fixed. But not today. I wanted to be left alone today, to ride, to bury our parents in the sea.
Tom sat easily in his saddle, his stocky body balancing nicely on Sugar Wheat. “I hoped getting away would help him let go of his anger and get back to work.”
I gave him the same answer I gave Jenna. “I’m not sure he’s angry. I think he’s scared.”
Ahead of us, Joseph pushed his hebra into a slow canter and we followed, our mounts’ split hooves tapping on the hard-packed dirt path. “Anger and fear are related, Chelo. He’s lost a lot. Maybe he’s angry with himself.”
“He needs time. Can’t we give him more time?”
“You’ve been working on the data nets. You know how long it takes us to fix them without him.”
“What happens if Joseph just quits the data nets?” I didn’t tell Tom that Joseph had sworn never to go back. After all, I knew he had to. Somehow.
“If it were up to me? Nothing. He could join the culture guild for all I care. But there are rules that bind us together, bind each of us to do our best.”
There was an implicit threat there, as well as a truth. “I know.”
We rode silently through grass tall enough to hide me standing if I weren’t astride. It felt like riding through parted water, making it difficult to see clearly or far. Only the wide road let us pass easily; the ride between the spaceport and the ocean would be harder. The feathered tips of the grass were bone dry, but the stalks were damp and still green. Later, as winter approached, lightning would catch the plains on fire, a bright flash feeding on the grass, preparing the seed to open in spring. Fire kept the plains monocultured; no trees grew here. Just yellow grass, tall grass, sharp grass, silver grass, whip grass, and insects, rodents, hebras, snakes, and paw-cats.
It took an hour to reach the spaceport. Four square kilometers of concrete buffered the buildings from the annual fires, and in the center, two small houses, three hangars, and a well. Sugar Wheat bugled, and Legs stopped, waiting. We caught up to Joseph and rode three abreast to the water. I dismounted and brushed dust and dead moths from the metal trough, then pulled on the pump, hoping the station still worked. Clear water filled the long shallow half pipe. The hebras plunged their noses into it, drinking in soft little slurps, making satisfied low noises in their throats. We drank, too, clear water from near the spigot, and chewed dry salty djuri jerky and tore hunks of bread from a single shared loaf.
We rode around the concrete pad, recording damage. Two long cracks had severed one corner. One crack was half a meter wide. If it wasn’t repaired before spring, grass would grow through next season, pushing up the concrete.
Most importantly, the three remaining shuttles from Traveler nestled safely in one of the hangars. The colony still used them to check on Traveler at least once a year. Tom was one of the ten trained pilots. Even though they looked fine, he walked carefully around each shuttle, touching them, running his hands along the outsides.
Next we checked the keeper’s cabin. No one lived there except for hunting trips, or support crew for shuttle launchings, the last of which had been almost a year ago. The cabin looked sound from the outside. Inside, we found a crack in the stovepipe, and broken cups and plates.
While Tom picked up plates, I took Jinks out to the New Making, which stood upright, like a perfectly round fat silver stick with a pointed top. It rested on its own small concrete pad, a hundred meters from the spaceport proper. Jinks’s hooves crunched across the dead zone, a circle around the pad the ship rested on that grew only short stubbled grass, even after twenty-two years.
New Making loomed above me, twenty times my height. The metal skin of the ship gleamed, also a mystery after so much time, so much rain and storm and fire. There was no obvious break in the ship’s skin for a door. I put one hand on
Tom sat easily in his saddle, his stocky body balancing nicely on Sugar Wheat. “I hoped getting away would help him let go of his anger and get back to work.”
I gave him the same answer I gave Jenna. “I’m not sure he’s angry. I think he’s scared.”
Ahead of us, Joseph pushed his hebra into a slow canter and we followed, our mounts’ split hooves tapping on the hard-packed dirt path. “Anger and fear are related, Chelo. He’s lost a lot. Maybe he’s angry with himself.”
“He needs time. Can’t we give him more time?”
“You’ve been working on the data nets. You know how long it takes us to fix them without him.”
“What happens if Joseph just quits the data nets?” I didn’t tell Tom that Joseph had sworn never to go back. After all, I knew he had to. Somehow.
“If it were up to me? Nothing. He could join the culture guild for all I care. But there are rules that bind us together, bind each of us to do our best.”
There was an implicit threat there, as well as a truth. “I know.”
We rode silently through grass tall enough to hide me standing if I weren’t astride. It felt like riding through parted water, making it difficult to see clearly or far. Only the wide road let us pass easily; the ride between the spaceport and the ocean would be harder. The feathered tips of the grass were bone dry, but the stalks were damp and still green. Later, as winter approached, lightning would catch the plains on fire, a bright flash feeding on the grass, preparing the seed to open in spring. Fire kept the plains monocultured; no trees grew here. Just yellow grass, tall grass, sharp grass, silver grass, whip grass, and insects, rodents, hebras, snakes, and paw-cats.
It took an hour to reach the spaceport. Four square kilometers of concrete buffered the buildings from the annual fires, and in the center, two small houses, three hangars, and a well. Sugar Wheat bugled, and Legs stopped, waiting. We caught up to Joseph and rode three abreast to the water. I dismounted and brushed dust and dead moths from the metal trough, then pulled on the pump, hoping the station still worked. Clear water filled the long shallow half pipe. The hebras plunged their noses into it, drinking in soft little slurps, making satisfied low noises in their throats. We drank, too, clear water from near the spigot, and chewed dry salty djuri jerky and tore hunks of bread from a single shared loaf.
We rode around the concrete pad, recording damage. Two long cracks had severed one corner. One crack was half a meter wide. If it wasn’t repaired before spring, grass would grow through next season, pushing up the concrete.
Most importantly, the three remaining shuttles from Traveler nestled safely in one of the hangars. The colony still used them to check on Traveler at least once a year. Tom was one of the ten trained pilots. Even though they looked fine, he walked carefully around each shuttle, touching them, running his hands along the outsides.
Next we checked the keeper’s cabin. No one lived there except for hunting trips, or support crew for shuttle launchings, the last of which had been almost a year ago. The cabin looked sound from the outside. Inside, we found a crack in the stovepipe, and broken cups and plates.
While Tom picked up plates, I took Jinks out to the New Making, which stood upright, like a perfectly round fat silver stick with a pointed top. It rested on its own small concrete pad, a hundred meters from the spaceport proper. Jinks’s hooves crunched across the dead zone, a circle around the pad the ship rested on that grew only short stubbled grass, even after twenty-two years.
New Making loomed above me, twenty times my height. The metal skin of the ship gleamed, also a mystery after so much time, so much rain and storm and fire. There was no obvious break in the ship’s skin for a door. I put one hand on
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