She nodded, eyes open wide in expectation.
“One.”
“Damn.” She stomped her foot, making a dent in the wood. His glance dropped to the floor and she looked up, the corner of her lips curling. “Sorry.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s okay. I was going to fix that soon anyway.”
Eri looked around and Striver suddenly felt self-conscious about his clothes thrown in the corner and his shaving blade next to the stone washbasin. “This is your room?”
“Yes.”
She touched the bead necklaces hanging from his mirror. “These are beautiful.”
“Thank you. My mother threaded them. One for every year of my life.” He walked up beside her, his heart beating faster with the close proximity. He reached out, selecting a blue bead carved in the likeness of a fish. “This year was the first time I caught a trotter with my father.”
Eri touched the bead, running her fingers over the ridges. “We have nothing like this on the
Heritage
.”
“I wouldn’t think you would.”
“So much is done by computers and machines, nothing by hand.” She reached up and touched one of the beads woven into his long hair. Her hand brushed his cheek and sent a rush of warmth throughout his body. A flash of vulnerability shone in her features before she pulled away and her face hardened.
“So, we have to go after them, right?”
Striver had to pull himself together to realize what she referred to. Her team. He sighed, mostly talking to himself. “I’m thinking about it. It would mean gathering another force. And we’d have to ask the Guardians.”
“Who are the Guardians?”
Striver smiled for the first time all night. Despite the warnings that screamed in his mind, a sudden urge to show her his world came over him. He offered her his hand. “Want to meet a real alien?”
The last thing Weaver wanted to do was sit in a dark cave, tracing ancient scratchings with his finger. An alien ship in the sky? Sending a scout ship in their direction? And here he was lying next to swirly golden sludge.
Keep working. This liquid may be the key that gets you out of here
.
The ticket to taking over.
He’d make the world what he wanted it to be. How it
should
be. With him in charge instead of Striver.
Weaver watched as a golden swirl eddied around the smooth outcropping, teasing him. He wanted to touch it, but Jolt’s warnings held him back. He didn’t need any of his old memories troubling him. Not when such an important job sat in his lap.
If only the writing matched the hieroglyphs on the
S.P. Nautilus
. But they didn’t. Not even one symbol. This was an entirely different race, and he was no more of a forensic linguist than Jolt was a babysitter.
Rolling on his back, he closed his eyes. Golden swirls erupted behind his lids, and he wondered if he’d stared at the liquid for too long. Jolt’s words haunted him.
If you spend too long in proximity, the golden stuff will bring up all sorts of things you want to remember. And some you don’t.
A shiver slithered across his shoulders, and he struggled to shrug it off. There was nothing he did or didn’t want to remember. The past was the past, and you couldn’t change something that had already happened. So what was the point of traveling back in time?
Ignoring the strange sensation, he drifted to sleep.
…
The river rippled, clear water bubbling and foaming around the upturned rocks and fallen branches. Weaver balanced by the shore, using his wooden fishing rod as a walking stick. A wave of cold water slapped at his boots, icy droplets stinging the bare skin on his arms. Wiping away the water on his shirt, he jumped to the next rock.
“Be careful, Weave. The rocks are slippery,” Dad called from behind him.
“I’m as limber as a weasel worm, Dad.” He chanced a look over his shoulder. His dad followed with Striver beside him, holding a pot of wriggling scrubber worms. Mom had almost kept him behind again, but today he’d prove he could fish with the men.
He used his rod to probe the next footstep, making sure the boulder wouldn’t tip under his weight. If only his rod were as long as Striver’s. When Dad gave it to him, the size was a smack in the face. How could he catch giant trotter in the middle of the river with a stunted pole? They’d given him a disadvantage from the start. The familiar swell of bitterness welled in his chest, and he swallowed it. They always tried to keep him down.
He jumped onto the boulder. No matter. He’d prove his worth anyway.
“Let’s stop here. The rapids get worse below,” Dad shouted.
“Don’t get too far from us, Weave,” Striver called after him.
“I won’t.” He took three more steps before he found a rock flat enough to sit on and set up his pole. The closer you got to the rapids, the more trotter you caught. He had a pocket full of scrubber worms, and he pulled out the longest one, its scaly skin catching the rays of sun. He stuck it on the hook and cast his lure into the water with a splash.
The rock grinded against his boney butt as he waited for the bait to lure the fish. The golden swirls in the water hypnotized him, making him slump forward sleepily. He sang the song his mother sang while cooking to keep alert.
Gentle, silent breeze
Lift me up
Where stars twinkle in the night.
Where no walls divide
Or laws abide
Where no one needs to hide.
Weaver’s words trailed off and he fell forward. The rush of air on his face woke him up and he stuck out his hand, catching himself before his nose smashed into the rock. He checked on Dad and Striver, but they hadn’t noticed. Fishing took longer than he thought.
Pulling himself up, he heard Striver shouting. “Got a bite!”
“Great job, son. Reel it in.” Dad leaped up with pride beaming on his face.
Weaver propped himself on the heels of his hands, his neck and cheeks heating. Of course Striver caught the fish. He had a longer pole. Weaver’s own bait flickered blue-green in the water, taunting him, untouched. His gaze shot back to his brother. Striver yanked, and a glorious trotter the size of his arm slapped the air, silver body flailing in the river mist.
Striver and Dad laughed together and envy boiled inside him. He’d have to try harder to outdo Striver now. As they reined in the trotter, he pulled up his pole and climbed down two more rocks to where the current flowed much stronger, eddying around a log. He stuck the end of the pole in the crevice between two rocks, the water rushing around it. His bait swirled in the current, sparkling in the sun.
A fish was bound to see it now.
Weaver sat back just as a rushing wave dislodged his pole. He threw himself on his belly and reached across the water grab it, and the wood slipped from his fingers. The pole splashed into the water and his heart jumped to his throat. He could hear Dad lecturing him on responsibility as the rod bobbed and caught on a rock toward the middle of the river.
The spray stung his face as he leaned over the rapids and stretched his arm, wiggling his fingers. His reach ended centimeters from the rod. He scraped his belly as he climbed forward on the rock. One hand braced him while the other one reached. His fingers grazed the slick pole.
Just a little farther.
The spray from the river trickled down the sides of his face and underneath his shirt. The rock slipped below his sweating hands and he began to slide.
“Weave, watch out!” Striver called after him just as he skidded forward and plunged into the icy river.
Roaring water raged in his ears. His body tingled, turning numb. He struggled to gulp for air, but the current spun him head over heels and he couldn’t tell the surface from the gravelly bottom. His lungs threatened to burst as precious air bubbles escaped his lips.
Failure slapped him harder than the current against the rocks. He’d die today as a nobody, just a clumsy kid who couldn’t catch a trotter in spawning season. A little voice nudged him to keep trying, that there was more to life than excelling at trotter fishing, but under the weight of his failure it seemed like too little encouragement too late.
Hands reached around him and pulled him just as the last bubbles of air slipped from his mouth. He breached the surface and gulped in a deep breath, his entire body shaking.
“You…okay…Weave?” Striver struggled against the current, holding Weaver’s head above the water. Weaver coughed and spat.
“My rod. I lost it.”
“It doesn’t matter as long as you’re safe.” Striver gripped him under his arms and swam them back to shore.
Embarrassed and defeated, Weaver felt like a pincushion with prickles sticking him everywhere. A deep, dark shame festered in his soul.
“I thought I’d lost you. But you’re gonna be just fine.” Striver dragged him to the shore and laid him on his back. Weaver hacked up water and hugged his arms close to his chest, shaking.
“Is he all right?” Dad ran beside them and draped his shirt over Weaver’s shoulders. The warmth of the boar’s hide blocked the biting wind but could not take away the sting in his heart.
“I think so.”
“I knew he was too young to take with us. I should have listened to your mom. Thank goodness for your quick reaction and your excellent swimming skills, Striver. I couldn’t have reached him in time with my bum leg.” Dad’s pride in his brother made Weaver feel like he’d eaten a whole bowl of pearl berries, the sweetness sickening him to the point of hurling. Every time Striver looked good, it made him look bad.
“I’m just relieved he’s okay.”
“You shouldn’t have gone so far, Weave.” Dad’s voice was more plaintive than angry. “We can’t watch over you if you run away.”
“I don’t need anyone to watch over me.” Weaver’s voice came out as a weak cry and he winced. “I can do things by myself.” But the truth nudged him in his gut. He needed them more than they needed him.
Weaver buried his head in his arms and curled into a fetal position. He hated Striver for catching the trotter, for being better than him at everything, and for saving him. He would always live in his older brother’s shadow.
“Sure you can, Weave. I’m just here to help if you need it.” Striver placed a hand on his shoulder. Instead of comforting him, the gesture heightened Weaver’s aggravation and he pulled away.
“Come on, help me carry him back to the village before he catches cold. Mom can brew him one of her herbal teas and wrap him in blankets.” Dad’s voice was tired and agitated, making Weaver feel worse. “She’s going to whip us into swillow wisp stew.”
Arms reached underneath him and he melted into their embrace, wishing he could climb under the water once again and freeze forever.
…
“Put them here.” Jolt’s rough-edged voice cut through Weaver’s foggy mind. He sat up, eyes blurry from deep sleep. Remnants of his dream sent a shiver of disquiet through his gut. He felt like he’d traveled fifteen years into the past and back again in only moments. But somehow, the past wasn’t exactly as he remembered it. His father’s stern reproach from that day burned in his memory. Looking back through the dream, Weaver knew his father had just been worried about him and what his mother’s reaction would be when he came home soaking wet. He’d probably gotten his old man in a bunch of trouble. Guilt and shame burned in Weaver’s heart. He had gone too far down the river.
Crusty, Snipe, and a few other Lawless men carried two people wearing strange camouflaged uniforms into the cavern. Weaver stared, openmouthed, as they lowered the tied bodies to the cavern floor.
“Sleeping on the job?” Jolt turned toward him with a sly look in his dark eyes.
“No, I was resting.” He wanted to tell Jolt how the golden swirls had affected him, too, but he didn’t want to speak of such personal things in front of the other men, and he didn’t think Jolt would be the best listener, anyway.
“Now you’ve got some friends to keep you company.”
Weaver studied their pale faces. A man and a woman, although the woman looked more manly than any women he’d seen before. They were massive, with well-developed muscle tone, but their skin was soft and pasty like a baby’s. “Who are they?”
“These are the visitors who fell from the sky.” Jolt circled around them like a vulture around prey.
“But they look human.”
Jolt bent down, hovering over the prisoners’ faces. “My spies tell me these pale-faced newbies even speak English, which could only mean one thing.” He pointed to the ceiling of the cave. “That mother ship hovering over us like some raspwasp’s nest is a colony vessel. Those Lifers have traveled hundreds of years through deep space to reach what our ancestors did using their secret worm hole.”
Weaver tried to wrap his mind around the thought of several generations living on a ship. “Impossible! After all those years, they’re only just arriving now?”
Jolt felt the pulse of one of the men and nodded. “Yes, and generations on a ship have not been kind. Look at them. They’d die of sunburn and spidermite poison in one night out in the jungle. My spies tell me they even tripped on sticks and stones.”
Weaver shifted uncomfortably. This whole setup didn’t feel right. It was almost as if by stashing them here with their guards, Jolt was also keeping his eye on Weaver. He’d never glean the secret of the golden sludge and hoard it for himself with Snipe and Crusty breathing down his bow. “What do you want me to do with them? Why do they have to stay here?”
“Because I don’t want anyone questioning them besides me. They’re suffering from the effects of coma darts, but when they wake up, they’re gonna tell us how to use these.” Jolt walked over to a plastic container brought in by one of his men. He pressed a front panel, and air wheezed as the lid rose. He reached in and brought out a laser gun two sizes bigger than the one he coveted day and night. This one shone like the eye of a predator and buzzed with activity.
“Holy Refuge.” Weaver stared. “Have you tried it?”
“It’s locked.” Jolt’s grin turned into a scowl.
“Can’t you figure it out?”