A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds) (27 page)

“Two short three long, two short three long,” he said under his breath.

After he’d pressed the code he lifted her from the grass and started to run. He couldn’t tell if she’d stopped shaking or not. The ground changed from tall grass to dry, broken earth and he tried not to stumble.

A heavy weight crashed into the back of his legs. Wilson slammed into the hard-packed ground and protected Badger’s head as he fell.

A huge tribal had tackled his legs. Wilson let go of Badger and pulled the throwing knife from his belt. He twisted around and slashed the man’s face. The tribal yelled. Wilson wriggled loose from his grip and jerked a knee up into the tribal’s jaw. The man rolled away through the dirt.

Wilson stood and sheathed his knife as the shouts came closer. He held his hands at his sides while a dozen tribals in dull green circled him and Badger like a pack of wolves.

“We have no fight with you,” Wilson said in the dialect. “Let us go.”

The tallest of the group laughed. “What a strange little mouse.”

Wilson breathed in and out slowly. Through his moccasins he gripped the earth with his toes. He thought about stone. The weight, the hard foundation of mountains. Under his breath he repeated:

Arm made of stone

Arm made of steel

Arm made of earth

Push my hand

“Are you praying?” The tall tribal grabbed Wilson’s arm with one hand and cocked back the other fist.

Wilson grabbed the hand on his arm and twisted it down and away to break the fingers. The tall tribal screamed. Wilson stepped forward and punched him in the midsection. The tribal flew back ten feet, knocked over two other men, and lay still.

Wilson rubbed his knuckles. Another dozen men ran towards them through the tall grass. He formed an image of ice in his mind. When the new group had arrived he spoke again in the dialect.

“I’m from the west. My name is Wilson. I’ve killed more men than your filthy mothers have spots on their faces. Walk away and you’ll live. Touch me and die. Ask your dead friends in the building. Ask your friend on the ground.”

His words unsettled many of the tribals. A few backed away, even though they carried rifles. Wilson kept his eyes on the crowd around him and knelt to feel Badger’s neck. Satisfied, he stood up.

“Who’s your leader?” he asked.

“I am.”

A muscular figure pushed through the crowd. He breathed hard and sweat dotted his face. He wore a plain green uniform, with few metal decorations apart from a silver biohazard emblem on the front of his cap. A pistol grip stuck from his belt.

“Miserĉas pacon,” said Wilson.

 “Neniu,” said the man. “You’re my prisoner.” He waved at Wilson. “Tie him up.”

Wilson breathed deeply and murmured under his breath.

Four men grabbed him but flew back in a sudden whirl of dust, their chests covered in blood. The leader gasped in pain as something wrenched his arm back and cold metal pressed on his neck.

“Let us go or die,” said Wilson.

“No,” said the leader. “Look there.”

Two men stood over Badger with rifles pointed at her head. Her eyes fluttered and lips twitched. Wilson lost strength in his legs and felt the same stomach cramps. He tried to pull himself together with the calming trick but fell to the ground, overcome with nausea. A weight slammed into his head and that sickness, like everything else, went away.

TWELVE

W
ilson dreamed he and Badger were back at the underground lake. Only this time, he couldn’t keep his head out of the water or move his arms or legs. The black lake poured into his mouth and he kept spitting it out.

Hold on

The water was sulfurous and thick. He twisted his head and coughed to keep it out.

Hold my hand

The darkness seeped into his nose and ears and through the corners of his eyes. He held his breath as the water closed over his head.

Don’t let go

Cold water stung his face and Wilson opened his eyes.

His face and the wooden slats against his cheek were wet. He lay sideways, on the floor of a room packed with old objects. Candlelight glowed on ancient calendars hanging around the room. On the faded squares of paper were images of beautiful women, animals, and flying transports.

Badger knelt across the room, tied with braided rope. Her arms were bound above and behind her head and the loops crossed her neck. Thick cables of hemp circled her knees and calves and linked her wrists to her ankles. Purple bruises covered the right side of her face.

Wilson tried to lift his head from the puddle but couldn’t. Ropes bound his arms and legs behind his back. When he tried to free his hands the rope around his neck tightened. He relaxed and could breathe again.

“Easy there,” a voice said in English.

The floor creaked and a young man stepped into the light. He had dark, cropped hair and pale skin.

“You can’t escape. It gets tighter as you struggle.”

The man spoke with sibilant, overstressed consonants. That and the way he flicked his tongue across his lips reminded Wilson of a range lizard.

“Why?” Wilson asked hoarsely.

“I have to be cautious, because you’re both extremely dangerous. Between the two of you a dozen men are dead. Well, I say men, but they weren’t really. They were well-trained and valuable, however.” The man walked to Badger, who spat in his direction. “This young lady was gracious enough to need ten men to hold her down. She killed two in the struggle.”

“I’m sorry,” said Wilson.

“Apology accepted.”

“No, I’m sorry that eight survived.”

“Appalling,” said the man. “I’m used to bloody language like that from savages but not from an English speaker. Not from someone who can read.” He grabbed a wooden chair and sat between Wilson and Badger. “All I want to do ... is talk.”

“Untie us.”

“That would be rash.”

“Why?”

The man yawned. “I’m certain you find it entertaining, but I don’t like to repeat myself.”

“You’re part of the Circle,” said Wilson.

“Correct.” The man lifted a silver necklace and symbol from his green shirt. “It’s a growing organization. We’re always looking for new members.”

“Looking for more slaves,” said Badger.

“I don’t like that word––we call them workers,” said the man. He spread his hands. “It’s a matter of perspective.”

“I’m sure the slaves agree,” said Wilson.

“You’re making a simple attempt at humor, but it’s actually true. Food, shelter, and medical care are provided free to everyone. And those who give a higher quality of effort are rewarded. We value good workers and provide them a chance for advancement and success.”

“One thing you didn’t give them was choice,” said Wilson.

“Choice. Freedom. Independence.” The man shook his head. “How many people in your revolting village ever leave? Most of you semi-literates and tribals stay in the same filthy huts your entire life, grubbing roots from the ground and eating rats. If you survive the diseases of childhood you’re cut down in petty tribal warfare or from wild animals. You’re surrounded by the machines of your dead fathers, ignorant and dangerous like a monkey with a chainsaw.” He bent over Wilson. “The Circle has begun the next age of humanity, and you throw ‘slavery’ in my face. Words like that are delusional relics from the past. We give our workers more safety, education, and years of life than they had before.”

“Ask them if they’re happy,” said Wilson.

“Let me change the subject,” said the man. “My name is Darius. The men tell me your name is Will. The young lady has refused to give me her name.”

“You won’t live long enough for it to matter,” said Badger.

Darius wrinkled his nose. “More boring bravado.”

“Where did you learn English?” asked Wilson.

“This is my interview. Stop asking questions or I pull bits off the girl, probably the ones you like.”

Wilson watched him and said nothing.

“Good,” said Darius. “Where’s your village?”

“It’s to the west.”

“That’s no secret. Be more specific.” With one hand Darius clacked a pair of pliers.

Wilson knew he had to say something credible, but he didn’t want to reveal anything about Station or the valley. “It’s called David. It’s on old 24,” he said.

Darius smiled. “Interesting. Your leaders have always refused a contract. Now it’s my turn to ask this question: How do you know English?”

“Everyone speaks it there.”

“Do you have machines hidden in the village?”

“We can forge weapons and work with leather, cloth, and wood,” said Wilson.

“Do you have machines?”

“Only those we make ourselves.”

“A lie. Why were these papers found on your person?” Darius held up the SWORD manual. “And these books?” He waved at the top of the table.

“It’s a hobby,” said Wilson.

Darius stepped in front of Badger, pliers in hand.

“Stop,” said Wilson. “You’re right––the village has machines left from the old days. They’re not working and we were searching for a way to fix them.”

“My scouts followed you through Springs to that old base. You have very specific knowledge on a locked room there.”

“The books at my village mentioned it,” said Wilson. “I thought we might find parts.”

“What kind of machines are you trying to fix?”

“Medical machines.”

“Good.” Darius stared at Wilson. “Circle scouts will travel to David and give them one last chance for membership. If they accept, a contract will be drawn up. We’ll provide weapons and medical supplies and the village will provide us with workers. The number and frequency will be spelled out in the contract. If you can spell, that is.” He chuckled then cleared his throat. “Another benefit is that other tribals who are part of our Circle will stop attacking your village. At least, not when anyone is watching. All we want is peace and safe trading between all members. However, if your people refuse the contract the village will be razed. At that point we’ll just take what we want.”

“Your men will die,” said Badger.

Darius smiled. “That’s why you’ll go with them,” he said. “And even if they’re killed, we’ll send more. The contract language will become harsher at that point.”

“They’ll die too,” she said.

“What an impolite and bloody-minded young lady. You’d be quite the spectacle where I’m from.” Darius cleared his throat. “Both of you speak English and claim some part of civilization but you act like homicidal maniacs. We bring order and technology into this lawless place and all the tribals welcome it. You’re deluded to think you can escape the march of progress.”

“More a trail of tears than a march of progress,” muttered Wilson.

Darius sighed and took Wilson’s pistol from the table.

“I only need one of you as a hostage. I think my scouts will be happier with the young lady.”

He aimed down the barrel at Wilson and fired. The bullet hit Wilson like a sledgehammer and he slid across the floor. Badger screamed. Burning fire, then numbness spread across Wilson’s stomach. He focused on breathing and watched Badger struggle against the ropes. She choked from the bonds around her neck.

“Kira ... don’t ...”

He tried to say more but his eyes wouldn’t stay open.

IGNITION

THIRTEEN

T
he nose of the sea-green car sat deep in the manzanita bushes and two lines of muddy, squashed crabgrass led back to a gravel road. A man in a white t-shirt and jeans slumped in the driver’s seat, his shaved head against the door frame.

A finger of morning sun gradually crept down the windshield and warmed his cheek like a mother’s hand. The man jerked forward with a snort. He opened his eyes and rubbed the gray stubble on his jaw.

The starter clacked angrily when he turned the key. The man got out and kicked his way through the red-branched manzanita to the front of the car. The chrome bumper was pushed in half a foot and the right quarter-panel was crumpled. He lifted the bent hood and held it in place while he re-connected a line to the battery. When he turned the key again the engine roared to life.

“Nice,” he said.

With a sledgehammer he smacked the damaged steel in the quarter-panel away from the right wheel. He tossed the sledge back in the trunk and put the car in reverse. The transmission ground like an old coffee mill and the car stayed put.

The man sighed and felt his pockets for a wallet and pack of cigarettes. He smoked while his boots crunched along the road.

Because of the mountains it took a few miles of walking to get any kind of signal. A glowing bar of bright azure appeared on his right thumbnail. As soon as he noticed it he snapped his fingers.

“Call Michael.”

“Dialing Michael Wong,” said a voice in his ear.

“Lower the volume!”

“Sorry, sir. Lowering volume.”

The connection buzzed until Mike’s voice mail picked up.

“Hang up. Call the– hell, just call me a taxi.”

THE CAB LEFT HIM under the rotten portico of the Silver Spur in Woodland Park. He walked to a second-floor room and stripped off his shirt and jeans. His left arm was covered with black fabric and straps. He unwrapped it and dropped the tarnished silver hand on the floor. A red scar ran along the outside of his left arm and ended abruptly in a pink nub.

After showering he shaved with an old-style four-bladed razor.

“Jack, you’re one ugly bastard.”

The mirror was cheap and old. Instead of responding it scrolled faded white text from right to left: “... in Tokyo today for a summit with ASEAN leaders. Friday, August 29, 2053. Sales of the Sparrow vehicle on the rise, according to Apple ...”

Jack tapped the razor on the sink and rinsed.

His dress uniform was in the closet and he put it on: plain white shirt, black tie, dark blue jacket with rank and insignia, black trousers with a red stripe down the legs, and black shoes. He fastened a gold symbol to his tie inscribed with “79th IBCT” and left with his blue dress hat. A cruising bike stood in one of the corner spaces and he put his hat in the helmet compartment.