Water Rites (16 page)

“I don’t know.” Sandy Corbett looked troubled. “I keep hearing that the valleys aren’t getting cut — that they’re getting the water you’re taking away from us.”

Carter had been waiting for this accusation. “They aren’t getting cut as badly.” He watched them bristle. “I called up the numbers. A lot of water goes down the Klamath and Willamette shunts, but that’s where the production is.” He opened the folder he’d brought and took out the sheaf of hardcopy he’d printed up that afternoon. “Take a look for yourselves.” He handed around the pages. ‘We’re pulling our maximum share out of the Trench Reservoir. Per acre-foot of water, the Sacramento and Willamette valleys are leading you in production by a factor of fifteen percent.” He paused, waiting as they turned pages. “Those numbers count,” he said flatly. “A lot of people have to eat.”

“So do we.” Ransom tossed his copy down. The white pages spilled off the table, fluttering to the floor. “The valleys are all big ag-plexes, growing biomass.” His lips twisted. “They’re growing salt-tolerant stuff for the tanks and I’ll bet you ain’t counting the seawater they mix into the irrigation lines, either.”

“I figured in the seawater. They still get fifteen percent more production for every gallon of sweet water they use. Why don’t you put in biomass shrubs up here?”

The silence slapped him in the face. Wrong thing to say. Even the Corbett woman looked angry and Greely was staring at the tabletop.

Ransom pushed his chair back with a scrape that shattered the silence. “You uniforms really don’t give a shit. I’m wasting my time.” He spat.

The glob of spittle landed on the toe of Carter’s boot. From the corner of his eye, Carter saw Delgado stiffen. “Hold it,” he barked.

For a moment they all froze. “I’m sorry.” He kept his eyes on Ransom’s face. “I’m new here. Tell me why biomass won’t work for you. I’m asking.”

The heavyset farmer hesitated, chewing his lip, scowling at Carter. He glared at the door, hunched his shoulders. “Takes three years to get a decent first crop,” he said harshly. “And you don’t really make much unless you got access to cheap seawater. We don’t. You gonna feed my kids for three years while I wait to harvest? We don’t have no savings. Not after we pay your damn water bill. Yeah, I can buy a start on credit from Pacific Bio. Then they’d own me, just like they own the clone-stock, and they’d own my land. You think I’ll ever get free of that debt, Mr. Corps man? You checked to find out who really owns the Valley? Huh?”

“I will check.” Carter frowned. “What about government loans or a subsidy?”

Ransom’s laugh was bitter.

Hell, it had been a stupid question. Carter rubbed his face wearily. “The welfare camps ate it all. There wasn’t any extra money.”

“It’s not just the wait or the loans to buy clone-stock.” Sandy Corbett spoke up. “They’re using seawater to irrigate down in the valleys because it’s cheap to pump in from the coast and the clones can take it, but the salt builds up in the soil. You go look at that land,” she said softly. “Nothing grows there but the clones. The salt kills everything else. Once you start growing bushes, you can’t stop. Once you start growing them, the land dies.”

“Amen,” someone murmured.

Carter nodded. He’d been down in the Valley. He’d noticed the salt crusts, but after Michigan’s bed, it had seemed normal. He hadn’t really looked at the land. “I’ll do what I can to keep your water from getting cut any further.” Carter looked at the wary, sundried faces one by one. “That’s all I can promise, and you’re going to have to help me stop this sabotage. I can’t argue for more water if we’re losing it to leaks.”

“We’ve been trying to catch the suckers.” Another of the hose farmers spoke up. “Dan’s organized some patrols, but there’s a lot of Pipe out there.”

“And your soldiers shoot at us,” Sandy Corbett added with a frown. “It’s dangerous to go anywhere near the Pipeline any more.”

“They’re under orders to return fire only.”

“You’d better check on that,” she said tartly.

“I will. We have to work together on this.” Carter ignored Delgado’s restless movement of protest. “I’d like to use civilian and Crops patrols on the line. My people are wearing out. It would take some of the pressure off them if we could coordinate our efforts.”

“It’s funny.” Sandy Corbett frowned into her glass. “In a town as small as The Dalles, you hear everything. You know who’s in bed with whom and who’s sneaking around where they shouldn’t be.” She turned the glass slowly between her fingers. “No one knows who’s behind the sabotage. We should know.”

“So it’s not local?” Carter frowned

“No.” She shook her head. “But whoever they are, they know this part of the country awfully well.”

“And why are they doing it?” Carter frowned down at the papers stacked in front of him, listening to their silence. “I’ll do what I can.” He shuffled the papers back into his folder. “I hope we can work together on this thing.”

“I think we’ve made a start,” Greely said.

“We have, indeed.” Sandy Corbett stood up, pushing hair back from her square face. “I figured Bonneville was going to stick us with a real bastard after Mike got murdered.” She gave Carter a smile and stuck out her hand. “I’m glad we pulled you.”

Her smile was warm and genuine and he returned her firm grip. These people might be telling the truth. As they saw it. He was offered more hands, shook, and was given murmured farewells from everyone except Ransom, who had left the room silently and by himself. Greely waited for Carter on the porch. It was full dark now, and the wind was picking up. “I’m impressed.” Greely grinned crookedly. “You handled Harold, and Harold isn’t easy to handle.”

“You didn’t give me much help,” Carter said shortly.

“You’re right, I didn’t.” Greely sighed. “You heard Harold. He thinks I’ve sold out and he’s probably not the only one. You didn’t really need me.” His grin flashed briefly. “You were doing fine on your own.”

In spite of his light tone, Ransom’s accusation had clearly stung. This man didn’t fit the picture Hastings had painted. “I was serious about running civilian patrols,” Carter said slowly. “They’d have to operate under Corps NCOs, though. Do you think you can organize it?”

“I’ll try.” Greely frowned. “We’ve had some ugly incidents around here. Uniforms aren’t too popular.”

“Neither are locals, on my side of the fence,” Carter said dryly. “I’ll have my officers pick level-headed people for the mixed patrols.”

“I can tap people who’ll behave themselves. I think it’s worth trying.” Greely sighed. “You have to understand the situation here. We fight every day just to stay alive. We fight drought, dust storms, debt, and bad crop prices. We don’t know how to stop fighting any more.” He ran a hand through his graying hair. “Me, I’m tired. I’d like to get through this without any more bloodshed.”

“Amen,” Carter said.

Greely gave him a quick look.

“Do you ever see yesterday?” Carter looked down the hill, toward the riverbed. It was invisible in the darkness. “A glimpse of how it used to be?”

“No.” Greely sounded puzzled. “That would be a hell of a vision.” He was silent for a moment, his eyes, too, on the distant, invisible riverbed. “I don’t know if I’d want that kind of vision,” he said slowly. “I don’t think I’d want to really know what we’ve lost.”

“Hastings told me you worked for the Corps,” Carter said bluntly. “He told me you ran a scam out in the Dry, pretending you were a Corps surveyor.”

Greely didn’t answer and Carter watched the man’s weary profile.

At last he sighed and faced Carter. “Yeah, I did that. I was twenty.” He looked down at his hands, turning them slowly palm up. “I stole uniforms, gear. I went around pretending that I was surveying for a new shunt line. I’d been begging for most of my life and I was tired of begging. I hurt a lot of people.” He let his hands drop slowly to his sides, his eyes steady on Carter’s face. “I gave people hope and then I left it to die. I went to prison for it, finally. A lot of years later. When it was convenient for General Hastings. I spent three years behind bars, and while I was there, a good friend of mine got shot. We’d been organizing a water strike here in The Dalles. He had a wife and three kids. If I hadn’t been in prison, Sam might not have died.” He shrugged heavily. “Or maybe they would have killed both of us. I guess I’ll never know.”

“Pick your teams,” Carter said. “And we’ll set up a schedule. You can reach me at the base any time. I’ll leave word at both gates.”

“Thanks.” Greely held out his hand and Carter clasped it.

Delgado was waiting for him beside the stairs, just out of their sight. Eavesdropping? Carter clicked on his flash as he went down the steps. “What’s your opinion?”

“They’re stringing you along, sir.” Delgado sounded sullen. “They’re setting you up, like they did Watanabe.” He spat. “That dude is slick.”

“Hold it.” Carter put out a hand as Delgado opened the car door. “How come you hate these people so much?”

“I don’t hate them. Sir.” Delgado stood stiff and still

“I don’t want to request your transfer,” Carter said slowly. “But your attitude is going to cause problems. If we don’t clear this up right now, it goes in tomorrow.”

“You want to clear things up, sir?” Delgado’s eyes gleamed in the light from the flash. “I’ll clear it up for you. My brother was here at The Dalles.” He spoke so softly that Carter could barely make out the words. “He was out chasing a leak last fall — on his own, because we were only running two to a spotter crew back then and his buddy had gotten sick. Some hick picked him off with a thirty-thirty. He crawled a half mile through dust and rock to reach the highway, almost made it before he bled to death. Sonny was nineteen. He was the first one the hicks got.”

“I didn’t see his name on the report,” Carter said.

“Mom remarried. Sonny was my half brother. Sonny Espinoza. He went into the Corps because I was in it. He was a kid, sir. He wasn’t even old enough to drink.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You think they’re decent folk, just because they talk nice to you. You want to believe Greely ’cause he spins a sweet line. They’ll kill you in a second if they think it’ll get ’em more water. That’s all that counts for them. And we’re in the way. That’s how they see it. We’re the enemy.” Delgado slid onto the front seat. “Why don’t you worry about your own people instead of the hicks?”

“That’s enough, Major.” Carter flushed. “I’m doing this
because
I care about my people. Go on back to the base. I’m going to walk.”

“You sure you want to walk, sir?” Delgado’s face was cold. “If you meet any hicks, they may change your mind for you about how nice they are. You’d better ride, sir.”

“Drive back to the base, Major.” Carter stepped back as Delgado gunned the engine and pulled away from the house. Easy, he told himself as the car’s taillights vanished around the corner. Delgado’s attitude was understandable, even if it was out of line. It was the crack about taking care of his people that had stung.

It wouldn’t have bothered him if he were sure of himself here.

Damn it.

Carter started down the hill, walking fast. The major was going to get a transfer. Immediately. He had reasons for his feelings, but cooperation was their only hope, and he had no business being here. If the Coalition wasn’t behind the sabotage, who was? Bitter locals, Carter guessed, no matter what the Corbett woman thought. Revenge. Carter made a mental note to check on local bankruptcy and foreclosure records. Maybe something would click. And what about Dan Greely? Carter let his breath out slowly.
I gave people hope and then I left it to die
, he had said. He’d heard shame in those words.

Debris skittered dryly across the asphalt. To the west, the town was almost completely dark. Electricity came from the few operating nuclear plants, from wind or solar batteries, and it cost a lot. Without energy, Carter thought bitterly, civilization rolls back a thousand years or so. Technology had ground to a crawl as the Middle East’s oil went up in vast funeral pyres and the hydroelectric dams went dry. The economy had tottered into the Crash.

The moon was up now, low enough on the horizon to be blocked by the rim of the Gorge. Carter could just make out the gray mass of the concrete ramp that led to the highway bridge. He walked slowly, paying attention to the night noises, using his flash as little as possible. Delgado had probably been right about the risk. He’d been trying to prove something to Delgado — or had it been to himself? Carter grimaced. He should be safe enough. Most of the trouble had come from soldiers and locals mixing at local bars. His route bypassed town, and the truck plaza was no danger. Truckers stayed out of politics.

Delgado had let Nita off somewhere around here. He wondered if she was still in The Dalles. Six semi rigs bulked darkly in the plaza lot and lights gleamed in the windows of the old motel where the truckers stayed. The riverbed yawned beyond the motel, a vast trench of deeper darkness. In the old days they had shipped wheat down the river on barges. Big boats. That was a weird image — a river of water as a highway.

A small noise brought Carter to attention. Footsteps? He slowed. Yes. More than one person, and they weren’t trying to be quiet anymore. Carter put his head down and walked faster, listening hard. He might make it to the gate if they thought he hadn’t noticed them.

The footsteps broke into a run. “Get him,” someone yelled.

Carter ran. The gate wasn’t impossibly far away, but he was panting after only a few yards, his salt-damaged lungs burning with each labored breath. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Three of them, and they were catching up. Too late to try for the truck plaza. Carter veered off the asphalt, running down into the rocky scrub that flanked the road. His only hope was to lose them, but the rising moon flooded the ground with light. Gasping, Carter stumbled into the dark mouth of a huge culvert that ran beneath the high berm of the interstate. No hope of losing them and he hadn’t gone armed to the meeting. They must have seen him.

Black darkness filled the culvert. Carter crouched against the concrete wall. A figure skidded into view and Carter struck hard, his fist sinking into the man’s belly. He was small and went down easily, retching and gasping as he rolled in the dust. The other two were right behind him. They spread out to flank him. Kids. Carter’s throat tightened. They were just kids. He backed warily, keeping them both in view. One of them — a skinny boy with a ponytail of dark hair — edged into the mouth of the culvert, a baseball bat cocked in his hands. Carter dropped into a crouch, his belly full of ice, glad of the wall behind him. The other kid had a knife. If they knew what they were doing, he was dead.