A Girl Called Badger

THREE



Wilson overslept. After breakfast, he asked around for Badger but for some stupid reason Simpson had taken her on patrol, even with an injured hand.

“Won’t be back for days,” said Mast. He pumped his foot on the grinding wheel and sharpened a hatchet. “Or weeks. Or months.”

“What?!!”

Mast laughed. “You should see your face. Oh wow.”

“That’s the second time I’ve heard that.”

“Get a new face then.”

Wilson sighed and turned the hilt of a snapped blade that lay on the table. “So when are they really coming back?”

“Probably within a week.”

“Why that long?”

“Why? Why’s it raining when you priests said we’d have sun? Why did thirty tribals show up in the foothills last night? Why am I telling you when it should be the other way around?”

“Thirty? There were only five.”

“No. More came later, a big group. Luckily a couple of hunters pulled them to the east with lanterns. That’s why Simpson took Badger with him––to track the big group. And don’t ask me how water got into the forge. I’m not even thinking about fixing it until the rain stops.”

“I’m going to find out what’s going on,” said Wilson.

“You do that.”



FATHER REED LEANED BACK in his chair and waved at the large display on the wall. “This is what’s going on,” he said. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing in that section of the map last night.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No activity, human or animal.”

“But–”

“It was a fluke, an anomaly, or a power fluctuation. I can’t tell.”

“A fluke?!!”

“Watch your tone, apprentice.”

“The map is one thing. But you knew about Badg– I mean, Airman Chen’s hand and still let her go?”

“I didn’t want to but she’s still the best tracker. The others will watch out for her.”

Wilson’s face heated up and pressure built behind his eyes.

“It could get infected and they won’t be back for weeks!”

“Do we need to talk about your attitude, Wilson?”

“No, sir ... I’m sorry, sir. What about the forecast problem?”

The priest smiled. “Things happen sometimes. Sensors break and rainstorms roll in. I can’t control the weather.”

Wilson didn’t know how to respond. Reed wouldn’t have said this in front of anyone else. To the rest of the village the priests and their machinery were infallible.

“And the girl?”

“Mina? She’s nearby.”

He led Wilson through the hallway to a door with a small display at the side. “There’s her cardiac rhythm and breathing rate, both at low levels because she’s sleeping.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“I haven’t had the chance to ask many questions. She says very little. It could be the medicine I’ve given her, but she’s also been under physical and mental stress. Those tribal animals treated her poorly.”

“Where’s she from?”

“I’d say not from any known tribes, but it’s difficult to tell. The few phrases she’s spoken are strangely mixed with English. Her dress is also a pattern I haven’t seen before. The men likely bought her at a slave market and lost their bearings while traveling.”

“If she was their slave, why the beatings? Why the bruises?”

Reed smiled. “The innocence of youth––I wish I had it again. Man is born to trouble. Sometimes, that trouble is our fault and sometimes it’s brought by other men.”

“And the thirty who followed them?”

“Followed, or simple coincidence?”

Wilson stared at Reed. “At night, away from known tribes, in strange territory?”

“Founder’s boots, these are sharp questions,” said the priest. “When she wakes up ask her yourself.”



WILSON’S QUESTIONS WOULD HAVE to wait. Reed dispatched him an hour later to fix a mechanical problem in the Office living quarters. The hot water was coming out cold. A gaggle of old graybeards flocked around Wilson and gleefully argued over the number of decades since the last plumbing fault. It was a rare event and Wilson didn’t need to be reminded of that. He worried less about the problem and more about where he’d have to go to fix it.

Under a drizzle of rain, Robb walked with him through the village. Both wore sturdy hemp overalls, caps, and leather gloves.

In the midst of corn fields lay a long concrete rectangle from the old times with cracked walls the same color as the dripping sky. Most of the roof had collapsed or blown away, along with whatever had filled in the windows. Wilson hated the tall, empty holes in the walls, the gaping black mouths that swallowed naughty children. Sometimes he walked alone at night and heard the wind moan across the empty windows like a ghost for her children.

Wilson lifted a wooden bar across the entrance and pushed on a weather-beaten door. The inside was much the same as outside––bare, cold, and open to the sky. He walked with Robb to the back of the ruin and stopped at a large wooden panel on the floor. When he lifted it grit showered over a rusted hatch in the concrete.

“This is it.”

Robb shuffled back. “I don’t want to do it. We can’t go down there!”

“Listen,” said Wilson. “I got you out of weed chopping. This is only going to take a minute and then you can do whatever you want all day. Think of it––you can play with a stick, or if you’re feeling brave, a rock.”

“I changed my mind. I want to chop weeds.”

Wilson leaned the wood panel against a wall. “Okay. I’ll tell all your friends you were scared. Especially that girl–”

“No! I’ll go with you.”

Wilson reached down to the hatch and pulled a handle. It didn’t budge. He turned a lever with his thumb, lifted again, and the hatch squealed open.

Dirt showered into the darkness under the hatch and fizzed somewhere far below. Wilson took a hand sparker and lit the candle in his lantern. He knotted a rope to the lantern’s handle and lowered it down the shaft. The gentle swings of candlelight glowed on the rungs of a metal ladder and the sides of a narrow shaft. The base clinked on a hard surface eight meters below.

“Here goes nothing,” said Wilson.

He knelt at the opening and used his foot to touch the top rung of the ladder. His arms and back scraped the sides of the maintenance shaft as he climbed down.

“Good thing you’re not afraid of tight spaces,” said Robb.

Wilson stopped in the middle and scowled as he looked up. “You’re not making this easier.”

He grabbed the lantern and rope at the bottom. A rucksack fell through the shaft and smacked the floor next to Wilson.

“Watch out below!” yelled Robb.

Wilson shook his head. “I’m going to murder this kid.”

“What?”

“Just get down here.”

“What?”

Robb’s feet scraped on the rungs and he hopped a short distance to the floor.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I said your hair looks nice today.”

“That’s not what you said.”

Floating particles of dust glowed in the lantern-light. To Wilson’s left the corridor disappeared into darkness. The metal bubble of another hatch stuck from the floor on the right side. Someone had stenciled “Maintenance” in block letters on the wall, and near the access ladder, “Level One” in faded white paint.

Across the corridor a metal floor plan had been fastened to the wall with screws. The title read “Altmann Research Station Administration Level One” and below that, “Emergency Exits In Red.” There were more rooms than Wilson had expected from Father Reed’s instructions.

Robb peered at the sign, his nose almost touching the metal. “What’s adm ... admister ... ation?”

“I’d happily tell you Robb, but it wouldn’t be safe for the tiny mouse brain rattling around in your skull. You’d probably have a stroke.”

“I’m not a mouse brain––you are.”

“Exactly.”

Wilson bent over the metal bubble in the floor and pulled with both hands. The round hatch squealed open and air boiled out that smelled of dust and dry metal. Wilson lit Robb’s lantern and placed it next to the hatch, then used the rope to lower his own lantern down the new shaft. It guttered as it hit the floor and Wilson climbed down. His moccasins left prints and kicked up soft dust on the ground.

Wilson looked at the floor plan for the level and waited for Robb. The corridor looked identical to the one above. To his right was a concrete wall and another access hatch in the floor.

At last Robb stepped from the ladder with a rattle of gear and the reluctance of a bored teenager.

“Ekeeru!” said Wilson.

“What?”

“It means ‘let’s go’ in the dialect.”

“Loser. Hey, I know another word for moron. It’s ‘Wilson.’”

“Ha ha. Look for anything that says ‘Maintenance’ or ‘Water.’”

They passed doors with yellowed title plates such as “Personnel,” “Planning,” and “Logistics.” The corridor split to the left and right. Wilson saw doors and pulled Robb to the left. The second door they passed was marked “HPWP Maintenance––Restricted Personnel Only.” Wilson felt a faint vibration through his feet.

“This one,” he said, and pushed the door lever.

Dim red lights snapped on. A pair of dusty metal consoles filled the small room. The left machine was labeled “HP Manage” and the right “WP Manage.” Both were covered in labeled dials and knobs and connected to the rear wall by a quartet of dull black pipes.

Robb pointed at a red book. “What’s that?”

A cable secured it to a small shelf between the two machines. The thin volume was oddly heavy. The cover felt like leather and was embossed with a large question mark. Heat Pump and Water Pump Maintenance was at the bottom in small type.

“Work some of that magic,” said Robb. “I’m hungry.”

“Hang on.”

Inside the book were large, simple symbols with English text and a few other languages Wilson didn’t recognize. He stopped trying to guess and read the English as he flipped each page. At last he found “No Heat in Water ReCirc.” A diagram on the facing page illustrated how to open a panel and change two switches. Wilson followed the arrows and the floor vibrated intensely for a few seconds. He compared an illustration of a meter in the book with the one on the panel.

“I think I fixed it.”

“Finally!”

Wilson closed the door and they walked back through the corridor.

“What’s that?” said Robb.

“What’s what?”

Robb ran for the ladder. “Goddamn spider, I saw it!”

Wilson swung his lantern and peered into the dusty shadows while Robb climbed the rungs as fast as he could.

“You’re going to fall and hurt yourself, moron,” yelled Wilson.

A scream came from above then a deafening clang.

Wilson set down his lantern. “Dog spit!”

He climbed the ladder rapidly and felt the underside of the hatch for the release lever. He twisted and pulled with all his strength but nothing happened. From the other side of the hatch came mumbled sounds.

“Robb!”

The narrow shaft made “an application of force problematic,” as Father Reed would have put it. Wilson hooked one foot through a rung and strained with both hands on the lever. It turned but when he pushed up the hatch didn’t open.

“Robb! Get some help!”

A sound filtered through that could have been a response. Wilson hoped it was instead the sound of Robb meeting a family of very sociable, man-eating spiders.

“It’s just my luck someone else is scared of those things.”

He descended the ladder and wiped sweat and dust from his eyes. The thought of wandering alone through the dark tunnels made him shiver. He tried to distract himself by taking inventory of what was left.

His gear included a lantern with maybe an hour of light, a three-inch knife, a writing stylus with a small bottle of ink, a scrap of paper, and a small pouch with healing powder for Mina. Robb had the rucksack with the extra candles and water.

He picked his lantern from the floor and sighed.

“Like a lamb to the slaughter …”

He checked behind for anything skittering along the floor then walked down the corridor. A few door handles rattled at his touch but were locked. At Personnel A218 the handle rattled but turned easily. Wilson took a deep breath and pushed.

The room was separated into small areas, each with one chair and desk. Under a dusty mess of ceiling tiles and fallen rock lay signs of desperate flight. White papers were scattered on the floor below empty filing cabinets. The air smelled of old shoes and earth.

Wilson’s hands began to sweat and he rubbed them on his trousers. Faded papers rustled under his feet. He tried not to imagine what could be hiding under every desk by thinking about the people who’d lived here in the past. He touched a light brown bottle with a red top and it shattered into delicate fragments.

A black cube with a keypad and removable handle lay on each desk. Wilson picked up the nearest handle and noticed square meshes on either end. It sounded hollow when he tapped it on the desk. From the keypad he guessed it was a computational device.

Underneath the chair lay a picture of a baby cat with a numbered grid. Wilson realized it was an old-style calendar and squinted at the date: October 2053. He snorted at the waste of valuable paper and put the calendar inside his jacket.

Black, official text marked a smoky glass door: “Captain David Martinez, Personnel.” Of course Wilson knew Martinez––he worked for Simpson as a hunter. This had to be the office of the “first” David Martinez and one of the founders.

Wilson opened the door. He cursed and immediately stumbled backwards, kicking up dust as he fell.

On a desk stared a human skull, yellow and on its side like a dropped toy. Other bones were scattered on the desk and around the small office.

Wilson closed his eyes and exhaled. He imagined a sudden plunge into a freezing lake and whispered four phrases:



Breath made of ice

Breath made of water

Breath made of fog

Calm my heart



It was something Father Reed had taught him to calm his heart and focus his energy. The priest had called it a “trick”, because your mind was learning to “trick” the body’s normal reactions.

Wilson’s left arm was as cold as ice––a side-effect. He flexed his fingers and stood up with the flickering lantern.

“Thank founder you didn’t go out.”

On the desk, assorted bones of the arm surrounded the skull: radius, ulna, humerus. A pelvic bone, vertebrae, and ribs had tumbled into a chair behind the desk. Mixed in with papers on the floor were the remaining bones, scraps of dirty fabric, and an old handgun.

Wilson picked up the weapon carefully, like he would a dead rat. The firearm was a deep blue-black color with a rotating cylinder in the middle, and with barrel the length of his hand. Wilson had seen a couple of tribal firearms up close and in books but nothing like this. He stuck it in a pocket of his jacket.

In the midst of the bones on the desk were several tiny objects mottled yellow and white in color. One was an irregular cylinder less than eight inches long, slightly flattened in the middle, with thread-like wires connected to a small sphere several feet away. Several miniature tubes with threads were also scattered near the skull.

Wilson noticed a hole in the temporal bone of the skull and a larger hole in the parietal bone at the back. The yellowed grid of paper on the desk was stained black and gray and matched a spray of dots on the wall. Under the skull lay a thin journal. Wilson pushed the skull away with his knife and handled the book with the tips of his fingers. Someone had written “Mike Wong” in block letters on the stained cover. Most of the pages were blank and the rest too faint to read. Wilson put the journal in his pocket along with the white objects.

A thump came from across the room. He turned to see a pair of fist-sized spiders meander out of the shadows.

“Time to go!”

Wilson grabbed his lantern and sprinted from the office. He kicked at a spider lounging on a desk and another next to the door. At the access ladder he put his back to the wall and tried to calm his beating heart with the trick. He was supposed to keep his mind blank but couldn’t shake the beady eyes and hairy black legs of those ungodly monstrosities. He gave up and simply watched the corridor.

It could have been minutes or half an hour. A squeal of metal came from the access shaft and Mast’s voice boomed down.

“Wilson! Stop playing with yourself and climb up!”



HE TESTED THE HEATING systems in Office by taking a shower. Back at the rectory he passed Mina’s room and heard quiet voices. He changed from his jumpsuit into a blue hemp shirt and dark trousers then spread the strange items on his bed.

The barrel of the black revolver was inscribed with “S&W.357 MAGNUM” and “SMITH & WESSON.” Wilson pushed out the cylinder with his thumb and removed the brass rounds with a fingernail. An empty round slid out the easiest. The other five required more delicate prying. Lead tips of gray and white rounded off the heavier rounds.

The rules required him to turn over any artifacts––Reed constantly reminded everyone that old machines were dangerous until properly examined. Wilson remembered the bald-faced lie about Badger’s sickness. He put the pistol in a bag made of purple-dyed hemp and hid it behind his books. The “Kittens!” calendar he slid inside a large volume on leatherworking.

Wilson opened the journal belonging to “Mike Wong” and inhaled the smell of musty old pages. Even held under the bright panel of his desk light the handwriting was still too faint. He looked through the founder’s registry on his shelf––a yellowed ledger with crude string binding––and no “Mike Wong” was listed.

Wilson returned to the journal. As he flipped idly through the pages a delicate square of paper fell to the floor. He smoothed it flat on his desk.



U.S. Accuses China on Virus; “Non-War” Continues Washington, D.C. –– As the H1N2 betavirus rampages through the population centers of the world, President Susan Ford has accused China of weaponizing the virus and releasing it on American soil. The President and State Department officials presented evidence on 36 Chinese citizens affiliated with the PLA in major American metropolitan areas during the first outbreaks. These individuals allegedly played the role of “Typhoid Mary” by spreading the betavirus at convention centers and large population groupings. The Chinese bodies were not found until two weeks after the first outbreak, allegedly hidden in trunks of abandoned cars and even in rented apartments in some cases. The President has declined to give details, but the massive riots in urban centers, deaths in local police forces, and lack of proper training meant the intelligence was not followed up for over a week. Negotiation of the issue is hampered by no official channels between the U.S. and China, since the Kaosiung nuclear disaster and invasion of Taiwan last month. The European State has urged calm and continues attempts to bring both the American and Chinese forces to the negotiating table. President Ford continues to state emphatically that until the PLA leaves Taiwanese soil, no negotiations are possible.

Senate Majority Leader John Allen (R-New York) has been rallying for a declaration of war for over a week. “The ‘mistake’ at Kaosiung was a deliberate murder of three million people,” he stated. “The mission of the PLA is not to help Taiwan, but to crush it. We have a duty as Americans to protect freedom and democracy in Taiwan. If China started this pandemic that’s a deliberate act of war. If this isn’t an aggressive attack on the people of our nation, then what is?”

House Speaker Dan Leonard (D-Ohio) released a statement: “Under no circumstances, including these unsubstantiated allegations from the President, can we involve ourselves in another overseas conflict. Our soldiers are spread to the breaking point in Pakistan and with assisting municipalities around the nation. The urban centers are already in need of more troops. Thirty percent are already suffering. We have to re-prioritize and find a cure for this disaster.”



The hatch clanked out in the hallway and Wilson hid everything under his blanket. Father Reed appeared, his face flushed from a walk or whatever exercise he’d been doing.

“Ensign! Fix the problem?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad you’re the one crawling down there and not me,” said Reed. “You were off the locator.”

“It’s not something I want to do again. What happened to the pump?”

Reed sighed. “Who can tell? I’ve looked at the reference diagrams. It was possibly an exchanger safety switch or air circulation kick-off, and could even be related to the faulty meteorological data. But leave these matters to an old man. You have a young female matter waiting.”



MINA SAT ON THE edge of the recovery bed. She wore a pale hemp blouse and yellow floor-length skirt. Instead of the tangled mess of hair and mud that Wilson remembered, her face was framed with bright, strawberry-blonde curls. Apart from the large bruises, swollen left eye, and a few scratches she looked healthy and fit. Wilson knew his first impression had been wrong and she looked about his age. Mina rubbed her bare knees and Wilson realized he’d stared too long. He flushed and dug fingernails into his palms.

“Hello, Mina.”

She smiled. “Good morning!”

“So you speak English?”

Her good right eye opened wide. “Speak what?”

“La Anglan.”

“Ah,” Mina smiled. “All my village speaks Anglan.”

“Why’s that?”

“Teacher says we must.”

The tribes around Station used pidgin English for trading. “Teacher” could be anyone from a practical merchant to a rabid cannibal with an eccentric taste. In any case, the village could have other books and maybe even medical texts.

Mina waved in his face and Wilson snapped to the present.

“Sorry!”

“Wilson, how do you komprenmia lingvo and not the others?”

“Oh, I have to study everything. It’s what I do. Other people hunt or plant fields, and I study. Books, language, machines––you name it and I have to know something about it. How are you feeling, by the way?”

“Still mucho dolore.” She pressed her stomach. “Please don’t talk about ...”

“I’m sorry. Do you want a drink?”

He went to the treatment room and poured a cup of water from the dispenser, then mixed it with powder from a paper envelope.

Mina drank all of it quickly. Wilson watched a bead of water roll from the corner of her mouth to the neck of her collar.

“Where are you from?”

“From a village, illamo David. Mucho walking.”

“How far away, do you think?”

“We stop many times, but I think five days.”

She turned the cup in her hands over and over.

“I walked in forest with mother and friends. Monstroja ... kill them, take me away.”

The silence that followed made Wilson uncomfortable. He decided they both needed some fresh air.

“Are you hungry? Let’s get something to eat.”

Mina slipped on a pair of sandals while Wilson grabbed an extra wool coat. He put it around her shoulders and they walked out of the rectory tunnel into a fine mist of rain. Sunlight broke through the clouds and the drops shone like falling streams of white flour. Two older women smiled and waved at Wilson. A farmer greeted him with a nod and sloshed quickly through the mud.

Mina hopped over a puddle. “Station has mucho rain. Where are houses?”

“We live underground.”

“Like a melo? That’s crazy!”

“Yes, like a badger.”

Mina looked at his face. “What is wrong?”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing.”

A pair of hunters ran past with crossbows on their backs.

“Wilson. Why don’t you have rifles?”

“We do have rifles, but can’t use them near the valley. The noise travels too far and we don’t like visitors.”

He led Mina down steps to another tunnel and cracked open a heavy door to a storm of chatter and the clink of dishes. People of all ages filled the cafeteria for the midday meal. When Mina and Wilson walked inside the noise dropped off.

Wilson raised his voice. “Excuse me, everyone! Please say hello to our new guest, Mina.”

The villagers murmured greetings. Many came to say a few words or to give Mina a hug. Wilson’s cheeks and ears burned hot the entire time but he wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. He could guess what everyone thought and talked about back at the tables with their heads together. Wilson found a tribal girl so soon! Where did she get that black eye? He’s not that kind of boy is he? She looks so pretty!

At last Robb’s father handed them trays with meals and guided them to a table. Mina smacked her lips while eating the stew and bread.

“Please,” said Wilson. “Like this.” He took a spoonful and chewed with his mouth closed.

“Loco,” said Mina, but imitated Wilson. “What’s in the soup?”

“Bear.”

Mina’s good eye opened wide. She ate her stew quietly and stared at each villager in the room.



WILSON SPENT HIS FREE time over the next few days showing her around the underground complex and coaching her speech. They wandered through the farmlands and he talked about Station, the old times, and the mountains that surrounded the valley. He didn’t mind spending time with Mina and it kept his mind off Badger and other unsolvable topics. She was a distraction, the breeze before a thunderstorm.

But when he was alone his mind wandered out of control. Somewhere in the cold forest Badger could be bleeding from bullet fragments or a tribal axe. After the evening meal Wilson read books in the rectory’s library until his eyes glazed over. In addition to his morning exercises he began an evening workout to exhaust his body in time for sleep.

He studied the white objects for hours but they remained inscrutable.

On the fourth day since Badger had left he took Mina for a walk on the western slopes. They stopped to rest in the shelter of a large tree. Through the tops of pine trees the entire valley spread below. Fenced gardens and small wooden buildings circled the central hub of underground entrances. Miniature farmers peppered the wide fields of corn and beans to the south and hemp fields in the west.

Entire generations of villagers lived, loved, and worked their entire lives without traveling more than a few kilometers from Station, but now Wilson watched it with a sour feeling in his belly. The only person he’d ever found interesting was somewhere off-map. Even if she returned, how long would she live?

Mina touched his arm. Her bruises had subtly changed to green and tan and the swelling had gone down.

“What’s this scar? Were you hurt?”

Wilson massaged his temples and tried to rub away a headache. “It’s from name-giving. Everyone in Station has the scar.”

“Why?”

“It’s part of a ceremony when we turn twelve and get our real names.”

“Did it hurt?”

“I don’t remember. I was asleep the entire time.”

“Oh.” She touched her little finger to the scar. “It looks painful. I think it’s crazy to mark a beautiful arm like that.”

“It’s not because we want to––anyone who was born here or joins the village needs the ceremony. Most people are very superstitious about it and think the scars or what’s under them keep us healthy.”

“My people are very sick sometimes but we do not cut our body. That’s the way of monstroja. They mark their horrible faces with three open circles.” She took a deep breath. “I wish I could forget.”

“I’m sorry, Mina.”

She shifted closer and pressed her shoulder to Wilson’s. He felt the warmth of her body through the thin yellow dress.

“Mina–”

“In my village there are stories about gods that live in the clouds,” said Mina. “I think I have come to this place. You have warm rooms and hot water springs from the wall. It is heaven.”

“Heaven or not, we’re anything but gods. We’re just normal people.”

“I don’t believe it.”

She touched his cheek and Wilson slid away.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Why did you bring me here? You’re so strange, Wilson!”

He tried not to look at her as they returned to the village.



HIS MOTHER THREW a cup that exploded into sharp white pieces against the wall.

“What’s wrong with you?” she yelled.

Wilson shut the door completely. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t play stupid. Cat’s teeth––a perfect girl lands in the village and you kick her away. She was here crying about something you did to her. I can’t understand half of what she says.”

“It’s just a misunderstanding.”

“Don’t waste your time explaining to me. Talk to her.”

Wilson gathered bits of the broken cup and his mother knelt on the floor to help. They finished sweeping up the mess and she hugged him.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Wilson shook his head. “It’s okay.”

“I forget,” she wiped her eyes and laughed. “Even when you’re sixty years old, I’ll probably be throwing cups at you for something.”

“Please don’t worry about it.”

“You’re asking too much! I’m your mother.”



MINA’S ROOM WAS NEXT door. Wilson didn’t go there as his mother had wanted and instead walked through the passage to Armory.

Mast and two smaller boys arm-wrestled at a wooden table. With the massive trunks of his arms he played with them easily, like a fisherman holding up a pair of wriggling trout. When he spotted Wilson Mast slammed the hands of the two boys onto the table.

“Get lost, pups. And don’t lose my tools.”

The boys stumbled out the Armory door.

“Mast.”

“Wilson. Is she bored with you already? Founder’s boots, I would be. Bored with you, that is. If I was a girl. And I’m not.”

“Mast.”

“You priests with your minds on God-knows-what and noses in God-knows-where. Wound up so tight all the time you can’t enjoy the company of a nice home-grown girl.”

“Mast.”

“You always have to find a tribal tart who doesn’t know about your perverted, sick–”

Wilson grabbed the front of Mast’s shirt. “SHUT UP!”

“All right, all right! Let me go.” Mast rubbed his chest. “You’re in a mood.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just ... sometimes you talk too much.”

“I’ve got the strength of a bear and the lungs of a mountain cat.”

“The brain of a goat, too,” said Wilson.

“What can I say? Chicks go mad for this sexy moron.”

“That’s definitely a lie. Let me ask you a question. You and me––we’re friends, right?”

Mast sighed. “I’m your ONLY friend, yes.”

“Be serious. I’m asking for your help.”

“I am serious. And I’ll help you. I saved you from the nasty spiders, didn’t I? Or did my goat-brain imagine that?”

“I could have found a way out.”

Mast laughed, then switched to a serious face. “No, you couldn’t.”

“ANYway. I need help with Mina.”

“The blushing tribal bride? I bet her parents are drooling to meet you. Forks and knives in hand, by the way.”

Wilson put both hands on the table and leaned forward. “Listen––she’s a beautiful girl with a good personality. I like her, but we just don’t match. I can’t explain it.”

“No need to.”

“No?”

“I just told you what’s wrong. You’ve got baggage, Wilson, and you’re too quiet. Normal girls like it loud and dumb, and she sounds normal. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Right. In any case, today she asked who was the big handsome guy always pounding away in the Armory, and I said it was you.”

“The one and only. Continue.”

“So the problem is, she needs someone to look out for her and protect her. The thing with tribal girls …”

“Yes?”

“The thing with tribal girls, the men in their villages never treat them right. They don’t wash at all. They hit them and treat them like slaves. If you talk nice to these girls, bring them food, keep them company, they flip out. You can’t get rid of them. It’s like feeding a starving dog.”

Mast wrinkled his nose.

“Feeding a lovely, starving tribal girl,” said Wilson.

“Sure! I guess you’d know about tribal stuff. But how long do I have to keep up the nice-guy act?”

Wilson shrugged.

“All right,” said Mast. “As a favor to you.”

“She’s in the room next to my mom. Take some lunch to her and make friends.”

Wilson spent the rest of the day between the pages of his books.



THE NEXT DAY HE bribed Robb into following Mast, then spent half of his time in the fields and half with his mother at the workshop curing leather. The foul stench and thick hemp masks they had to wear made conversation difficult, but it was a blessing in Wilson’s opinion.

After the evening meal he found Robb preparing pemmican with his father in a room near the kitchen. Robb’s father stirred a pan of warming deer fat and Robb used a mallet to pound the dried venison and chokeberries into powder. On a nearby table were molded balls of the finished product and small leather pouches.

“Excuse me, sir. I need to speak to Robb.” He pulled the boy into the corridor. “Did you follow them?”

“All day and it was the worst,” said Robb. “Him and that tribal girl were mooning over each other all day. Mooning at lunch, mooning in the pasture, mooning in the trees. I wanted to go blind. I’d sooner eat a spider than watch those lovebirds.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Stop joking! You didn’t have to do it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“So what about tomorrow like you said?”

“Fine,” said Wilson. “I’ll take the herd up to the pasture. But if anything happens you have to come and get me.”

Robb tilted his head. “If by ‘anything’ you mean ‘a spotted bear’ and by ‘happens’ you mean ‘gives me a cookie,’ then yes, I’ll come to get you.”

The boy dodged Wilson’s hand and scampered back to the room.



IN THE MORNING WILSON prepared a rucksack with dried meat, a loaf of thick bread, an apple, and two water skins. He wrapped the revolver and artifacts in buckskin and put them at the bottom of the sack.

Wool cap pulled over his ears, he walked through a brisk, pre-dawn mist. The northern corral was at the other end of the valley. It was close enough to the village that wolves avoided it but far enough that someone had to stay there during the summer.

A barn and the wooden fence of a corral emerged from the fog, filled with a herd of sheep and goats. A brown nanny with a white star on her forehead bleated at Wilson. On the near side of the fence, a teenage boy in thick clothing rubbed a black and white collie around the neck.

“Morning, Alfie,” said Wilson.

The boy looked up. “Morning, sir. Wait––I didn’t know you had to watch the sheep. Where’s Robb?”

“I’m working for him today. It’s all right, Alfie, I stay here sometimes––it gives me a chance to think. Is everything tip-top?”

“I guess. The bow is in there.” Alfie pointed to a small cabin on the other side of the corral. “I brought extra blankets. You can use ‘em.”

“Great.”

“Bye!” Alfie grabbed a leather bag at his feet and ran into the mist. The dog barked and sped after him.

The fog blackened the gray wood of the cabin with beads of dark moisture. A cast-iron bell and ringer were fastened to the wall next to the door.

Wilson walked inside and took a crossbow and packet of bolts. At the corral he lifted a frayed loop of rope and dragged the gate open. A mottled collection of independent thinkers, the goats wandered out first while the sheep huddled inside the fence.

Wilson put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The black and white dog came speeding up the path and trotted to the other end of the corral.

“Let’s go, Blackie! Let’s go! Heya! Heya!”

The dog barked at the sheep and helped Wilson push and prod them up the mountain. The walk was long and the mist dampened his face and clothes. As he followed Blackie and the herd up the rocky slopes, the gloomy white shroud in the air slowly thinned to a blue sky.

By the time he found the high meadow the sun was a finger’s width above Old Man but the valley below still a lake of fog. Wilson loaded his crossbow and set it nearby then sat down with his back to a yellow aspen. The sheep wandered through the pasture and Blackie lay in the sun, tongue lolling and eyes half-shut. Wilson tried to follow her example.

But he couldn’t sleep––he kept thinking about Mina. She’d been thrown into his lap just like his mother had said and he’d rejected her. He’d been trained to use facts to make decisions, not to eliminate a choice because it felt wrong. He thought about Badger the last time he’d seen her. The warm hand he’d bandaged, the half-kiss and bloody lip they shared, the magnificent way her eyes changed when they focused on something.

Wilson shifted position. Except she never looked at him that way. Why would care about a simpleton like him? He had years of training left, while the others she could choose from were basically adults. Whatever the situation between them, he had to tell her about the database and the others who’d died. But how?

He woke with the sun overhead and the herd grazing a short distance away. Blackie rested, head on her paws and blinking lazily. Wilson tossed her some meat. After a meal of bread and cheese he inspected the crossbow. He carefully released the catch then cleaned and checked the reload lever, fittings, and bowstring. He reloaded and fitted the bolt back into its track.

What would she think when he told her? What would she say? Blackie didn’t move her head but watched carefully as Wilson stood and walked a circle around the herd.

He lay on the grass and watched dark clouds creep across the sky. Trust me. Her hand in his. I do. Wilson stood and practiced the calming trick for a quarter-hour and felt better.

Out of boredom he tried something different. He faced the sun, closed his eyes, and breathed out. He imagined the crackle of a huge fire and created four new verses:



Breath made of flame

Breath made of spark

Breath made of steam

Speed my heart



His left arm prickled with ice-chills but the rest of his body burned furiously hot. A dull roar vibrated in his head and beads of sweat flashed from his skin. The sweat ran into his eyes and down his back. Blackie stared at him, her jaws open and tongue lolling. Wilson stopped concentrating and the dog trotted over.

“That’s not very useful, is it girl?” He hugged her around the neck. “Unless bears hate the taste of man-sweat.”

Wilson removed his coat and undershirt and laid them in the sun. He relaxed in the shade until some of his energy came back then used a flat stone to sharpen his hunting knife and the small throwing blade.

He hadn’t practiced with the knives for a few days so he ambled across the meadow to a wide-barreled tree. On a flat area at chest height he scratched a crude target and stepped back ten paces. Overhand with the small knife––hit. Underhand––hit. Overhand––hit. After a few minutes, Wilson sheathed it and pulled out the longer hunting knife. Overhand––miss. Underhand––miss. He practiced until the blade hit the target every time.

Blackie barked and sped away through the grass. She stopped halfway through the meadow and listened, ears up. Wilson watched the tree line across the sloping meadow and sniffed the breeze. He moved his crossbow and pack closer to the practice tree and returned to the target. This time he backed up twenty paces. Hunting blade overhand––miss. Hunting blade underhand––miss.

A voice came from behind him. “Step into it!”

Wilson spun around. “Kira!”

Badger walked toward him, trying not to smile. Her black hair split into two long braids and bounced on the shoulders of her tanned leather jacket. Dried, caramel-colored mud covered her trousers from the waist down.

Blackie wagged her tail and jumped at her, and Badger rubbed the dog’s neck.

“Why did you call me that?”

Wilson shifted his feet. “Um ....“

“It’s funny,” said Badger, “Most people don’t remember that name. But you can use it.”

“Whew!” Wilson laughed and pretended to plunge a knife into his chest. Badger giggled and made him feel a few feet taller.

“Why did you walk all the way up here?”

“To talk to you, silly boy.”

“What?”

“The last time I saw you, didn’t you have something to tell me?” She walked over to his hunting knife and snatched it from the ground. “Well?” She backed up twenty paces and threw overhand at the tree. The knife stuck in the center of the target.

“Ah ….”

“I’ve been six days off-map with a bum hand. I come back, walk up a mountain, and all you can say is ‘ah’?” She tugged at the knife and walked back to Wilson.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said.

Badger threw the knife underhand into the target.

“Safely, that is. Back safely,” said Wilson.

“What do you care about my safety?”

“Well, I care about the safety and health of all–”

“Stop jerking my chain.”

Badger shook her head and stared at him, a smile at the corners of her mouth.

Wilson cleared his throat. “How’s ... uh ... how’s the hand? I don’t see a bandage.”

“It’s okay, just sore.” She moved her fingers. “I lost the bandage in a god-forsaken swamp.”

“Let me see.”

Wilson held her hand and turned it with his fingers. Her skin was soft, apart from the calloused palm.

“Scabbed over nicely,” he said. He sniffed the red line of the wound.

“What are you doing?”

“Smelling for infection.”

“You’re a strange cat, Wilson.” Badger poked him in the chest and slid a hand behind his neck. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“This,” he said, and they kissed.



WILSON LOST TRACK OF time until a drop of rain splashed his cheek. He started to get up for his jacket but Badger held him tight.

“Is that all you have to say?” she asked.

“No, there’s more.”

They sheltered from the storm under the wide spruce trees like a pair of lonely goats. When the thunder passed and the rain faded to a soft spray they guided the animals down the mountain. Wilson kept his arm around Badger’s waist and felt the gentle rhythm in each of her steps.

“Why did the patrol take so long?”

Badger sighed. “This group of tribals kept wandering back and forth like they were looking for something. Too close to ignore and too many to fight.”

“Hunters?”

“Too much noise. They wouldn’t have caught a dead goat tied to a tree.”

“Raiders?”

“Maybe. I couldn’t get close enough to find out.”

At the dark edge of twilight they brought the herd to the corral. Wilson locked the gate and gave Blackie a large piece of dried meat. He walked with Badger hand-in-hand to the small cabin. Inside were two narrow bunks and a large pile of furs.

“You don’t have to stay,” said Wilson, holding her around the waist. “You might be missed.”

“Someone right here will miss me,” she said.

The bunks were hard and the furs musty, but it didn’t matter. Together they kept warm and forgot that anything else had ever existed.

Later, curled together under the blankets, Wilson played with one of her braids that had started come loose.

“I feel like a hooked fish,” he said. “And you’re on the other end of the line.”

Badger giggled. “I won’t throw you back yet.”

She left the bunk and felt through a pile of clothes.

“Where are you going?”

“You’re right, Will––I can’t stay here. Simpson will come looking for me.”

“Well, they have to find out sometime.”

“Not tonight and not like this.”

Wilson stayed under the furs and stared at the antlers that hung from the roof beams.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you.”

She jumped on top of him playfully. “What?”

“It’s about you.”

“I’m the greatest, you told me six times already.”

Wilson shook his head. “It’s about your collapse. The sickness.”

“Tell me.”

“Listen, it’s not definite. Like you said, what do the stupid priests know anyway? Maybe there’s another set of records I haven’t found yet–”

She opened her eyes wide. “WHAT is not definite?”

Wilson sighed and rubbed his cheeks.

“Your condition ... it’s fatal. Everyone in your name-line had it, including the founder. It started at different ages, but all of them had it. And ... all of them died from it.”

“You’re joking!” She left the bed and stared at him. “Don’t tell me a stupid thing like that. I feel fine. It can’t be that bad!”

“I wouldn’t tell you unless I thought it was true.”

“How long?”

“A month. Six weeks at the most.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

The look in her eyes made Wilson wish he had more than a blanket for protection.

“You were on patrol!”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said. “Before.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

Badger pulled on her trousers, moccasins, and jacket.

“I thought you were different,” she said.

“Kira, it’s not what you think!”

She turned the latch and a draft blew into the room.

“No. You’re just like the rest of them.”