Raging Star (22 page)

She starts to nod. Skeeter bite brings fever, she says. Little thorn sticks in you, yer blood goes bad. All right. Let’s see you do this thing. That makes you the only holdout, Creed.

Slim says, Jump off the cliff with the rest of us, son. You never know, we might jest sprout wings an fly.

Creed’s bin eyes-to-the-ground, arms crossed over his chest, shakin his head from time to time. I don’t believe this, he says. All of yuz. It’s a complete waste of time. Go on, do what you like. He starts to walk away. He raises his voice, not lookin back as he says, When you crash, come find me an we’ll talk about a proper fight. That’s if I’m still around.

Creed! I call after him. One chance! C’mon!

He waves a hand in dismissal an disappears over the edge of the hill.

I got it! cries Peg.

We all turn. She’s grabbed hold of the windcrank on the nose of her airbuggy. She hangs her weight to shove it around. It turns. Once. Very slowly. Then, very slowly, the whole thing collapses.

I’m headin down the hill to find a quiet place to think when Ash comes chasin after me. Wait up! she calls.

There bein only room fer one on the narrow, zigzaggy path, she has to stick behind me. As we pick our rocky way down, she says, Pretty wild idea. You changed yer tune some.

Whatever it takes, Ash. My mind’s clear on this, I says. Like I said, it’s the only thing that makes sense.

There’s the scrabble of feet behind us. We look back to find Emmi an Tracker in pursuit. He flies past, leapin the rocks like a mountain goat, an disappears.

’Scuse me, comin through! As Emmi squeezes an elbows past Ash, her feet slide out from beneath her. Whoops!

Whoa! Ash grabs her collar to save her from a tumble. What’s the hurry, ma’am?

Em clutches herself upright, hangin on my arm. She looks
at me. With her clear as a summer raindrop eyes. I won’t ever let you down agin, not ever, she says. I’m gonna step up, I swear. You’ll see.

Then she’s squirmed past me, scramblin headlong down the path.

Hey! I call. Come back here so I can yell at you. Don’t think you ain’t in trouble, Emmi.

She’s a rocket, that girl, says Ash. What’s the trouble?

She let Nero go loose when I told her to keep him with her. Unreliable Em strikes agin. I shake my head as we go on.

Ash says, Hey, Saba. You thought any more about what I said?

Thought about what?

Nero, she says. Who might of snatched him like that. You must of noticed. He’s okay with all us females—even Peg, an he don’t know her. But he’s still nervy with the boys—men—whatever. He don’t trust ’em. That tells you somethin right there.

That bit of cord Emmi handed me. It’s still in my pocket. I ain’t gave it another thought.

I stop. I turn to her. So who’re you accusin, Ash, huh? My brother? Tommo? Slim? Absolutely not. Never. An Creed an me, we might have our differences of opinion, but I’ve trusted him with my life. Jest like I have all of yuz, an you ain’t never let me down. I got no reason to suspect any of yuz.

Who did it, then? she says.

She ain’t gonna leave this, I can tell by her face. An I sure as hell cain’t tell her it was a Tonton doin DeMalo’s work. That would only lead to more questions. It’s five nights to the blood moon. I could scream at her fer wastin my time like this.

Look, I says. I got a pretty good idea who did this an why. As her mouth drops open in surprise, I says, I ain’t at liberty to say no more than that. I glance up at Nero, who’s sailin around above us. There warn’t no harm done to Nero an that’s the main thing, I says. I don’t wanna talk about this agin, Ash. I got a lot to do, a lot to think about.

She’s lookin at me like I jest sprouted another head. Fine, she says, whatever. You got big things on yer plate. No problem.

I know her. I know how her mind works. Ash, I ferbid you to go pokin around, I says. There ain’t nuthin to discover here, believe me. An I don’t want you talkin to nobody about it, an I want yer word on it. I hold out my hand to her. C’mon, gimme yer promise, right now.

You are so wrong-headed on this, she says. But I stare her out till she shrugs with bad grace. On yer wrong head be it, then, she says. She grabs my hand an gives it her usual. A quick, hard tug towards her, like it’s a stuck pump handle.

Ash’s word is solid. With her promise to me handset, we carry on down.

I need Mercy with me at the babyhouse. I won’t know ezzackly what my plan is till I meet with Jack an his New Eden rebels later today. But if we’re gonna go baby stealin, we’ll need somebody who’s skilled with infants. Who better than Mercy? She also knows the workins of a babyhouse from the inside.

So I’m forced to tell her about Jack. She don’t know him an she’s only newly arrived among us, so she ain’t had her prejudice set about him one way or the other. Unlike everybody else, I think I can trust her with this secret.

On our way to the meet spot, the watermill in Sector Four, I fill her in on Jack an his New Eden rebels. How Bram, with the help of his woman Cassie, had carefully an slowly put together a little gang. How they’d hardly got started when he got killed in action. How Jack took them over. How him an me work together.

Mercy don’t say much. She nods from time to time. At the end of my piece she says, The heartstone burns for this man. Am I right?

Well, I says, you ain’t wrong.

The mill’s in a dip of a valley, on the shouty little river called the Don. The old waterwheel creaks its way around, like a crone with a bone complaint. The mill’s greenly damp
an ancient. The millstone rumbles inside. A white cloud of flour billows from a window.

Jack ushers Mercy up the steep stone steps. Ages of feet have worn ’em to a friendly sag in the middle. She holds tight to the rope handrail. I follow behind an glance at the river below. It’s so clear I can see the stones of its bed. They gleam pale an round as faces. Long strands of weed stream around them like hair.

My heart slams in my chest. I grab the rail. Lean over to look. There. In the water. Lyin on the riverbed.

I rear back. My breath chokes in my throat.

Jack’s halfways through the door. Wavin me on, wonderin why I’m laggin. C’mon, would you? He sees my face. What is it?

With a gasp, I look agin. Pale round stones pave the waterfloor. Weed strands wave an weave. She’s gone. I’m gone. Not jest gone, never there.

Are you okay? he says.

I nod.

When the dead grace my days as well as my nights, it’s a sign of my unquiet soul. But then … maybe I’m jest tired. I didn’t sleep. That’ll be it. That’s all it was.

Saba, says Jack. They’re waitin.

I straighten up. I try a smile. I’m comin, I says.

The great millstones have groaned to a halt. Their rumble still shudders in the air. Inside, a heavy mist of fine white flour drifts an sifts to the floor. As we pass through the millroom, we send it whirlin an dancin. Jack leads the way up a ladder in
the corner, through a hatch to a room in the rooftop of the mill. It’s small an seems crammed full of bodies. But there’s only six of ’em. We three make it nine. The floor’s bin cross-boarded so’s the flour cain’t sift through the cracks. A breeze trickles through a open window.

There’s Vain Ed, the miller. Dusted flour-white from curls to boots. Handsome as george an none too bright. A mousy Steward couple, Manuel an Bo, with the quartered circle brands on their foreheads. Skeet, a runaway slave with a scarified face. His eyes fly to the pale skin that collars Mercy’s neck. They seek out the long double x brands on her arms. You can jest make ’em out through her threadbare sleeves. Skeet an Juneberry—JB fer short—seem to be together. I’d say they’re ages with Mercy. Skinny an tough with long hair matted into ropes, they smell of sweat an earth, of the woods they roam in secret.

From Jack, I know that JB’s one of the last resisters of the Clearance. Some fled, like the folk at the Snake River camp. Some got killed fightin fer their patch. A few, like JB, took to the forest. Treedogs, they’re called. Livin high among the branches, movin swiftly on foot to make trouble fer the Stewards who stole their land. Most of ’em’s bin caught. Like Slim’s friend, Billy Six, spiked to a post.

An there’s Cassie. I bin dreadin this. Meetin her. I should of done it ages ago. Right away after Bram got killed. Instead I shirked it like the coward I am. I don’t dare glance her way.
She’s perched at a open window with her arms crossed tight. But I feel her eyes burnin holes in me.

I speak my piece. The same kinda things I said to my Free Hawks. How New Eden’s built upon fault lines. If we got them to shift, DeMalo’s whole project would come crashin down.

Kill DeMalo, his whole project crashes down, says Jack.

Jack an me disagree on this point, I says. I don’t say he ain’t right. But that way leads to bloodshed. Not jest DeMalo’s, probly all of ours an then some. Look, what I mean is … at the moment we’re actin like DeMalo’s power is somethin solid, like a mountain, to be chipped at with guns an bombs. The fact is, everybody in New Eden is the mountain. He stands on top of it.

Explain that, says Jack.

Okay, I says. What does DeMalo need to carry out his plan to heal the earth? One. He needs labour. The Stewards to work the land. The slaves to build the roads an do the work that breaks backs. Two. It’s a plan fer the generations, not jest a few years. That’ll take a steady stream of labour. So the Stewards hafta produce children an keep on producin them. Three. He needs the slaves an the Stewards to stay here an do what he decrees without question, so he needs the Tonton to enforce his will. He needs a helluva lotta people. Every single one of ’em makes up the mountain. His power depends on them completely. If they decide not to be that mountain no
more, he’ll have nowhere to stand. He’ll fall. If even one bit shifts, the whole thing starts to weaken.

Jack listens. He takes it in, every word. I cain’t tell if he’s surprised that this is where my thoughts an feelins was leadin me. What fell into place as I rode alone from the bunker to Starlight Lanes. So clearly that I believe it’s bin whisperin in me fer some time, only I was too busy fightin to hear it. I cain’t tell what he thinks. It’s a far cry from a plot to kill DeMalo.

As fer the rest of ’em, they stand aginst the walls, not lookin at me even once. With closed faces an probly closed ears. They couldn’t make it more obvious. They’re only here as a favour to Jack. Their loyalty lies with Cassie. Her man, Bram—their friend an leader—is dead thanks to me.