tapinza piloting. But it was an impressive achievement, nevertheless.
“We’re going to go out and ride it! The two of us! Mac said we could!”
She looked at him but he was already ahead of her. “No, Moke,” he corrected gently. “I said that if it was okay with your mother, we could ride it, the two of us.”
Naturally Moke didn’t hesitate an instant. “Is it okay, Ma? Is it? Is it?”
Fortunately, Rheela knew better than to try and stem the tide of enthusiasm that was gushing from her son. “Yes, yes, fine. I was going to head into town, and I thought you might want to come along. But if you don’t want to—”
“No! I wanna go with Mac!” said Moke, and then added “Pleeeease!” after Calhoun loudly cleared his throat to prompt the boy that something further should be said.
“I see that resistance is futile,” she said with a laugh, and then caught an odd expression on Calhoun’s face. “What’s wrong? Is it something I said . . . ?”
He forced a smile. “No. No, not really. Just . . . your saying that reminded me of something, that’s all. Nothing to concern yourself about. So!” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. “Shall we take a whirl at it, Moke?”
Moke needed no further urging. Encouraged by the steady wind, he ran to the sailskipper and clambered aboard. Calhoun did likewise, shoving the vehicle forward with a strong thrust of his leg. The vehicle creaked loudly, and for a moment Rheela thought the entire thing was going to be torn apart just from normal use, but it held together admirably. Within moments, Calhoun and Moke were zipping away, accompanied by a high-pitched howl of joy torn from her son’s throat.
She shook her head. “Men,” she said in amusement, deciding that the male of the species continued to be unfathomable at any age. Then she climbed aboard the luukab and headed into town.
She was actually surprised when her arrival was not only greeted positively, but enthusiastically. She had barely climbed down off the luukab when she suddenly found herself surrounded by eager townsfolk with looks of hope on their faces. More of them were assembling with each passing moment, looking almost relieved that she had shown up. “Is there a problem?” she asked, a bit confused.
It was Praestor Milos, master of extraordinary timing, who was heading across the street toward her and took the opportunity to reply to her query. “Not a problem, now that you’re here, Rheela,” he said cheerily. “How goes matters with you?”
She was about to reply, and then she saw Maestress Cawfiel in the crowd. The Maestress was saying nothing, but the glare from her seemed vicious enough to burn her alive, if that were possible. She forced herself to ignore the ferocity of the woman, and instead focused on Milos. “They go fine,” she said cautiously. “I’m pleased that you are so concerned, and would you kindly tell me what’s happening—?”
“Well, to be perfectly candid, it’s been a while since our last rainfall . . .” He looked around as if seeking confirmation by the others, and heads bobbed up and down in agreement.
“Not . . . really,” she said, a bit surprised. “I made rain just the other day . . .”
“For yourself,” the Widow Att said. It was hard to believe that there was a woman in the city who was even more crotchety and dyspeptic than the Maestress, but the Widow Att had a genuine claim to that honor. “You made it for yourself.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Rheela.
“We . . . saw that the skies had darkened in the general area of your homestead,” Milos said by way of explanation, looking a bit chagrined even to have to discuss it. “Seemed pretty fierce, from the look of it. But there was a pretty steady wind around the town—”
“Almost like a barrier,” the Maestress now spoke up, each word drowning in resentment.
“—and it appeared to keep the clouds at bay. We really didn’t get much of anything,” Milos continued. “And our reservoir is getting dangerously low . . .”
“Please help us,” one of the younger people said. Always the younger people weren’t too proud to say “please,” Rheela had noticed long ago. The adults and seniors were busy conjuring all manner of sinister motives, but it was the youth that were not afraid to seek out succor wherever they could obtain it. “Please,” one of them said again.
“Of course,” Rheela said reassuringly, and she patted the young girl on the arm. The youth nodded gratefully. “As it so happens,” continued Rheela, “your timing couldn’t be better. The conditions are exactly right. I should be able to create an extremely significant storm for you.”
Cheers went up from the crowd, a smattering of applause that got a bit louder as Rheela put down the bags she had been carrying and prepared herself. She felt the gaze of the Maestress upon her, challenging her, as if she was anxious for Rheela to fail. What a sad and pathetic way to be: If Rheela failed, it would be the residents of Narrin who suffered because of it. How could a woman who purportedly wanted the best for her people wish for something that would be to their detriment? Well . . . it didn’t matter, really. Rheela had no intention of failing. She never had before, and she wasn’t about to start now.
She walked out into the middle of the street, stepping away from the crowd that was rapidly beginning to gather. She placed her hands together, palm to palm, and closed her eyes. There was a steady murmur behind her, people whispering to one another, for most of them had never seen her actually summon the rains. She had never embarked on such an endeavor in the town; usually, when specific requests for her intervention came, it was the result of a small envoy that was sent to her homestead specifically to request it. They would see her engage in her weather influencing, and report back to the residents of the city what they had witnessed. She had little doubt that, as always happened with these things, the description of the process was embellished to the point of absurdity. Still, the thought that they would look up to her and even be a bit intimidated by her didn’t seem such an unpleasant one to her.
She reached out with her heart, her mind. She could sense clouds wafting in, and she urged the breeze to push them toward her. She felt the heaviness of the rain contained within the clouds, and urged them to release, caressing them with her mind the way a lover would.
Everything felt normal. Everything felt right.
And then . . . and then . . .
Everything felt wrong.
She sensed the weather, bonded with the atmospheric conditions . . . in every way, felt attuned to the environment around her . . . but it wouldn’t release the rain to her. The breezes whipped around her, but did not attend to her. She called to them, begged them, pleaded with them with every iota of her willpower, but still nothing happened.
Long minutes passed, and she heard rumbling. But it was not from thunder; instead, it was the annoyed rumbling of the crowd as they slowly began to realize that nothing much was happening in the way of precipitation. She heard muttered comments of “What’s happening?” and “Why is it taking so long?” She had no response, though. Everything felt right, everything should have occurred in the way that it always did. And yet . . . there was nothing at all.
“Is there a problem, Rheela?” It was the Maestress who was asking, and there was something in her voice—the sneer, the pure contempt that she appeared to be dripping with—that prompted Rheela to turn and face her with barely contained anger.
“What did you do?” blurted out Rheela. Really, it was an absurd question. There was nothing that the Maestress could have done. Despite her demeanor, it wasn’t as if she was some sort of witch, casting an evil spell that prevented Rheela from doing what needed to be done. She had spoken more out of frustration than any rational thought.
Unfortunately, the words were now out there, Rheela’s impatience with herself prompting her, unwisely, to misdirect her anger. After all this time, it was exactly the sort of opening that the Maestress had been waiting for.
“Oh, is that the way of it?” demanded the Maestress. “You withhold your abilities when my people ask for them, and then try to blame it on me, making it seem as if I am acting to hurt them!”
“I’m not withholding anything!” Rheela protested. She saw the anger on the faces of the people around her. The skies above might not have been darkening, but the mood of the crowd was, and very rapidly. She gathered her patience, tried to reset the tone of the moment. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, it—”
But her apology was far too little, and a bit too late. It wasn’t heard by those surrounding her as their ire rose with each passing moment. “You heard her! She tried to blame the Maestress!” “She didn’t bring the rain!” “She’s holding back on us!”
“I’m not holding back on anything!” Rheela said, unable to keep the desperation out of her voice. Even before she did it, she realized that she was backing up, as if she had something to hide. As if she was afraid . . .
Which she was.
Her luukab, tethered nearby, was sensing the mood of the crowd, and was clearly unhappy about it. The creature let out a loud, mournful howl of concern. Rheela couldn’t blame it for doing so; she was feeling exactly the same way.
“Look,” she said with growing urgency, “something just . . . just didn’t . . . I mean, this isn’t an exact science! The conditions weren’t right, the—”
“You said they felt exactly right!” Spangler accused her. He was taking notes for that damnable newspaper of his. She was getting the distinct feeling that she was going to be the lead item.
“I know, but—”
“Sounds to me,” said the Widow Att, “as if you’re still holding a grudge about the Decency Act, and want to get back at us!”
Of all people, the Maestress was the one who said, “I would like to think that such is not the case.” But then, eyes flashing with a satisfaction that was nearly wicked, she added, “Unfortunately . . . we can only draw the conclusions that seem reasonable.”
There was no mistaking it now: They were converging on her. Rheela found herself presented with two choices: Either she had to cut and run, or she was going to try to tough it out, stay there and convince them that they were simply wrong to think that, somehow, she was turning against them. And she had almost no time in which to make the decision.
She made the only one that seemed reasonable: She bolted. Without trying to offer any more words of defense, she turned and ran straight for the now nearly frantic luukab. “Stop her!” several of them shouted. She didn’t hear which ones, but it didn’t matter; it could have been any of them, for they were all thirsty and hot and angry, and she had let them down. She vaulted onto the back of the luukab, dropping the satchels of her crop as she did so. Realizing that stopping to reach for them would be tantamount to suicide, she slammed her heels into the creature’s sides.
The luukab was normally a very placid creature, and any attempts to urge it to any sort of speed were generally rather futile. But, considering the mood of the situation that confronted it, the luukab was more than ready to bolt with a very uncharacteristic, but understandable, burst of speed. The crowd was converging from in front and behind, and the luukab reared up, its huge legs waving above the heads of those approaching. Considering the creature’s weight, if it came down on anyone in front, it would not go well for those who ended up under its feet. Realizing this, they dropped back rather than risk death. Rheela, for her part, clutched the back of the creature for all she was worth.
The luukab barreled forward, grunting and howling its indignation as it went. It nearly, but not quite, drowned out the shouting and epithets that were being hurled by the townsfolk behind them. And that was not all that was being hurled, either. Rocks, shoes, pieces of wood . . . anything that they could get their hands on, they were throwing after Rheela as she fled.
This can’t be happening! This should not be happening! she kept saying to herself. She felt as if she was trapped in some sort of insane dream, even as she crouched low to avoid the debris being tossed her way.
And then a rock nailed her squarely on the side of the head. Rheela cried out and almost lost her grip on the luukab. The thought of what would happen to Moke if she died in this way was all that kept her going as her hands dug in and she maintained her grip. The luukab, even more distraught by the missiles being lobbed in its direction, redoubled its efforts. As the world swam around Rheela, the luukab fairly galloped out of town, leaving the shouts and cries of anger swarming about in the air like angry insects.
Only when the luukab had put some distance between itself and the city did it slow down somewhat. The strain on the beast had not been a light one. Rheela literally could feel its heart—or was it hearts?—pounding against its sides, and its breath was heavy in its lungs, rasping and straining.
But there was only so much attention Rheela could pay to the animal’s situation, because her own plight was no less dire. She could feel the massive lump already swelling on the side of her head. Not only that, but nausea swept over her in waves, and she knew she was in danger of losing consciousness. She reached over and dug her fingernails into her forearm, afraid that if she passed out, she would slip off the back of the luukab and tumble to the ground. If that happened, she had no confidence that the animal would stop or come back for her. It wasn’t the brightest creature that Kolk’r had put on the planet’s surface, and was just as likely to plod away home—or even trundle off into the desert if it didn’t have her guidance, there to wander and possibly even die. Then again, the last thing she should be worrying about was the luukab’s likelihood of survival, considering her own was somewhat in jeopardy.
She began to sing nonsensical songs to keep herself awake. When the effectiveness of that strategy wore thin, she started picturing Moke . . . Moke, and Calhoun. She pictured Calhoun’s purple eyes taking her in, looking her up and down and appreciating her. Imagined his hands running over her body, carrying her off somewhere private and doing things to her that she hadn’t experienced in ever so long. . . .
And then . . .
Then she started thinking about Moke’s father. . . .
. . . about that evening . . . that one, insane evening, when he had come to her, like something from Kolk’r on high . . . the way he had smiled at her, and he’d had those flashing, mysterious eyes, and a voice as loud as thunder and soft as the caress of an errant breeze, both together. She had thought it more dream than reality, but not too long after, she had learned the reality of it. And she had never told anyone because, really, what was the point? Who would believe her? Who would think it anything other than a flight of fancy from a possibly demented mind?
She started to drift and fought herself awake, thrusting her body to one side with such violence that she threw herself right off the luukab. She hit the ground, and the jolt was more than enough to propel her to full wakefulness. She looked around, her body aching, her head throbbing, and then she realized that she was no more than ten feet from her own front door. The luukab had brought her safely home—although safety was a relative term.
Rheela hauled herself to her feet. The world spun around her once more before settling down. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she lurched into the house while trying not to fall over once more, steadying herself by leaning against the doorframe before entering. She was pleased to see that the room wasn’t spinning around as she went to the mirror on the wall and looked into it bleakly. There she saw a fair approximation of her face looking back at her, except that it was covered with dirt and grime and a trickle of blood from what she now realized was more a head wound than a lump. It was turning several different colors, none of them good-looking and all of them unfamiliar to her skin. She reached up hesitantly, and then decided at the last moment not to touch it. Certainly no good would come from doing so.
