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.
