An Excerpt from my new work-in-progress

VESTA EXILED

Sterling R. Walker

ONE

STORM

            “I’m thinking of changing careers.” Corban Abrams shouted to be heard over the rhythmic clanging of hammers on anvils in the metal-smith shed.

            “You’re only seventeen. You don’t have a career.” Corban’s brother Thane took a smoking rectangle from the coals with long-handled tongs and set to work shaping the molten iron on his anvil with practiced blows from his flatter.

            “I want to change guilds,” Corban shouted.

            Thane raised the visor of his welding mask, revealing a sweaty scowl. “Are you crazy?” He set the flatter down and dipped the still-glowing metal into the water. He gave Corban his full attention as the bucket emitted clouds of steam. “Uncle will never let you leave the Hunters.”

            “You left.” Corban knew it was tactless, but the words just slipped out.

            “It’s hard to track Bluedeer when you’re missing a kneecap.” Thane kept his temper in check, but the dangerous expression on his face was a warning for Corban to shut his mouth.

            “Sorry.” The response was involuntary, as was the glance down at Thane’s left knee. A titanium brace encased his denim pant leg, taking his weight off the mangled calf and knee joint. The device was a poor substitute for a prosthetic knee, but the medical supplies were so scarce that Thane was fortunate to have a brace. Being the mayor’s nephew did have its privileges. Anyone else in East Fort with an injury this severe would be forced to make do with a wooden leg.

             A Night Terror attack eight years ago was the reason for the brace. Thane’s legs were thin but, as a metal-smith’s apprentice, he was solid muscle from the waist up. Curly blond hair and patchy beard, both in need of a trim, framed Thane’s prominent cheekbones and blue eyes.

            “Assuming Uncle lets you change guilds—and we both know it’s never going to happen—which one are you thinking of?” Thane selected a round punch hammer with his right hand and reached for the tongs, still immersed in the bucket, with his left.   

            “Medics.”

            Thane snorted with laughter. “I thought you were going to say you wanted to be a songwriter. Can you imagine the look on Uncle’s face if you told him you wanted to join the Artists?”

            Corban didn’t crack a smile at Thane’s lame attempt at humor.

            Thane sobered and shoved the tongs back into the coals. “Why the Medics?”

            “I don’t like hunting.” Corban could feel his face turning pink, and it wasn’t from the sweltering heat inside the shed.

            “I didn’t think you were squeamish.”

            “I’m not. You know blood doesn’t bother me. I just don’t like killing. I’d rather put bodies back together instead of tear them apart.” Corban glanced down at Thane’s leg again, for emphasis. “I was hoping you could convince Uncle to at least hear me out.”

            Thane gave him a skeptical glance. “He’ll never agree to let you switch. You’ll have to wait until you’re eighteen.” He lowered his visor and went back to work pounding screw holes into the nearly finished door hinge.

            Corban took the hint and turned to leave the shed, walking past the workstations of the other three apprentice metal-smiths who didn’t give him a second glance.

            Outside, the morning air was chilly compared to the stifling heat of the smithy, even though the temperature on Vesta never dipped below 25º C year-round. Corban paused to cool his temper, as well as his body, before threading the maze of makeshift market stalls, heading toward Main Street. Sleepy vendors were starting to set up for the day’s business.

            Past the pottery kiln, Corban reached the road and turned left, heading toward East Fort Community School. If he hurried he would only be fifteen minutes late for his first class. He raced along the narrow street between row houses, watching where he placed his feet so he wouldn’t turn an ankle on the uneven cobblestones. 

            A glance up at the sky to estimate the time made him stop in his tracks.

            Iron-gray clouds were rolling in from the mountains, blotting out the warm pink glow of Ilios. It was a warning that the annual storm was gathering.

* * *

            The East Fort colonists worked fast to prepare for the storm. The community water system and electrical grid were the first things to be shut down, so the four hundred families who lived in the apartments that formed the fortress walls, and in the crowded village that comprised the courtyard, used hand pumps to fill buckets at the wells until it was time to cover the openings with large stones to keep out debris.

            Shutters were nailed in place over windows. The food from the communal kitchens was distributed. Clay lamps were filled with enough flaxseed oil to burn for three days. Occasionally, the storm lasted four days. Corban didn’t want to think about riding out a four-day storm.

            “Are you sure you don’t want to take shelter in one of the ships this time?” Thane asked when the brothers reached their apartment, arms loaded down with food and supplies.

            Corban shook his head. “I’m not bunking with strangers. We’ll be fine here.” It was the same argument every storm, but he refused to leave his handicapped brother alone to fend for himself.

            Thane grunted something that could be interpreted as a “thank you,” but Corban dismissed it with a shrug. He took their hammocks down from the log walls and carried them to the three-by-three meter windowless bathroom that served as a storm shelter once a year. He hung the hammocks from the eyehooks screwed into the stone walls.

            Corban nailed the wooden toilet lid shut, grateful they lived on the third floor of the fort. The outdated septic system sometimes flooded from the relentless rains, leaving the first floor residents knee-deep in raw sewage.

            Thane placed their food rations and eating utensils on the sink counter. He frowned at the results. “I don’t think we can live off a bowl of Bluedeer jerky, three loaves of bread, and six plums.”

            Corban picked up a plum and started to take a bite.

            “Wait!” Thane snatched the fruit from his hand. “We’re going to need that!”

            “I didn’t have any breakfast!”

            “Neither did I, but it’ll have to wait. See if Uncle has any food stashed in the conference room.” Thane set the plum back on the counter. “This is off-limits until tonight.”

            Corban felt a stab of fear at the thought of raiding their uncle’s coveted supplies, but he didn’t want his brother to think he was a coward. “Sure, I can do that.”

            Thane closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating his Talent. “I don’t hear him in the apartment.” He opened his eyes and gave Corban a nod of reassurance. “You’d better hurry, the storm’s about to break.”

             It was a few steps across their small bedroom to reach the door that adjoined the mayor’s suite. Corban knocked once out of habit before poking his head inside his uncle’s bedroom. The room was unoccupied, as Thane had reported, but Corban still felt the need for caution.

            A huge bed took up most of the space. It was covered with a beautiful quilt and real down-filled pillows. Several fine woven suits in assorted colors hung from hooks along the walls. The mayor also had his own private bathroom with expensive copper fixtures. It was quite a contrast from the wooden privy the brothers shared. 

            Corban peered into the next room adjoining the bedroom. The Abrams’ living space had been converted into a conference room where the community council met. A long oval table surrounded by seven matching chairs took up most of the room. Soft white Night Terror fur rugs covered the floor and an ancient refrigerator stood in one corner.

            Taking a deep breath, Corban went straight to the small fridge and opened the door. He whistled softly as he surveyed the contents. Tangerines? Asparagus? Hardboiled eggs? Is that goat cheese? Where did Leighton get all this? He ignored his guilty conscience and quickly filled his pockets. Why shouldn’t we help ourselves? The power is off so this will spoil before the storm is over.

            “Where did all this come from?” Corban whispered to himself.

            “Where did what come from?” asked a cold voice behind him.

            “Uncle!” Corban spun around, clutching a hand to his heart from the shock. “I didn’t hear you come in!” He was annoyed at himself for forgetting how easily his uncle could sneak up on people, as he had done to Corban countless times.

            The mayor appraised his nephew with a suspicious frown. He was a tall man, but height was the only physical feature he shared with Thane and Corban. Leighton Abrams had fair skin, which never tanned, jet-black hair, and pale gray eyes. There were some streaks of silver at his temples, which accentuated the silver in his bushy black eyebrows. The mayor carried himself as one who knew how to wield authority with a heavy hand.

            “I was just looking for a few extra supplies for the storm.” Corban’s resolve always faltered under his uncle’s malevolent gaze. He figured it was easier to confess than to endure a hostile interrogation.

            But Leighton didn’t question him further. Corban sensed that his Uncle’s anger was already spiraling out of control. “So now you’re a thief as well as a liar?”

             The words stung, but Corban was used to the verbal abuse. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but before he could utter a word, his uncle seized him by the shoulders and slammed his back against the open refrigerator.

            A ceramic jar filled with wine fell off a shelf and shattered at their feet.

            “Now look what you’ve done! Stay out of my personal stores!” The mayor dragged Corban away from the fridge and shoved him toward the door. “Get out!”

            Without a word, Corban fled the suite, leaving a trail of wine footprints behind. He was accustomed to his uncle’s explosive temper, but as a minor under colonial law, he had no recourse but to endure it until he was eighteen. Running away wasn’t an option on Vesta. There was nowhere to run.

            When Corban reached the bathroom/storm shelter, Thane looked up from the rain barrel he was setting in the corner. “I’m sorry! I didn’t hear him coming upstairs until you were already at the fridge.”

             Corban made an effort to wipe the scowl off his face. “Forget it. He was already mad about something. It was bad timing.” He emptied his pockets of a handful of asparagus, three tangerines, and five hardboiled eggs. “I hope this was worth getting caught. Where does Uncle get all this stuff?” He sat down on the toilet lid and took off his soaked socks.

            “He trades for it.” Thane found a towel and pushed it across the floor with his feet to blot up the puddle of wine. “You might want to get some dry clothes on before we barricade the door.”

            “Trades what? He hasn’t gone hunting since he was elected.” Corban went back out to the bedroom to grab some jeans and socks from his dresser. He didn’t care if the wine footprints stained his uncle’s precious hardwood floors, and left his wet clothes right where he shed them. He returned to the bathroom as soon as he was dressed.

            Thane continued their conversation. “Uncle trades favors.”

            Corban groaned. “You mean he’s taking bribes?”

            His brother shot him an astonished look. “You didn’t know?”

            “You didn’t tell me.”

            Thane shrugged it off. “I don’t repeat everything I overhear because, one: not much is worth repeating, and two: you usually know before I open my mouth.”

            “Well, I didn’t know about this. I’m not telepathic.”

            “No, but you’re close enough.” Thane shook his head. “I feel sorry for any Scion who can read minds. I’m sure what goes on in people’s heads is much worse than what comes out of their mouths.”

            The first rumblings of thunder brought their banter to a halt. Corban lit the lamp and set it on the floor.

            Thane placed the heavy iron bar across the door to secure it. “Did you bring the cards?”

            “Yes.” Corban searched his cargo pockets for the faded deck of playing cards they used during the storms. The brothers sat down on the floor and began to play a game of Spades.

In fifteen minutes, the wind began to howl. They exchanged a look of resignation; it would only get louder over the next few days.

            They played cards for several hours, trying to tune out the continuous crackling roar of the thunder, like a giant beast clawing at the stone walls of the fort.

            Corban tried not to think about the forces of nature raging outside their tiny room. The hours crawled by as the storm lashed Vesta with all its fury. They ate, napped, played cards, ate, and slept again. They extinguished the lamp when they went to sleep to conserve oil, but the pitch darkness made Corban uneasy. He could only imagine how terrifying a storm shelter would be for someone with claustrophobia.

            There was no way to tell if it was night or day outside. They ate when they were hungry and slept when they were tired. Because it wasn’t safe to uncover the toilet, they used a chamber pot. It had a lid, but didn’t contain all the odors.

            “I’ve got to have some fresh air,” Corban said.

            “There’s enough small gaps in these stones to keep us from suffocating.” Thane took off the brace and used his good leg to hoist himself into his hammock.

            Corban snorted and stretched out in his own hammock, trying to tune out the howl of the hurricane-force winds.

***

            He awoke with a gasp of horror and sat up. His hammock capsized, dumping him onto the hard wooden floor, and knocking the wind out of him. He lay there for a few minutes, shivering at the fresh perspiration that drenched his torso. He took some deep breaths in an attempt to slow his racing heart.

            The storm had reached fever-pitch, the thunder like intermittent explosions just outside their shelter. The air was charged with the increased static electricity, making Corban’s hair stand on end. He shot an envious glance at Thane in the other hammock. His brother didn’t pause in his snores because his Talent allowed him to tune-in or tune-out sounds at will.

            Corban climbed to his unsteady feet, rubbing his bruised hip. He picked up the blanket and eased himself back into the hammock, pulling the cover up to his shoulders to ward off the chill. He was tired, but he couldn’t go back to sleep. He had enough experience with his own Talent to know he should analyze the nightmare while the images were still fresh in his mind.

            In the dream, he had been standing in the middle of the peach grove, fifteen kilometers to the south in Orchard Valley. In the distance, he could see a young woman. She was running toward him through the trees, dressed in blue jeans and a black loose-fitting shirt, both smeared with blood. She was brandishing a long sword in her right hand.

            Corban recognized the sword. It was the same one Thane had forged a few months ago as a gift for their uncle on his fiftieth birthday.

            The stranger didn’t slow as she drew near, but came straight at Corban, full speed. He could see the hatred in her expression. He knew he should take cover, or at least get out of her way, but his feet seemed frozen to the ground. Somehow he knew her, although he had never set eyes on her before the dream, and somehow he wasn’t afraid of this enraged person who seemed intent on killing him right where he stood.

            She drew close enough that her features burned an image into his memory. She was tall for a girl. The top of her head was level with his chin, making her at least 1.7 meters. She was tan, but not too dark like someone who worked outside all day. Her large brown eyes slanted upward at the outside corners, and her black hair was long and coming loose from its ponytail. There were a few stray curls on her forehead and at the edges of her flushed, sweat-streaked face.

            The entire package was attractive, but terrifying. Fear flooded Corban as she raised the sword high above her head, bringing it down in a vicious arch, aiming right for his neck.

            This was the moment he had been wrenched from sleep with a gasp of horror.

            Corban’s heart still hammered against his ribs. He raised a hand to his sweaty throat, assuring himself that his head was still in place. In the dream the blade had come so close that he had felt the razor-sharp edge against his skin.  

            What does it mean? Corban’s premonitions sometimes showed him events so far into the future that it was impossible to relate them to what was currently going on in his life. They offered him glimpses of upcoming events, but important details were always missing, like a puzzle without all the pieces. Was it a subliminal warning to avoid this girl, or maybe the peach grove? Was it literal? A girl I’ve never met is going to chop off my head with a sword?

            Who is she? Why does she have Uncle’s sword? Why does she want to kill me? As with most of his premonitions, this one had to be placed on a wait-and-see mental shelf.