SHADOWS OF EMPYRIAD

Copyright
©2016 Josi Russell

All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means
without the written permission of the author.

This book is
a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely
coincidental.

Cover art ©
Richard Lance Russell Art

Editors:

Lisa Oldham

Jason Oldham

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Maps

1

Jamal Laska dropped his papers and caught hold of
the wall as the ground shuddered beneath his hut. His stomach pitched violently
as another shock rolled through the village. Days of earthquakes were beginning
to wear on him, and he closed his eyes and swallowed hard, willing his nausea
to subside.

When the shaking stopped and the eerie new
stillness of Empyriad returned, Laska scooped up the fallen papers from the tile
floor. He tried to shove them into his shoulder bag. The bag was already
bulging with the weight of his magma notes. He strode to the bed where his
suitcase lay open, filled with his clothes.

The ships would be leaving soon, returning to
Earth. The aides who were supposed to help pack and load his research should
have been here hours ago. It was obvious that they had been caught up in the
fear and made for the ships already. And he should have been gone by now, too,
but four Empyriad seasons of his life lay in piles around the little hut, and
he wouldn't leave them.

In one swift motion, Laska flipped the suitcase
over, dumping its contents onto the bed, and righted it, eyeing the space
inside. He retrieved the drives with all the data he had entered so far. They
took up a third of the space. Next, he grabbed a sheaf of soil efflux
measurements and laid them in the case, then went back for the other reports he
had arranged while he awaited the aides.

Only half of the hundreds of soil sample
analyses, gas density readings, and vent maps he had made would fit into the
case. He looked, panicked, at the remaining stacks: hand-written observation
notes, charts, and sketches, unduplicatable back on Earth. They had to come
with him. Had to. Within them lay the whole of his knowledge of this planet.

But how could he carry all of them himself?

He cast a gaze around the hut. There were
baskets, but they were too small to carry all those files. His cooking pot
would be too heavy. His blanket made into a sling would be too large and
unwieldy.

His blue sweater lay in the tumbled heap of
clothing on the bed, and he snatched it, eyeing the neck. It looked pretty strong.
It would probably hold. He scooped the papers up and laid them carefully inside
the torso of the sweater, across the neck. He stacked them as high as he dared.
The few sheaves that he would have to leave were important, but less so. He
carefully tied the arms around the sweater to make a loose bundle. The package
was bulky and awkward, but it would suffice. If Laska could just get it to the
ship, he'd have a compartment in his cabin to stow it all until he got back to
his lab on Earth.

The air smelled of sulfur and Laska's eyes stung
as he rechecked his shoulder bag. The four notebooks that held the most vital
data he had—his magma notes and his journal—were secure. The sight of them
calmed Laska a bit. Of all his research, these notes were his greatest
achievement. In them lay evidence of the Stracahn power and what Laska believed
was a way to understand it. It would not only shine a light on what had
happened here, but it could also change life on Earth forever. He pictured the
press conference where he would present his findings. Laska pictured, for just
a second, the awe of his colleagues as he revealed his discovery. Laska felt
himself smile faintly. Empyriad had always offered hope, and even though they
had destroyed it, the planet had given them this gift.

The humans had used up Earth’s gifts too quickly.

What else should he take? Laska looked around the
hut. There were beautiful blankets woven by the Stracahn, and intricately
carved talismans he’d collected. There were mineral samples and bottles of ash
from the various sites he’d studied. And there were the things he’d brought
from Earth: his texts and his instruments. He walked to the low shelf where he
kept the books he had brought from home. He skimmed the titles.

There were geology texts, novels, and history
texts, some of them passed down from his parents and unavailable on Earth now
due to the Terrene War and the elibrary project. The elibrary only contained
books endorsed by the Consolidated Terrene Leadership.

Most of these would have to stay. But one thick
green volume would be hard to leave.

It was a history of Earth, written by an academic
in the intellectual hub of Shoreline just before her death three years ago. It
was very rare, one of the few texts that told the whole truth about the last
two hundred years.

Laska opened it, feeling the smooth paper,
smelling the ink. He flipped through, looking at the chapter headings.

“The Golden Age.” That chapter discussed the
decades just before the middle of the last century when communications,
weapons, and technology surpassed expectations. The Coulombic Engine was
developed, allowing humans to travel through space with ease. But no one was
looking out for the important things like agriculture.

The chapter entitled “The Blind Spot” discussed
that oversight. He ran a finger across the exquisite maps printed inside,
reading the familiar history.

As people covered the Earth, they needed food.
The Earth could certainly have produced enough, but like all natural resources,
the grain and meat production areas were unequally distributed. Countries began
a feverish quest for arable land. China had invaded Russia and India, seeking
sovereignty over the entire Asian Continent and all its grain production, and
the conflict had escalated quickly. In eliminating the enemy, all sides had
unleashed weapons that not only destroyed human life but also scarred the land,
leaving it barren and poisoned. Within five Earth years, the war had ruined the
three top grain-producing regions in the world, and the people of Earth began
to starve.

Countries banded together and invaded the United
States, driving for the farms and ranches and orchards of the West and the
Midwest. Canada and many South American nations joined in trying to protect the
agricultural lands, and across the globe humans scratched and clawed for food.

As he thought about Earth’s volatile history,
Laska grew agitated. He leaned hard on the suitcase and got it sealed, then
balanced the unwieldy sweater package atop it. There was no room for the book.
He looked through the final chapters.

“The End of the Terrene War” discussed how the
conflict had ended when the invading forces were repulsed.
It showed photos of the still-fertile arable land in North and South America
and photos of the devastation elsewhere. Most of the Asian, African, and European
Continents were uninhabitable, and the conflict on the American Continents had
driven most of Earth’s wealthy and powerful people to hide out on the
Australian Continent, where meat and grain production had remained stable. It
was there that the Consolidated Terrene Leadership was born.

The “Consolidated Leadership” chapter discussed
how the war had decimated not only the land but also the human race. Earth’s
human population numbers had fallen from 11 billion down to just over four billion.
Everyone had lost someone. So when the group of leaders who had fled to
Australia presented the plan of a united world, under a single government, most
humans were ready to embrace it.

Laska had been born into the aftermath of the
Terrene War. His grandparents had fought in it, his parents had witnessed it,
and they all saw in him the potential to begin to repair it. His whole
generation had been celebrated as Earth’s new hope.

So they had poured their souls into finding
remedies for Earth’s ills. They had searched the stars, every reachable planet,
for keys to replenishment. Empyriad had held the most promise. The book ended
with a chapter called “Empyriad,” and it was that chapter which had inspired
Laska to apply for this assignment.

They had hoped to find new varieties of plant life
here, more resistant to harsh conditions. Laska himself had come to study Empyriad’s
rocks and dirt, to discover new soil additives that they could bring back to
regenerate their damaged planet.

But the science wasn’t all he’d come for. He had
also come to break free of the heavy despair that covered much of Earth, the
burning regret and resentment that still lingered there.

A rumbling aftershock shook the book from Laska’s
hand, and the fear returned. He had to go. He picked up the book and placed it
back on the shelf. Choices had to be made. He couldn’t bring it. His research
was more important.

Laska reached for the tube of slick skin
protectant that lay on the side table. He squeezed some into his hand and
slathered it across his arms and face. The native Stracahn had iridescent skin
that provided them protection from their sun's rays, but the humans burned
badly without this special sunscreen.

But Laska grew impatient with the lotion. It took
a lot of rubbing to work it into the skin, and time was short. As if to
emphasize the urgency, another tremor shook the hut, and Laska, unprepared, was
knocked to his knees. He sucked in his breath at the pain, gritting his teeth.
He laid his head on the edge of the bed in front of him, feeling the surface of
Empyriad rocking beneath him.

In spite of all these tremors, Laska didn’t know
if Kin'achyt'la, the volcano at the edge of the village, would erupt. Laska and
his team had been studying it for three of the four seasons he’d been here, and
in many ways, it was still a mystery to them.

But, eruption or no eruption, this planet was
doomed. He glanced up as the frame of the window jerked around his view of the mountains.
Laska winced at the sight of them. They were, now, too like the burned and
barren wastes of Earth. When he had first seen them, these slopes were green
and verdant, covered with foliage that fed and sheltered the Stracahn and the
humans who had arrived.

But now, barren black rock sloped away from the
hut, stripped of its living blanket of plants by the tiny fungus Glomerella cingulata,
which had hitched a ride on a human crewman's smuggled dried mango. The idiocy
that it took to bring an unsterilized fruit to an entirely new planet still
baffled Laska. The native species had no resistance and no time to develop any.

The disease had quickly spread across the Stracahn
homeworld, destroying the native plants. Empyriad was a covered with a series
of small continents, all connected through slender land bridges. The fungus had
snaked across them through the vines and trees, through the bushes. Though he
had heard that there were still some surviving cactus species in the deserts,
all broadleaved plants and grasses had succumbed to the plague. Laska had
watched as the verdant planet turned brown around him, its plants dying. He had
watched as the peaceful Stracahn felt the wrenching grip of hunger and fear. He
had watched discord begin to arise in their peaceful society in proportion to
the loss of the plants.

Soon, only the bare rock surface of the planet
lay exposed. Seeing the decimated mountains now, and feeling the upheaval that
the full heat of Empyriad’s sun was causing in the ground, Laska felt ashamed
of his species.

As the rocking continued, the sounds of shouting
and screaming in the street outside drew him. He grasped the suitcase and
rolled it behind him as he crawled to the door.  Opening it, he saw teams of
biologists, cartographers, geologists, all scientists like himself, as well as
military personnel, all staggering through the village toward the ships.

There were no human children on the planet. For
that he was grateful.

But they weren't alone in the streets. The
Stracahn, beautiful and mostly silent, made their way toward the ships as well.

Laska had sensed, from his first contact with the
Stracahn, that the aliens were powerful. He was surprised at the disdain and pity
other humans directed at them. Many humans couldn’t see past the Stracahn’s
primitive society—their huts and homemade clothes. Many of his fellow
scientists saw them as backward, undeveloped versions of themselves.

And the Stracahn were humanoid. Almost human,
really, but for their four-fingered hands, their iridescent skin, and their
luminous eyes.

They even had emotions, although Laska admitted
that they were not exactly like human emotions. They had a deep calm, a
composure that could be disconcerting at times. One theory for their unshakable
demeanor was based on the fact that the Stracahn reproduced differently and
didn't require vast amounts of hormones pumping through their systems. They
were eerily calm, mirroring the usual state of the planet of their birth. But
under their tranquility, as under the crust of Empyriad, Laska had sensed a
pulsing power. He sensed it now, as they moved around him, toward the ships. He
had also seen, in the seasons he had spent here, that new undercurrent of
conflict grow within the Stracahn society. Where there had been a unified,
content people before the arrival of the humans, factions now had begun to
arise, and though there were no outright battles, the Stracahn were
increasingly at odds with one another and with their leadership, the Avowed. He
saw the growing animosity in the way the Stracahn moved now toward the ships in
small groups and in the distrust they held in their eyes.

Salah, an oceanographer that Laska had been
spending time with, rushed out of her hut across the wide village road and
waved at him. Laska pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the handle
of his suitcase. They met in the center of the street, clinging to each other
for support.

When the tremor stopped, so did they, and Laska
tried again to clear his head.

"They're getting worse," Salah said
through gritted teeth. She carried only a backpack, and Laska envied the
lightness with which she moved. He felt burdened, weighed down with the bulk of
the knowledge he was so driven to get back to Earth.

"I'm no Simms," Laska said, hearing the
dizzy slur of his words, "but I'd say that thing's gonna blow anytime."

He raised his eyes to the towering volcano
sloping away above them. The steam venting from the top and from the lava tubes
on the sides was increasing. "I don't know how they're gonna get all these
people out in time."

Salah flinched and looked away. "They're
not, Jamal." She looked in his eyes. "There aren't enough
ships."

Laska searched Salah’s face. He had known this,
on some level, but he kept telling himself that Earth would make it right. That
the Consolidated Terrene Leadership would save the Stracahn, if not the planet
they had destroyed through their carelessness.

"Las-ka!" Laska heard his name, spoken
in the Stracahn way: the speaker’s voice catching on the two consonants in
Laska's name. "Las-ka!"

Laska turned and saw a group of Stracahn who had
worked with him gathering gas samples. He should speak to them, say goodbye. He
gestured Salah to go ahead.

"I'll see you on the ship," she said,
then hesitated, reaching for Laska. He felt the heat of her hand and the
stickiness of the sunscreen on his arm. She leaned in, and he kissed her, long
and sweet. She had filled his last few weeks with more than science, for the
first time in his life. He allowed himself to imagine the journey home—two
months on the ship getting to know her better.

As she pulled away, he smiled broadly. "See
you there."

Cev came up beside him,
carrying a little bag of belongings. "Las-ka. I have a gift for you."
He reminded Laska of a dragonfly from Earth. The Stracahn's iridescent skin was
green, then blue, then purple in the sunshine as he leaned forward and slipped
a pahuli necklace: a stone talisman of protection, around Laska's neck. The two
men continued walking as Laska inspected it.

"It's remarkable," he said, noting for
the first time how many of the Stracahn were wearing them.

The pahuli meant parting. It was not only given
to loved ones as they left on a journey, but the Stracahn also draped it around
the necks of the deceased as a talisman of protection for their journey into
the next life.

"I'll see you on Earth," Laska said,
then instantly regretted it. He saw the flash of fear in Cev's eyes.

"I hope so. I hear that the ships are
filling up quickly." Cev sighed. "I might not make it to Earth this
trip."

A Stracahn mother passed them, swinging her baby
in the traditional hupta, or carrying wrap, which Laska had grown so used to
seeing. Another child followed at her heels, and as he pulled the clumsy
suitcase behind him, he tried not to think about their already skeletal frames.
The food was gone. The animals were nearly gone. The future was bleak for
anyone left on this rock after these ships left.

But they were a calm people, a centered and
balanced people. Laska couldn't believe now that Cev was so composed. Cev knew
that there were not enough ships. He was aware that staying on the planet meant
slow and sure starvation, yet he maintained his composure. They walked in
silence, and ahead of them Laska saw the shining hulls of the ships that would
take him home.

“Meir himself carved that pahuli,” Cev said. Laska
couldn’t tell if he was changing the subject to calm himself or to make his
human companion feel less uncomfortable. Either way, the comment made Laska
think of Meir. He was at the top of Stracahn society, second only to the Mubareth
Ola’an, the child who the Stracahn saw as their chosen one. Meir was arguably
the most prominent member of Stracahn society. He led the Avowed, the spiritual
and governmental leaders of the Stracahn.

The Avowed had prophesied that humans would come.
And the ships came as the Avowed had said they would: on a clear day, from the
East. Small, light landing crafts that eased down to the surface, opened, and
spilled their passengers out into the intense sunlight.

The first humans that stepped onto the Edenic
planet of Empyriad were unprepared for what they saw. A sea of humanoid
beings--the Stracahn, stood watching the Earthlings come out of the ships. The
humans were cautious, tense, as they faced the Stracahn. Slightly confused by
the striking similarities between themselves and this new race, the Earthlings
climbed down and stuck out their hands. They didn't know then that those hands
would kill this planet.

"Look, Cev, I'm--I'm sorry about what we,
what we did--" he gestured broadly, and Cev averted his eyes from the
barren hillside that sloped above them. Laska realized that his words, meant to
sooth the situation, were making it worse. How could he apologize? How could he
make up for what humanity, in its naive curiosity, had done to Cev’s planet, to
his whole civilization?

Laska felt the weight of it and knew that sometimes
there was no apology great enough. The thing had been done, and there was no
undoing it.

They walked together, this tragedy between them,
until the sound of chaos hit. Laska looked up, but he couldn't see what was
happening around the mass of people. There was only shouting and slamming
doors. Cev's friends broke into a run.

"May your journey bring discovery!" Cev
called as he sped up to catch them.

Laska called the traditional parting back to him.
Suddenly, he felt very alone.

Sixteen ships stood in loose rows; their tapered
noses pointed toward the sky. The pilots had started some of them. Already the
heat of their exhaust washed over the crowd. Already, their compact Coulombic
engines were emitting the high pre-flight whine. Already, the pentagonal windows
that studded the ships held faces, human and Stracahn, gazing down at the
trembling remains of Empyriad.

Laska saw Salah boarding the Excursion, the big
red ship just ahead of him. If he wanted to see her at all for the next few
months, he had to make it on that one. The geologist ran as best he could, the
suitcase bouncing behind him. The papers on top started to shift. He turned and
loped sideways, trying to hold the sweater-wrapped bundle securely on top of
the suitcase.

He heard a crewman shouting from a ship to his
right,"Too many! Close the doors!"

But the ship wasn't full. The passenger limit
sign, glowing red above the door, still read 127. The crews were panicking
under the press of the crowd. If they weren't filling the ships to capacity, there
was even less time. According to the sign, the ship he was heading for still had
room for 63 passengers, and he thought he could make it. Gripping his research,
he pushed forward.

The sweater caught on the arm of a passing biologist,
and the bundle fell, spreading Laska's work out on the ground.

He cried out and dropped to his knees, scooping
and grabbing at the papers as Stracahn and humans rushed past him up the ramp.
The bare black stone of Empyriad bit into his knees and scraped his knuckles as
he reached for his records.

The Excursion rushed to life. A wall of heat from
the initial reaction in the engine pushed out through the crowd. Many of the
papers, now torn and smudged, blew beyond his grasp, and he saw them take
flight. Laska watched as his observations scattered back to the slopes and
crevices where he had made them.

He secured the ones he could reach and scrambled
to his feet. He grasped the suitcase handle suitcase tighter and ran a hand
over his shoulder bag. It was secure. The notebooks with his most valuable data
were still there. He could try to replicate some of the observations. But for
now, he had to get through this crowd and into a cabin on the ship to take
stock of what had been lost. The limit sign read 20, and there were close to
that many in front of him now. He moved up the ramp, his eyes on the door.

It was a moment's glance. If he had kept his eyes
on the door, if he had stepped more quickly, he would never have seen the
child.

A shining child about nine
Earth years old, whose turquoise hair caught the light and tossed it back to
him, stood at the edge of the ramp, weeping. No one seemed to see her. Even the
soldier guarding the door looked past her as he waved to Laska.

"Come on, Sir, come up here. I'm closing the
doors. All citizens of Earth must board now!"

Laska paused. "Where are your parents?"
he asked the child in Stracahn.

She looked up. Laska was not prepared for the
moment she looked him in the eye and pointed to the ship.

"They're aboard?"

"COME ON, SIR!" The soldier was
barking.

The child nodded.

Laska knew what he had to do. He took the little
girl's hand and led her through the crush of people. Above the door, the
passenger limit sign counted down.

15, 14, 13. People were flowing onto the ship.

12, 11, 10. Laska tried to count, saw that they
would make it, but just barely.

9,8,7,6. He was close enough to feel the breeze
coming from the ship, and the freshness of it, the taste of rich oxygen,
revived him.

"It's all right. We'll get you on board and find
your parents," he soothed. The girl looked up at him again, nodding
earnestly. He sensed that he had just made a promise.

The Stracahn viewed statements as fact, as
promises.

And then they were at the front of the line, and
the soldier was reaching for his arm, to help him in. The little girl followed,
clinging to the geologist’s hand.

Laska glanced up and stopped.

1.

The passenger limit sign stood at 1. One
passenger would be allowed onboard. There was no breaking this rule, no bending
it. The safety of everyone on board prohibited that.

Laska shook his head, trying to think. The little
girl would die, then. He took the knowledge and held it, blocking out the
commands from the soldier. The door was half-lowered, and when he stepped
through it would close.

He disentangled his hand from the child's and
took a step forward. He had to get his research back to Earth. There would be
nothing left to study. He had to make it home.

But he had promised. Smoothly, Laska swung
around.

"SIR!" the soldier barked.

Laska reached for the little girl, lifting her
and setting her aboard the ship. She looked at him from across the threshold
with wide eyes.

The soldier swore and pulled her further into the
ship as the door lowered.

Frantically, Laska slipped out of his shoulder
bag and tossed it under just as the seal hissed on the polished silver door.

2

The child stood
staring at the solid door. How could a human have done this? How could one of
the beings that destroyed her home have saved her? She wanted her mother,
wanted to be wrapped in the arms that took the confusion from her mind and the
danger from the world.

A heavy hand fell on her shoulder. She looked up
at the stern face of the door guard. The soldier was a big man with a broad
face and serious eyes. He was, she could see, afraid.

"You need to get to your cabin. We're
preparing to launch. Bring your bag." He gestured down the long hallway,
where doorways yawned like the mouths of caves. The child had never felt metal
surrounding her, had always known the broad mountainsides and earthen huts of
Empyriad. She reached down and scooped up the leather bag at her feet. She
hugged it to her chest.

The soldier looked at her, and she saw him smile.
"It's okay. I'll show you." He held out his hand, and she took it. He
walked her to the first doorway.

When the humans had come, Zyn'dri had found that
she had an unusual capacity to communicate with them. She could understand
their words and mimic them much more quickly than her friends or even her
parents. She had become something of a translator for the little band of them
in her village, often called upon when they were trying to sort out a sticky
problem or arrange details for their work. She had liked them, then, before the
plants started to die.

"This is your room," he said, and
Zyn'dri heard the strangeness of the "oo" sound that always
fascinated her about their language. The Stracahn didn't have that sound in
their words. It was a pause, a drawing-out of the word that made her think of
the nightbirds that used to call at twilight outside the village.

She had gone, one day, tree climbing in the
jungle behind the village. A nestful of nightbirds lay on a limb above her, and
she had ascended to it and scooted out on the limb, as she had done many times.

Zyn'dri remembered the wonder she'd always felt
at watching the nightbirds, as gentle and calm as pets, feed their young. But
that day had been different. Zyn'dri shivered now at the memory. A mother
nightbird, too weak to lift her head, laid breathing heavily in the nest. Her
wings were spread over the still, skeletal forms of her babies. Zyn'dri had
searched the tree frantically for the bright-beetles, the glowing insects that
were the primary food for nightbirds, but there were none.

It was then that she had noticed the brown leaves
of the tree, their sickly gleam in the filtered sunlight. She saw, as clearly
as the day her teacher had drawn it on the school blackboard, the food chain of
the nightbird. Below it, the bright-beetle and the vibrant green leaves of the Charra
tree. Above the nightbird, the quick, fluffy raz, with its gray and white coat,
and the hunting birds, tennas. She saw that chain and knew that its links were
broken. At that moment she had seen the collapse of all she knew looming in
front of her like the steep side of Kin'achyt'la.

So she wasn't surprised when the house she shared
with her mother and father began to be unbearably hot, even at night. She
wasn't surprised when the meals on their table were smaller. She wasn't
surprised when her parents came home from a meeting with the Avowed and said
that the Avowed had demanded that the humans provide ships to take them away
from Empyriad. For their own safety. They would be leaving as soon as the ships
could take them.

But she was a little surprised now, as she peered
into the small room and saw, out its solitary pentagonal window, the sheer
barrenness of her planet. She couldn't see a single plant, just bare rock and
the frightened Stracahn scrambling across it to the ships.

The lights came on as she stepped inside the
cabin, and she held tightly to the hand of the soldier as she saw the little
bed, and the sink and toilet. There was no wasted space. The soldier pointed to
a harness at one end of the bed.

"Buckle up and wait for the instructions
that come over the speaker," he said. "I have to get back to my post,
but I'll be right out there all through launch if you need me." He smiled,
and Zyn'dri forced her face into the humans' sign of reassurance, showing him
her teeth. Stracahn rarely contorted their faces this way, but she had learned
it was an important sign of trust for the humans.

When he left, the door of the little room slid
closed behind her and she was alone. She felt again the desperation that washed
over her when she had tried to board the ship and couldn't work her way through
the press of people, human and Stracahn, to get to the door.

When her parents had left that morning for their
onboard meeting with the Avowed, they had made sure she knew which ship it was
and when the doors would open for the public to begin boarding. Her mother's
sister would come and walk with her, they'd said. But her aunt hadn't come.
When Zyn'dri finally decided to leave the house and come to the ships, the
scene had been terrifying.

She knew her parents had expected everyone to
behave as usual: orderly filling of the ships, practical evaluation of how many
people could fit on each. But the humans were panicking, and the Stracahn had
seen their planet dying around them for months. The Stracahn did not want to be
left behind. Even though their emotions hadn't shown on their faces, their
behavior had been erratic. They had moved quickly and blocked the door to the
ship. The humans had pushed past them, and the soldiers had closed some of the
doors before the ships were full.

Zyn'dri shook her head, trying to dispel the
confusion and hopelessness she still felt. Although she was on the ship,
everything felt strange and wrong. Zyn'dri had to find her parents. They always
had the ability to comfort her, to make her feel safe.

A deep thrumming sound shook Zyn'dri from her
thoughts. She peered around the room, frightened. It sounded like the growl of
a huge animal. Only it didn't crescendo and then stop. Instead, it reached a
peak and continued steadily. She scrambled to the bed, fumbling with the
straps.

Like every other child on Empyriad, Zyn'dri had
watched the big Earthships launch before. She knew that outside a wave of heat
was billowing away and that any moment the ship would shoot from the ground at
a remarkable speed. She couldn't imagine what that would feel like in here.

She didn't wonder long. Only seconds after she buckled,
she felt the force of the ship lifting her. It took her breath away. The growl
grew to a fevered wail, and the walls around her trembled.

Zyn'dri was frozen with fear. She had traveled
once on the ocean, and when she had looked out on the undulating water around her,
she had been paralyzed in this same way by the power of the waves. She closed
her eyes, squeezing them until she saw only points of floating light. She held
on, repeating the mantra of protection to the Allbeings, until the moment when
the engines quieted. The ship steadied.

Zyn’dri was still gripping the bag. After
rechecking her buckles to be sure she was safely strapped in, she lay it on the
bed before her and extracted its contents.

Four bound books. She opened the first.

On its pages, she saw beautiful and delicate
designs. One after another.

Some were photographs, some were rubbings, and
some, rougher and less skilled, Zyn’dri assumed Laska had drawn himself,
copying something he saw. The photographs were often of lava flows. She
supposed that was something he was studying, and it looked, from the books,
like he played a game with himself where he tried to find the patterns he was
so interested in within the lava flows. He had many photographs where the shape
of the magma matched the design he had copied below it.

The drawings were not altogether foreign to
Zyn’dri. The patterns were somehow familiar, though she couldn’t remember
having seen them before.

She opened another book. This one was also full
of designs. Together, three of the books made a huge catalog of the intricate
drawings.

She opened the fourth. In it, she found the
strange squiggly writing of the humans. The first entry read:

Jamal Laska, Season 2983, rotation 6,
Empyriad

Edenic.
It is the only word to describe this place. Flowers, grasses, tropical trees
for miles. Fruit falling around you. The vast, sweet sea stretching away from
the towering volcanic mountains with the villages at their feet.

And
the species who lives here: the Stracahn. A united and gentle people, perfectly
at peace. How can that be?

Zyn’dri’s reading was interrupted by a voice on
the speaker, repeating a message in the human language and then in Stracahn.

"We've overcome the resistance of the
atmosphere and accelerated into open space. Our trip should be much more
comfortable from now on. You are free to leave your cabins and mingle in the
common areas on each deck. For security purposes, and for your safety, we do
ask that you return to your cabins immediately following the evening meal each
night."

Zyn'dri unbuckled. She had to find her parents,
and she should return this bag to the humans. The door slid open, and she
glanced down the corridor, back toward the door she'd entered. The soldier
waved at her, and she waved back hesitantly.

As she stepped into the hallway, she felt the
ridges of the textured rubber matting that covered the floor. It felt empty
under her feet, like Empyriad these last few weeks. Before the plants began to
die, her home planet had hummed under her feet, leading her along its paths and
guiding her to its secrets. But its yarin, its soul, had quieted since the
plants died. Her parents had looked at her strangely when she’d told them that,
so she tried not to mention it to others. Now, she couldn’t help but think of
it, because there was no soul in this machine either, though it thrummed with
energy and moved through the vast darkness outside. It was frightening and
foreign to her.

Zyn’dri took a steadying breath, shallow as she
had trained herself in the hot, empty air of Empyriad since the plague. But
soon she found herself breathing more deeply. The air here was crisp and clean,
like home before the humans came. Even better, like the first few moments after
a hard rain cleared, when the last droplets hung in the air, and the new sun
made them vanish before they hit the ground. She pulled it into her lungs and
drank it greedily as she walked. She felt how it cleansed the fear from her.

Zyn'dri saw others leaving their cabins, and she
followed the flow of Stracahn down the corridor to a large common room. In it,
a few Stracahn mingled, conversing in tense voices. Some of them looked up as
she walked through.

"Zyn'dri!"

The child recognized the voice and looked up to
meet the striking violet eyes of Tez, a woman from her village. Zyn’dri’s knew
Tez well. She was the mother of Zyn’dri’s friend, Innueo, who stood beside his
mother. He smiled as Zyn’dri approached.

"Why aren’t you with your parents?"

“We were separated. Do you know where they might
be?”

Tez glanced toward a doorway at the back of the
room.

“I suspect that they are somewhere looking for
you.” She said. “The soldiers mentioned that there is a registry for Stracahn
on the fifth deck. You may go there and tell them your name and your parents’
names. Tell them your cabin number. Your parents might be there looking for
you, too.”

Zyn'dri felt tears coming. She blinked quickly
and looked away. Only tiny Stracahn children cried in the presence of others.
"I'm not sure which way to go." She said.

Tez looked at her, not unkindly. "You'll go
through that door there to the stairs," she gestured across the room,
"and up several flights. The soldiers said that the door is marked with a
blue stripe."

Zyn'dri bowed slightly out of respect and left
the common room. Where Tez had indicated, she found a short hallway, and at the
end, a set of stairs that zigzagged upward, one flight over the other, into the
dizzying heights of the ship. Zyn’dri started to climb.

At each landing, she paused and looked for the
blue stripe.

There were only a few flights left above her when
she saw it. Through it, she found another corridor. She stepped more quickly as
she heard voices coming from an open door near the center of the hallway.

“Laska isn’t on this ship.” The voice was rough
and angry.

Zyn’dri’s mind flashed back to the journal. Laska.
She walked forward. As she peered around the open door, a man sat alone in a
small room filled with screens. He was writing on one of them with his finger.
His notes seemed to be about the photos of humans which flowed across the
screens, and she watched as he peered at them. He appeared to be talking to
himself.

“He has to be. He had all the data.”

Zyn’dri ran a hand over the bag she was carrying.
She used her best human inflection as she spoke, “Excuse me?”

The man whirled. “The registry is in the center
of the deck. Keep going.”

Zyn’dri stepped back, trying to compose herself.
She was still unused to such strong emotion in adults. “Yes. Thank you. But you
said Las-ka.” She slipped the bag over her shoulder and held it out to him. “I
have something of his.”

The big man looked surprised. He reached toward
her, his eyes cold. “Bring it here.”

Zyn’dri crossed to him. He didn’t look as if he
trusted her.

“Open the bag,” he said, “and get it out.”

Zyn’dri extracted one of the books and offered it
to him. As he leaned to snatch it from her, she saw a nameplate on his uniform
that said, Ormes. Zyn’dri wondered
briefly if that was pronounced Or-mz
or Or-mez.

Ormes flipped through the book and spat out a
rough word that Zyn’dri didn’t recognize.

“Where are Laska’s files?” Ormes asked,
accusation in his voice.

Zyn’dri offered the bag once again. Ormes pulled
it from her grip and dumped the other books out on the table. A few loose papers
fell out as well.

“This is more like it.” He said as he studied the
loose sheets. He set them aside and snatched up the other books. One by one, he
searched them. They were all full of the drawings.

He opened one and read aloud. His tone was
disbelieving, “These beings are so interconnected with the world that gave them
life, that it has taken their turmoil for its own. It is not only geology but
Stracahn conflict, that is tearing Empyriad apart.”

“I send a geologist, and he gives me social
commentary?” He asked, “Are you kidding me?”

Zyn’dri shook her head. “No.”

Ormes turned to her and spoke slowly, as if she
couldn’t hear or maybe as if she couldn’t understand him. “I need the geologic
reports that Laska made during his time on Empyriad. I need the mineral analyses.
I need the computer models of Kin'achyt'la. I need the reports of the chemical
composition of the gasses. Where is the data?”

Zyn’dri sensed his anger, felt his frustration
and disappointment.

“This is all that he gave me.” She said, holding
up her now-empty hands. “All that he put on the ship.”

Ormes drummed his fingers on the table. “Then
this must be the data.” He said under his breath. He flipped through the pages
as he continued to talk to himself. “Maybe he had a native writing for him?
Maybe it just needs to be transcribed.” Ormes leaned close to Zyn’dri and barked,
“Read it!”

Zyn’dri blinked. He was pointing to the designs.
“I’m sorry?” she said, trying to understand what he wanted her to do.

The man took hold of her arm. “I said for you to
read it. What does it say?” His voice was intense, and the pressure of his
fingers made Zyn’dri’s arm throb. She couldn’t concentrate on his words through
the pain, and she tried to move away from him, but his grip only grew tighter.
He leaned forward menacingly. “Are you trying to hide something from me? What
does it say?”

Zyn’dri shook her head. “No, it says nothing. It
has no words. They’re just drawings.” She heard a trembling in her voice, and
she tried to tap into the inner calm her mother was always trying to describe
to her, but Zyn’dri found no peace within herself.

“Not words? These pictures aren't Stracahn
language?”

“No, sir. Our words are like this,” Zyn’dri
reached forward and drew with her fingertips on the edge of Ormes’ drawing
screen the dots of the Stracahn language:

They lay as dull as stones next to the intricate
swirls and spikes of the drawings in the books.

Ormes squeezed her arm, hard, one last time, then
pushed Zyn’dri away. “Send a volcanologist to an alien planet and you should
get some return. Laska’s observations should have revealed the principle
seismic and chemical patterns behind the eruption. He’s been here for so many
seasons, and we should have so much data. Instead, what do we get?” The man
slammed an open palm on the table. “Folk art!”

Zyn’dri backed away. She had delivered the books,
and she wanted her mother.

“Where are you going?” Ormes growled. “Get this
junk out of here.” He swiped a big arm across the table, knocking the books to
the floor.

Zyn’dri stooped to gather the books. “You don’t
want them?”

“I’m not having a bunch of cave drawings count
against my recycling allowance. You get rid of them.”

Zyn’dri tried to figure out how long his big arms
were so she could stay out of his reach. She gathered the books and stuffed
them into the bag. She backed toward the door and left him searching the
screens.

Zyn’dri felt that her cheeks were wet. She wiped
at them impatiently as she slipped down the corridor, staying close to the wall
and away from the doors. She heard low voices coming from a room ahead.

Without warning, the ship suddenly pitched.
Zyn'dri cried out and clawed frantically at the smooth wall as the hallway tilted
around her. The ship rocked sideways, then righted itself.

Zyn’dri lay on the floor, her ribcage throbbing
where she had fallen on it, and her cheek pressed to the fins of the rubber
matting, waiting to see if it would happen again.

Zyn'dri noticed that the voices in the room had
stilled. There was a flash of lavender, and she looked up to see her mother
beside her, stroking the hair from her eyes. "My child, my child. I heard
you cry out." She gathered Zyn'dri into her arms and suddenly the strange
ship felt like home.

3

Solomon Brooks tried to breathe through the rush
of wind tearing at his face. The mountains of Earth’s Liberty region blurred
around him. He felt his palms burning as he gripped the rack on the back of Briian’s
solar skimmer. The craft was long and narrow, a small flying machine with a
bulky engine up front, a domed cab just big enough for two people in the
middle, and a wide, flat, cargo area in the back. It was too light for the
eight of them to be hanging on it like this, and his mother would freak out if
she saw him now, laying in the cargo area, flying behind the skimmer like a flag.

Water streamed out of the corners of Sol’s eyes,
but he tried to keep them open as Briian hit the accel and the skimmer’s engine
screamed.

They were climbing. Before they got too high, Sol
heard Juice Hastings yell from beside him, “I’m out!” and saw his friend let
go. Juice disappeared into the dark pasture below. It was so quick. The skimmer
was moving faster than Sol had realized. He was glad Juice had let go before it
had gotten too dangerous.

Sol gulped what air he could. His arms hurt. He wondered
briefly if his shoulder would pop out again. He didn’t look forward to having
the guys pop it back in again. Last time it took him three days to get over it,
and Uncle Carl had no patience for a kid who couldn’t work. But the fear of it
dropped away as they climbed higher and higher.

But Sol had little time to worry about it. The
skimmer was topping out, almost imperceptibly losing speed as it reached its
maximum altitude. A wave of nausea washed over Sol, and he ducked his head,
trying to get more air. He saw his friends below, their skimmers making a
circle of light. It was all tiny—small enough that when his foot got in the
way, all of them were covered by the toe of his boot.

The skimmer arced and started the drop, and for a
moment Sol couldn’t breathe. The air was ripped from his lungs. He heard his own
voice, high and thready, as he screamed into the night.

Guys began to let go as soon as the craft leveled
again. Sol held on a little longer. When Briian banked the skimmer back into
the deep grass of the pasture, Sol finally unlocked his hands and let go,
tumbling over the smooth top of the skimmer and rolling hard to the ground. His
heart was beating against what he was pretty sure was a cracked rib, but he was
caught up in the heady mix of adrenaline and pain that drew them all back time
after time.

Juice came running. Sol was glad he was okay.
Juice leaped at him, cheering. “You guys are crazy! That was higher than we’ve
ever gotten!”

Around the field, he heard the calls of his
friends as they popped up. They all ran for the circle of light, where Briian
had parked the skimmer and was leaning against it.

“Whooo!” Sol couldn’t manage anything more
articulate. His brain was alight with the rush.

Briian was cool. But he should be. He’d been inside
the skimmer. “Liked that, huh, Shoreline?”

Sol wasn’t as jarred by the nickname as usual.
There were too many guys slapping him on the back and too many smiles around
him.

Tavish, who was a couple of years older than they
were, spoke up. “That was nothing. Kid’s got a lot bigger rush comin’.”

Briian nodded. “No kidding.” He looked at Sol.
“You’ll see. The ‘duction is so much more.”

Induction, Sol
mentally corrected him. The mention of it began to dissipate the excitement.
More than this? How could it be more than this? How could anything
be more than this? Sol hopped up and down a little, trying to hang on to the
feeling. But his mind had been turned to the induction, and it wouldn’t let go.

“What’s so bad about it?” he asked.

If he could just get a little more information,
Sol could decide. His mom kept saying it was his choice whether to join the Milguard
and go through with the induction. He didn’t know if he wanted to. But he
couldn’t say that to these guys.

“I totally lost it at my induction,” Juice spoke
up. “It was pretty embarrassing.”

Leave it to Juice to admit to something like that
in public. Leave it to Juice to completely derail the conversation. Sol looked
with affection at his friend, pale in the glare of the skimmer lights, his unkempt
brown hair falling in his eyes. Even if Juice wanted to, Sol didn’t think he
could seem tough.

“You would,” Briian said, not meanly.

Juice ducked and came up smiling. “You just about
did, too.”

Briian shrugged. “It was intense.”

Sol wanted to ask. He wanted to come out and say Why?
What happens?  But he’d learned a long time ago;
the Milguard didn’t say anything until you joined. And he hadn’t committed yet.
The adrenaline was wearing off fast, and the nausea was returning.

Someone pushed a cup into his hand, filled with
bubbly, sugary electrolyte drink. He sipped it gratefully and stared over the
rim of the cup into the acorn-brown eyes of Mezina Marik.

Working on her father’s ranch had turned her
honey skin a deeper shade of amber. Her teeth flashed, striking white, and Sol
smiled back.

“Thanks,” he said, “I needed that.”

“I thought so. You were starting to sway a
little.”

He hadn’t noticed, but now he reached out to lean
against the nearest skimmer and realized he was swaying. The velocity did funny
things to your equilibrium.

“Go sit down,” she said, and he wondered for the
hundredth time if she was trying to send him signals like Juice had told him
she was, or if she was just nice. Her dad was in the same Milguard division as
Uncle Carl, and Sol was sure that at least some of her attention to him was
plain neighborliness.

He followed her gesture outside the circle of
light, where there was a fire burning. He sat gratefully on the ground and
leaned against a log. Sol closed his eyes.

Around him, he heard the sounds of the weekend.
Kids laughing, cursing their studies and talking quietly. This was their free
time. Soon enough, they would all be married and fighting for the Milguard.
They’d have responsibilities. Sol tried to imagine what that time would be like.

Mezina had wandered over
to talk to some of her friends, and Sol tried not to notice her. He wasn’t
successful.

“Uh-huh.” He turned to see Trenton Avery
approaching. “I know what you’re thinking.”

Sol cringed. No,
you don’t, he wanted to say.

Trenton dropped onto the log beside him and
pulled out a short silver pen with several buttons on it. He played with it,
dragging the tip across the back of his hand as if he were doodling.

“You made up your mind yet?” Trenton said.

Sol didn’t have any words. He couldn’t just say
it. “I—I think I’ll wait ‘til I finish school. I want to be able to focus on
the induction—”

“Shoreline, man, chill. I don’t care about the Milguard.
I meant this.” He gestured at his pen.

Sol looked away. He should have known that.

“You really need one,” Trenton said.

“You really need my money,” Sol said, meeting his
gaze again.

“That too.” Trenton had one of those cool grins
that never reached his eyes. “Come on, man.”

Sol looked at Trenton’s banners. They covered his
arms and had started to creep up his neck. They did look tough.  He thought a
moment. “What can you do?”

Trenton leaned forward. He must have known that
Sol was more serious this time. “I could do a Milguard star or something.”

Sol shook his head quickly. He wasn’t even sure
he wanted to join. Why would he brand himself with their symbol? But he
considered a moment. A star might help these guys see him as one of them.
Wasn’t that the point?

Trenton must have seen him slipping. “You’ve got
to, man. Look, everyone has one.”

Sol glanced around. It was true. He saw the jet
black lines on almost everyone. Even Juice had one, and Juice was not the
toughest guy he knew.

He knew what he wanted. He dug his money out and
stuck a few bills in Trenton’s hand, trying to ignore the victorious look in
the kid’s eyes. He leaned over and told Trenton what to draw.

Sol didn’t mean to scream when Trenton laid the argo-pen
against his forearm, but his eyes had gone again to Mezina, and he wasn’t ready
for the searing pain.

Trenton snorted and kept going. Sol ground his
fist into his thigh and watched as Trenton drew the pen across his skin.
Everyone was looking at him now, and he didn’t want to cry out again. He kept
his eyes on the tip of the pen, trying to stop them from filling with water.
Trenton pressed a button on it every few seconds, and the pain intensified
every time he did.

Suddenly, Mezina was next to him. She ran her
fingers across the back of his neck, where his newly-cropped hair left his skin
exposed. He focused on the feeling of her fingers, trying to distract himself
from the fire on his arm. There was a sharp smell in the air, and a metallic
taste in his mouth when Trenton finally switched off the pen and laughed.

“I didn’t think you were going to make it through
that.”

Sol leaned back against Mezina. “Not that bad.”
He said, running a hand over the stinging tracks of the pen. The light was dim,
and the smoky tinge of his skin made it hard to see where the design was. There
were no apparent marks. The hair had been burned off where the tracks ran, but
other than that, there was no change.

“You sure this is going to work?” Sol asked,
wondering if they’d tricked him.

Trenton pulled his sleeve up, showing a roughly
sketched bear on his bicep. “I’m sure. Wait ‘til tomorrow. You’ll see.”

Sol reached for the pen. “I can’t believe I just
let you use this on me.”

“It’s good enough for the cows.”

Sol stared him down. Maybe everyone else here
believed that, but he knew better. “It’s a little modified, though. When we use
them on the cows, they don’t smell like that.”

“That’s because we’re only using the nitro on the
cows. On you, we’re using the nitro and the silver and a couple of other things
I just cooked up in my grandma’s sink.”

Sol felt a little dizzy, but he closed his eyes
briefly against it and pushed the feeling aside. “I wish I was a cow.” He said.

“Get used to it,” Trenton said. “They say
induction’s worse.”

Sol glared at him. Trenton hadn’t been inducted
yet, and Sol suspected he wouldn’t be. The argo artist was making enough money
off the rest to get out of Liberty and do something else, and he didn’t have a
dad—or an uncle—to pressure him into it. He had choices.

“Not that you’ll know.”

“We’ll see,” Trenton took his pen back.

“You’re making okay money on this, huh?” Sol
asked, still a little dizzy.

Trenton’s expression was guarded. “Okay.”

“And you’re of course making sure Damen gets his
share?” Sol teased.

Damen was the Agent in Charge, sent by the
Consolidated Terrene Leadership to oversee all aspects of their lives. He
especially interfered in anything that made money: cattle production here in
Liberty and fruit production in Cascadia, the region to the West, and grain
production in Harvest, to the East. He mostly worked alone, or with a few
aides, but everyone knew that the Consolidated World Leadership stood behind
him.

“Damen always gets his share,” Mezina said,
sliding off the log to sit next to Sol. “And both of you better watch out for
him. He’s been digging deep for info on locals.”

The sound of her voice bothered Sol. He looked
carefully at her. “What do you mean?”

“He hangs out downtown and waits for kids to come
by. He chats them up to see if their folks are in compliance with all the regs.
They busted Harley Schneider last week after Damen got it out of the Schneider
kids that their ranch had new calves.”

Sol nodded, shifting uncomfortably. Uncle Carl
had seven new cow/calf pairs in the back barn right now. By the Leadership’s
regulations, calving was supposed to be completed no later than March first.
They were weeks beyond that deadline now. The problem was that the Leadership
made those regulations from an office building in Melbourne and had no idea how
many calves froze to death in the bitter Liberty blizzards. They had no idea
how many cows died delivering those calves because greenup hadn’t happened yet
and there wasn’t enough forage for them to regain their reserves after the long
winter. The cattlemen of Liberty did what they could to get around the
regulations for the health of their herds, but it was a risk.

Everyone out here skirted the law a bit. Even
Sol’s mom. She had been a doctor back in Shoreline, and when she came out to Liberty,
she found that the single doctor in town, Doctor Jalloh, had little experience
with surgeries. He had come out to the ranch to ask for her help, but the
Leadership wouldn’t recognize her license, so she couldn’t work with him in the
clinic. That left people traveling hundreds of miles to Creed for the complex
surgeries that she was an expert at. And the hospitals there were so overloaded
that the waiting lists for those operations were very long.

Molly said it had to do with power more than
procedure. She said the Leadership liked controlling where and when people
could get medical services. After a couple of people had died while waiting for
operations, Jalloh had talked her into taking on some of his patient load on
the sly. Now she saw a few patients a week in a sterile operating room they had
hidden in the barn.

A few late calves were nothing compared to that.
Sol didn’t want to imagine what Damen would do if he discovered what Molly was
doing.

“How long’s he in for?” He asked.

“Six months. We’ll see if Hanna can run the ranch
on her own with all those little kids.”

It didn’t seem likely to Sol. But it didn’t seem
likely that she’d have to, either. The people of Liberty were good at helping each
other out in a pinch.

Trenton cut in. “Damen’s easy to get around. He
knows I’m making money. He stopped me the other day to ‘remind’ me about the
regs for having a license. If you pay him, though, he conveniently forgets
about the regs.” Trenton suddenly looked around, as if someone might be
listening.

“Still,” he said, “no need to mention where you
got that banner, right, Shoreline?” He waited for Sol to agree before he
slipped into the darkness between two skimmers.

Sol turned to Mezina. He could feel her smooth
arm against his. She ran her fingers across the new banner but drew them back
when Sol flinched.

“Sorry.” She said, sympathy in her eyes. “What
did you get?”

Her touch had driven the dizziness out of his
head. “You’ll have to come see it tomorrow if you want to know.” He said,
teasing her.

She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Maybe I will.
But if I do, you’ll have to give me a ride in that antique machine of yours.”

Sol glanced into the dark, in the direction of
his old truck. “Maybe I will.” He hoped he’d get a chance to.

Mezina left with several of her friends before
the night was over. It turned out to be a good thing, because when Sol tried to
fire up his truck he found that its battery was dead. He had to hook it up to
the little solar charger he kept in the back.

“Don’t fry it!” Juice called, and Sol shot him a
wry look. He had only done that once when he’d crossed the cables accidentally.
It had taken him an entire month to earn a new battery from Uncle Carl. He was
careful this time, though, and the truck roared to life.

By the time Sol made it home, his arm felt
charred. He couldn’t see it in the dark, but when he touched it, the skin felt
just the same as it had back in the field.

He parked the truck out by the barn and threw up
before he went inside. When he saw that the light was on in the kitchen, he
flipped the seat forward and rooted through the junk back there. Finally, he
felt fabric. He pulled a jacket out and put it on, gritting his teeth against
the pain.

His mom, Molly, was at the kitchen table sewing
the binding on a quilt. Her small, tight stitches showed her skill with a
needle. She made a lot of quilts. She said that stitching them kept her in
practice for stitching people.

She smiled when he came in, but he saw the
tightness in it and heard the strain in her voice. She was trying not to be
angry.

“How was your day?” she asked.

Sol tried to give her a smile back. “Any day
above ground . . .”

“Is a good one.” She finished, smiling for real.
They rarely connected in that easy way anymore, and it felt nice. He relaxed a
little.

She tipped her head to the side. “Is it raining?”

“No, why?”

She gestured at him. “Why are you wearing that?”

He glanced down. The jacket.

She stood and crossed to him, running her fingers
across the collar softly.  Sol pulled back involuntarily, trying to think of a
good reason he would be wearing a jacket on an eighty-degree night. She looked
hurt, maybe a little lost. He felt frustration growing as he fumbled for an
excuse. Why did she have to care so much? Why couldn’t she just let him run his
own life, like the other guys?

She spoke softly, but her words were like a sharp
slap, “I miss him, too. Still.”

She wasn’t prying. She was grieving. Sol looked
again at the jacket. It wasn’t his. It was his father’s. It must have been
stuffed behind the seat for a long time. Suddenly, he didn’t feel angry at his
mom. He remembered for a second how he used to feel like they were the only two
people in the world who could really understand each other, like his dad’s death
bonded them in a way no one else could ever truly feel.

The ache in his shoulders, the pain in his arm,
and now the memory of his father’s loss, overwhelmed him. Sol stepped back
toward her and hugged her. She encircled him in her arms, and he laid his
forehead on the top of her shoulder. Her golden hair brushed his face. He
thought about how those same bright tones lightened the tight curls of his own
hair. She clasped his hand, and he saw their fingers intertwined: hers pink and
his warm brown. Together they looked like a banded seashell. As lonely as he sometimes
felt, as different from everyone else here, he was still hers. Seeing it,
feeling her arms around him, gave him a home. He let himself, for one minute,
feel safe and simple again.

Just then he heard the growl of his uncle’s
crawler outside and flinched involuntarily. Uncle Carl was coming across the
fields from town.

“Shhh.” His mom held onto him a little longer,
“don’t panic.”

But Sol couldn’t help feeling trapped. He had to
get out of here before Uncle Carl saw him. He would have a different reaction
to the jacket.

“I have to go to bed.” He said, pulling away, but
trying to be gentle.

“Honey,” she started.

Sol didn’t make it. Uncle Carl’s voice stopped
him before he could cross the room.

The squeaky screen door swung open, and the big
man filled up the room.

“Sol, you want to tell me what this is?” he
tossed a letter on the table.

Dread filled Sol. This wasn’t how they were
supposed to find out. Dorene at the post office had said she’d hold the letter
for him when it came. Uncle Carl was never meant to see it. Now, through his
already chaotic thoughts, he tried to think of a response.

“I—just—I,” he reached for the letter, glad that
the table was between him and his uncle.

“You just what?” Uncle Carl’s voice was sharp.

So was his mother’s, “Easy now, Carl.” She looked
at Sol, “What’s this all about?”

Sol breathed out and tipped the letter toward
her, showing her the return address: Terrene Park Service, Yellowstone Global
Park. She gasped a little, and her eyes narrowed.

“I need some extra work.” He said pleadingly. “I
need some extra money.”

“For what?” his uncle’s tone was incredulous, “I
feed you, house you, clothe you, I even gave you that old truck to get you
around. What could you possibly need money for?”

Sol couldn’t tell the truth, but from the look on
his mother’s face, she had guessed it. “It’s probably a rejection anyway. All
my friends have gotten rejected.”

Uncle Carl’s head jerked up a little. “What
friends have even applied?”

“Juice, for one,” Sol said, but Uncle Carl didn’t
stifle his derisive laugh. Sol searched, “And Briian.” That was a lie, but he
didn’t think Uncle Carl would check it.

That calmed things for a moment. Uncle Carl ticked
his chin toward the letter. “Well, open it, then. If you’re rejected, all we
have to talk about is why you’re messing with that bunch. If you’re accepted,
then we’re done talking.”

He left the threat hanging there, and Sol’s hands
shook as he tore open the envelope. Getting this job was his only hope. It was
his chance to get some money scraped together. It was his way out.

The letter was short, and when he looked up, he
willed himself not to look happy. He bit the inside of his lip to stop himself
from involuntarily smiling, but Uncle Carl saw the truth anyway.

Uncle Carl swore. “You’re not doing it.”

There was a time, when he was younger, that he
would have just accepted it and gone to his room to cry. But Sol was growing
more desperate. “But it’s just for the summer,” he said, pleading.

“I said no.” Uncle Carl’s voice bounced around
the kitchen.

“Hold on,” Molly said. “Let’s not make a
unilateral decision just yet.”

Sol’s gaze found hers. “It’s just for the
summer.”

“What would you be doing in there?” she asked,
and the tremor in her voice told Sol that she was more scared than angry.

“Just driving supplies in. With all these aliens being
put in the park, they need food and clothes and blankets. There are donation
centers all over, and the Park Service has big warehouses in South Edge and Sunset,
but they don’t have enough—” he stopped before he said the word “Rangers” and
rephrased, “people to haul the donated stuff into the villages.”

“Why would they even choose you?” Uncle Carl said
gruffly. His deep distrust of the Rangers made his voice sharp.

Sol held the letter a little higher. “It says
here it’s because of the truck.” That made sense to him. Yellowstone was
protected by pre-Terrene War technology, and it was impenetrable. Before the
war, when money was flowing and tech was at its peak, the major parks had been
surrounded by imposing fences topped with a massive anti-aircraft field called
the BlueSky Field. Since nearly everyone had flightcraft, the BlueSky kept
people from flying over the fences and getting inside. It also prevented air
travel inside the park. According to the virtual tours of the Park that he’d
been required to watch in school, the Rangers all used ground-contact vehicles
called spiders to get around. The vehicles looked like their namesake, with a
small cab and cargo area in the center and eight arching, articulated legs.
They had small pads that cushioned the impact of their feet as they walked,
doing little more damage than a human footprint.

“They’re not taking down the BlueSky above the
park, so skimmers and haulers and spinners aren’t any good. Only low-impact, ground-contact
vehicles are allowed. I put those L-I tires on the truck last fall, and I
mentioned that on the application.”

He thought for a moment that they might fold. But
Uncle Carl dispelled the thought pretty quickly. “No. Now go to bed.”

Sol felt his breath come faster. No?
Just no?
“I’m not five years old anymore. You can’t just say no and tell me to go to
bed.”

He had said the words before he realized it, and
Uncle Carl was halfway around the table before he could get his next words out.

“I want to do this. Please.” Sol was trembling,
but he tried to look like he wasn’t.

Molly had moved, swiftly as always, between them.
She spoke over her shoulder to her son. “Why? What could possibly make you want
to go in there after,” she paused, unable to say it, “after everything?”

“I just need to—”

“Son,” she said, and her voice held a pleading
note, “bad things happen when you are in places you shouldn’t be.”

It was something she’d said before. To him,
certainly, and also to his father. She’d said it the day Timothy Brooks died,
and Sol heard now the same desperation he had heard in his mother's voice that
morning ten years ago. He had known then that something was wrong by the sound
of it. Now, as he looked at her, he couldn’t stop the memory from coming.

"Timothy, please don't go," she had
said. Sol had watched as his mother reached for her husband, had seen her hand,
the shade of the sky at dawn, on his father’s deep umber arm.

His father had turned back towards her,
gentleness in his eyes as he spoke, "Honey, somebody's got to go out and speak
some reason."

"This isn't your fight. We're going home to
Shoreline tomorrow, and they can work it all out after we leave."

"But it's ridiculous. These people aren't being
treated fairly." Tim had run an agitated hand through his hair.

"The government agencies don't care about
fair. They haven't for a long time. Nobody's been able to do anything."

"I have to try," Sol remembered his
father throwing him a reassuring smile.

Sol's mother was agitated too. "Tim, you
don't know how ugly these things can get. Somebody could get hurt."

Sol remembered how his father had pulled his
mother into an embrace. "I know. That's why I need to go out there. Carl's
going to have some trouble staying calm. He's your brother, Molly. We need to
try and help him if we can." Sol remembered his mother’s gold curls
tangled against his father’s black hair like the moon at midnight. Sol
remembered feeling safe when they were together and wanting them to stay there.
But Timothy had stepped away from her. In one fluid movement, he swept his
glasses off his face and polished them on the tail of his shirt. Sol remembered
him doing that a lot. "I think if we could just have one open conversation
between the ranchers and the Rangers, we could work out a compromise."

Molly's eyes had brimmed with tears. "I love
you, Tim. Because you're optimistic and intelligent and compassionate. But I
don't know if you're very wise." She turned from him, taking several steps
around this same little kitchen. "There are no conversations. They don't
talk to each other." Sol remembered seeing her hands clasping and
unclasping. "I just wish we were back home on the coast in Shoreline. This
is why we live our lives hundreds of miles from these Western mountains and
these turf wars that have always torn them to pieces." She stopped, taking
a deep breath, and Sol had watched her compose herself. He remembered feeling
scared, seeing her like that and knowing the deep undercurrent of anger that
had been flowing through Uncle Carl and his neighbors the last few days. Molly
had stepped forward and kissed Tim quickly. She had taken Sol's hand. "I
know you're going to go, and I sure hope Carl appreciates it. I'll get packed,
and when you get back, I want to go home." His father had smiled at her,
his eyes large behind his glasses, and she had spoken again, "Please, Tim.
Be careful."

Uncle Carl’s voice pulled Sol back to now, to
this night, to the dim kitchen, back to his aching body and his burning arm and
the chance of getting out of here.

“Listen when she’s talking to you.” His uncle’s
voice was a threatening rumble.

“Okay. I know. I’ll be fine in there. It’s just a
job.”

“Fine like Tim was fine?” Uncle Carl spit out the
name, and Sol saw that it hurt his mother to hear it.

Sol responded before he thought. “This isn’t
about my dad. Not everything is about him.”

His mom turned toward him, one hand stretched
behind her, toward her brother, holding his seething anger at bay, for now. But
her own eyes snapped with fury.

“Sol, don’t pretend to know anything about that.”

“I’m not pretending. I do
know about it.”

“You can’t,” she struggled. “You can’t ever know
the real horror of it.”

Sol’s secret spilled out before he could stop it.
“I do know. I was there.” He stopped speaking. He had kept that information
from them for a decade, and now it had fallen out like a rock from a torn
pocket. The revelation hung heavy in the air between them.

“What?” Molly managed.

Sol kept talking, wanting to explain. “I just had
to know where you were going, and if he was all right. I caught a ride with the
Anders’ out to the pasture.” His words were coming easily now, and the two
adults had gone quiet in a disbelieving, horror-stricken sort of way. He felt
himself talking faster.

“I—I heard the cows first. It wasn’t how they
usually sounded. They sounded scared and hurt. Their bawling echoed off the rocks
all around the valley. I thought people could probably hear them all the way in
town.” Something twisted inside Sol as he remembered. “I’ve never heard
anything like that sound. Then I heard the people shouting. It was so loud. I
looked up over the cab of the crawler and saw everything.”

He dropped his gaze to his shoes. “It smelled
awful. Like rotten meat. And I remember seeing why. All those dead and dying cows
were lying along the fenceline. I remember how their hides were cracked open. I
thought they’d been whipped.”

Sol’s mom was looking at him like she wanted him
to stop talking. But when he faltered, she nodded slightly. “Go on,” she said,
“what else did you see?”

“I remember there were other cows, still alive,
but scared. I remember all those Park Rangers with their attack dogs and their
guns. I didn’t understand why they were standing between Uncle Carl and his
cows. I remember there was a line spray-painted across the dirt and rocks.”

“I asked Luke Anders next to me what was going
on. He looked so scared. He said those were your cows, Uncle Carl, and that the
update to the fences around Yellowstone was meant to keep people out. The new
update made the fence zap anything within fifteen feet of it. Luke said that
the Rangers were claiming a twenty-foot easement around the park now—where that
line was painted. When I asked why that was bad, he said that meant that twenty
feet of everybody's land along the park boundary had been taken just like that.
And he said that the Rangers were claiming that now that there was an easement,
your cows were on their property. Luke’s mom jumped in to say that they were
going to shoot the rest of your cows right there.”

“I asked him about the stinking carcasses, and he
said they were zapped by the fences. Just zapped."

Molly was nodding. “The new fences were so
powerful they just split the poor things right open. People, too, if they got
too close."

Now that he was talking, Sol couldn’t stop. “I
just remember all the shouts and threats.” Sol gestured at Uncle Carl. “I saw
you didn’t have a gun, and I was scared. Your fists were doubled up like you
were going to hit someone. You were shouting at the Rangers.”

Uncle Carl took a step back. He took another.

“Your face was red. You screamed, ‘This is
private land!’ and your voice was so loud that I could hear you from where I
was.”

“The Rangers shouted back at you that it was park
land now, and they had their guns pointed at you. I heard them yelling about
the protection of the wildlife and the park plants."

“And I had to hold onto the Anders’ dog. The Rangers’
dogs were snarling and snapping, and I was afraid he’d go over to them. I was holding
his collar so tight it cut into me.” Sol glanced down at his palm, long healed.

“You all started moving forward, and I remember
that I thought it looked like two waves pushing toward each other.”

Sol took a long breath. “And then I saw Dad moving
to the front. He was so much smaller than all of you. I remember that he put
his hand on your shoulder, and you were mad at him, too. I knew he was trying
to calm you down.”

Sol looked at his mother. “Then I saw you. Your
eyes were so wild. You were clawing your way toward Dad.”

“And there was that Ranger with the gray beard. I
saw him step forward, clear of the others.”

Sol’s mom turned away. He should stop talking. He
shouldn’t tell the whole thing. But Uncle Carl’s eyes were on him, and he
wanted to see some shame in them, some sorrow. When he looked into them, he
found it. “That Ranger aimed at Uncle Carl.”

Sol trailed off a bit, and the next part he said
softly. “It was just that one Ranger, on the edge of the crowd. And I screamed
to warn Dad, but nobody heard me over the sound of the gun.”

When he stopped talking, the bright colors of Molly’s
quilt on the table seemed to have faded. Everything felt gray and dark.

His mom stood still, her eyes closed.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you had seen that?”
she asked. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

Sol sat down at the table next to her. “Because
you were both so sad and angry.” He glanced up and saw that the anger had gone
out of Uncle Carl for now, but he remembered the rages that had followed
Timothy’s death.

His mom’s eyes were wet when she looked up. “All
these years. You carried that alone.”

“Not alone. You were here. You were carrying it,
too.”

She reached across the table and touched his
cheek. “Honey, Yellowstone is a dangerous place. I don’t want you in there.”

“And I don’t want you around those Rangers.”
Uncle Carl said bluntly.

An uneasy finality settled over the kitchen. Sol
knew he couldn’t defy them now, not with the memory of his father, whose life
had been about uniting people, casting its shadow across the three of them. Sol
stood.

“I’m going to bed.” He said. He saw them exchange
a look of relief.

Sol had taken two steps when the window glass
began to rattle.

Uncle Carl strode out onto the porch. Sol
followed, arriving just in time to see the form of a Cascadian litecraft streak
over the house. It banked and headed for the far field. Under its transparent
dome, he saw a kid about his age. Uncle Carl swore and reached for the radio at
his hip.

“Alvin, get your squad in the air. We’ve got a vulture
out here,” he barked.

The nasal voice of Alvin Montgomery filled the
porch. “We’re on it.”

“What are they doing?” Molly asked.

“Likely they’re scouting new routes.” Uncle Carl
didn’t turn to look at them, just kept his eyes on the craft. He swore again.
“They just keep getting more cocky. It looks like they’re heading right towards
town.”

Sol could see the pale lights of the craft
dancing away over the pasture.

“Why are they coming in so close?” Sol thought
his mom’s voice sounded a little shaky.

Uncle Carl spun toward her. His voice was
impatient. “I’ve been tryin’ to tell you, Molly. They want this whole region.
We have good intel that Cascadia and Harvest are planning to move in from
either side and take over Liberty.”

Sol didn’t ask, but the question sprang
immediately to his mind. Why would they even want Liberty?

His uncle answered it as if he’d heard. “I keep tryin’
to make you both see that this area, and the cows, are valuable. The east of
Cascadia has all the fruit production, and the west of it has all the seafood
production, but they don’t have the livestock like we do. And Harvest has all
the grain production. Harvest and Cascadia want to split Liberty right down the
middle.”

The image of the split open cows was still fresh
in Sol’s memory, and it came again now. He blinked to rid himself of the
thought.

“They can’t just come in and take things.”

“They can if we don’t stop them. Ever since the
Opening, we’ve been the only ones who can protect what’s ours.”

The Opening had happened long before Sol’s birth.
After the governments of the world had tired of fighting one another, and after
the resources had been divided and divided again, and after the Terrene War had
left countries decimated and people despondent, a new Consolidated World
Leadership had been formed. They had aimed to govern all the countries under
the same system. They had merged the military operations and given them new
orders: instead of defending against each other, they had the primary function
of defending against possible alien invasion.

But the new Leadership had challenges. There were
problems with enduring nationalism. People couldn’t stop thinking of themselves
as American or French or Samoan or Chinese.

So the Leadership had voted to dissolve the
borders and open the countries. There would be no more nations. They had erased
all lines drawn across the face of the globe. They had ordered that people be
allowed to move freely throughout the world, to settle where they wanted and to
come and go without interference.

The thought was that people would mingle and
create a new, open society.

But in many places, the opposite had happened. In
many places, like here, enclaves of like-minded people had formed.

Sol was watching at the moment the litecraft was
joined by three Liberty Spinners. It banked and streaked back toward them, the
way it had come, but the spinners opened fire and Sol watched as the Cascadian
craft spun and fell. He tried not to think of the kid inside.

Molly turned away and went back into the house.
Sol glanced at Uncle Carl. To Sol’s surprise, Uncle Carl looked disturbed, too.
But it wasn’t about the kid.

“Awful luck. I just put cows in that pasture
today.” He shook his head. “Guess I’d better go check the damage.” He thudded
heavily down the front steps, then called over his shoulder.

“Come on, Sol. You go with me.”

Sol cringed. It was late, and he was exhausted.
But Uncle Carl was already on edge. Defying him now would be a bad idea.

The air lay warm and close around them as they
walked. Sol was uncomfortably warm in the jacket. But he couldn’t take it off
now.

The craft had finished burning when they arrived,
and the three Spinners had landed in a half-circle around it. The Cascadian pilot
lay unconscious, blood streaming from his head.

Uncle Carl glanced at him, then walked around the
debris, shining a powerful flashlight off into the pasture. The beam streaked
across the hides of the restless cows, huddled against the far fence. They were
fine.

“Call Murphy and get this mess out of here,”
Uncle Carl barked at Alvin, who was leaning against his Skimmer. “Take him to
the armory and find out what he was doing here.”

“Will do,” Alvin said, and Sol could tell he was
used to taking orders from Uncle Carl. That always seemed strange to Sol, how
respected his uncle was in the Milguard. Juice had once revealed to Sol that it
was because when Uncle Carl was young, he had been the most ruthless recruit
the Milguard had ever seen. That part made sense.

“You want us to take him to Molly to get stitched
up?” Alvin asked.

Uncle Carl’s voice was stern. “No. I don’t want
him around my place at all. Call Jalloh to come down to the infirmary.”

Uncle Carl turned away and walked back toward the
house. He didn’t look at Sol, but as they walked he said, “You come on down to
the armory with me tomorrow. It’s time you got to know some of these guys.”

Sol didn’t argue.

In the kitchen again, Sol could see that his
mother had been crying. She pasted on a smile for them, though.

“Sol’s going to miss school tomorrow,” Uncle Carl
said as they came in. “He’s coming with me to the armory.”

Molly didn’t look jubilant about that, but all
she said was, “We’d better get to bed then. We all need to get some sleep.”

4

Zyn’dri lay in her mother’s arms a long moment.
“I was searching for you in the registry room.” Her mother murmured. “And when
the ship pitched I heard your cry.”

Zyn’dri opened her eyes and smiled at her mother.
Her mother blinked back surprise. Quickly, Zyn’dri made her face smooth. As she
did so, she was surprised to see Meir, the regal leader of the Stracahn,
watching them from the doorway across the hall.

“Is the child hurt?” he asked her mother. His
voice was kind and calm.

“Only a little, Vanquis.” Her mother used his
formal title. It meant teacher, leader, guide.

“Please,” he said, “bring her in and rest here.”

Zyn’dri’s mother stood and kept close to her as
they entered.

Avowed filled the room. The chief delegation of
the Avowed sat around a large table in the center. Zyn’dri saw by their
brilliant orange robes that they were all Mentors, the highest class of the
Avowed.

Farther back, along the walls, more chairs were
filled with the lesser Avowed, the Observers, in their dark blue robes. Meir
directed Zyn’dri and her mother to two empty seats.

The Avowed paid little attention to them, and
Zyn'dri curled up and listened, rubbing the new bruises on her knees.

Meir sat slowly. When he spoke, his voice was
measured, but Zyn'dri was surprised at its intensity. "This is a disaster."
He said, in the humans’ language.

"I'm sorry." That voice was different,
and Zyn'dri noticed for the first time that there were two humans at the table
with the high Avowed.

"We must return," Meir said. "We
must."

A burly human named Wilson, whom Zyn'dri had seen
before, back on Empyriad, spoke up. "It's impossible. We're already en
route, and we’ve got just enough fuel to slow us down when we get close to
Earth. Even if we could stop in a reasonable amount of time, we wouldn't have
enough fuel to go back and then start out again. None of us would get out of
there."

"Then we are not meant to!" Meir's
voice was strained. "We are lost anyway, without him." Meir spread
his hands on the table and dropped his head to them.

A dread began to grow in Zyn'dri. Surely they
were not talking about the Mubareth Ola'an. She studied Meir. Was he praying or
was he desperate?

He spoke without raising his head, which muffled
the sound of his voice. "Please," he said, "Check again."

The humans consulted their screens, then spoke to
each other. "The kid's not on any of the red ships."

"Not on blue, according to the
readings."

"Not purple or green."

Movement outside the door caught Zyn’dri’s eye.
Ormes was passing in the hall. Wilson called out to him. “Ormes,” he called,
and Zyn’dri noted that it was pronounced Or-mz.
She shrunk toward her mother as the man walked into the room.

“Did you find him in the records on this ship?”
Wilson asked.

Ormes shook his head. “No magic kids that I could
see.”

Wilson spoke forcefully. “Sit down, Ormes. And
have some respect.”

Zyn’dri was glad Ormes sat with his back to her.

Wilson was watching Meir carefully. Zyn'dri
thought she saw the human expression of concern on his features. "I'll
contact the other ships directly," he said kindly. "They've been
doing a manual headcount to back up the ships' manifests. And they’re still
updating the registry. That could take several hours. No reason to give up hope
yet.” He spoke into his communication device.

"Are you finished with the passenger
counts?"

Several crackly voices came through.

"Finished."

"Yes, sir."

"All passengers are entered into the
computer."

"I don't see the Ola'an on the counts,"
Wilson explained. "We need to make sure he's on one of these ships. His
people are anxious about it. Can you check for him again? He's dressed in deep
purple robes. About nine Earth years old. He should have a delegation of Avowed
with him, all dressed in yellow."

The line was quiet for a moment; then a single
voice came on. "I know the Ola’an isn’t here, sir." Zyn'dri felt a
sudden chill in the room.

"How do you know that?" Wilson asked.

Again, the long pause. "I saw him, below, on
the ground, as we launched. I saw the yellow-robed Avowed all surrounding him.
They were looking up. I don't know how he didn't make it on. I know he was on
the ground when we took off."

Zyn'dri gasped, her breath making the only sound
in the room. Her mother reached for her hand. The Ola'an, their purest
connection with the Allbeings, was not with them. Surely someone would go back
for him.

Meir stood. "We must return."

Wilson, his big hands clasping each other, shook
his head quickly. "We can't." Zyn'dri couldn't believe he would say
such a thing.

"Then we are lost." Meir looked around
at the Avowed, and his voice was solemn and dark when he spoke, "We are
lost."

Wilson let the sentence hang there for a moment,
then spoke quietly. "Things will improve when you can reorganize on Earth.
Just hang in there until we land." Zyn'dri felt irritated. Why did he keep
saying things?

Meir didn't betray any emotion. "You are
ignorant of our ways. I know this."

Wilson sighed. "So do I. I just want you to
know that we will help you set up a new government."

Meir moved forward, and this time, there was an
intensity in his voice as he spoke, "A mere government does not guide the
Stracahn. The Unity of the Avowed is not simply a political leadership. Nor is
it merely a religion, as your species understands it. It is—we are—dependent
upon both the wise, but mortal, Avowed," here he swung his hand in an arc
to indicate those around the table, "and upon the immortal Allbeings. Our Ola'an
is the culmination of thousands of years, thousands of generations of spiritual
leaders. He arose after the tenth Darkness because this tragedy—the loss of our
planet—was coming to the people. He is our only direct tie to the Allbeings. He
is the Child Prophesied, the one we found after generations of prophecies and
seasons of searching."

Wilson spoke humbly. "I see that he holds a
special place in your society. I don't know about it, but I want to learn more.
Would you tell me about the prophecies?"

Meir sat, straight and dignified. "Since the
first Stracahn breathed we have known he was coming. Alandra, our first woman,
went to bathe in the sacred river Traithe. She immersed herself in the clear
water, and when she arose, she found that the water had turned to liquid gold
all around her. She knew it was an omen. She returned to her husband, to tell
him of her experience. Scithiva, seeing her coming, fell at her feet. She had
turned golden as well."

Zyn'dri loved this story. She loved the
excitement of it, and she loved the images that played in her mind when she
heard it.

"Alandra's first words were, 'We will have a
golden child.' And at that moment they knew that she was pregnant with the
First Child.

"But the First Child was not golden. She was
a girl the rich green of sea trees, and they named her Selana. The second was
pale blue as a simeas fish. The next, violet, and the next warm orange as cupflowers.
They were powerful and beautiful, and Alandra and Scithiva soon forgot the
prophecy in the joy of their children. Five beautiful girls came.

"One day, five strong men came from over the
mountains. They had no language, could not speak, so where they came from
remains a mystery. Their hair and eyes and skin were rich, warm hues of
burgundy and saffron and indigo. They became the husbands of the five daughters
of the first man and woman. Together they had many children, who were of every
color in nature, a festival of hues. Those generations spread out over Empyriad
and made the Stracahn.

"But still, the golden child that was to be
born to Alandra and Scithiva did not come. The Child Prophesied did not arrive.
The First Parents got old, and they died.

"Selana, the First Child, was very wise. She
knew that not all events happen quickly. She believed that her mother's
prophecy must someday come to pass, that a golden child would be born from the
descendants of the First Parents. She gathered her own children and called them
to watch for the coming of the Golden Child, the Mubareth Ola'an. They took a
vow to find him, and they spread out among the generations upon Empyriad to
search for him."

"The task was, at first, insurmountable. The
many continents of Empyriad were difficult to traverse, and the Stracahn people
had filled it. They did not know how they would ever find the Ola'an.

"But they began to discover that their paths
were not entirely without direction. They found certain gifts that aided them
as they traveled. One Avowed found that a red bird led her to specific paths.
Another saw visions of dangers on the road ahead and successfully avoided
them."

"Did they find him?" Wilson was leaning
on the table, taking in the story eagerly.

"No. The Avowed found other signs. They
found clues about the future of Empyriad. Over the ages, the Avowed better
recognized their gifts, and they used them more deliberately. This opened up a
new level of knowledge. They were able to speak any language they encountered,
they saw impending wars and averted them. We lost track of how many prophecies,
large and small, came about."

"Have you seen prophecies fulfilled?"

"Yes. In my generation, we prophesied that
the humans' ships would come, and we knew we would have to leave our home. But
we were promised that the Ola'an, if we could find him, would know where we
could go when Empyriad was decimated. He would lead us to a new refuge, and he
would protect us on the journey. So the Avowed searched for him with increasing
intensity.

"I was called when I was very young. I left
my home and lived in the Vault. My gift was visions, through dreams. The
Allbeings showed me where to find him. I dreamed, every night, of a rockslide.
An avalanche that tumbled down a mountainside." He opened his eyes, and
Zyn'dri saw him peering closely at the humans. "Every night. Rotation after
rotation, season after season. I saw the rocks fall." We recognized it as
a vision, but not one of the Avowed knew where it was or how it would help us
find the Ola'an. I would wake trembling, but I knew it was from the
Allbeings."

Ormes made an amused sound. "You attribute
your bad dreams to magic sky people?" Zyn’dri tensed at the sound of his
voice. Her mother noticed and pulled her closer.

Meir turned to Ormes, slowly, but said nothing.

Ormes spoke again. "You're so upset about
this little kid being left behind because he's supposed to be your link to a
magic map or something? I would think you'd just be happy to get off your dying
planet."

"That's enough, Ormes." Wilson's voice
was harsh. "You don't know anything about this."

But Meir raised his hand to Wilson, and then
looked Ormes in the eye. "You are not the first human I have met who
refuses to accept that there are forces greater than himself. It is a peculiar
kind of pride with your species."

Ormes scoffed, swiveling his chair.

"The Allbeings show us what we cannot see.
They have an ethereal connection to all space and all time. They can see the
interconnected web of existence." There was a firm tone in Meir's voice.
Zyn'dri admired it. She wanted to sound that way when she spoke of the
Allbeings. "Just because you haven't seen them, don't take that as proof
that they aren't there."

"Well, what is your proof that they
are?"

"It is the same as my proof that you are.
I'm speaking with you right now. Gifted Stracahn can communicate with the
Allbeings. We are able, through our gifts, to hear and see connections that
others cannot."

"I find that doubtful," Ormes said, and
opened his mouth to say more, but Meir spoke first.

"It is not so far from your belief. Many of
your species can see connections that others of you cannot. Some of the humans
who have lived with us on Empyriad had a great gift for Mathematics. Some
learned the Stracahn language more quickly than others. Your species has such
gifts."

"We call that aptitude."

"We call them gifts." Meir's tone was
flat and factual.

"But gift
implies that the ability is given to you." Zyn'dri watched the man's face.
It was reddening. He seemed angry about the beliefs of the Stracahn.

"Perhaps it was given."

"More rationally, your brain is naturally
wired for that ability." Ormes's voice was higher-pitched than it had been
before.

Meir didn't seem to notice. "And how did the
brain become wired?"

"Schooling. Genetics."

"So twins with identical genes and the same
schooling will have the same aptitudes?"

"Not necessarily. Different gene markers
could be turned on or off."

"And how did the genes become turned on or
off?"

"By environment. Or genetics."

"Then why aren't both turned on or both
turned off?"

"Because genes are complex."

"What turns the markers on and off?"

"Many things could. We're not sure."

"Neither are we," Meir said firmly,
"but we are certain that we have received communications from others with
greater wisdom and greater perspective than our own. Those communications often
come through our individual aptitudes,
so whether they were given to us by the Allbeings or whether the Allbeings
merely use them as conduits to communicate with us doesn't matter."

Ormes didn't say anything through his clenched
teeth, but Wilson's voice was full of respect and genuine interest when he said
pulled them back to the story, "How did you finally find him?"

Zyn'dri liked Wilson. She was glad that Meir
would tell the rest of the Ola'an's story. It was her favorite part. "Only
a few seasons ago, the dream began to change. I began to see more than just the
tumbling rocks. I saw a village. A mountain. The winds brought signs, strong
gusts that turned my face toward the distant mountains, smoke that rose in that
direction. One night, on waking from the dream, I saw the full moon out my
window and over it shone a flock of meag birds, flying toward the same
mountains. We had been over them before, and I didn't know how we would find
him, but I knew the time for his appearance was close." The next day
another of the Avowed looked into his soup bowl and discovered that the herbs
had all aligned to point toward a particular distant mountain peak. When he
climbed it, he was able, from the top, to see a village no one knew existed,
hidden among the tumbled rocks of a landslide. It was in that village that we
found the Ola'an."

"Was he golden?" Wilson asked.

"Not in the way we had anticipated. Rather,
he shone with sweetness and a light of intelligence. And when we came to his
hut, the sun was shining in on him, and his hair was golden."

Wilson smiled. “I would have liked to see him. My
little boy back on Earth has golden hair, too.” His screen jingled, and he
glanced down at it, then back at Meir. "Listen, I need to go check the
decks. I'm sorry," he hesitated, "about the Ola'an. I am."

Meir was silent but closed his eyes briefly in
acknowledgment of the man's apology.

"Ormes, Hollie, come on." Wilson said,
"Let's leave the Avowed to their discussions." Wilson rose and with
the other humans, left the room. Zyn'dri watched Ormes leave, his cheeks still
burning from the argument.

When they had gone, the Stracahn were quiet for a
long time. Zyn'dri squirmed in her seat. Many of the Avowed sat very still,
their eyes closed. She looked at her mother. She looked, as she always did,
peaceful. Zyn’dri drew comfort from that and tried to be quiet.

Finally, one of the Mentors spoke. "How will
we get back to the Ola'an?" She asked.

When Meir spoke, Zyn'dri shuddered at the
unfamiliar sound of his voice cracking. "You heard Wilson. We cannot. We
have lost him."

5

When Sol opened his eyes the morning after the
crash, sunlight was streaming in his window. His forearm still burned, and when
he looked down at it, his eyes widened. That would be hard to hide for long.

Uncle Carl called him from the hall. Sol
scrambled into his clothes and pulled on the jacket—his dad’s jacket—as the
door burst open.

“Let’s go.”

Sol nodded, and they met his mom in the kitchen
on their way out. She smiled.

“Have fun today, honey.” She said.

Sol hugged her and moved toward the door.

“One more thing,” Uncle Carl’s voice had a
familiar edge.

Sol raised his eyebrows, questioning.

“Give me the jacket.” Uncle Carl said sternly.

“I’m just a little—”

“You heard me.”

Uncle Carl wouldn’t have anything of Timothy’s
around here. Everything that had belonged to Sol’s father was gone.

Now that he knew it was his father’s, the jacket
meant something to Sol. He shook his head quickly and tried to move around between
Uncle Carl and the edge of the kitchen counter. The big man reached for him,
catching him by the arm.

Sol cried out involuntarily, and Uncle Carl,
surprised, drew his hand back.

“What was that about?” Some of the gruffness had
gone out of his uncle’s voice. Sol even heard a hint of fear in it. “Are you all
right?”

There it was again. That undercurrent of caring
that occasionally surfaced breaking Uncle Carl’s rough exterior.

Sighing. Sol unzipped the jacket. There was no
use trying to hide it. They’d see it eventually. He slid his good arm out and
winced as he carefully extracted his other arm.

His mother gasped.

Where the pen tracks had been, Sol’s forearm was
scored with lines that stood jet black against his topaz skin. The design was
bold: a complex, arcing wave.

“Sol, no!” His mother reached for it, and he
pulled back before she touched it.

“It’s just an argo banner, mom. Everyone has
them.” That sounded much less convincing here than it had when Trenton said it
last night.

She shook her head, and he saw that her tears
were back. He felt awful. He tried to explain. “It’s just, I thought it would
be—” Molly held up a hand and shook her head. She held his gaze for a moment
and then she went to her room. He heard the door click shut. Sol couldn’t tell
if she was sad or angry or both.

Suddenly he felt Uncle Carl’s arm around his
shoulders. It was uncharacteristically gentle. Sol looked at him in surprise.
Uncle Carl wore a grim smile. He squeezed Sol’s shoulder.

“Keep the jacket.” He said. “You’ll need to keep
that from getting too much sun the next couple days.”

Sol had no words. Acceptance wasn’t something he was
used to feeling from his Uncle.

“You sound like you know.”

Uncle Carl lifted a heavy boot and rested it on a
worn yellow kitchen chair. Sol tried not to look surprised as Uncle Carl lifted
the leg of his heavy coveralls. On his pale calf was a clumsy rendition of the
three stars of Liberty’s flag.

“I’ve had that a long time,” Uncle Carl said,
“since the summer I joined the Milguard.”

“I didn’t know they had argo banners then.”

Uncle Carl shook his head. “Not argo. Just ink.”
He looked at Sol pointedly. “We’re not as different as you seem to think, son.”

Sol didn’t know what to say. The feeling between
them was a bit lighter for a moment, and then Uncle Carl stepped away and thudded
out to the crawler.

There were all sizes of crawlers, from speedy
one-person models to the huge people-movers and cargo carriers that the
Milguard used to transport troops and supplies. This one was the ranch’s
all-purpose vehicle. It could carry a few passengers and about twice as much
cargo as Sol’s truck. Crawlers like this were the ground-contact counterpart to
the heavy freight aircraft called haulers.

“Why don’t we take the hauler this time?” he
asked, waving a hand at the rusty aircraft beside the barn as he climbed in the
crawler. “It would be faster.” He knew they wouldn’t. They only used it in the
autumn, after culling, when they had to take large loads of meat to the
shippers over on the east side of Liberty.

Any other day, Uncle Carl would have just
grunted, but the warmth he’d shown in the kitchen persisted, and he answered
more openly than usual. “When I was a kid, all we ever used were aircraft. They
just moved so much faster. After I joined the Milguard, we all flew strafers
and spinners when we were fighting in the conflicts after the Terrene War.” He
said slowly, “But back then we didn’t know that the Cascadians had figured out
how to generate the smaller versions of the BlueSky Field, and I was on a
patrol once when they deployed one. Our craft hit it and fried. When we went
down, one of the guys with me was killed.” There was weariness in Uncle Carl’s
voice, and Sol wondered how many friends his uncle had lost over the years. “It
was lucky that the little fields aren’t near as powerful as the real BlueSky,
or we all would have been fried. As it was, I was burned pretty badly. Your mom
had to take care of me night and day for weeks.”

As the crawler lumbered across the fields, on the
shortcut to the armory, Sol tried to picture his mom as a teenager, taking care
of Uncle Carl.

“Now, everybody’s got the portable field
generators, and they can be switched on and powered up in a few seconds. You’re
never really safe in the air.” Uncle Carl adjusted a lever to his left and
urged the crawler into a comfortable scamper across the fields and fences. The
cows barely looked up as it passed.

Uncle Carl left the subject alone. He was quiet
for several minutes.

Sol broke the silence. “Liberty sure is pretty in
the summer, huh?”

Uncle Carl opened the window as he drove. He took
a deep breath and held it in his lungs. He did that often, and Sol knew why.
The mountain air tasted sweet and warm in the afternoon sunshine.

Uncle Carl spoke again. “Are they telling you in
school about why we have to protect Liberty?”

“A little,” Sol said. “Some of the teachers talk
about it. Some of them don’t.”

“Because they’re scared of losing their jobs.”
Uncle Carl said. “Is that Damen still coming around the school?”

“Yeah. I see him pretty often.”

Uncle Carl scoffed. “The teachers who aren’t
scared are just so fresh from the Consolidated Terrene Leadership teacher
training that they still think the whole world is one big happy neighborhood.”

Sol grinned. That sounded like Miss Evers, the
new art teacher. She was always correcting students when they said they were
from Liberty. “There are no lines drawn on our maps now.” She would say, “you
are a citizen of Earth.” And then she would touch your forehead lightly, which any
way you looked at it was just weird. Sol told Uncle Carl about her.

They both laughed. The argo banner had done
something to Uncle Carl. It was as if he could see Sol more clearly now, or as
if he liked what he saw more. Either way, Sol enjoyed talking to him like this.

“What do the others say? The teachers who will
talk about it?”

“They say even though official peace was declared
almost a century ago, we’re still at war. They say that the Leadership won’t
intervene because it doesn’t want to make enemies of Cascadia or Liberty or Harvest
because we’re the largest food producing regions on the continent.”

Uncle Carl cut in. “They don’t recognize our
sovereignty. They say that we aren’t allowed to band together as neighbors and
look out for the good of our communities.” He grunted. “Have they told you that
the Leadership is a bunch of cowards, hiding over in Melbourne, so they don’t
have to deal with local conflicts?”

Sol shook his head. No, none of his teachers had
said it quite that way.

“Have they told you that Harvest and Cascadia would
tear Liberty apart and split it up? If they get the chance?”

Sol nodded. He knew that from school and from
home.

“What do you know about the disputed zone?”

Sol was glad to have an answer. “I know it’s
South of us. A little squarish patch,” Sol pictured the region in his mind.
“Creed is to the West of it and Harvest to the East. We’re on the North.
Solitaire is South of it.”

“Right.”

“Why is it so important?” Sol asked.

Uncle Carl shot him an impatient look. “I don’t
know what you’re learning over there every day.” He said disgustedly. “Water,
Sol. Water. We need to control that watershed. Everybody wants it.”

“Except Creed, right?”

“Those religious nuts don’t seem to want
anything.”

Sol had met a couple of people from Creed. They
did want something: peace on Earth, and for people to believe. But Uncle Carl
was right that they didn’t seem to want more land.

“So everyone wants the disputed zone? But they’re
sending the Stracahn there, right?” Sol asked. “When they’ve been quarantined
in Yellowstone for long enough?”

Uncle Carl was visibly agitated. “Not if we can
do anything about it.” He said ominously.

When they arrived at the Milguard armory, they
entered through the tall gates and parked the crawler beside a long row of
Milguard crawlers so big that theirs looked like a toy. Sol followed Uncle Carl
into the vast armory building. Through the tall sliding doors was the wide
mechanics’ bay. Uncle Carl stopped as Alvin Montgomery, the squad leader from
the pasture the night before, approached him. They began talking in quiet
voices and Sol let his gaze wander over the bay full of crawlers, haulers,
spinners, strafers, and spiders in various states of repair.

Their metallic innards were spread around them. Sol
watched a man with an engineering specialist patch on his uniform working inside
a sleek strafer. The deadliest attack aircraft in the world, strafers were
narrow, vertical wedges like the heads of the barracuda Sol remembered seeing
in the ocean as a child. They had searing thrusters below and behind them, and
they were studded with artillery. Sol found them fascinating. Local protective
forces like the Milguard traded anything they had to get them, and the Milguard
had gathered a fair contingent. Their only weakness was their susceptibility to
the BlueSky fields that infantry carried along with them. Sol thought again of
Uncle Carl’s first run-in with the fields.

The spinners were less exciting because they were
mainly used for surveillance and defense, but their smooth oval shapes and
their shining blades still stood in contrast to the angular machines Sol was
used to seeing around the ranch.

Uncle Carl’s angry tone pulled Sol’s attention
away from the aircraft. “You want to tell me what exactly you were doing last
night?”

The man tried to explain, but Uncle Carl suddenly
held up a hand. “You know what? This is a much bigger conversation.” He
gestured, and both Sol and Alvin followed him out of the bay through a side
door. There, the building opened into a lobby with offices lining both the
first and second floors. A U-shaped balcony gave the Milguard soldiers a place
to lounge and gaze over the lobby. Several guys were up there now, looking down
at them. A staircase led to the second floor. Uncle Carl took the stairs two at
a time and strode into an office with several desks in two rows.

“What’s going on here?” Uncle Carl growled as he
walked in. “Letting a Cascadian litecraft in over my
place? Over my family?”

The sergeants scrambled.

One of them, LeSue, was on his feet first. “I’m
sorry, Carl. We had a tiny window between shifts. Jansen couldn’t come until
2:15, and I don’t know if the Cascadian kid was watching for a gap or if he
just got lucky and came when we were open or—”

Thinking back to the wreckage of the litecraft,
to the pilot sprawled out in the pasture, it didn’t seem to Sol like the
Cascadian kid was lucky at all. Got unlucky, more accurately.

Uncle Carl didn’t let the man finish. “You’d
better get those shifts tightened. Double up. They’re pushing hard now. Do we
know what was he looking for?”

“Doing recon, it looks like. The craft was full
of surveillance equipment. Got some pretty detailed shots of the whole area.”

“And I suppose the Cascadians have them, too,
now?”

“Yes, sir. They were streaming. The onboard
recorder was just backup.”

Uncle Carl paced. “Are they moving in?”

“Not that we can tell, sir. The border patrols
say everything looks normal.”

“What did you get out of the pilot?”

Sol realized, with a shock, that they had the
Cascadian kid here somewhere.

“Nothing yet. He’s still out.”

“If we are going to do this, we are going to have
to know what they’re up to. What they’re really
up to.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want to see this kid,” Uncle Carl said.

LeSue glanced at Sol, apparently unsure about
whether he was allowed to come along.

“He’s fine,” Uncle Carl said. “I suspect he’ll be
inducted soon. Take us there.”

They followed the Sergeant through the building
until they came to a barren hallway.

“You’ll need to take steps to find out what he
knows.”

“Yes, sir. We just didn’t know how far to go
because—”

“Because he’s a kid?” Uncle Carl interrupted.

The sergeant nodded.

“Sure. It’s harder because he’s a kid. But he’s
fighting for the enemy. His litecraft was fitted with full-scale nerve
interrupters. If he had used those last night . . .” Uncle Carl trailed off.
His voice was firm when he said, “Never forget that weapons give even kids the
potential to do as much damage as a grown man.”

Just as they arrived at a guarded door, the
radios they all carried crackled to life, spitting a string of numbers into the
air.

“That’s us.” The sergeant looked at the guard,
and Sol noticed that they had similar insignia sewn to their armbands.

The guard looked unsure.

“It’s fine,” Uncle Carl said. “We’ll be here. You
debrief. I’ll keep an eye out.”

The guard looked at him gratefully and handed
over the keys. “It should only take a few minutes. I’ll be back.”

Sol was beginning to realize that Uncle Carl
wasn’t just involved with the Milguard. He was important. He heard his Uncle
unlock the door as he watched the guard and the sergeant stride down the hall.

When he turned, Sol expected to see the kid
asleep, but instead, his eyes were locked on them. He lay handcuffed to an
adjustable hospital bed, his wounds bandaged. An uneaten meal lay on a raised table
beside him.

His eyes were wide and scared. He pulled
nervously at the handcuffs that bound him to the bed. The chains clicked
against the bar.

“You want to go home?” Uncle Carl asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Just tell us about your mission and we’ll
arrange it.”

“I’ve said all I know.”

“Tell me. I wasn’t here when you said it.”

“We’re supposed to count useable acres and cattle
by the head.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not reporting. The Leadership
wants to know the state of the livestock supply.”

“The Leadership, huh? But you’re flying a
Cascadian craft, and wearing a Cascadian militia uniform. How does Cascadia
figure into the Leadership’s need to know about our supply?”

“And the surveillance video you were
transmitting?”

The kid looked away.

“They’re using locals, so they don’t have to send
someone from Melbourne. We just send them the counts. Listen, we’re hard up for
funds over there. Especially some of us. My folks got talked into selling our
whole apple operation to the Consolidated Terrene Leadership, and the
Leadership had no idea how to keep the trees producing. They missed the
fertilizer schedule, they didn’t thin the fruit, they nearly wrecked the whole
thing with their incompetence. They hired my mom and dad back to fix all their
mistakes, and now my family works twice as hard for half as much money. We just
needed some extra, so I said I’d fly for them.”

Sol thought he saw a softening of Uncle Carl’s
features. But the questions kept coming.

“Do you know that Cascadia is amassing weapons
at the border? And so is Harvest?”

“No sir.”

The room was hot. Sol was burning up in the
jacket. He slipped it off and dropped it on a chair near the door, trying not
to hear the intensity in Uncle Carl’s voice as he questioned the kid.

“Do you know that Cascadia and Harvest have been
having secret meetings, and we’ve listened to them talk about overthrowing
Liberty and dividing our land between them?”

“No sir.”

“I don’t believe you.” Uncle Carl walked closer,
but just then Tavish entered. He ran a surprised gaze over Sol, but then
focused and spoke to Uncle Carl quietly.

“Show me.” Uncle Carl said, then, to Sol, “Stay
here with him until that guard gets back.” Uncle Carl shoved the keys into
Sol’s hand.

Sol didn’t want to stay, didn’t even want to be
here, but his uncle was already walking out.

When he looked back, the kid had started to cry.

Sol was too like his father to let that go. “Hey,
hey, it’s okay,” he said. “what’s your name?”

The kid’s voice cracked as he said, “Sonny
Lundgren.”

“Okay, Sonny. Just calm down.”

“I can’t. You’re going to kill me.”

The words shocked Sol. “No! No. I’m not. They’re
not. They just want to know why you were here.”

The kid struggled, pulling against the handcuffs.
Sol saw where his wrists were red and raw from the metal. He saw the kid eyeing
the food.

“Are you hungry?” Sol tried to smile. “You should
eat.”

But how? Handcuffed like that, the kid would have
to drop his face to the plate and eat like a dog. Sol eyed the keys Uncle Carl
had given him. One, smaller than the others, looked about right. He moved over
and unlocked the handcuffs. “I’m not sitting here while you stay chained up
like an animal.”

As he removed them, he noticed something strange.
The kid’s fingertips were stained a deep, vibrant purple.

“Is that ink?” he asked, his curiosity overruling
politeness.

Lundgren glanced at his fingers as he rubbed his
wrists. “No. It’s called Axuris. It kills a particular fungus on fruits and
vegetables. We use it all the time in Cascadia.” The kid gestured at Sol’s
banner. “You’ve been getting into some chemicals yourself.”

Sol ran a hand over the banner and laughed
lightly. “Yeah.”

The kid smiled. “Until you came in, everything
they say back home about Libertyites was proving true.”

Sol shrugged. “I guess seeing you invading our
airspace last night made me think the same thing.”

“Fair.” The kid said. He eyed the food. “Is it
safe?”

Sol hadn’t thought of that. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Sonny glanced around nervously. “Do you know
about Cascadia’s Disclosure Squad?”

Sol shook his head.

“They’re an interrogation team. When I was
training, I had to spend a day shadowing them.” The kid closed his eyes
briefly. “They were awful. Their job is to get intel from prisoners. They did
terrible things. Poisoning the food was one of the nicer ways they got to
people.”

The thought turned Sol’s stomach. He wondered if
anyone he knew was being held in Cascadia. He lifted the plate, smelled it. “I
think it’s safe. I don’t know.”

Lundgren hesitated, then reached for the thick
slab of buttered bread atop the meat. He began to eat, and Sol saw him relax a
little.

Lundgren gestured at Sol’s banner. “That’s cool.”

Sol shrugged. It didn’t feel as cool as he had
thought it would. “Just something a kid around here does for extra cash.”

“Better than my side job,” Lundgren laughed, a sharp
sound. “I never should have gotten mixed up in all this. My dad said I
shouldn’t fly for them.” He swallowed the last of the bread.

Swiftly, he reached out and grabbed Sol’s other
arm. His eyes were intense, and there was fear in them that that kids their age
usually didn’t show.

“What are they going to do with me, man?” He was
pleading, “Will they let me go home?”

Sol wanted to say they would, wanted to reassure
the Cascadian that he’d see his family again. But when he opened his mouth, he
thought of the secret meetings, the tough talk. He thought of the weapons the
Libertyites carried with them everywhere. He thought of their fear and their
hatred, and the words wouldn’t come.

6

Zyn'dri looked out the window. The few months
they had spent on this ship seemed to stretch behind them endlessly. But now
they were here. Earth, the blue and green planet that would now be their home,
hung below them, waiting.

There were only so many transports, so they would
be on the ship for a while more. The humans were
being transported first, to various stations around the globe.  The Stracahn
would leave these ships last and be carried to the Stracahn Preserve, a safe
community in a land called Yellowstone.

Zyn'dri wondered about that. She hadn't seen
yellow stones but thought they sounded nice.

Though she was supposed to return to the bottom
deck each night, Zyn'dri slept curled tight against her mother in the narrow
bunk in her mother's room. She didn't like being alone down there in the bottom
of the ship. Curled in her bed, she felt alone and small. But when the officers
came around to check, she had to be in her own room. She was fairly sure that
her own door guard, the one who had escorted her to her room that first day on
the ship, knew she sneaked to be with her mother, but he had never said
anything.

She sat in her bunk now, waiting for the other
guards to come so she could slip back up to her mother's room.

Zyn’dri was startled by an alarm. The ship
thrummed around her. The alarm sounded sharp and insistent. She rose and walked
to her door.

Peeking out, she saw an empty corridor. It took
her a moment to realize that the guard had not left his post: he was lying
slumped on the floor.

Zyn’dri ran to him. It took all her strength to
turn him over. His eyes were open, his mouth agape. Zyn’dri heard a strange,
strangled sound coming from his throat.

The alarm continued to blare. Zyn’dri looked down
the corridor. Other Stracahn peered out of their doors.

“He can’t breathe!” she called to them in
Stracahn. But they didn’t come, and the man was quickly weakening.

Zyn’dri closed her eyes and took a deep,
steadying breath. The air ran across her tongue with a new, metallic tang. She
looked again at the guard. He was having trouble breathing. There was something
in this air that was deadly for humans.

Zyn’dri studied the guard. His suit had an
attachment. It was the shape of a rounded triangle and looked like it would fit
over his face. She grasped it and put it over his nose and mouth, pressing the
button underneath it.

She heard a soft hiss and felt the mask cool
beneath her hand as air flowed through it.

In a few moments, the guard began to stir. His
breathing smoothed, and he looked up at Zyn’dri.

His voice was muffled as he said, “You saved my
life.”

Zyn’dri tried to find her words. “What happened?”

The guard sat up and looked at a small screen on
his wrist. “The air mixture changed suddenly. They’re saying one of the
scrubbers was cracked, and it allowed some of the dirty air to be sucked into
the fresh air stream.” He listened a moment. “They’ve got it fixed now.”

“Why were the Stracahn unharmed?” Zyn’dri asked,
thinking back to the faces peering out of the doorways.

“You can withstand more fluctuations in the
atmosphere than we can. Your people are adapted to breathe in more hostile
conditions. I’ve read that your lungs actually have a filter system made from
living tissue that allows you to clean the air. It’s a remarkable trait.” He
stopped to catch his breath for a moment. “One of the teams of scientists I guarded
was studying it to see if they could create something like it for humans.”

“Humans seem so fragile.
Are you afraid?” She searched his eyes.

The guard smiled. “No, I’ve spent my life on
ships, and I’ve been through things that are much scarier. Don’t worry. The
engineers will have the system purged in a few minutes, and until then, I’ve
got this.” He tapped the mask.

He was breathing better now. He looked at the
screen again. “You’d better get back in there. They’ll be here to check any
minute.”

Zyn’dri rushed back to her room. On her bunk was
Laska’s shoulder bag. She opened it for the hundredth time. She rifled through
the books and looked at the lovely designs that were spread across the pages.

Her favorite was Laska's diary. He discussed
Empyriad in such detail that she felt that she was back there. She also liked
the green-bound notebook. She turned to an elegant design which took up
most of one page.

Zy’ndri ran her finger over the design. It made
sense to her, spoke to her in some way. She loved its sophisticated curves and
its complex intertwining. She continued to trace it.

When she finally looked up, it seemed she had
been waiting for the guards’ room check for a very long time. But as she took
her finger from the page, she heard the sound of heavy boots in the hallway
outside. She scooped the books back into the bag and slid the bag in a small
vertical compartment along the edge of the bed. She clicked the compartment’s
lid closed, sealing the bag inside.

When the door slid open, the officer on duty
leaned in and waved. "Hi, Zyn'dri. Doing okay?"

She smiled, "Yes. Thank you." She said.

"Okay." He tapped his screen, counting
her, and retreated into the hallway.

She waited a few moments; then she slipped to the
doorway. As it slid open, she took a step back. Her parents stood outside. They
rarely came down now that she knew her way up to their deck.

There was a strange, excited light in her
mother's eyes when she said, "Zyn'dri, come with us. You've been summoned."

Zyn'dri felt a knot in her chest. Summoned? Why?
What would the Avowed want with her?

As she entered the Council Room, Zyn'dri saw Meir
standing at the window, looking down on Earth. He turned as she entered.

"Zyn'dri," he said. "Thank you for
coming."

Zyn'dri nodded, twisting her hand out of her
mother's and standing next to the table, in front of the First Avowed.

"I have something to tell you," Meir
said, and the knot in her chest twisted harder. "It is your choice,
whether to accept or not. No one will force you. But you should understand that
this is a great honor." Meir paused, allowing a thick silence to fill the
room.

She knew before he spoke again what he would say,
but it still took her breath away to hear it.

"Zyn'dri, the everwatchful eyes of the
Allbeings are upon you."

No, they're not.
She wanted to say. They don't see me and I don't hear them,
and I won't be Avowed.

Those words were a calling.
A calling was an invitation to join the Avowed in governing the Stracahn, to
live with them and eat with them and learn from them in the special training
that would uncover her gifts and help her connect to the Allbeings. But she
didn't want to join them.

As she grew more agitated, Zyn’dri ran her
fingers nervously across tabletop beside her. She settled
into the pattern she’d been tracing in her room not long before.

She glanced up at her parents. She could tell by
the way their eyes were shining that they wanted her to accept the calling. Was
it pride? Did they only want to be able to say that their daughter was Avowed?
They had not been able to have any more children, and Zyn'dri knew that other
Stracahn thought they were less because of it. Maybe this way they would regain
some of their lost status.

Or was it deeper? Did they want her to be Avowed
to assure that she was connected to the Allbeings forever?

Tears blurred her view of their beaming faces,
and she looked away. Didn't they know that she would have to leave them? That
she would have to go live in the Vault without them? Alone.

She didn’t mean for it to happen. She was just so
afraid. Without warning, her parents, the sound of Meir’s voice, the very ship
itself, were all stilled.

Zyn’dri straightened. What was happening? She
looked at Meir, frozen, half-blinking. She saw the kind look in his eyes. Her
fingers were still making the pattern on the table, so she wasn’t frozen. She
saw her mother’s bowed head, her humble smile. She knew that somehow, she was
causing this. All of time, as far as she could tell, was at a standstill. It
gave her a moment to analyze the implications of Meir’s offer.

Quickly, and without more thought, she shook her
head. No. She would not leave them. She would not choose that life. She put her
hands to her face as if to shield herself from her parents’ disappointment.

And then all was in place again. Meir’s voice
carried on, her mother’s eyes darted to her, her father laid a hand on her
shoulder.

She spoke directly to Meir. "I don't want a
calling." She said. There was probably a formal way to say no, but she
didn't know it.

"But—" Meir spoke, but she cut him off.

"You said it's my choice. My choice is no. I
don't want to be Avowed." Her chin trembled. She could not look at her
parents.

Behind Meir's dark eyes she saw what she thought
was anger and confusion. Still, his voice was even when he spoke.

"It is your choice." He leaned down to
look into her eyes. "But do you realize that you are declining a high
honor from the Allbeings?"

She nodded, glaring defiantly at him. What had
the Allbeings done for her? They had let her home be destroyed, and now they
wanted her to leave her family, too? Wanted her to give up everything for them
when they had given the Stracahn nothing?

Meir turned to go.

"Wait." She said, her anger and fear
making her brave. There was a question she had been turning over ever since
she'd looked out the ship’s window and seen the barren rock of Empyriad.

Meir met her eyes again.

"Why didn't the Allbeings stop it?" she
asked, "Why didn't they stop the destruction of Empyriad?"

Meir softened. "The Allbeings don't control
everything. They simply see everything. When they can, they ward off the bad.
But sometimes processes are begun, and natural laws take their course, even if
the Allbeings would rather they be different."

"But they are the Allbeings!" she
looked pleadingly into the old man's eyes, begging him to answer her with a
deeper wisdom than she had found on her own. "If they cannot circumvent
natural laws, then what power do they really have?"

He looked directly into her eyes. “Child, though
we cannot always understand how, sometimes, even when something seems terrible,
it is, in the vast scheme of things, better.”

“How can losing our friends and our home be a
good thing?”

Meir looked sad, and he spoke to her parents, not
to her. "I see I have made a mistake here. Her connection is not as strong
as I initially thought."

Her mother, as usual, leaped to her defense.
"Surely questions don’t eliminate connection?"

Meir spoke to her as he moved toward the door.
"The Allbeings see the complex web of events throughout multiple
universes. They see the consequences of a single act and all its echoes
throughout space and time. They choose to communicate with us because of their own
compassion. Their perspective surpasses ours by such orders of magnitude that
we cannot comprehend it. If they do not move to change things, then those
things are better off happening. Perhaps they benefit species we cannot see,
with our limited vision. Perhaps those things we don’t understand set other
things in motion that must happen.”

“How can the destruction of our planet be
beneficial? For anyone?” Zyn’dri didn’t know if she was angry or disappointed at
his answer.

“Acceptance of their wisdom is essential to be Avowed,"
Meir said.

Zyn'dri's father reached for
the departing man. "But the Allbeings would not have called her if they
had doubted her ability to connect."

This made Meir pause.
"Perhaps, then, the fault lies with me." He said, then left the room
in silence.

Zyn'dri stood staring at a spot on the far wall.
She didn't dare look at her parents. How disappointed they must be in her. Even
when they took her hands and led her from the quiet room back to her bunk,
neither they nor she spoke. She had the feeling that they would never talk
about what had happened in the Council Room again.

When they reached her bunk, she was surprised to
see a set of small dark blue Avowed robes laid out on her bed. She looked up at
her mother then, and her mother's eyes showed confusion. "They must have
brought them before they heard the outcome." She said. "Leave them
where they are and I will discuss with the Avowed what should be done with
them."

After they left, Zyn’dri sat on the bed and ran
her fingers over the smooth weave of the blue robes. They were beautiful. She
wondered if she had done the right thing.

But that night, as she lay safely curled next to
her mother's sleeping form, Zyn’dri knew she had made the only choice she could
make. She listened to the soft sound of their synchronized breathing and knew
she could not leave her mother. Zyn’dri didn't want to be alone, especially on
the new blue world that gazed at them from outside the window like the face of
a stranger.

7

South Edge was a nice little town, with a quiet Main
Street and a friendly atmosphere. Sol was never on his guard there. But when he
stopped at the farm store after school to pick up some extra fencing, he saw
Damen standing a little way down the street. Sol ducked into the store quicker
than usual. He lingered as long as he could, but when he came out the Agent in
Charge called out to him and approached.

Damen was a typical government man: early
thirties, slim. He wore a comfort suit, an expensive item that was with
shimmering fabric and sharp lapels. He had a dark, trimmed beard so short that
it bordered on scruff. His eyes were a piercing brown, and he moved with the
ease of someone who had spent all his life doing exactly what he wanted to do.

“Hey,” Damen called as Sol tried to sidestep and slip
unnoticed into Twang’s Music Shop, “let me talk to you a minute.”

Sol thought about ignoring him, but his mom had
always warned him never to act defiant to the CTL guys. He walked to his truck
and put the fencing in the back, turning to face Damen.

“Hi, Mr. Damen.”

“It’s just Damen.” As far as Sol knew, that was
right. Lots of people had dropped the antiquated practice of surnames after the
Terrene War, in an effort to further erase lines that people drew between
themselves and others. Sol supposed he could see their logic, but it did make
it difficult to find a formal way to address them.

“Okay, well,” Sol said, “I’d better be getting
home. See you, Damen.”

Damen dropped his pretense and stopped Sol with a
single word. “Yellowstone?”

Sol’s heart hammered. He had borrowed Juice’s
phone to make a secret call this morning and accept the job hauling supplies
into Yellowstone for the aliens. Nobody knew, not his mom, or Uncle Carl, or
even Juice. When he dared to glance at Damen, the man was smiling.

“I hear you’re coming to work for us!” Damen was
confident now. So somebody knew. It was obvious that Damen also knew he had the
advantage, and Sol was sure Damen sensed his apprehension.

Sol wanted to answer that he wouldn’t be working
for Damen, but as the Agent in Charge, Sol supposed that, in a way, he would.
He stayed quiet.

Damen laughed, a jovial, forced sound. “Hey,
relax! We’re on the same team here! I just wanted to let you know that I’m here
to help you succeed working for the CTL. If you have any questions, or anybody
gives you any trouble, you come visit with me, okay, Sol?”

Sol wondered cynically what that would cost him,
but he reverted to his usual polite tone as he said, “Thanks, Damen. I
appreciate that.”

Damen was really smiling now. “Great. I
understand you start tomorrow?”

Sol nodded, still trying to puzzle out how he
would get his chores done before school so he could go directly to the Park, do
his shift, and get back in time for dinner.

“That’s great. And you’ll be hauling supplies
from the warehouse into the Park?”

“I think so.”

“Wonderful.” Damen said, and leaned in so close
that Sol could smell the cloves on his breath, “And I don’t have to tell you
what an honor it is for you, do I, Sol?”

“No, sir.” Dust blew along the street, making the
air taste like clay. The afternoon was growing hotter, and Sol had a lot to do
tonight. He tried to edge closer to the pickup door—a subtle signal that he
needed to be going.

Damen went on anyway, “because it is an honor. Do
you realize that this is the first time in over two decades that the public
will be entering a Global Park? You’ll be the first in your generation to see
the inside of one of the most amazing places on this planet.”

Even though he’d known that, Sol couldn’t help
but feel a little wonder when Damen said it that way.

“And you’re a mature kid, Sol. I know you’ll take
that responsibility seriously.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because it was the public, Sol, which nearly
destroyed these places a century ago. It was the public that went into them and
almost used them up. You’ll remember that when you drive through the gates,
won’t you Sol?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Damen leaned in. “And, just between you
and me, I’m glad to see that you’re thinking about your future. We don’t give
kids until they’re eighteen anymore to make these big decisions. You’re fifteen,
and school ends for you this year. You’ll be graduating in just a few weeks,
and you’ve got to have these decisions made. I’m glad you’re looking for other
options besides the family business.”

Sol was taken aback by Damen’s reference to the
family business. He was aware that Uncle Carl was the latest in a long line of
Lyons’ who had run cattle here, but he had never necessarily thought of himself
as an heir to that legacy.

Damen kept talking. “And the private cattle
business is on its way out. It has been for a century and a half. Sure, we’ve
made a lot of improvements to it, like the Rangeright system under every
pasture, and the homeslaughter killboxes, but all those can really be managed more
efficiently by a central corporation or even the Leadership, rather than
thousands of individual producers, don’t you think? The world’s food supply is
too important to leave to amateurs.”

Sol thought of something the Cascadian kid had
said, about his folks’ farm being sold to the government and them having to go
back to work on it as farmhands.

Sol spoke carefully. “But, the ranchers aren’t
amateurs. They’ve been doing this for generations. Nobody else would have the
expertise these people have. They care more about it than a corporation, or the
Leadership would. When every cow is critical to your livelihood, you treat them
better, and you produce more. If hired hands did the whole business and the
only ones that stood to profit by good management were at the top, you’d have a
lot more waste and a lot less care for the individual animals and the land.”

Damen leaned back slightly and looked Sol over
again. His voice was a regular volume when he spoke again.

“You’re a thinker, Sol. That’s good. I like to
think, too.” Damen laid a hand on the hood of the truck. “I’ve been thinking
about your family’s ranch. Silver Lake Ranch, right?” Sol nodded. “Anything
interesting out at Silver Lake?”

Sol couldn’t believe Damen was still trying to
get information from him. He wasn’t a little kid like the Schneiders.

“No, sir. Just cows and
bills.” He opened the truck door.

“Well, you let me know if you need anything,
okay, Sol?”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

The next day after school Sol found that the Terrene
Park Service warehouse was bustling with activity. Sol had checked in and
gotten the permit he needed to get into the park. Now he almost had the truck
loaded. But the place was crawling with Rangers in full body armor, and their
dark presence made Sol nervous. He couldn’t help but remember the Rangers in
the meadow, the hot smell of death, his father reaching out, trying to stop the
twister projectile that took his life.

Sol threw another crate of food on the truck and
strode around to the driver's side.  He tried not to glance around, tried not
to look scared.

He flinched when he heard a gruff voice.

"Let me see your permits, kid."

Sol pulled the permits from the truck that said
he was allowed to travel in and out of the park. The Ranger, a swaggering guy
with narrow eyes who wasn't much older than Sol, pored over the standard
paperwork. As if driving here and lifting heavy crates of food and blankets
would be worth counterfeiting permits.

His presence made Sol nervous. The helmet, the
heavy body armor, the guns. It all felt too familiar and brought back too many
memories. Sol’s fists were involuntarily clenched, his heart beating hard.

"They're fine." The Ranger handed the
permits back. "But keep this piece of junk on the road and no stopping in
the park. Deliver the goods and get back out. You’re working for us. You’re not
on a sightseeing tour. Understand?"

Sol understood. It was no secret that the public
wasn't welcome in the global parks.

As the Ranger walked away, a roar over Sol's head
made him look up to see the smooth belly of another transport glide slowly
above him. He climbed into the truck and drove after the transport, down the
long road out of town and toward the South gate. Maybe he would get to see the
aliens coming off the ship.

As he drove, he passed extensive pastures and
thick forests. He passed the little turnoff that led back to Uncle Carl’s house
and kept going, hoping Uncle Carl wouldn’t be out in the pastures along the
road just now.

The South gate was a huge metal and stone
structure flanked by the formidable fences Sol remembered so well. Two high
peaks jutted up on either side of it which you could see from the back pasture.
Uncle Carl said they had been formed during a violent earthquake back before
the Terrene War. Sol thought they looked like guards. Just past the gate, there
was a fortified building where the Rangers stood waiting. Sol pulled up, and a Ranger
approached the truck.

The Ranger reached up and pulled off her helmet
as she took his permit.

“This thing is driving me crazy,” she said. She
had kind green eyes and long blonde hair. Sol was surprised when she smiled.

“Welcome to Yellowstone,” she checked his permit,
then added, “Solomon.”

Sol didn’t know what to say. “Thanks,” was all he
could manage. The afternoon sun was shining between the peaks, but the gate
cast a shadow over both of them.

The Ranger checked the back of the truck. “I’m Ranger
Allison. Food delivery?” she asked.

“That’s right.”

“How many cases?”

“Fifteen.”

She ran her eyes over the load, then tapped
something on a screen on her left sleeve.

“Okay, switch on your screen.” Sol reached for
the little screen embedded in his dashboard, and she beamed something to it. A
map showed on the display.

“There are two Stracahn villages. One is at Old
Faithful, and one is in Hayden Valley. This one’s headed to Hayden Valley. You’re
going to go straight on this road until you see the lake on your right. Pretty
soon after that, you’ll come to a ‘Y’ in the road. Take the right fork to go up
along the lake to Hayden Valley Village.”

“Okay.” Sol was warming up. She wasn’t anything
like the other Rangers he had encountered.

As if to confirm his assessment, she leaned in
conspiratorially. “And you didn’t hear this from me, but there is a magnificent
bull moose that’s been hanging around Lewis Lake all day. If you stop by the
road and walk up into the old campground toward Lewis Falls on the South of the
lake, you might get a good view of him.”

Sol wondered if this was a setup. “I’m not
supposed to stop.” He said.

Allison smiled. “I know. But he is amazing.” She
paused and glanced around. “The park is stunning, Sol. There are so few people
who can see it firsthand, and it won’t be open long. Once the Stracahn are
gone, it will be locked up again. Enjoy it while you can.”

Then she stepped back and waved him through the
gate. Another Ranger joined her as Sol pulled away, and he hoped that the man
hadn’t heard her. Talk like that could get them both in trouble.

Sol didn’t stop at Lewis Lake, but he drove
slowly, hoping to get a glimpse of that moose. It must have moved on, though,
so Sol did too.

The Stracahn had already begun to disembark when
he pulled into the dusty makeshift parking lot in Hayden Valley. Sol saw the
big transport ship in the grass and wondered how they had flown it in here. The
entire park was covered by an invisible anti-aircraft field that arched above
it like half a bubble. Park rangers were directing the line of spiders and old
cars and crawlers filled with supplies, and when he pulled up next to one and
had to wait, he got his courage up and asked about the transport.

“There’s a hatch.” The Ranger said through his
helmet. His response wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t unkind. “At the very top of the
field, there is a hatch that can be deactivated to let a single craft in at a
time. Then the field can be manipulated to allow the ship to maneuver where it
needs to go.”

“So pretty much only massive, space-going ships?”
Sol asked, thinking about Tim Green, the kid who had run his spinner into the
field two summers ago and been fried instantly.

“That’s right. The Ranger looked up, and the line
had moved forward. He gestured Sol along, and for the first time, Sol wondered
if it was hot in that heavy black body armor and those rounded helmets. He
tried not to stare at the blunt, compact twister gun the Ranger carried. Sol thanked
him and pulled away.

The unloading docks were crowded, and Rangers
directed him to pull the truck into a side lot and park. They told him to come
back in half an hour to unload the truck.

“There’s a rest area over there where you can
wait,” one Ranger said, waving toward the big ship.

The rest area was made up of several JiffyPot
collapsible bathrooms and a tent covering a table laden with snacks and water.
Sol grabbed a bag of wheatchips and climbed up on the low platform at one end
of the area.

About 30 other people were standing
along the edge of the platform, leaning against the "Do Not Cross"
barrier. Ordinary people of varying ages. He figured they were mostly workers
from neighboring towns, like him.

With a jolt, Sol noticed that several of them had
the telltale purple-stained Cascadian fingertips. He thought of the kid again,
wondered about him. Of course, there would be Cascadians here, too. There was
another warehouse in Sunset, and Sunset was in Cascadia.

Sol tried not to look too Libertyite but soon
realized that no one was paying attention to him, anyway. And once he turned
his attention to the disembarking aliens, Sol barely noticed the humans around
him.

He looked up at the series of ramps that lead
down from the transport's hull, and there they were, the iridescent Stracahn,
gleaming like bright feathers in the light of Earth's sun, making their way down
the ramps in long lines. At the bottom of the slopes, they moved into a maze of
ropes which ended at several tent-covered tables in the front. There they each
stepped up to be cataloged, issued their new clothes, and assigned to QuickForm
huts.

From his first glance, Sol loved the sight of
them. They moved with such grace, calmness, and dignity. Even with their planet
destroyed and nowhere else to go, they looked regal.

"Foreigners," hissed the woman next to
him. "Just opening the floodgates, if you ask me."

Sol blinked and glanced over at her. She was
small and wiry. Her hair was styled in the intricate plaits that people wore in
the region to the East: Harvest. Sol remembered thinking when he was small that
it looked like wheat. A Cascadian man next to her spoke up, too, "Yeah,
who knows where they'll come from next, once word gets out that Earth is open
for invasion."

A voice of reason chimed in. A tall,
strong-looking Cascadian woman whose fingers were stained purple, almost as if
to match her violet jumpsuit. "It's not an invasion. We brought them
here."

"I didn't. Nobody asked me if I wanted
aliens in my backyard." The stylish woman sniffed.

He could tell the Cascadian woman was annoyed.
"Where else would they have gone?"

"One of the thousand planets between here
and there. I don't care. Just not here." Said the man.

She looked at the two with simultaneous pity and
disgust. "We destroyed their home."

"They
say. Coulda happened anyway."

Sol edged away from the conflict. He needed to
get back to his truck before the Rangers got annoyed. He had heard it all
before, especially living on the edge of Yellowstone. Aliens in the park were
old news to him. The Stracahn were here, whether people liked it or not. As he
looked over his shoulder to catch one last glimpse of them, he was glad.

8

Coming down the ramp,
Zyn'dri paced her steps exactly between the woman in front of her and the old
man behind. The woman was carrying a child in her arms, and her steps were
smaller than Zyn'dri expected. The old man shuffled, leaving a gap if Zyn'dri
wasn't careful.

It took a long time to move down the winding
ramp. She looked up and out, over the broad expanse of her new home. What she
saw scared her.

Thousands of Stracahn wove their way through
lines that led to tents. Around them, directing them, humans dressed in black
suits, their faces obscured by helmets and their hands gripping weapons.

Beyond the tents, she saw rows of round huts
arranged into a little village. Vehicles crawled among the huts. Zyn’dri was
surprised at how gracefully the big machines moved. There had been nothing like
them on Empyriad, not even after the humans came.

She was at the end of the ramp now, and she
stepped off the wooden ramp onto trampled grass, where so many of her people
had stepped upon arriving. There she felt this new world under her feet. She
was jarred as she felt its tempestuous soul. It was not the old and serene
world she had come from. This world was turbulent. Things were happening inside
it that she did not understand. What she did know, immediately, was that it was
no place for the tranquil Stracahn. She pivoted and stepped back onto the ramp,
and the old man behind her stopped and looked at her.

"What's wrong?" he asked kindly.

"We can't stay here." Zyn'dri heard her
voice, and it sounded small and scared. No one would listen to her.

"Keep the line moving!" one of the
humans barked. But Zyn'dri was paralyzed. She didn't want to step back onto
that ground, or feel what she felt in it, again.

"Didn't you hear?" another of the
black-suited officials growled. "Keep the line moving."

Her parents were in a different line, with the
other middle-aged adults. She looked for them but only saw the back of her
mother's head, her orange hair tied up in a high knot. Crowds of people and a
labyrinth of rough ropes separated them. Zyn'dri tried to calm herself. The
only way to get back to her mother was to get through this line. She made fists
of her hands and stepped back onto the Earth. She caught up with the woman in
front of her and looked down at her feet, counting the steps they took.

She flinched each time she stepped, feeling this
new place under her feet. Her line worked its way through the ropes, weaving
back and forth and coming ever closer to the stern humans in their black
uniforms.

Looking at them, Zyn'dri
felt a chill she'd never felt before. Something threatening in their manner, in
the way they spoke, loud and sharply, and the way they moved with so little restraint,
caused her alarm. She looked up to reassure herself that her mother and father
were still in the other line and found her mother was watching her, too. Her
mother's gaze met her own, and she drew confidence from the liquid pools of her
mother's eyes.

It was a long time before she reached the table
at the front of the line. Zyn’dri was hot and weary, her legs burning from the
sensation of the new world and from the endless shuffling steps she took as she
wound along with the other Stracahn. When she stepped up to the table, a
weathered woman scrutinized her from under the raised faceshield of her helmet.
The woman reached for Zyn'dri's hand and pressed it to a scanner. Light shot
through it as the Ranger made a digital image of first that hand, then the
other.

“Name?” the Ranger barked.

Zyn’dri found her mouth suddenly dry. “Zyn’dri.”
She responded.

“Cindy?” the woman began to write.

Zyn’dri tried to make her words louder, and she
emphasized her name. “No, Zyn’dri.”

“Sydney.” The Ranger wrote it down and gestured
her aside. Zyn’dri felt a knot in her stomach. She wanted to correct her, but
she also wanted to get away from this place as fast as she could. She stayed
silent. If the humans wanted to call her Sydney, what did that matter? Her
people knew her name.

The Ranger called to the man behind her, and he
pulled a garment from a box. It was pushed roughly into Zyn'dri's hands and the
woman gestured her aside and reached for the hands of the old man. Zyn'dri
moved out of the way, pressing the clothing to her chest. Another Ranger, in
the same type of helmet, gestured to her, glanced at the clothing, and directed
her down a path to the right. She moved uncertainly along it like the others,
until she came to another uniformed human who motioned her to a small dwelling.

Zyn’dri went inside. It was fresh and shaded in there,
and she sat on the floor clutching the new clothes, waiting for someone to find
her.

It was a long time before her mother swung the
door open and entered the room. Zyn'dri looked up and realized she'd been
sitting in the dark. Her body was sore and tired. Her mother clicked the switch
and pale light glowed. "Where's Father?" Zyn’dri asked in a small
voice.

"He's still being processed. It won't be
long. He'll be back soon." Zyn'dri's mother reached down and gathered the
child into her arms. "It's all right, Shshaa. We're here together."

Zyn'dri felt the tears starting. "I don't
like this place. I don't like the hot air and the dry smell and the people with
the helmets."

"They're called Rangers, and I think they're
trying to help. They're just a little afraid of us, too." Her mother
stroked her hair and began to sing a song from home.

9

Ranger Justin Caldwell watched them come, his
gaunt face hard and angry. He was hot behind the faceshield, and sweat ran down
his temples as he turned back to the trail he was marking. He wanted to be back
in his regular day uniform: hiking pants and a light button-up shirt. This
manmade armor shell didn’t fit in here in Yellowstone. The others were wearing
their shields up, but he wasn't taking any chances. He'd been here two hours
already, hauling head-sized stones out of the wheelbarrow and thumping them
into the ground to show where the aliens could walk and where they'd better
not.

Every blade of grass he crushed as he dropped the
stones made him feel more like a traitor to this place that had saved him.

He glanced around at the Rangers, processing the
Stracahn, leading them to their huts. They were all traitors. His conversation
just hours ago with the park director, Karson, had convinced him of that.
Karson had said, "Like it or not, Caldwell, this is the way it is."

Caldwell was taller than Karson, and he had
leaned in, glowering down at his superior, trying to make him see reason.
"Do you have any idea of how long we've fought to keep people OUT of here?
To make sure the park was preserved for the future? The bears, the wolves, the
bison, the pronghorn? Nobody even remembers those fights."

Karson's voice had been much too calm when he answered,
"Look, nobody wants to see the park destroyed. But you need to remember
that we don’t own these parks. The Terrene Park Service doesn’t even own them.
They belong to the Consolidated Terrene Leadership, and if they need a
perfectly fortified place to stick a few thousand aliens, they have every right
to use them that way.”

“They have no right.”
Caldwell had responded.

Karson’s tone had turned patronizing, “It’s
temporary, Justin. Damen says they will be out of here within 60 days.”
Caldwell flinched at the mention of the Agent in Charge. He had been in the
park last week, and his presence had shattered the little serenity Caldwell had
left. Yellowstone was a place that Damen was never supposed to come. It was the
place that had, until now, protected Caldwell from him.

“After those 60 days, we’ll go right back to
preservation and protection.” Caldwell had known Karson was trying to pacify
him, “and when they’re gone, that’s when we’ll especially need you to help
rebuild.”

“Get them out, Karson. Get all of them out before
they do irreparable damage.”

Karson had shaken his head. “I’m sorry, Justin. The
Consolidated Terrene Leadership says—”

“Get them out, too. If you care at all about this
place.”

Karson had shaken his head. “You need to accept that
for now, the goals and designs for these spaces have changed."

"Well, I
haven't." Caldwell had spun and left the office.

Now, he flinched as he looked across the ugly
refugee camp. The great wide grassland was dotted with QuickForm huts, their
rough brown profiles breaking the smooth sweep of Hayden Valley. The Stracahn
moved between them, crushing two centuries worth of conservation initiatives
under their hand-me-down shoes. Caldwell spat.

He saw a grizzly wandering along the hillside
behind the village with her two cubs. Their raw power made Caldwell smile. He
had just finished a predator study here in Hayden Valley last fall. The
predator counts were very high. That could have spelled trouble for the elk and
bison herds, but maybe there was a point at which all these problems could
intersect and help solve each other.

It cheered him to think that perhaps, with the
influx of aliens, the predators would have more to eat. Perhaps the park would
cleanse itself.

The second-oldest Ranger in the park, Sylvia, came
up beside him and edged her wheelbarrow past his, setting to work on the other
side of the trail. Caldwell swore under his breath.

"What is it, Justin?" She asked,
straining slightly with a big chunk of igneous rock. He heard it hit the ground,
and he spun incredulously.

"Are you kidding me? You know what's wrong.
This whole situation is wrong. Hundreds of people, all over Hayden Valley,
what's right?" He felt the
intensity that always burned behind his eyes threatening to erupt.

Sylvia nodded. "It does take some getting
used to." She said noncommittally, hauling another rock out and dropping
it along the trail.

Caldwell took a menacing step toward her. "No.
I'm not getting used to it. No Ranger in this park should get used to it."

He wanted her to flinch, to apologize and tell
him he was right, but Sylvia merely laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Easy, Justin. I'm on your side, remember?"

He swore again and shook her hand off, stepping
back to heft another rock and dropping it. "We don't even have a side
anymore, Sylvia. Since the Consolidated Terrene Leadership took office, the
whole world's gone crazy."

"I don't think that's what they intended. The
Leadership is just trying to make everyone get along. And they’re trying to
please everybody. That generally only ends up making everybody mad."

"I'm mad." Caldwell spat the words like
a challenge.

"I know. We all are." She didn't sound
mad. Not mad enough, anyway.

Caldwell tried to stir her up a little. "The
Consolidated Terrene Leadership was supposed to eliminate conflict. That was
the promise when people shifted power to them."

"See, there's the problem." She said.
"People expected them to end conflict, but only individual people can do
that, not leadership." She made a little grunt as she rolled a big rock
out of the wheelbarrow. Caldwell glanced up to see it narrowly miss her foot.

She went on. "Now there are so many splinter
groups, and the Consolidated Terrene Leadership is so far away, in Melbourne,
that it seems the world is just a tangle of different groups all fighting for
their own agenda. The harder the leadership tries to force them to get along,
the deeper the divisions between them become. It was even that way when I left
to come live here."

"You've been here a long time." It was
the one thing he respected about her, and about her husband, Walt. They had
spent their lives in the park.

"And now humanity is trying to deal with the
thought of aliens on their planet. There’s bound to be some adjustment. Anyway,
they're here, and we can't change that. Not now."

He knew she was trying to convince him to calm
down and accept that these aliens would be in the park. He knew she thought—all
of them thought—he was taking this too hard, too personally. They thought he
was losing it. In truth, he felt maybe he was. He had always been on the edge,
and from the moment they'd received word that the refugees from Empyriad were
coming to Yellowstone, he'd felt the rage taking over more and more.

"It’s temporary." She said, encouragingly.
"The leadership promised only to have them here 60 days, and some of them
have already been here a few weeks. It may seem hard, but the goal is to get
them out of the park."

He hated ignorance as much as he hated
complacency. "Come on, Sylvia. You've seen the reactions out there. The
people are burning Stracahn effigies. Nobody's going to let these aliens come
live in their towns. The Park the only place to stick them." He slammed
another rock to the ground, knowing full well that it wasn't enough barrier to
stop someone if they wanted to cross it into the thigh-high grass of Hayden
Valley. "Ironic, huh?" he said, hearing the bitterness in his voice,
"We spent decades fortifying this ecosystem against human encroachment,
and that's what makes it the perfect place to dump aliens."

Sylvia was quiet. He didn't know for sure what
she thought of the Stracahn, but he could tell she didn't have the hatred for
them that he and many other Rangers did. He wasn't sure she could be trusted.
How committed was she to this place, anyway?

But then she spoke. "It is a shame about the
park, that it will no longer be protected from habitation. But I read that in
the old days up to 6 million people came into the park, and though they took a
terrible toll, the park made it through those dark days." Sylvia caught
his eye. "There are many fewer Stracahn—only about 10,000—and I still
can't believe that they will be forced to stay away from human society forever.
We'll get them out of here eventually, Justin, and then the Rangers will do
what they've always done and put this place right again."

There was something about Sylvia that calmed
people, and though Justin fought the comfort she was offering, he was able to
drop the next rock a bit more gently as he held in his mind the idea of getting
the Stracahn out of Yellowstone.

10

Sol pulled out onto the road, the huge transport
behind him, empty now and being rechecked to go back to space and shuttle more
of the Stracahn down into the park from the ships that had brought them from
Empyriad. He had loved seeing them, but now his attention was fully on this
mysterious place he was driving through. He'd seen all the footage of
Yellowstone Global Park in school, and he'd heard all its stories, but he saw
now that the virtual experiences were nothing like the real thing.

There was wildlife everywhere. A massive bear
looked up as Sol went by and he hoped the growl of the truck didn’t make it
mad. The truck was energy efficient, but it was also deafening. Most of his
friends had the new solar skimmers, and Sol admitted that sometimes he envied
how quietly and easily they moved. But his uncle didn’t trust them, preferred
an unsealed engine that he could take apart with his hands, so the ranch was
something of a machinery museum. Even Uncle Carl’s crawler was unsealed. He’d
had to special order it that way.

It wasn’t all bad. Sol could see that the Rangers
appreciated the truck. Crawlers, even small ones, certainly left more damage in
their wake than four low impact tires. All the Rangers used spiders, which traveled
on eight delicate articulated legs and left footprints no bigger than a dinner
plate.  The Terrene Park Service was still fighting to keep Yellowstone
pristine, even in the face of thousands of aliens moving in. No one outside the
park could stop talking about the injustice of the fact that even though no
humans could enter Yellowstone except the 55 Park Rangers who lived inside, the
Consolidated Terrene Leadership had decided to open it to the aliens.

There had been other plans, of course, when the
Leadership realized that Empyriad was dying, and the humans there insisted that
the Stracahn be allowed to return with them to Earth. Politicians had discussed
refugee programs where each Stracahn family would live with a human host
family, but public opinion had been strong against intermingling them with
humanity. Sol had heard they were physically superior to humans, and that some
of them had dangerous powers, though no one seemed to know really what those
powers were.

There had been talk of clearing out the Mars
research station and sticking them out there, but because people were actually
living and working there, Mars seemed more valuable than Yellowstone. And the
research station was expensive. It was hard enough getting funding for the
humans who lived there. No one wanted to pay taxes to keep the Mars station
habitable just so aliens could survive, so here they were.

Yellowstone was perfect because people liked the
idea that the same safeguards that had kept them out would now keep the aliens
in. People liked that they would not have to see the Stracahn, or interact with
them. If they had to deal with this unfortunate situation, they preferred to
deal with it from afar.

As Sol navigated the old truck up over a small
rise, he plunged his foot on the brakes. The rolling green landscape before him
was black with the lumbering forms of thousands of hairy bison. The herd moved
like flowing water, slow and gently over the undulating hills. Sol parked and
climbed out of the truck, watching as they walked across the road thirty feet
in front of him.

Sol sat and stared. They were enormous and
powerful and shaggy. Not so different from his uncle's cattle, but certainly more
majestic, and wilder. They seemed more alert to the environment around them.

The people on either side of the fence weren't so
different, either, he thought. They all felt passionate about
the land; they just couldn't seem to agree on how to balance their needs with
everyone else's. There were so many ironies, and neither side could see them.
He wondered how many of the Rangers knew that the first bison conservation
efforts were undertaken by cattlemen who saw bison disappearing and wanted to
preserve them. He wondered if they knew that without them, the bison would have
been gone long before the earliest Rangers were sworn in. Sol's father had
believed that people could always find common ground if they would look for it,
and there was a grain of that belief in Sol, too. He wanted unity, wanted an
end to the violent disagreements that had killed his father, but it didn't seem
like that would ever happen.

Two bull bison were on the road now, knocking
their heads together and twisting to catch each other with their horns. Their
wrestling brought them closer to Sol. Other bison ambled behind them,
broadening the herd out along the road.

Sol climbed back in the truck as the bulls
muscled each other closer. They were so close that Sol could see the curling of
individual hairs on their ragged sides. He could hear, even with the windows
up, their angry bawls.

One knelt to get better leverage. The other knelt
and there, directly in the road, the two strained, unmoving, against each
other.

Sol watched them for several minutes. Their eyes,
rolled back with effort, were white and bulging. Their hooves scrambled for
traction on the slick road, and they gained and lost a few inches by turns.
They were equally matched, and equally determined. They could be here all day.
Sol reached out and tapped the horn, drawing their attention briefly.

The bison on the left used the distraction and
scooped his head swiftly upward, catching the other right under the eye. A gash
opened, and Sol saw the red flesh under the black hide. The wounded bull
struggled back to his feet and began backing away, shaking his head. It looked
like the fight was over for now.

The victorious bull trotted around the truck,
passing the door just inches from where Sol was sitting. As the big animal came
around, he celebrated his triumph by crashing his head into the back of the
truck. The bull shook his head and bumped the truck one last time, then trotted
back to the herd, leaving a dent on the tailgate and a patch of hairy hide in
the metal. Sol hit the steering wheel with his palm in frustration. This truck
didn't need any more dents, and Uncle Carl would certainly have something to
say about it. He would have to clean it up, and make sure that he had a decent
cover story. Uncle Carl couldn’t know where the dent actually came from.

Though a little shaken, Sol drove out as soon as
there was enough room on the road, honking a little at the last stragglers of
the herd as they meandered off the side of the road. Another irony. That many bison
would tear up the grass in the valley just by walking through and eating it,
but the Rangers panicked if one of the Stracahn wandered off the carefully
delineated paths.

Sol didn’t go straight out to the South gate.
With his heart beating hard, he went west, following a sign that pointed toward
the Old Faithful Village.

He just wanted a quick
peek, but the farther he drove, the more nervous he became. How would he
explain this to a Ranger if he got caught? He’d say he got lost.

As he drove up beside the guardhouse at Old
Faithful Village, he saw Stracahn everywhere. Some of them wore long robes,
orange and blue. They were working to rebuild the dilapidated log building that
used to be called the Old Faithful Inn, and its new log roof rose bright and
straight in the afternoon sun.

Sol pulled to the side of the road and peered
past the building. His heart jumped into his throat as he saw, for the first
time, the billowing plume of a geyser eruption. It shot into the air, straight
up and higher than the new roof. Steam poured from it and floated off across
the barren rock of the basin. Sol had never seen the Earth manifest such power.

He couldn’t stop watching, even as the plume died
and was reduced to rolling steam from the geyser cone.

Sol was suddenly aware of a face at his window.
He looked over to see a Ranger peering in. The man’s tag said, “Bradley.” Sol
hurriedly rolled down the window, his hands shaking.

“You lost?” the man said, glancing toward the
geyser. Sol could see that the man knew he’d been watching the eruption.

“Yes, sir,” he said, looking down.

“Where did you come from?”

“The South gate, sir.”

“Then you’ve missed your turn.” This man was
different, Sol realized. Under his stern exterior, he seemed almost pleased to
be talking to Sol. “You’ll need to turn around, go back about five miles, and
turn right. That should take you back.” He gave Sol a long look. “And you’d
probably better not stop again.” There was a note of warning in his voice.

“Yes, sir,” Sol answered, breathing a sigh of
relief. This was the second Ranger he’d met today that he actually liked. It
was a strange feeling. They had seemed to enjoy talking to him. It occurred to
him for the first time that perhaps being sequestered in the park brought its own
challenges. Maybe they even got bored. There couldn’t be much to do in here.

Sol had plenty to do. After this, he had to get
home and do the chores; then he'd said he'd meet up with some of his friends in
town. He supposed Mezina would be there, and he drove a little faster to make
up for the time he'd lost on his detour.

Sol pulled the truck into his driveway and
switched it off. His mother turned from her garden and waved a weary hand at
him. Her hair was hidden under a wide sunhat, and she squinted perpetually from
working in the sun all her life. She put down her hoe and came toward him.

Sol snatched the permit from the dashboard and
stuffed it under the seat just as she arrived.

"You’re late coming from school." she
called as he climbed out of the truck.

He took a few steps toward her so he wouldn't
have to shout. "Right. I had a virtual tutoring session."

Molly looked disappointed. “Sol, you’re not
letting yourself get distracted again, are you? You’ve only got a couple more
weeks. You’ve got to focus.”

Sol ducked his head. He didn’t like lying to her.
“I know, Mom. It’s fine."

He joined her in the garden, taking the hoe from
her hands and working half-heartedly on a couple of weeds. “What did you do
today?”

“I finished the gold quilt.” She said.

Sol had seen her working on it for days. It was
the one thing she truly enjoyed. “I can’t wait to see it.” He said.

“Don’t mention it to Uncle Carl, okay?” she said.
“The fabric cost a bit more than I should have spent.”

Sol scoffed. “We have plenty of money for your
fabric.” He said, thinking of the hundreds of head of cattle they’d sold last
fall. “We’re not going to starve. I don’t know what Uncle Carl is so afraid
of.”

Molly’s voice was a little bitter as she said,
“Oh, Sol, people here are afraid of everything.” It was an uncommonly open
admission. These had been coming more frequently as he’d gotten older. Maybe
his mom was beginning to see him more as an adult, someone she could be honest
with.

“Why? Was it like this when you were growing up?”

“It was beginning then. The governments had just
merged into the Consolidated Terrene Leadership, and the borders opened all
over the world.” She took back the hoe and began to work on the weeds as she
spoke. “That was supposed to make for a freer exchange of ideas and help
humanity to find more similarities than differences. It was supposed to erase
both geographical and ideological lines. They thought if there were no more
countries that people wouldn’t spend their time fighting for their own agendas.”

She stopped talking as she chopped at a
particularly tough root between two tomato plants.

“But before, we were all sort of thrust together,
and mixed up in one place with lots of different people and different ideas. After
the borders were erased, people used the opening to move to places where more
people thought like they did. They came from all over the world and banded into
regions. There were no official geographical borders, but the ideological ones
were worse than ever. Where once regions had a few people who thought one way
living alongside a few people who believed a different way, and they could get
to know each other, now, everyone in the various regions thought one way, and
their ideas have just become more entrenched over time.” She sighed, and Sol
knew she was thinking of his father. “Shoreline was an exception. There were
people there with all kinds of ideas. That’s why the university was so wonderful.
And that’s why Tim and I wanted to raise you there.”

“Why was Shoreline different?” he asked, reaching
for the happy memories of the sea and the sand that he kept buried most of the
time.

“It was hard to make a living there. Farther up
the coast, on the West side of Cascadia, there was money to be made, and South
in Sonora, but that little patch between them didn’t have anything that anyone
wanted. A hundred years ago people bought up all the orchards and put houses
and stores on them. Then, when the West Coast was invaded in the Terrene War,
everyone fled inland. They abandoned all those houses. It was just a vast,
empty city. All the jobs were in Megalopolis, in the Northeast, or working the
land in one of these Western Regions. The people who moved to Shoreline didn’t
mind fishing for their food and living in the dilapidated houses. The
University cropped up there because a lot of the intellectuals who were so war-weary
came to find solace in the sea. Most people came because they loved the
landscape, and they put up with different people so they could live there.”

Molly looked her son in the eye. “Resources are
the fuel of hatred, Sol. They have always been. And when everyone is trying to
get what you have, it changes you.” It was true. Harvest, Liberty, Cascadia,
they had the best land for making food. And the people here had done just that
for generations. And for all those generations, since the frontier had been
settled over two centuries ago, people had been fighting for this land. Uncle
Carl had spent his whole life fighting for their little wedge of land on the
edge of Yellowstone, fighting back the wolves and the bear and the elk and the
surrounding regions and the government, and for a while, the whole world. Sol
guessed he was used to fighting now and couldn't help doing it with whoever was
around.

Just then Sol heard the growl of the crawler and
flinched involuntarily. His uncle was coming, and Sol hadn’t even started his
chores. He kissed his mom quickly and headed for the barn.

11

It was late afternoon when Zyn’dri’s father
joined them in the hut. Zyn’dri calmed when he put his arms around her and
traced a pattern on her hand as a greeting. It made her think of the strange
patterns in Laska’s books and the moment she had frozen time on the ship.

“What is wrong, Shshaa?” Her father asked, using
their pet name for her. It meant “little warrior” in Stracahn. Zyn’dri blinked.
She hadn’t told them what she had done. What if the time freezing was some kind
of curse for refusing her calling?

She tried to think of a reasonable answer. “I’d
like to go out.” She said, gesturing toward the square of sunlight made by the
window of the hut. Outside she could see a wide river cutting through the
grasses of the valley, and she longed to be near living things again after the
long space journey.

“Of course.” Her father said. “This is our home now—the
new beginning. Go and see what there is to love.”

Zyn’dri touched three gathered fingers to his
shoulder to show that she was happy. He tapped the back of her hand as she
pulled it away and wandered out the door onto the path.

The village was tidy, and there were Stracahn
everywhere, but it felt empty somehow. There were no colorful baskets or
blankets. There were no toys scattered in front of the huts. There were no
firepits or logs for friends to sit on and visit. It felt temporary, basic. And
Zyn’dri guessed that it was.

She wandered down the path, looking for her
friends.  Her time on the ship had been lonely. Only Innueo was on the same
ship as she and his mother was very protective. When she had wanted to play or
explore, she’d had to do it by herself.

A little fear caught in her mind as she realized
that many of her friends wouldn’t be here. There was a chance that they had
traveled on other ships, but there was also a chance that they had not made it
off the planet at all. Zyn’dri looked around frantically.

She felt relieved as almost immediately she
caught sight of Adrik and Asvika, twins from her village back on Empyriad. They
were huddled together in the doorway of a hut a few paces from her own. She
looked around for their strong father, who always had candy to hand to his
children's friends when he saw them.

But Adrik and Asvika sat by themselves. Zyn'dri
looked along the path, toward the intake station. She looked through the neat
rows of huts and saw the scraggly line of Stracahn trying to settle in. Most of
them still held their families close. She peeked into the screened windows of
Adrik and Asvika’s hut, but their father was nowhere.

And then she looked back at her friends. Their
expression was dark; their shoulders slumped. They looked sad. Zyn'dri realized
with a start that their father had not made it onto the ships. Their mother had
died back on Empyriad shortly after they were born. Now, in this frightening
new place, Adrik and Asvika were completely alone.

She walked to them, feeling awkward. Should she
mention it or not? Before she knew what she was saying, she blurted, “I’m sorry
about your father.”

Asvika looked up, deep sorrow in her eyes. “Thank
you, Zyn’dri.”

There was nothing left to say. “I’m going to the
river,” Zyn’dri said, waving her hand in the general direction of the shining
water she had seen. “Can you come along?”

They looked at each other, and it occurred to
Zyn’dri that there was no one to give them permission, or to deny it. They were
free to go if they wanted to.

Slowly, they stood. Zyn’dri saw how the siblings
held hands as they followed her through the village.

“We won’t get too close to the water?” Asvika
said, a tremor in her voice.

Adrik stepped closer to his sister. “Not too
close. And if you feel scared, we’ll go back.”

Zyn’dri shot them a puzzled look.

“Drowning is my greatest fear,” Asvika explained.
“And Adrik’s greatest fear is being up high. What’s your greatest fear, Zyn?”

Zyn’dri thought for a moment. The seething Earth
below them scared her, but she was afraid she’d have to explain what she meant
by that, and usually when she said things like that people gave her strange
looks. In the end, she just said, “Loud noises.” And it was true, loud noises
did make her nervous, though she wasn’t sure they were her greatest fear.
Asvika didn’t push for more details, though. Zyn’dri ran her finger along the
top of the tall grass as they walked along the path to the river.

As they drew closer to the rushing water, Zyn’dri
was mesmerized by a flock of big white birds on the river. Their brightness was
striking against the dark water, and they were graceful despite the unwieldy,
oversized bills they were balancing. At first, while Zyn’dri and the twins
tossed rocks into the river and waded in the icy eddies near the bank, the
birds stood in the shallows and slept, their heads turned backward and their
bills tucked under their wings. Later, when the children were sprawled on a hot
rock, the birds awakened with a ceremony of feather-ruffling and wing
stretching. They flapped into the middle of the churning water. Zyn’dri watched
the one closest to her as it balanced on a rock just beneath the surface of the
rapids. Occasionally the waves would knock it sideways, and its big white wings
would arc out, wobbling until it had regained its balance. She watched as it
hopped and dove, plunging its head into a deep part of the river and coming up
with a fighting fish. The fish, its round mouth screaming silently, slipped
into a pouch of loose skin under the bird’s bill. Zyn'dri watched, fascinated,
as the leathery pouch flapped back and forth, the fish inside struggling to get
out. The bird tipped its head back, and the bulge that was the fish slipped
down its throat, ending the battle.

More of the big white birds joined in, and when
they were full they set sail on the water. They floated effortlessly out of the
rapids and onto the wide, smooth water further down the valley. Zyn'dri watched
the white specks of them until she heard the voices of her parents. Adrik and
Asvika scrambled away, back to their hut, and Zyn’dri got the impression that
they did not want to be around parents. Perhaps their pain was too new.

Their loss hung in her heart as she walked with
her parents toward the beaten-earth oval at the center of the village. At one
end of it, nearest the Ranger checkpoint where humans came and went from the
camp, was a large hut filled with tables. There was a long line of Strachan
waiting for their food. It stretched out along the path, and Zyn’dri’s family
stood in the sunlight waiting for their turn. Zyn'dri told her parents about the
twins’ father, and she saw them exchange a look.

“What is it?” she asked.

Her mother adjusted her lavender shawl and put a
soft hand on Zyn’dri’s hair. “There are many Chantha now,” she said. Her eyes
played across the line, and Zyn’dri looked toward the dining hut. Chantha was
the Stracahn word for orphan.

The long line was full of worn and weary Stracahn.
For the first time, Zyn’dri noticed that they were mostly children. Their
iridescent hands and faces flashed the light of the Earth’s sun back at her,
and she saw a new solemnity and a new uncertainty in them.

Zyn'dri leaned in and tucked her head close to
her mother. This new place seemed suddenly so far away from Empyriad. It seemed
full of pain and sadness. What would her friends do without their parents? Who
would the Stracahn be after all this?

As they approached the front of the line, Zyn’dri
felt sick. The Rangers were ladling something from a large kettle into bowls.
Most of the Stracahn took the dishes without comment. When it was Zyn’dri’s
turn, she looked at the Ranger with the ladle.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Mutton stew.” The man barked as he pushed the
hot bowl into her hands. “Donated meat from the good people of Liberty. Enjoy.”

Zyn’dri peered into the bowl. It was a thick, strong-smelling
stew. Perfect circles of fat floated atop it, and it was laden with orange and
white vegetables. Zyn’dri grasped for a piece of bread and hurried to her
table.

On the way, she passed the Ranger’s table. They
ate with relish, mopping the broth from their bowls with their bread.

At her own table, Zyn’dri sat staring at the
bowl, then looked up to watch as her mother sampled a bite. The humans wouldn’t
have noticed, but Zyn’dri saw the way the corners of her mother’s mouth pinched
together, she saw her mother’s effort to swallow.

Zyn’dri pushed the bowl away and took a bite of
the bread. It was soft and sweet, not like the firm, salty Stracahn bread at
all. It made Zyn’dri gag a little.

“Shshaa,” her mother said in a low voice, “you
must eat.”

“I can’t!” Zyn’dri cried, and several of the
others at the table glanced in their direction.

“You must. We won’t have food until tomorrow
morning. You will get too hungry in the night if you don’t eat.”

“I won’t. I won’t ever be hungry again.” Zyn’dri
dropped the bread into her bowl, where it soaked up the juice and lay sodden
and dark.

Her mother and father looked at her
disapprovingly. Zyn’dri looked down the table and saw that everyone else was
eating. She resented them for it. Surely they smelled the strange herbs; surely
they recognized how wrong the food felt in their hands and how wrong it tasted
on their tongues. But still, as Stracahn did, they set their emotions aside and
gave their bodies nourishment. Zyn’dri couldn’t bring herself to do it. She
stared ahead and sat stoically, sending a message to her parents that she would
not eat it.

At first, when she had stepped onto the ramp and
saw the grasses in the valley and the sun overhead, this world had not seemed
so different than her own. But after she touched it and felt its turmoil under
her feet, after she breathed its air, the more foreign this place seemed. The
wind that moaned outside seemed ominous. And whether they admitted it or not,
the others were noticing too. The low voices of the Stracahn around her were
laced with despair.

Her mother had turned her attention away from
Zyn’dri and was talking to a woman, Malra, from their home village. Malra had
ridden on an earlier transport and had been on the ground for a week or two
longer than they had. Zyn'dri's mother stroked her daughter's hair absentmindedly
as she asked, "What do people do in the camp?"

Malra shook her head,
"You'll soon find it's a strange place. There's meals and sleeping. We do
help wash up after the meals.”

“Right.” Zyn’dri’s mother said, “Tahnek is on the
schedule for that after this meal.”

This was news to Zyn’dri.
She looked at her father, and he nodded to confirm it.

Malra continued. “But that's
all. We don't have anything else to do. We can't leave the camp. I think we'll
sit here forever." Her voice had the unfamiliar sound of bitterness.

“Can’t we work?”

“There is no work to do. Over in the Old Faithful
Village, many have been helping to rebuild the building that will house the
Avowed, the new Vault. But here there is nothing to be done.”

Zyn'dri's mother leaned toward Malra. "Did
you find him?"

Zyn'dri glanced up in time to see Malra duck her
head. She knew that meant that she had not found who she was looking for.
Zyn'dri's mother reached an arm around Malra and gave her a quick hug.

“Keep searching. There are still a few ships to
unload. I’ll watch for him as well.”

Zyn’dri tried to imagine what it would be like to
be separated from the ones you loved. She remembered the first few hours on the
ship, the feeling of panic when she didn’t know where her parents were. She
looked around and saw that fear in the eyes of so many.

A bell rang and a speaker blared that it was time
for the Stracahn to return to their huts.

Zyn'dri kept close to her mother, who spoke in
hushed tones to Zyn’dri’s father as he moved to the kitchen to help wash up.
Her mother and Malra began to speak again as they waited to leave the dining
hut. Zyn’dri watched the other children and realized again how many were alone.
It wasn't just Asvika and Adrik. So many children had come to this new planet
without their parents. They looked scared and moved quietly. Collectively and
individually, they carried a burden too heavy for their small shoulders. She
saw the pain in their eyes, the loneliness, the uncertainty, and wondered what
would happen to them in this strange new place.

Zyn'dri’s earlier annoyance
over the food had disappeared. It was swallowed up in the realization that her
family was lucky. Her parents had gotten to come with her on the big ship. She
didn't have to watch, like so many of these children had, as the people she
loved got smaller and fainter on the gray surface of their home planet.

She stumbled along, lost in her thoughts. She
barely noticed the golden sun outside the dining hut. But as they walked, something
strange caught her eye. On her periphery, she saw that the hills around the
little village, which had been bright green when they went in, were dark now.
Zyn'dri looked up to see huge, hairy animals moving over the valley. Her mother
noticed them, too, and paused in her conversation with Malra to point them out
to Zyn'dri.

Adrik and Asvika sat huddled in their hut as she
passed. They must not have gone to dinner at all. Seeing them, she again felt a
chill. What would it be like to be all alone? It was, she supposed, the thing
she was most afraid of. Her “greatest fear,” as Asvika had said.

On the journey here, Zyn'dri had thought she'd be
glad to be off the big loud ship that had brought them across the galaxy. But
even though the ground below her was secure now, this place was too different
from home to be comforting. The smell of the hot grasses outside the little
rows of huts, the strange food, and now the sounds of these hairy beasts snuffling
all around the makeshift village: all combined to leave her feeling further and
further from home. The only security was in the soft murmur of her mother's
voice as she talked to Malra. At least her mother and father were the same. At
least she still sounded like she had at home.

When they reached Malra's hut, Zyn'dri's mother
leaned down.

"Wait here, Shshaa. I'll be right back
out." She entered Malra's hut with her. Zyn'dri stood awkwardly on the
path, watching the fingers of sunlight pulling back across the edge of it. She
walked a few steps, adjusting the teal jumpsuit they had given her yesterday.
It was teal because of its size. All the different sizes were different colors.
But she liked that it matched exactly the color of her hair.

The village was quiet. Nearly everyone had gone
into their hut as directed. Zyn’dri walked along the little trail, lined with rocks,
to the edge of the village. There, not far away, on a small rise in the land, a
group of the beasts stood sleepily blinking at her. Without grasslands like
these, there had been few large animals back on Empyriad. Zyn'dri was
fascinated by the dark creatures that stood shaking their heads and humps and making
clouds of dust in the afternoon light. Her fingers tingled, wondering if their
fur would be soft or rough. Hesitantly, she took a step over the rocks at the
edge of the trail and waded through the waist-high grass toward them.

One of the animals turned its head sideways
toward her. She angled for it, trying to get a sense of its intelligence. Each
careful step brought her nearer the big creature. Its impossibly tiny eye held
her reflection as she approached. It huffed a greeting as she crossed the
grasslands.

She was near now. Near enough to see the curling
matted fur of its belly and the gleam of the morning sun on its single opaque
horn. The other horn was broken off, ragged at its base. Some of the other
beasts were getting nervous. One that was lying down rocked and heaved itself
to its feet to wander a few steps away, to the far side of the herd. But the
one with the broken horn stood firm, its head slightly tilted as if listening
to her steps.

Zyn'dri stopped within an arm's reach of the
animal, peering into the depths of its round eye. The eye was pale and milky,
with a black ring around it. She reached toward it, but the animal did nothing.
It was blind. Slowly, she raised a hand and laid it on the creature's shoulder,
feeling the rough coat under her fingers. The beast stood still, leaning
slightly into her hand.

Though the shaggy head hung low, near her, the
rest of the massive animal towered above her. They stood in the warm sunlight,
and Zyn'dri felt safer than she had since stepping onto this planet.

From behind her, a shout rang through the evening
air. The big animal flinched and swung its head toward her to find the source
of the noise. She moved out of the way of the single sharp horn just in time.

A Ranger came quickly through the grass, calling
to her.

“Kid! Kid! Get over here!” He reached out and
grabbed her by the arm, wrenching her away from the big animal and dragging her
for several paces. She saw his nametag: Caldwell.

"Get over here, you crazy kid!"
Caldwell shouted. Zyn'dri rubbed her upper arm, feeling pain in her shoulder.
Tears stung her eyes as she looked up at the tall, slim man.

"Don't you know anything? You're supposed to
stay on the trails. You're killing the grass and don't you know that those
things," He gestured to the animal, which had trotted away and was huffing
angrily, "can kill you?"

She looked at him, trying to remember the right
pieces of human language amidst the pain and fear she was feeling. She spoke
hesitantly. "What are their names?" she asked carefully.

"Names? They don't have names. They're not
pets," he growled as the two walked back toward the village. "They're
just bison."

"Bison." Zyn'dri repeated, satisfied.
"Bison."

Caldwell shoved her forward, back onto the trail.
"Stay off the grass," he said, exaggerating every word as if she were
stupid. "You're a guest here. You can't go wandering around like you own
this place. Yellowstone is not your home."

Tears burned in Zyn'dri's eyes, hotter and more
stinging because the Stracahn found crying shameful. She turned away from him.
He didn't have to tell her that. She knew this wasn't her home.

The Ranger walked back up the path with long
strides, grumbling under his breath. Zyn’dri pushed her knuckles into the
corners of her eyes and tried to stop crying. When she looked back, the blind
bison was ambling away over the hill.

12

The edges of the meadow were growing dark as Ranger
Walt Bradley looked out from the window of his second-story apartment in the
Grant Ranger Housing complex. The sun was setting, and he wondered when Sylvia,
his wife, would make it back. He had been at Old Faithful all day, and she was
working in the Hayden Valley Village. She was right in the middle of the
arriving Stracahn, and it made Walt more than a little nervous.

The Stracahn were, at the very least, alien. And
some of the people who had worked with them on their planet had reported
strange occurrences. Though Walt didn’t like to admit it, the thought of aliens
with strange powers here in the park that was his home made him anxious.

A flash of white at the edge of the meadow caught
his eye. He watched with interest as the distinct white alpha female from the
Grant wolf pack skirted the field and pounced on a rabbit. Her ebony mate and
their pack: six younger members of their immediate family, gathered around the
kill. The alphas feasted and the grown pups skulked around trying to sneak a
bite.

The Grant Pack had been fairly active lately, and
he'd seen them a few times this week. They were a healthy pack, sleek and fat
even after the long winter, and they seemed in good spirits today.

He had nicknamed the female Snowflake, although
the Rangers were supposed to refer to all animals in the park by their
designated numbers, and the dark male he called Obsidian. Over the years, he'd
learned better than to name pups, because just when he got attached to them, they
would break off and join another pack.

He watched as Snowflake and Obsidian grew bored
of the rabbit and left the last of it to the snarling pups. The pair moved away
and flopped down in a sunny spot in the meadow.

Walt couldn't wait to tell Sylvia. She had seen
them two days ago, on her day off, and said that Obsidian was limping. Walt
didn't see any evidence of that now, which pleased him.

He thought of pack behavior as he watched the
rest of the pack nip and quarrel over the leavings. That's how the Rangers’ staff
meetings were beginning to feel. Everyone had an opinion about the Stracahn
being in the park. Everyone had a complaint about how the schedule was laid
out. Everyone had a concern about the public outside the gates. It wore on him
after a while.

It felt too much like the attitudes years ago
when he and Sylvia first came to the park. The Rangers had been angry and
defensive all the time. Having the public on the public lands was a constant
source of anxiety for them. It was the end of public access to the parks,
although they didn't realize it then. The parks had gone from allowing visitors
free range inside to restricting access, to allowing the public only when
accompanied by a Ranger. Walt himself had guided the last group through Yellowstone
more than twenty years ago. Only a few hundred had seen the park that year, but
they still left their mark. Shoe prints, pocket lint, smudges of oil from their
fingers. There was no way for them to interact with the park and not change it.
The Terrene Park Service had decided it was too risky and closed the gates.

That's when the hostilities increased. People
didn't like having the park closed, even with the vast amounts of money that
the TPS spent on creating incredible real-time virtual experiences to share on
the web.

The staff inside the park had shrunk then from
over five hundred Rangers to less than 60. All the interpretive Rangers had
been reassigned to Denver, Atlanta, New York, and San Francisco to help create
those virtual tours, and support staff was laid off. Walt had been lucky. He was
trained as both an Interpretive Ranger and a Law Enforcement Ranger, so when
the park service had taken Interpretive Rangers out of Yellowstone, he got to
stay. Fortunately, too, Sylvia was a Law Enforcement Ranger from the beginning,
or they would have been assigned to different places.

When the Park had closed to visitors, the public
got really ugly for a while, and it was a good thing that plenty of Law
Enforcement Rangers were stationed there. It only made sense that the Interpretive
Rangers left, anyway, because without visitors there was no one to interpret
the park for.

The law enforcement Rangers lived and worked
there in four-year shifts, though many had stayed much longer. Walt and Sylvia
had been there for eight and a half now. Walt pulled his gaze from the wolves
and looked at his reflection in the window. He ran a hand through his silver
hair. Sylvia would be home soon, and he always liked to look sharp for her.

They had spent their lives here, together.
Yellowstone had seen the birth and loss of their only child, Sean, and now it
was seeing them through Sylvia's illness.

Still, Walt liked people, always had, and missed
them sometimes. And he didn’t actually agree that if people came to see it, the
park would be irreparably damaged. It took a special kind of ego to really
believe that, he thought. To really believe that humans had the power to
destroy the park. He’d been here long enough to see this wild place recover
from forest fires, from floods, even from a few earthquakes, and Yellowstone
always survived. It changed, certainly, but stasis was not a natural state anyway.
Wild places were meant to change and adapt. And humans were not so powerful,
even in their carelessness, that they could presume the ability to overpower
this wild place. The Rangers’ fear of the public in the park seemed to discount
the most remarkable thing about this place: its adaptability. Yellowstone was
constantly changing.

In spite of his anxiety about having Sylvia out
with the Stracahn, their arrival held excitement for Walt, though he wouldn't
go broadcasting that to the other Rangers. Yellowstone was big and empty, and
could be boring, even with the geysers and the wildlife. He looked forward to
seeing how the aliens interacted with the park, and how it responded to them.

The wolves outside the window looked up at him.
He would have liked to believe they recognized him on some level, but he knew
it was probably just the bison ribs he had in the oven that interested them.

Walt left the window. He opened the refrigerator
and moved aside two more wrapped packages of meat to get to the
greenhouse-grown kale in the back. They usually kept four packages of meat in
here. He'd have to pick up some more at headquarters tomorrow when he checked
out.

There was a good selection right now. The Rangers
had culled several bison from the herd, and the meat was cured and ready to
eat. Though the abundance of predators meant that the herd numbers stayed well
under the 7,500 animals the park could handle, the curtailment of bison
migration and hay feeding ensured that the numbers were, at any given time,
only a few large breeding seasons away from overwhelming the grazing land. The Rangers
took some periodically to feed themselves and to keep the herd in check.

Walt loved that about the park. It provided them
with so much. They ate only what they grew here, in the greenhouses, and what
the park grew on its own, and they ate very well.

The Ranger housing, nearly two hundred years old
now, was patched and rebuilt with native materials, and every indication was
that it would stand a lot longer. Even the dilapidated Old Faithful Inn, which
had been vacant for half a century, was being repaired and renewed by the
Stracahn Avowed. Karson, the park director, had given them the use of it for
their holy building, which they called “The Vault,” and they had thinned trees
and restored the roof nearly to its original state.

The park gave them—all of them—everything they
needed to survive. But just as the thought came, an image flashed in Walt’s
mind: the sterile hospital in Sunset. He realized it wasn't entirely accurate.
There were some things that even the park couldn’t provide.

He was pouring the sauce on the ribs when Sylvia
came in. He kissed her for a long moment.

"I'm worried about Caldwell." She said
as she pulled away.

"That's what you get out of my hello
kiss?" He said, raising his eyebrows.

Sylvia blushed, then swatted him on the arm.
"Hello to you too, you old rascal." She snitched a piece of the meat
and popped it in her mouth. "But I worked with him today, and I think he's
getting worse."

"Worse?"

"He's just got so much . . .
Anger. It's not constructive. I'm half afraid of what he's going to do."

"‘Afraid’ we should tell the boss afraid or ‘afraid’
we should keep an eye on him afraid?" Walt moved the meat to the table,
and they sat down and began to eat. He tried to focus on what she was saying,
but the bison ribs tasted amazing, and he was a little distracted through the
first few bites.

"I already told Karson. He's angry about the
Stracahn, too, so I don't think he sees Caldwell clearly." She hesitated a
moment, and Walt knew her well enough to know that she was wondering if she
should go on. But forty years of marriage hadn't taught them to keep secrets.
"I see their point about the damage to the park, but, I don't know, Walt. I'm
not sure if bringing them here is such a bad thing." She said it
cautiously, quietly, tuning into his reaction.

He looked into her eyes. For someone who disliked
humanity as much as she did, for someone who had such good reasons to, that was
a big thing for her to admit.

"Me neither," he murmured.

Involuntarily, they both glanced around. The Rangers
stood together against the public. They had to. Disagreeing with the other
Rangers would put Walt and Sylvia at odds with the only people they interacted
with on a daily basis: at odds with their friends and neighbors and coworkers.
Their eyes found each other again, and they felt the safety and kinship that
had been drawing them together since the day they'd met.

"Well, we'll just have to keep an eye on him,"
Walt said. They sat facing each other as they had all these years. The third
chair sat empty between them.

"How was your day off?" Sylvia asked.

"Good. I went down and watched the latest
batch arrive."

"I wanted to come up and see them disembark,
but we didn't finish the new trails in the village until just a little while
ago."

Concern crossed Walt's face. "You shouldn't
be hauling rocks. Are you sure you don't want me to talk to Karson?"

She shook her head, fear in her eyes. "I
don't think he'll be as understanding as you think he will." They both
knew that living in Yellowstone was a privilege, earned by the hard work and
isolation of being a Ranger, and a chronic, terminal illness, if it meant she
couldn’t work, would be grounds for dismissal.

"Of course, he will. You've been working
here since he was born. He's not going to kick us out into the world because
you're a little sick."

Sylvia put down her fork. "I'm not a little
sick, Honey."

Walt reached for the tackle box where they kept
Sylvia's medicines and felt his hand tremble, just for a second. He glanced
quickly and saw that she had seen it, too. Ashamed, he steeled himself and
looked her in the eye. "I know, Syl." He lifted the lid on the box
and began to pull out bottles and hypodermics mechanically.

"They're going to find out." He said.
"Even if you can, I—I can't hide it much longer."

"Honey. You know what it means when they
find out."

Walt saw a chance, a little one. "So what if
they do kick us out. Syl, we've had a great life here."

"Walt, don't—" she tried to stop him, but
he went on.

"Maybe it's time we left. We could get you
closer to treatment," Sylvia interrupted him by standing and walking to
the window, agitated. "Sylvia, listen—"

She whirled. "No, Walt, you listen. I will
not leave here. I will not go back out there. If it means I die, at least I die
here. I don't want to—" Her voice splintered, and he moved to her as
quickly as he could get around the table, "I will never go back."

As Walt enfolded her in his arms, he heard, as he
had so many times, the echo of the first time she had said those words to him. It
was at the very end of the Terrene War when the Consolidated Terrene Leadership
had formed and subsequently erased the borders.

During the War, Sylvia had lost
everyone—everyone—in her family. She had nearly died trying to protect her
younger siblings in an attack and hadn’t been able to save them. Walt had met
her when he came home from the war to what had been Kansas. By then, the
Opening was a year or two old and Kansas had joined with several other Midwestern
states and part of Old Canada to form the region of Harvest.

He’d met her in a café in July, where she was
eating chocolate cake. He had stolen a bite, and she had stolen his heart. She’d
been covering her war wounds well. He didn’t know all she had been through
until weeks after their first meeting.

They were married and took advantage of the open
borders to leave the flat fields of Harvest behind, along with her ghosts. They
settled in the gorgeous woods of Cascadia, next to a little apple-growing town,
and Walt worked to convince her that people were not the monsters she had seen.
He told her that here they could be safe.

The first few months were beautiful, as they
built a little cabin from the trees on the land. He made money by hunting on
his land and selling meat to the locals.

But though the war was officially over, all those
years of fighting and so much death in the world had permeated the landscape
and the people. The food producing regions bickered among themselves and
resisted the controlling hand of the Consolidated Terrene Leadership. The
conflicts between Cascadia, Liberty, and Harvest began to encroach on Walt and
Sylvia’s little Eden. One day, Sylvia made an offhanded comment in the local
store about the price of bread back in Harvest and started a series of attacks
meant to drive them from Cascadia.

Walt resisted. He met the Cascadians threat for
threat, injustice for injustice. If they refused to sell him apples, he picked
them himself and dumped a side of venison on their steps as payment. If they
muttered names when he and Sylvia went to town, he matched their epithets with
vigor. If they attacked, he retaliated.

He held her now, the
shame of it flooding back over him. He had been so foolish. He had failed to
see what his private war was doing to Sylvia. Her anxiety and fear of people
grew. She stayed home when he went to town. She was home when the Cascadians finally
crossed the line and torched the little cabin. He had landed their small
spinner amidst the smoke when he returned from another ugly confrontation in
town. The picture of it was still clear in his mind: their little house in
flames, pieces of the curtains she had sewn turning into ash as they drifted
off into the night air. The blaze was bright against the dark sky as it licked
at the cedar shingles he had hewn from their own trees. The words: "Get
Out Harvesters," had been marked across the front door.

“I will never come back here.” She had said. He
remembered promising her that she would never have to.

They had fled society. They had enlisted in the Terrene
Park Service the next day and had faced and fought eviction from the park twice
since then. Once, when they'd found out Sean was coming and once about a decade
ago when Walt had testified against Caldwell for shooting a man in cold blood.

"It's been nearly forty
years," Walt said, trying to ease her terror, "maybe things out there
have changed." She didn't say anything, so he went on. "Sylvia, when
we've gone out to the doctor you've seen it. The towns are full of regular
people. Things have calmed down.” He tried to pretend he hadn’t seen the news
reports about tension escalating between the regions. “We could try again. And
we could get you to a place with a bigger hospital, better treatments
maybe."

She mumbled something into his chest, and he felt
her strength ebbing as she sagged against him.

"What, Honey?" he asked.

Sylvia raised her head. She looked him in the eye,
and he saw her deep weariness. But there was fire in her gaze as she spoke a
single word, crisply: "Never."

13

Caldwell pulled into the Ranger housing after
dark. The Bradleys' light was on, and it cast a yellow square out onto the
parking lot through their window. He couldn't figure out why they didn't have
blackout blinds on their windows like everyone else. There was no telling how
many nocturnal species were having their rhythms interrupted by that square of
light. He made a note to talk to Karson about it.

He tried to focus. He was picking up Allison for
a drive, and he tried to push Walt and Sylvia and the Stracahn and this whole
mess out of his mind. He had meant to ask Allison out for a long time, and he
didn't want the only thing they talked about to be Ranger stuff. There was more
to him than that.

As he climbed the stairs, he carried something he
had gathered that morning. He had been hiking one of the clearings left by the
early Rangers who used bulldozers to create firebreaks. Those bulldozers had
scraped away the topsoil, so the firebreaks never healed. They ran like vicious
scars across the mountainsides throughout Yellowstone.

This morning, while hiking one of those scars, he
had found, in the middle of it, a single lodgepole pine cone. Caldwell wasn’t
sure how it got there, but he knew its seeds had little chance of survival if
he left it there.

This was a serotinous cone,
sealed with a thick sap that served as an armor and an envelope. The seeds
inside couldn’t compete with huge, already grown trees on a shady forest floor,
so the cone remained sealed until a fire swept through the woods. The fire
melted the sap, released the seeds, and cleared out the big trees so the new
ones could grow. The burning was what cleansed the forest and allowed the new
trees to take root and grow. Serotinous cones could remain sealed for half a
century if necessary.

Inside his apartment, Caldwell laid the cone on
the living room side table beside other treasures which he had gathered from
the park. He privately called the little collection his shrine. The broken
feather of a bald eagle, a hunk of glassy black stone from Obsidian Cliff, the
broken horn of a bison, a stalk of dried fireweed blossoms. These things were
his inspiration, the reason he was here, and the reason he did what he did.
They were the reason that he would do what he had to do.

He had stared at them too long, though. Allison lived
up at Canyon Village. That meant he only had about fifteen minutes before he
needed to leave. He went into the bathroom and soaped a cloth, washing the
sweat and grime from his face and beard. He pulled a tee shirt from his closet
and a pair of thick boots from beside the door.

Just as he was reaching for his keys, a knock
came on his door. Caldwell opened it expecting to see Walt or Sylvia. Instead,
Damen stood there; his characteristic sneer made Caldwell feel sick.

Damen skipped the greetings. “You didn’t do what
I told you to do.”

Caldwell glanced at his black pack next to the
door. “It hasn’t come up yet. I’m working on it.”

“Listen, Justin. I have a huge job.” Damen shouldered
past him and sat on his couch, feigning exhaustion. “I am in charge of six
regions out there. I don’t have the luxury of locking myself away in a Global
Park and hiking all day. I am busy. Today I have only five minutes of
unscheduled time, and I’m spending them here talking about something I thought
we had already discussed. But it’s not done yet. And I cannot do my job if you
don’t do yours.”

“You wouldn’t even have that job if I decided to
drop a note to the Leadership,” Caldwell made his words cold and sharp. “I
think they’d be pretty interested to hear about dad’s line of work.”

Damen struck fast and hard, just as he’d been
taught to do, and Caldwell stepped back, dodging the blow.

“Or I could just kill you,” Damen said.

“Go ahead. That’s the one way to ensure that they
find out. I’ve got it all drawn out for them. If anything happens to me, your
career is over.”

Damen’s face twitched, but he straightened the
stretchy material of his comfort suit, regaining his composure quickly. “Well
then, I have to bet on the fact that you won’t mention it because you know if you
try, I’ll have you kicked out of here. Judging by the way you’ve been acting
since I made my first appearance in your precious park, I don’t think you’re
quite ready to face society.”

Eviction from the Park was the one thing Caldwell
couldn’t bear. He curled his hands into fists and swallowed. “I’ll do it. I
just need more time.”

“Well, you don’t have it.” Damen stood and paced
around the room. He stopped in front of Caldwell’s little shrine and pushed at
the broken horn disgustedly. “Important things are happening, Justin, and I
just can’t wait around while you wander through the meadows picking
wildflowers.”

Caldwell cringed to see him near those treasures.
Damen had no idea of their significance, of the power—beyond him, beyond all of
humanity—that those items represented. Yellowstone would obliterate Damen, in
spite of all his arrogance, if he were left out in it. Caldwell relished the
thought for a moment: his smug little brother facing the ravages of
Yellowstone.

Damen snapped his fingers, breaking Caldwell’s
daydream. Damen pulled a dark gray cylinder, about as long as the bison’s horn
on the table, from his inside pocket. “Anyway, I brought you a present that
will make your task easier.” He tossed the cylinder from hand to hand.

“What is it?” Caldwell asked.

“Neat weapon the Leadership dreamed up. It’s
called a strobe. Don’t drop it, though, because it activates on contact. It
will kill anything in a twenty-foot radius. And it covers its own tracks with a
hot little cyanogen fire.”

“If it’s so easy to use, and covers itself so
well, why don’t you use it on
him?” Caldwell made his voice sound braver than he felt.

“Like I said. I have important things to do. I
have to go to Sunset, in Cascadia, and meet with some of the leaders there. And
I don’t have the access to Meir that you do. He’s your neighbor, Justin.”

He handed the cylinder to Caldwell. “Get rid of Meir,
big brother, and when you do, take out as many of the Avowed as you can. There
is only room for one leadership on this planet.”

“And when I do, you’ll get them out of here,
right?” Caldwell said, searching Damen’s eyes for any trace of sincerity. As
usual, they were glassy and reserved. Caldwell couldn’t tell what lay behind
his brother’s gaze.

“That’s the plan.” Damen laid a hand on
Caldwell’s shoulder and squeezed, just hard enough for Caldwell to squirm. “Just
get it done, okay, Justin?” Damen didn’t say goodbye as he left.

Caldwell rolled the pain out of his shoulder as
he stepped across the room to slide the bison horn and the fireweed flowers
back into place. He went into his room and laid the cylinder on his nightstand,
wondering when he might get close enough to Meir to use it without being seen
by any other Rangers. He didn’t mind getting rid of Meir, but he hated not
being allowed to do it his way.

It had always been this way, since their mother
died, since the horrors of being on the run with their father. They had been
pitted against each other all their lives, and they were each skilled at using
the things the other loved for leverage. Someday he would be free of Damen,
free of all of them. Someday he would find a way to keep them all away. He
shook the dark thoughts from his head and rubbed his shoulder before grabbing
the keys to his motorcycle.

Allison tossed him a wave as she came out of her
apartment. His smile felt tight as she climbed on the bike behind him. She
slipped on her safety collar, and they started off.

The road wound around the edge of the lake and
the wind made her hair fly around them. The feeling of freedom drove Damen and
the Stracahn from Caldwell’s mind. He slowed as he saw some large forms in the
road ahead, and put his foot down as they stopped ten feet shy of a dozen bison
crossing the road.

Allison squeezed his chest. "Aren't they
amazing?"

He nodded. "Can you imagine that they were
almost extinct once?"

"Shortsighted management," she said.
The comment hung there, begging Caldwell to open up the conversation about what
was happening in the park now. About how letting an alien species into the most
pristine ecosystem on the planet could wipe out more than a single species. But
Caldwell was weary. He didn’t want to fight right now. Instead, he switched the
topic.

"Have you ever been to Inspiration Point on
a full moon?" he asked.

He felt her shake her head.

"You're in for a treat, then." The last
of the bison ambled off the pavement, and Caldwell fired the bike up again,
focusing on the road and the night ahead.

14

Sol stretched his aching muscles. He’d been
working at the park for over a week now, and every night was the same. He
rushed from school to the park and then from the park to the ranch. He packed
four hours’ worth of chores in two hours, and he was worn out.  He hadn’t even
seen his friends outside of school all week.

Now, the sun was sinking behind the mountains to
the West, and he grimaced as he thought of the long day behind him. He had helped
his mom with the garden, finished another day of school, and driven a third
load of beef liver into the park. Liberty had donated cases of the stuff, and
it had taken the drivers several days to get it all delivered. The cases were heavy,
and Sol’s back was aching from the strain. He'd promised Juice he’d hang out,
tonight, too.

He was finished with his chores, but if he didn’t
get out of here before Uncle Carl got home from the field or his mom got home
from town, he knew he’d have some more to do. He thought about jumping straight
into the truck, but there was a good chance that he’d see Mezina tonight, so he
went in and took the world’s fastest shower.

His hair was still wet when he came out. Sol felt
the mountain chill on his neck as he closed the door silently behind him. Silver
Lake, the shining body of water that gave the ranch its name, spread in front
of him, and he stopped to watch a blue heron dip its bill. It was a calming
place. He jumped when he heard his mom’s voice.

“Hey, handsome.”

“Sheesh, Mom.” She was sitting in the rocking
chair on the porch. A magnificent quilt was on her lap. Its pieces looked like
pinwheels in every shade of purple.

“Sorry I scared you,” she said, though she didn’t
sound sorry.

“It’s okay. That thing is awesome.”

She beamed. Though she maintained that she only
quilted to keep her suturing skills honed, Sol knew it was more than that. Her
quilts were remarkable pieces of art. They lay on every bed in the house, and
the linen closets were stuffed with them. She gave them to friends and people
who needed them, too, and out of all of them, he couldn’t remember ever seeing
two that were the same.

“Going into town?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’m picking Juice up.”

His mom was quiet for a moment, and when he
glanced at her, he saw that she was looking at his banner.

“I wish you hadn’t done that—”

“Oh, mom,” he interrupted, “I know. But it’s just
a—”

She held up a hand, and he went quiet. “You
didn’t let me finish. I wanted to say that I wish you hadn’t done that, but
since you did, I like what you chose.”

He looked down.

“Sometimes I feel like those eight years with Tim
were all a dream.” She said. “It’s hard to remember why we made the decisions
we did, why we tried to stay out in Shoreline and raise you. But they were the
right decisions, Sol. I know it’s been hard not having started out here. I know
you’re different than your friends.”

He squirmed. He had hoped no one but him had
noticed that.

“But we did that on purpose, son.” She said, and
her voice was earnest. “I wanted you to be like him. Not like them.”

Sol wanted to ask her if he was like his father.
He wanted to know what was good about that, but the growl of the crawler echoed
through the valley. It was still pretty far away. If he left now, he wouldn’t
get stuck with more chores.

She must have seen it, too. “You’d better get out
of here,” she said.

Sol jumped off the porch and headed for the
truck. As he reached for the handle, she called to him again.

“And Sol?”

“Yeah, Mom?”

Her gaze was fierce, even from the porch, and her
tone left no room for argument. “No skimming.”

When he stopped to pick Juice up, the first thing
he noticed was a new, ugly bruise across his friend’s cheek. It wasn’t unusual,
and Sol knew where it had come from.

“Not a great day, then?” Sol asked. Most people
just got embarrassed and pretended they didn’t see Juice’s marks anymore, but
he and Sol had been friends too long to pretend.

Juice gave him a half-smile. “Not great. He just
found out that I applied to work in the park.”

The words knifed through Sol. Juice would never
have done that if Sol hadn’t. He choked out an apology.

“Listen, Sol, if it wasn’t that it would have
been something else. This isn’t your fault. It’s his.”

Sol remembered Molly telling Juice that when the
kid had come to live with them for three months a couple of years ago.

“He’s just so angry all the time.
And there’s nothin’ I can do about it. The only time he’s happy with me is when
I’m training over at the armory. But there’s only a few hours a day I can be
there doin’ that.” Juice looked out the window.

Sol thought of Juice’s father. Mr. Hastings wasn’t
a big man, but he burned with a rage that even Sol feared. He had joined the Milguard
when he was twelve, and he was known for being a ruthless fighter. Spending his
life at war had turned everyone into an enemy. Another reason to get out of
here. Sol was glad he hadn’t joined the Milguard.

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to go to the immersion theater tonight.”
Juice said. “They’re playing that new movie: Ashes, and
everyone’s going to be there tonight for a summer kick-off.” There were just a
few more weeks of school left, and the end couldn’t come fast enough.

“Deal,” Sol said, “and it’s on me.”

Mezina took Sol’s hand on the way out of the theater.
She was pretty, and that always made him shy. She squeezed his hand.

"Let's go out to the river." She said,
pulling him away from their group and the rest of the crowd of movie-goers.

He glanced at Juice, who nodded enthusiastically.

“I’m going for a burger.” Juice said. Sol ignored
the hoots from the rest of his friends and followed Mezina off through the
trees. After a few minutes, he was skipping rocks across the dark surface of
the Snake River.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the
bright moonlight on her dark hair. He could see her sitting on a rock,
stretching her bare feet toward the water. He hadn't been with her alone very
often, and though he wanted to start a conversation, he didn't know what to
say. He skipped another rock.

"That was a good one!" she said.
"Where did you learn to do that?"

"My Uncle Carl taught me once." Sol's
mind drifted to his uncle, and the complicated, angry man he'd become. There
had been some good times, though, and Sol thought Uncle Carl probably just
didn’t know how to do the things he had to do, like being a father.

"I saw your uncle yesterday," Mezina
said, and Sol glanced at her. "In the hardware store."

Sol sat beside her on the rock. "Nice,"
he said.

"I was getting a capacitor for my new
repeater."

"Repeater?" Sol asked.

"Yeah, I do a lot of comms stuff."

This surprised him. He hadn't
known she was into that. "Really?"

"It's pretty fascinating. You can connect
with people all over the world."

"That sounds awesome."

“Yeah. I started when I joined the Milguard last
year, and now I do it for fun, too. Briian’s a comms specialist, with me.”

Sol wasn’t sure why that made him a little
jealous.

Mezina reached into her pocket and produced a
small communications device. “See, we can talk to someone right now." She
fiddled with it, then clicked in a string of letters and numbers.

"Mountaingirl!" came a man's voice.
"This is Cheerio. Haven't heard from you in a while."

"I've been busy," she said, locking her
eyes onto Sol's. "Here's my friend." She pushed the device into Sol's
hands and whispered, "Say hi."

He fumbled with it for a moment, then said,
"Hello."

"You're a friend of the mountain girl,
huh?" He said, "Got yourself a firecracker there, buddy."

Mezina giggled, and Sol heard the awkwardness as
he responded, "I guess."

"You helping her with the initiative? She's
been doing a lot of that on her own out there—" Mezina grabbed the radio.

"This is just a friendly call,
Cheerio," she said quickly, "we didn't call to talk shop."

There was a pause, "Got it, Mountaingirl."

"Well, we gotta go. I just wanted to show
him how it works." Mezina seemed edgy now, and Sol wondered what the
initiative was.

"Take care out there. Over."

"Over," Mezina said,
switching it off and slipping it back in her pocket. "See?  We can talk to
people everywhere in the world with this. He's in Melbourne."

"Melbourne? Wow." Sol was impressed
that she could connect that far. “Does he work for the Leadership?” She looked
down, fiddling with her rings.

“Not really. Kind of.” She snagged a rock and
offered it to him, trying to change the subject, “Here, do it again! That last
one was a great skip.”

But Sol couldn’t let it go. Growing up here had
left him hypersensitive to discontent and intrigue, and he knew something
deeper was going on.

"What initiative was he talking about?"

Mezina glanced around unconsciously. "You've
probably heard of it." She peered at him. "Your uncle knows."

Sol was afraid of that. "I'm sure he does.
But I don't know. What is it?"

Mezina looked conflicted. "I'm not supposed
to say, but—" she leaned in, her brown eyes searching his.

A sudden whoop from behind made Sol stand and
spin around. Three guys from their class came out of the bushes at the river's
edge.

"Whatcha up to?" A kid named Kade
strode up to Sol and gave him a little shove.

Sol felt the adrenaline surge within him. These
guys had given him a hard time before. The last time it had come to blows.

"What are you doing here with him?"
Kade threw the comment over his shoulder, to Mezina. Sol remembered with a
sinking feeling that they had been dating a couple of months ago.

"Same thing I was always doing here with
you." Mezina shot back. "Talking."

That got a couple of laughs from Kade's buddies
and made him even madder.

"Hey, Sol," he asked, "how's the
park?"

How did he even know Sol was working there? Sol
didn't know whether Kade was looking for a real answer or just trying to pick a
fight.

"Fine," Sol said,
noncommittally.

"Look out for the Rangers," Kade said, a
cruel edge in his voice. "They don't like your family much."

"Kade!" Mezina cried.

"Shut up." Was all Sol could think of
to say through a wave of pain and embarrassment.

Kade must have seen that he'd hit his mark.
"Come on, Mezina. Why don't we go find something better to do?" He
said, reaching for her.

"I'm fine here, thanks." Mezina stepped
back from his hand and slipped her arm around Sol's waist. He blinked down at
her, then looked back up at Kade.

Kade made a disgusted sound.

"Fine." He said. "But we're not
staying around here." The three of them swaggered off down the path toward
the movie theater.

Sol let out his breath. As he did so, he felt Mezina's
cool fingers on the back of his neck. "I'm sorry about them."

Sol didn't move away from her. "They'll
always see me as an outsider, even though I've been here for ten years."

"They're just scared because of all the
foreigners that have come in lately, and more are probably coming," Mezina
said. The tone of her voice made an uneasy feeling rise in Sol's throat.

"Foreigners?"

Mezina nodded. "You know, since the aliens
came to the park, people are just trying to flood in here, protesting them at
the gates. If theMilguard didn’t keep most of them out, Liberty would be packed
with people. And probably aliens too unless—” she stopped abruptly. "Hey,
what did they mean about the park?”

Sol looked at her. He felt her closeness. He’d
been carrying the secret too long. He wanted to tell someone. “I’m working in
the park.” He said. “I’m hauling supplies for them.”

Mezina’s mouth twitched in a
funny way. She almost looked disgusted.

“For the aliens?”

“To
the Stracahn, yeah, but for
the Park Service. I mean, I work for them.”

“What? Why?”

“Because they pay well,” he said, defensively.

“But . . .” she stepped away from him, struggling
for words. “It’s blood money, Sol. You, of all people, should know that.”

Her words stung. No matter how long he was here, he’d
always be an outsider to them.

“I need it to get out of here, Mezina.” He didn’t
like the turn the evening had taken, and he walked several steps in agitation.

She seemed stunned. “But, but why would you
leave? You’ve got all of Silver Lake Ranch coming to you."

Did he? Sol had never thought of it. Had never
even thought of it as his home, really. It had always seemed they were just
temporarily staying with his uncle. This new idea stayed with him, and he
didn’t speak for a moment.

“But I’m not from here. I’m not a local. I’ll
never fit in.” He recognized that half of him wanted her to concede that, while
the other half wanted her to deny it.

“I don’t agree. I think you qualify as a local
now, and I'm glad you moved out here." She said, stretching her feet
toward the water. “And you fit in with a lot of us just fine.” She reached
toward him, and her earlier repulsion was gone. “You fit in with me.”

Sol was quiet. He wasn't sure about that yet. But
he took her hand as he looked out over the water and the bright stripe the full
moon was making across it. He did love the landscape here, and there was Juice.
Not everyone was like Kade. "I guess I'm glad to be here, too. But I wish
people would just get along a little better out here. It seems like everyone’s
fighting all the time.”

“Sometimes you have to fight, Sol. Even if you
don’t want to.”

“Is that what the initiative is about?” Sol asked
pointedly.

Mezina looked him in the eye. “It’s probably
better if you ask your uncle about that. If you were inducted, it would be fine,
but I’d better not say anything else about it.”

She must have seen the disappointment in Sol’s eyes
because she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "We didn’t come out here
to talk politics, did we? There’ll be plenty of time for that. Let’s just talk
about us. If you don’t want to run the ranch, what do you want to do?”

Sol didn't know. He hadn't thought about it too
much, because up until this job with the Park Service, there wasn’t much chance
of having the money to do anything. "I'm not sure yet. I just know I want
to do something like," he watched the river, "like my dad."

Mazina angled her body toward his. Her hand on
his shoulder was light, and her voice was soft when she said, "I'm sorry
you lost him."

Sol hadn't talked like this to anyone his age. He
hadn't even talked to his mom with this much honesty for a while. He liked how
it felt. "I still miss him."

She nodded but didn't say anything. Instead, she
leaned into him and pulled him closer. Sol knew that this was the moment that
he should reach for her, that he should probably kiss her, but this whole night
had happened so fast. He was still uneasy about what she was involved with, and
his head was still spinning from the run-in with Kade. He didn't want their
first kiss to be like this.

Instead of stepping forward, Sol stepped
backward. He took her hand and started toward the parking lot. Mezina stopped,
pulling his hand.

"Hey." She said, her voice low.
"Are we leaving so soon?"

Sol ducked his head. "I've got to be up
pretty early tomorrow. I have to do half my chores before school." It was
a dumb excuse, and it sounded like one, hanging there in the air between them.
She dropped his hand.

"Sure. I get it."

Sol followed her back to the parking lot, feeling
ridiculous.

“I promised you a ride in my truck,” he said,
“Can I take you home?”

“I guess.”

When they got in the truck, she sat far away, by
the passenger door.  When Juice bounced up to the window, she got out and let
him climb in the middle. That was not exactly what Sol had been hoping for.

He felt stupid. He could have done that better.
He did like her, and this might have been his only chance to show her that.

Juice chattered on between them. That was the
best movie ever, he’d eaten three hamburgers, he’d gotten the number of the new
waitress at the diner. Neither Sol nor Mezina said anything on the drive home. Sol
was slightly relieved as they pulled up to Juice’s house, and since Juice’s dad
was staying at the armory for the rest of the week, he didn’t feel bad dropping
him off there.

When they were alone again, Sol tried to explain.
“Listen, Mezina, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

She looked out the window. “Well, you did.”

“I know.” He said. “But I don’t want our first
date to end like this.” At that, she tilted her shoulders just slightly back
toward him. “How can I make it up to you?” he asked.

As he pulled the truck onto the highway, Mezina
scooted over to him without warning.

“Don’t take me home yet, Sol.” She said, and when
he glanced at her, he saw that her eyes were sparkling. “There’s something I
want to do.”

Sol ran through a list of possibilities, but she
spoke before he could guess.

“I want to see Yellowstone.”

The air went out of Sol’s chest.

“Mezina, I don’t think I can—”

She pulled away. “Well do you want to make up or
not?” she asked curtly.

“I don’t know if they’ll even let me in at this
time of night.”

“They will,” she said, touching his shoulder, “We
just have to stop off at the warehouse for a load. They have supply shifts
running around the clock.”

“How do you know that?” Sol wondered aloud.

“The Milguard keeps close tabs on the Rangers.”
She said. “I’ve done recon on the South gate during graveyard shift twice this
month. They’ve got people going in and out all the time. You just need that
magic permit.” She smiled. “And you’ve got one!”

15

The rule that no one could leave the village was
Zyn’dri’s fault. Her mother had been right. She had gotten hungry that night a
week ago after she hadn’t eaten her dinner. And somehow, that night and every
night since, her mother had procured for her different things to eat. She would
wake in the morning to the satisfying crunch of a peeled root, or her mother
would slip a few berries into her hand before bed.

Zyn’dri knew that her mother was gathering them,
probably at night, from the grassland around the village. She knew that it was
expressly forbidden, and it made her nervous.

The Rangers knew, too. They knew that Stracahn
had been leaving the Village. There came an official announcement that permits
were required to leave the Village.

But her mother wouldn’t let her starve. She kept
slipping away. Zyn’dri didn’t know what the Rangers would do to her mother if
they found out, but they carried those guns, and they seemed, always, on the
brink of violence.

Especially Caldwell. She had seen him a time or
two since meeting the blind bison, and he looked angrier every time. She began
trying harder to get the Earthfood down, and she insisted to her mother that
she wasn’t hungry, even sometimes when she was.

Some of the meals were better than others. She
liked the morning oatmeal and the elk and bison meat, and she didn’t mind the
white vegetables that the Rangers smashed and served with gravy. After a week
of Earthfood, at least she could manage some of it.

Her mother seemed relieved, too, and the extras
from Hayden Valley tapered off.

The Avowed had instructed that school should
start, and Zyn’dri sat next to Asvika and Innueo for a few hours each day in
the dining hut learning about Stracahn history and literature. A Ranger came in
every afternoon and talked about the many thermal features in the park and how
they could scald you, boil you, or fry you respectively. Zyn’dri was glad her
mother wasn’t leaving the path anymore, and she never wanted to herself.

Sometimes, she traced the symbols from Laska’s
books on the sides of her notebook. Not the time-slowing one, which she was
still a little afraid of, but others that seemed random or innocuous. They
calmed her, somehow, and she liked trying to find matches for them in nature,
as Laska had done in the lava flows of Empyriad.

Zyn’dri was walking down the path from school
when she noticed several bison on the hill outside the Village. She stopped to
watch their easy grazing, their calm dozing in the early evening sun. Glancing
away from them she found, near her feet, a wildflower she hadn’t seen before.
It was newly opened, and it had a remarkably complex leaf pattern. When viewed
from above, it was a match to one of the patterns she had found in the green notebook
and which she had sketched in her own. She leaned close to trace it with her
finger.

Before she could begin, the sound of ragged
coughing drew her attention. She looked up the path and saw the old man who had
been behind her in the processing line. He was staggering out of his hut, and
the sound of his breathing stopped Zyn'dri's own breath. It was dry and
painful. She hurried to his side.

"Are you all right?" she asked in
Stracahn.

The man shook his head: no. He heaved another
breath and hissed a single word: "Help."

Zyn'dri took his arm. He wasn't much bigger than
she was, and his arm felt frail and thin as she led him toward her hut. She had
to get him to her mother. Her mother would know what to do.

A Ranger saw them and called after her.
"Hey! Is he sick? He has to check in with the Ranger at the front if he
is."

Zyn'dri ignored him. Her mother would know what
to do.

They were only an arm's length from the hut when
the man fell, hard, onto the gravel path.

"Mother!" Zyn'dri screamed toward the door
of the hut, cradling the man's swollen face and trying to soothe him.
"Mother!"

And then her mother was there, and Malra, and
others. They were lifting the man, carrying him, talking in excited tones.

"We must get him to the Avowed.”

“Where are they? How do we reach them?"

"They've gone to the Old Faithful Village,"
Malra said. "They're convening to know what is to be done about the Ola'an,
and to finish the Vault. They won't be back until they have an answer."

The Ranger came up to the group.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s ill.” Zyn’dri’s mother spoke curtly.
Zyn’dri saw the Ranger flinch at her words. He pulled his faceshield down from
the top of his helmet. He looked at the old man with revulsion.

“He has to check in with the Ranger at the
front.” He said.

“We need to take him to the Avowed. At Old
Faithful Village.” Zyn’dri’s mother said.

The Ranger shook his head. “Nobody leaves this
village.” He said. “Not without a permit from Karson. I’m telling you; you need
to take him to the front. There’s a Ranger in the guardhouse there who has
medical supplies. Get him there.”

Zyn’dri’s mother turned from the Ranger without
another word. The voices of the adults faded as they carried the man toward the
front of the Village. Zyn’dri looked up. The golden sun was sinking behind the
dark forms of the bison on the hill, casting their enormous shadows across the
village. Zyn'dri suddenly felt very afraid.

Within two days, the coughing had spread
throughout the Village. Many of the Stracahn were ill.

Late that night, Zyn'dri’s heart stopped as she
heard the ragged coughing coming through the thin walls of her family's
Quickform hut. She felt the hut shake as her father, on the other side, tried
to stifle the hacking that had awakened her mother. Zyn'dri slipped out of bed
and walked to their door, pushing it open gently.

In the thin light of the wall lamp, Zyn'dri saw
her mother sitting up on the bed, stroking her husband's forehead. Her lavender
shawl was wrapped around her.

Zyn'dri's mother looked up fear in her eyes.
"You must go for them, Zyn'dri," she whispered, her hand resting on
her husband's convulsing shoulder. "Go for the Avowed. Don’t let the Rangers
see you. Go and tell the Avowed what is happening here."

Zyn'dri ran. Out the front door and down the path.
She stumbled on the rocks at its edge and fought through the tall grass. She
heard the crunching footsteps of a patrolling Ranger on the path behind her,
and she crouched behind a boulder, her lungs bursting as she tried to quiet her
breathing.

The Ranger walked on, but Zyn’dri stayed still. A
sound was coming from her left. It was a thick, steady sound, and it took her a
moment to realize that it was coming from the boulder. Slowly, she reached up
and touched the wooly coat of a bison. The sound was its heavy breathing.

The night was dark, but the feeble moon cast the
image of the beast’s white eye back to her. It was the blind bison. Zyn’dri put
her arms around the big head and laid her forehead on the rough hair. The bison
grunted a greeting.

Zyn’dri felt the curve of the bison’s horn next
to her hand, and she traced it carefully with her fingertips. She ran them over
the bison’s thick fur, and though she couldn’t see it, the pattern of its intricate
swirls and curls emerged in her mind.

She felt the calming presence of the big beast,
and she spoke aloud in Stracahn. “I have to find the Avowed. I have to go to
Old Faithful.”

She knew what the geyser looked like from the
images the Ranger had shown in school, and as it came to her mind, the big
bison flinched. She pulled her hand away as he rocked to his feet and snorted.

“Don’t go.” Zyn’dri begged. The bison snorted
again and began to amble away. Zyn’dri watched him go, a moving mass in the dim
light. She saw him stop and turn. He dropped his head, and she saw the smooth
surface of his tongue as he made an impatient sound—a rattling grunt.

In Zyn’dri’s mind, she thought she saw the
geyser, Old Faithful. Only it wasn’t as she had seen it in the images. It was a
different angle, and the cone was a muted blue. The plume that shot toward the
sky was a dusty gray, and there were smudges of yellow on the face of the flat
rock at its base. This, she realized, was the bison’s memory of it. Maybe the
only time he had seen it before he lost his sight. She realized with relief
that he could help. He knew where she wanted to go, and he swung around and
moved across the valley determinedly. Zyn’dri followed him, urging him on and
following his trail through the moonlit meadow.

Zyn’dri’s legs burned. She was weary and the
night was growing chilly. Still, the bison trudged on. Zyn'dri ran as far as
she could. The sound of the river grew loud, then softened. The wind rustled
the grassland around her. Still, she ran on, keeping pace with the bison’s
stiff lope. She was breathing heavily, gasping like the fish she'd seen in the
pelican's mouth that first day. Finally, she had to slow, but she kept walking
as quickly as she could manage.

The bison’s hooves thudded into the soft earth
ahead of her. Without warning, their sound changed to a discordant clicking. As
she followed him, she felt the human’s road under her feet. It thrummed with
new and confusing energy, and she hated the strange, dark shape of it
stretching before her. The bison slowed and stepped to the edge of the road,
where he stood wheezing. Zyn’dri moved to follow him off the road, but he swung
around and grunted at her, lowering his head as if to keep her on the road.

“We can’t stop!” she cried, “We have to get to
Old Faithful!” she tried to think the picture to him again, but the bison stood
stubbornly.

Perhaps the road ran to the other village. Maybe the
bison wanted her to follow it. Just as she took a step,  light swept the world
around her. She spun to see two bright lights approaching on the road. The
lights slowed. It was a vehicle, and it stopped in front of her.

A young man was out of the truck in a flash. His
features were the same color as the bison’s soft shoulder, and the look in his
warm eyes made her feel safe. Another figure followed, a slim girl who squinted
at Zyn'dri as she came closer. Zyn’dri backed away.

"It’s okay,” the young man said, “We won’t
hurt you. That's Mezina. My name's Sol. I'm here to help you."

He stepped forward, and Zyn'dri felt her legs
give out. She leaned against his strong shoulder, gasping, trying to tell him
what was wrong. But the human words didn't come to her. She stopped.

"It's all right. It's all right." His
voice was gentle. “Just take a deep breath and tell me what you need." Sol
put his arm around Zyn'dri protectively and looked into her eyes.

When she spoke, her voice was thick and winded.
She held onto Sol tightly as she tried to find the words. They came out in a
hurried Stracahn accent: "My father. I must go to the Avowed."

Sol nodded. "The Avowed are the Stracahn who
wear the robes, right?"

Zyn'dri nodded, gaining confidence.

"Okay. I know where they are. I delivered
some supplies to the Old Faithful settlement earlier, and I saw them working on
that old log building up there. I think they're moving in."

Zyn’dri tried to remember an expression of
gratitude, but nothing came to mind.

The young man tried to smile. "I'll take you
there. Okay?"

Zyn'dri shot a look at the girl with him, who was
leaning against the truck with her arms folded. The girl's eyes were round as
the moon as the young man led Zyn'dri toward the truck. Zyn’dri saw her shake
her head sharply and point to the back of the truck.

"I'm not making her ride back there."
Sol's voice was strong as he helped Zyn'dri into the truck and climbed in
beside her. Mezina climbed in, too, and Zyn’dri saw that she was leaning hard
against her door, keeping as much distance between herself and Zyn’dri as
possible. The reaction wasn’t new to Zyn’dri. She’d seen such disgust when some
of the Rangers looked at her, too.

But Sol didn’t seem to have the same aversion. He
smiled down at her, speaking calmly. As the old truck took the turns, Zyn'dri
held tight to his arm. "We'll find someone to help you, okay?" She
nodded.

Finally, they pulled up next to a booth with a
sleepy-looking Ranger inside. His nametag read Bradley.
"You again?” He said, and Zyn’dri sensed that this scared Sol. “You can't
go in, son. What are you doing here this time of night?" The Ranger seemed
more gruff than angry.

Sol leaned back so that Zyn'dri could peer around
him and see the Ranger. "We found her on the road. She’s looking for the
Avowed."

The Ranger's eyebrows rose. "Well, in that
case, let me help." He left the little hut and came around to stand by the
side of the truck. "My name is Walt Bradley. Can you walk with me?"
he asked Zyn'dri kindly.

She held tight to Sol's arm. "I have to find
the Avowed." She said desperately.

Walt nodded. "Yes. I know. I know where they
are. They're just up this path. I can take you to them."

Zyn'dri looked pleadingly at Sol.
"Please," she said.

She saw compassion in his eyes. He opened the
door and slid out. Zyn'dri scrambled after him, still clinging to his arm.
"Can I come with her?"

"Sol!" Mezina said.

Zyn'dri saw him glance up at her. "It won't
take long."

The Ranger shook his head, "I'm sorry. You
can't go in. I can't let anybody from outside the park go past this booth until
9 o'clock tomorrow morning."

Zyn'dri heard the anger in Sol's voice.
"That's ridiculous. Look at her! She's terrified!"

The Ranger reached his hand toward Zyn'dri.
"I'll take you to the Avowed. I promise."

With her eyes on Sol's, Zyn'dri loosened her
grip. He nodded reluctantly. "He'll take you there. You'll be okay."

She put her hand in Walt's. The Ranger spoke to Sol
as he got back in his truck. “You probably better head out of the park. Some of
the Rangers have been getting a little jumpy lately.”

“Yes, sir,” Sol said as he climbed back into the
truck, reversed it into the road, and drove slowly away.

"Like I said, my name's Walt." The Ranger
said. He reached into the booth and pulled out a flashlight. As they started up
the dark path, Zyn'dri held even tighter to his hand.

The moonlight struck the big log building where
the Avowed lived. As they approached, two hooded figures came out. As they
neared, Zyn'dri recognized Grandyn and his Ally. They were from her village.

"Allandar, Zyn'dri," they called, using
the word the Avowed reserved when greeting one another. They must have known of
her calling. But why were they greeting her as if she were Avowed when she had
refused it? But she didn’t have time to wonder much about that now.

"My father is sick!" Zyn’dri blurted
out in Stracahn. "And there are no Avowed to help him!"

Grandyn knelt and spoke quickly and urgently to
Zyn'dri. "Describe the sickness."

"There's coughing, and crying out. His face is
swollen. He can’t seem to breathe. You must come!" She grasped the smooth sleeve
of his robe, pulling him back down the path.

Grandyn looked at Walt. "Can you get us back
to the Hayden Valley Village?" he asked.

Zyn'dri heard Walt radio for someone to drive
them. By the time they reached the booth, a green vehicle, the kind they had called
a spider, was waiting for them. There was a sleepy Ranger inside.

Zyn’dri tried to keep calm as she climbed the
ladder into the belly of the spider. The long legs began to reach and pull,
reach and pull, and soon they were streaking over the grassland toward her
parents.

As she watched the spider’s lights slice through
the darkness in front of them, Zyn'dri was glad to be with the Avowed. She was pleased
that the Avowed were there to help her, to help all of her people. She was glad
for their familiar presence in this new and very frightening world.

When Zyn'dri and the Avowed walked into the
Quickform hut, Zyn'dri knew she had been gone too long. Her father was so, so
still. And now her mother's breath was coming in a weak whine. She was crumpled
over the form of her husband, pale and still, wrapped in the lavender sash
Zyn'dri had given her back home. Zyn'dri watched as the Avowed carefully lifted
her mother and laid her under the blankets, trying to make her comfortable. But
it was too late for her father, and they lifted the carved mea, a wooden
talisman, from his belt and laid it across his closed eyes.

And then the Avowed sat on the floor, one on each
side of her parents' bed. Their hands moved rhythmically, and they were
completely silent. They stayed that way for so long that Zyn'dri fell asleep
watching them.

When she awoke, she saw the same wrinkles in the
blanket, the same curve to the pillow, that she had seen when she closed her
eyes. Her mother hadn't stirred while Zyn'dri slept. The mid-morning sun poured
through the window, making a stifling heat in the room. It had been hours.

The Avowed stirred and Zyn'dri watched as they
dipped their fingers in water and traced an intricate pattern on her mother's
forehead and the soles of her feet.

Two more Avowed entered the room and lifted her
father, taking him from the little hut as Grandyn and his Ally continued the
healing ceremony for her mother.

Zyn'dri followed her father's body out into the white
hot light. She felt empty and small and useless. She wanted him to sit up, to
touch her cheek, to tell her all was well. But she knew that wouldn’t happen.

All around her, she heard and saw people coughing
and gasping. In nearly every hut, someone was ill. Many of the Avowed had come
from their quarters today, and their orange and blue robes waved like banners
throughout the village. But Zyn'dri saw that their presence was not preventing
the worst. In the Northeast corner of the village the Rangers, under the
direction of the Avowed, were just completing assembly of a Trisne Rooth—a death
tent. It was a place where the bodies of Stracahn were transfigured back into
their elements and released from this existence to find peace.

Avowed from all over the village were carrying
bodies into the tent. Zyn'dri followed the still form of her father into the Trisne
Rooth. His skin had a flat tone, a pallor she had never seen. She hated this
place, these people. She wanted to go home. She wanted to be back on Empyriad—before
the humans came—with the closeness of the forests and the clean air to breathe.
She didn't want to be here, in this dead place.

They laid him at the end of a long row of the
dead and stepped away. Zyn'dri knelt beside him, put her head on his shoulder,
and let the sadness overcome her.

While she knelt, the Avowed kept coming. They lay
other Stracahn beside her father, all the way to the end of the tent, then
filled another row. Zyn'dri felt dizzy, seeing them all. She longed to run back
to her mother.

Scuffling at the door of the
tent made her look up as more Avowed entered. With horror, Zyn'dri saw the
lavender shawl that hung from the woman they carried into the death tent.
Zyn'dri found her feet and ran away from the sight of it, down the tent to the
end of the aisle.

It seemed impossible. Unreal. The sun outside was
rising higher and hotter in the sky, heating up the tent and making the air
taste stifling and acrid. She glanced back towards her parents—both so still. How
could this be? Hadn’t she run her fastest? Hadn’t she brought the Avowed?

But like the destruction of her home planet, none
of that mattered now. She backed away, toward the door of the tent, taking in
the death all around her. Glancing out the door at the opposite end of the tent
Zyn'dri saw the village and the sweeping grasslands beyond; empty, free, open.

She ran again, out of the Trisne Rooth. Out of
the village and off across the vast valley. She ran until she reached the river
and then she only slowed to slog through it before she ran again. She ran as
the sun moved across the sky and the hunting birds dove around her. She ran
through the dark, wild forest as night came on until she stood facing a broad,
flat face of water. It was Yellowstone Lake, and it stretched away toward the
horizon and reflected the colors of the sunset. Zyn’dri plunged in.

Zyn'dri wanted to drown—tried to drown—in the
cold lake. But as her head went under, she involuntarily kicked and swam again.
Even when she consciously stilled her legs and arms, her head only went under a
little and then it was as if some unseen force buoyed her up to take another
gasping breath. Eventually, she felt firm ground under her, and she dragged
herself onto a sticky patch of sand. It was dark now, and the moonlight struck
the sand and made it glow eerily. She slept.

When she awoke, the sun was warming her face. She
stood and made her weary way up the narrow ribbon of sand toward the trees and
scrub brush that covered what she now recognized as a little island in the
lake. The trees on it were tall and spiny. Morning dew hung from them, and
steam rose from the water at their feet. She left the rocky shore and made her
way to them, toward the cool darkness at the densest part of the forest.

Zyn'dri lay on the spongy, prickly forest floor.
She felt a great gaping nothing inside as if all her thoughts and all her hopes
and even all her fears were suddenly gone and she was empty and hollow. Her
apprehension over loud noises and the turmoil of this planet were nothing in
the face of her new reality. This was the thing she had feared most, and now it
had happened. She was alone.

She was small, and she felt it there on the
ground in this new world, with her parents off in the afterlife, where she
would never hear their words again, or see their faces, or feel them holding
her. She felt a wave of anger toward them. Why now? Why leave her AFTER the
great journey from Empyriad? When she was surrounded by a foreign and hostile
place? She wished they had all stayed on their home planet and crossed the
threshold of death together.

Zyn'dri cried until her voice was gone and her
body ached from the effort of it. She was stiff when she finally sat up. Bright
light filtered down through the trees. Her stomach hurt. She still wanted to
cry, but she didn't have any tears left. Above her, the prickly trees swayed in
a breeze off the lake. She lay watching them. Something about their motion,
that smooth rocking sway, made her think of her mother. She closed her eyes and
felt her mother's arms around her. She felt a little stronger when she opened
them.

Zyn’dri glanced around. The island ground was
covered with the prickly needles from the trees above and with little plants
and foliage. Zyn'dri thought about the plants back home. She and her mother had
often gone to gather berries and flowers. A little spear of drooping violet
blossoms nodded at Zyn'dri from a few feet away. She crawled over to it,
inspecting the leaves and the flowers. On Empyriad, poisonous plants often gave
a warning: a stench, sometimes, or a deep purple undertone to the leaves, or
often a waxy coating that tasted bitter and caused an itchy sensation. Here,
though, she had no idea what to expect.

These flowers looked harmless enough. As Zyn'dri
felt the pain in her middle, she reached out to touch one of the drooping
purple flowers. It was soft against her fingers, delicate. She pulled it from
the stem and smelled.

It had a sweet, light scent. Not like anything
back home, but not unpleasant. Could she trust that it was safe? Her gnawing
hunger made her brave, and she put the flower into her mouth. There was a
slight tang, but the aftertaste was pleasant. She picked and ate another. They
tasted better the more she ate of them. She pulled a whole cluster from the
stalk and chewed them. They were not unlike some of the herbs her mother had
grown in the garden back home.

When the flowers were gone, Zyn'dri pulled a leaf
and looked at it. It was scratchy with small hairs covering it. She placed it
carefully in her mouth and chewed. The taste, though more bitter than the
blossoms, was not unpleasant, but Zyn'dri disliked the texture and the
scratchiness in her mouth, so she spat it out and went in search of more
blossoms.

Within a few minutes, she had gathered enough
flowers to make a small meal, and she sat at the edge of the forest, gazing
over the rippling lake water around her, feasting on flowers.

16

Sol brushed a message from Mezina off the screen
of his phone. He knew he should address the terrible way their date had ended a
couple of nights ago, but he couldn't think of what to say, and he had just
arrived back in the park to make another delivery. The park was squirming with
activity, people and Stracahn rushing here and there. Everyone seemed panicked.
He had spent the last 20 minutes looking for the Ranger, who he'd left the child
with. He just wanted to reassure himself that she was okay and that she'd made
it back to her home, then he'd call and smooth things over with Mezina.

He approached a tall, thin Ranger, who was
talking on his radio.

"I'll send it over." The Ranger said,
looking harried.

"Excuse me," Sol started. The man
turned to him.

"What is it?" The Ranger snapped. His
uniform read Sanchez.
Under that was a little red cross and stitching that read, “Law Enforcement Ranger:
Medical Specialist.” He must have recognized the yellow windbreaker that
designated Sol as a park service employee because his eyes brightened.
"Can you make a delivery to Hayden Valley?" he asked sharply.

Sol nodded. Sanchez motioned for him to follow
and they both went into the nearest Ranger cabin. Crates were stacked inside.
"They've got this epidemic figured out," the Ranger said as they
entered, "and the CDC shipped all this medicine in this morning, but with
all the Rangers out dealing with the dead, we don't have anyone to deliver it
to the living."

Sol's head was spinning. "An epidemic?"
he managed.

"Yeah, some of the Stracahn apparently have
sort of severe allergy." He hefted a crate and handed it to Sol, then
grabbed another himself, gesturing for Sol to go out. “It started when the
yellow bell flowers bloomed out.”

They put the crates in Sol's truck, and the Ranger
said, "I don't have to tell you how important this is, kid. It's life and
death. Be careful, but hurry."

Sol jumped in the truck, but a shout stopped him
from putting it in gear. He looked out just as another Ranger approached
Sanchez, and he froze.

The Ranger that strode up inches from his door
had a trimmed gray beard and small, cruel eyes. His face was burned into Sol's
memory. This was the Ranger who had killed his father.

The bearded Ranger reprimanded Sanchez.
"What are you doing sending a volunteer out on official business?"

"Back off, Caldwell. You've been interfering
all morning. In fact, you've been interfering for the last three days: hassling
Rangers, detaining the Avowed that were headed out to help these people,
generally slowing everybody down. It's like you want the Stracahn to die."
Sanchez pushed forward, getting into Caldwell's face. "Somebody has to
take those meds. You wanna do it?"

Caldwell sneered and stepped back. "I've got
enough on my hands."

Sanchez pushed past him. "So do I." He
slapped the hood of the pickup. "Get going, kid!"

Sol snapped out of his panic. The tires threw
gravel as he headed for Hayden Valley.

He thought of the Ranger as he drove. Should he
have said something? Should he have hit him with the truck? The fear and anger
and sorrow that Sol had carried for so many years was back, fresh and hot in
his throat.

Sol distracted himself from it by focusing on the
task at hand. What kind of an epidemic could this be?

He found himself worried about the little girl
and wondering if she was sick.

When he arrived, Sol carried the box through the
village, looking for a Ranger to take it. The village was quiet. The few
Stracahn that were out had a hollow look on their faces. He knew the look. It
was grief. His mother had worn that look for a year and a half after his
father's death. Sol glanced away from them and walked further down the path.

He saw a large tent, bigger and more
awkward-looking than the Quickform huts around it. He assumed it must be the Ranger's
station. He crossed the village quickly and ducked inside it. Then he froze.

Sol stared in horror at the scene before him. The
tent was filled with bodies. Stracahn men and women and children laid out on
blankets, unnaturally still. The iridescence that he so loved about their skin,
that caught the light and shifted it in a hundred different directions when
they moved, was gone. They looked now as if they were carved from marble, still
and quiet and solid. He felt a wave of nausea as he turned back toward the door
and staggered out, directly into a Ranger.

"Woah!" the Ranger's voice was
familiar. He steadied Sol and took the crate from him, turning to set it on the
ground next to the tent. "I'm seeing a lot of you lately."

Sol sucked in air as he looked up into the Ranger's
face. It was the same man from a few nights ago. The one who had taken the
little girl.

Sol willed his stomach to stop pitching. He
looked at the man. Heavyset, with kind eyes and deep lines on his face, the Ranger
smiled grimly. "I'm Walt. We met the other night. You stumbled in there
without warning, eh?"

Sol nodded, then remembered. "I was
delivering this medicine." He gestured to the crate. "I have more in
the truck."

Walt's eyes sparked, and he turned excitedly,
scooping up the crate. "I didn't know it had arrived yet. Get the other
crate and bring it to Quickform 12. Be fast." He gestured toward the other
edge of the settlement and then strode in that direction.

Sol took another deep breath to steady himself,
then fetched the other crate from his truck.

In Quickform 12, three Rangers were sorting
through the instructions and the small vials of clear orange liquid. Walt
looked up as Sol came in. "You got some time to help?" he asked.

Sol nodded. "All right. Go outside. Find Syd.
He's a Ranger, a short guy. Tell him you're there to help. He'll send some people
with you. Bring them here. We've got to do this fast."

Sol took off to find the Ranger, keeping an eye
out for the kid he'd found on the road. He hoped she wasn't in the big tent at
the other end of the village.

The sun was setting as Sol leaned against the
table in the dining hut and shoveled rice and beans into his mouth. Syd had
sent him over here as the last of the medicine was distributed to the Stracahn.
It appeared to be working, easing the symptoms of the allergies and preventing
the anaphylactic shock which had killed so many over the last few days.

"Hey, kid. Great job today," Walt slid
his plate onto the table across from Sol and sat down slowly. "We're lucky
you showed up."

Sol smiled, his mouth full.

"What's your name, kid?"

He swallowed. "I'm Sol."

Walt took a gargantuan bite of his dinner.
"Where do you live?"

"South Edge. Down by the lakes."

"You in school?"

"Yeah. I'll be done this year, though."

Walt couldn't help but calculate that he was around
half the age their boy would have been. "You know what you want to
do?"

Sol shook his head. "Not yet. I'm kind of
interested in engineering. Maybe government. I don't know."

Walt smiled. "You ever thought about being a
Ranger?"

Sol tensed. "No, sir."

"You'd make a good one."

"No offense, Walt, but I don't think so. I like
people."

Walt winced, Sol figured that was mostly because
it was true.

"Fair enough,” the old man said, and Sol
realized, with a little amazement, that he wasn’t afraid of this Ranger.

Sol changed the subject. "Hey, how's that
little girl?"

Walt's eyes clouded. "I don't know. I can't
seem to find her. This is her village, but since everything’s in chaos with
this sickness, I can't figure out who she was or where she might be."

Just then, Sol glanced up at several men and women
who were walking into the hut. They wore shining fabric wrapped around their
iridescent bodies. In the dim hut, the effect was disorienting. "Wow. Are
those the Avowed?"

Walt glanced at them. “Yes,” he said. “In fact,
the one in the green robes is Meir. He’s the First Avowed, the top guy.” He
pushed his plate away and stood. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you.”

Sol followed him over. As they arrived, one of
the women was asking the First Avowed a question.

“This sickness was completely unexpected. We
cannot be surprised like that again. Vanquis, was there no warning from the
Allbeings?”

Meir shook his head. “I have tried connecting
with them for some time. I fear,” he lowered his voice, “that the loss of the
Mubareth Ola’an may mean that the whole of our connection to the wisdom of the
Allbeings is lost.”

Sol realized that they were speaking in the human
language so that the Stracahn around them were less likely to hear, and that he
and the Ranger probably shouldn’t be listening either.

Suddenly, Walt leaned down and hissed in Sol’s
ear: "Those are the Avowed that  I sent the little girl with." He gestured
to two men on the far side of the circle. Walt cleared his throat.

"Excuse me," Walt called to the man
dressed in blue. The Avowed turned, their hoods swiveling with the motion. Walt
went on speaking to the Avowed that he had recognized, "A few nights ago I
sent a little girl with you. Her parents were sick."

The Avowed nodded.

"I was just wondering if they got
better."

There was sorrow in the Stracahn’s eyes, though
his expression didn’t change. "No. The child lost both her parents."

Pain knifed through Sol's gut. He remembered the
moment in the back pasture when he’d lost his dad. "Is the little girl
okay?" he blurted.

The man in the hood looked somber. "She ran
out of the Trisne Rooth. I was just asking about her this morning, and it seems
that no one in the village has seen her since the morning her mother
died."

Walt's voice was sharp. "When was
that?"

"Two days ago," was the reply.

Sol grasped Walt’s arm, panic overtaking him,
"We've got to find her."

Walt's eyes were narrow as he left the group of
Avowed and strode out of the hut. He pulled out his radio.

The Rangers came out en masse. Sol watched them
fanning out over Hayden Valley, looking for signs of the little girl. His phone
buzzed, and he glanced at it. Mezina's pretty face smiled back at him.

"Hey." He answered.

"Did you plan on calling me at all?"
Her voice was half angry, half alluring.

"Look, Mez, I'm sorry. I was going to, but
it's been a crazy day. I'm still in the park."

She sucked in her breath, "Are you kidding
me? Didn't you hear that there is some kind of plague in there? Get out of the
park!"

"It's okay. It's not a danger to humans.
It's an allergy."

"Sure. That's what they want you to
think!"

"Mezina, I'm really busy. Do you remember
that little girl? She's lost, and I have to go help look for her."

"That little girl from the other
night?"

"Yeah. She ran off. Will you call my mom and
tell her I'll be late?"

Mezina laughed. "Sure. You don't think I'll
get yelled at?"

"Just don't talk to my uncle. Tell my mom. She
won't yell. And Mez,” he heard a desperate tone in his voice, "do you mind
telling her I’m at your place?”

There was a long silence. “Sol, does she know
you’re working in the park?”

He felt guilty saying it out loud. “No. But I’m
going to tell her. Soon.”

“Whew.” She sighed. “That’s big. Okay. I won’t
tell her. But I’m going to have to think of a way for you to pay me back for
covering for you.”

He had no doubt she would come up with something.
He heard her sigh. "So, no drive tonight?"

"I guess not tonight. I'll call you if we
find her, though."

Sol hung up and stood for a moment looking out over
the grassland. He picked a direction and started walking.

They didn’t find her that day, or that night. Sol
skipped school the next day to go back into the park and join the search. He
almost didn’t care if his mom found out. This was where he was supposed to be.
The search had become more organized, and the Ranger coordinating the search
assigned Sol to help look for the child in the woods by the Fishing Bridge.

He'd been at it for hours and was more than a
mile into the thick forest when he realized he was completely alone. It was late,
and the golden summer sun had disappeared behind the tall pines. The woods were
dark. Though he didn’t want to, Sol was going to have to start making his way
home.

"Zyn'dri!" Sol called,
"Zyn'dri!" He was squeezing between two big trees, and he felt the
bark catch his arm and scrape the skin painfully. He kept going.

His light glanced off a tall stone arch, and Sol
stopped to peer at it. It was beautiful, a natural bridge, unlike anything he
had ever seen before. Below it trickled the stream that had carved it. Sol
listened to the sound of the water and turned back toward the forest, his light
streaking over the even rows made by the trunks of the pines.

Where could the kid be? Shining his light around
the dark forest, he saw a thousand places that could conceal a child so small.
And there was something else, too. A presence that seemed to be watching from
the darkness. Maybe it was his imagination, but he was used to the Liberty woods,
and he knew when a big predator was on the prowl nearby. Even though he
couldn't see beyond the beam of his light, he had heard the eerie stilling of
birdcalls and the scurrying of smaller bush animals when something came
stalking. There was a new edge of panic in his voice as he called the child’s name
again.

A thick sound, like a heavy tree branch falling,
made him swing his light sideways. In the underbrush, he saw the pointed ears
and delicate white muzzle of a mountain lion, newly landed from atop the
natural stone bridge that rose above him.

She walked forward slowly, her paws silent on the
thick mat of needles. Her mouth opened in a gruesome snarl and Sol saw the
length of her teeth. He had seen mountain lions stuffed, had seen them caged,
but had never seen one in the wild. Statistics about the abundance of predators
in Yellowstone crowded his mind, but they quieted as the big cat came closer.

Sol walked backward, splashing across a stream,
slipping and righting himself. She came steadily but stopped at the edge of the
creek before crossing. She reached out a big paw and batted at him over the
water. Sol kept retreating, never taking his eyes off her.

Suddenly, the overwhelming stench of carrion
assaulted him. Sol looked sideways to see a half-rotted mule deer carcass.

So that's what she was after. He was just between
her and her kill. Sol angled off away from the carcass as the cougar jumped
lightly over the stream and continued forward. As she advanced, it became apparent
she would have to choose between stalking him and working on her kill. Her long
tail switched fluidly back and forth. He could almost see her contemplating the
two options.

Finally, she turned and began to gnaw at the
jutting leg bone of the deer. Sol breathed a sigh of relief and used the
distraction to get away from her. He headed back to the road. For the first
time, the truth of the situation settled over him, and he realized how unlikely
it was that the child was still alive.

17

It was early the next morning when Walt walked
into his apartment. He found his way to the bedroom and watched Sylvia
sleeping. She looked pale and rumpled and so vulnerable that Walt couldn't
stand to see her. He undressed, sitting for a long time on the edge of the bed
thinking of the Stracahn child and of the one they'd lost so long ago. It had
turned them inside out; pain like he'd never known before or since. He thought,
for a time, that he'd lose Sylvia too.

And now he was losing her. Even as she slept, her
cells were mutating. The doctors didn't give projections on time anymore, just
said to "enjoy life" and "spend time doing what you love."

Stretching beside her on the bed, Walt felt tears
slip out of the corners of his eyes.

She rolled over and pulled him close to her,
wrapping her arms around him. "Any word on the little girl?" she
asked. He shook his head and turned to take her in his arms.

Walt clung tightly to Sylvia. He didn't have to
tell her that this was too familiar, that the years had telescoped backward,
and another child was missing in this wild place.

"You'll find her, Walt," Sylvia said. He
closed his eyes and saw, burned into his mind, the swells and hollows of Hayden
Valley. He had gone over it inch by inch searching for that little girl behind
every bush.

"We're already way farther than she should
have gotten." The lines around his eyes were deep.

"Keep looking. You'll find her."

Walt ran his hand along Sylvia's jaw. He didn’t
want her to worry, to carry this grief. “Yes. We’ll find her. It's okay, honey.
You need your rest. Go back to sleep. I'll let you know when we find her."
Another, more familiar fear gripped him as he saw Sylvia's weary eyelids droop
closed. She was slipping ever more quickly.

Sighing deeply, he drifted in and out of sleep
for half an hour before rising and going out again to search. He was just
climbing in his spider when he heard on the radio that something had been found
at Yellowstone Lake.

But when he arrived, he saw that the search was
breaking up, and the Rangers’ shoulders slumped. Their boots dragged. Walt had
seen that before.

It was over, then. As he approached, Karson stood
speaking to some of the Avowed. Walt arrived in time to hear that the Rangers
had tracked the little girl to the edge of the lake, where all traces of her
disappeared. The mystery of her disappearance was solved. The TPS had declared
it an accidental drowning and sent the Rangers back to their everyday duties.
Her body may someday wash up on shore, but for now, the Stracahn Avowed said
that they would just place her traditional clothes in their death tent and
transfigure them with the bodies of her parents.

After they had all gone, Walt stood gazing over
the rippling water. He tried not to think about it: the shock of the cold
water, the moment when she realized she was going under, his own inability to
find her in time.

Walt swore. Softly at first, then louder. Then he
shouted to the sky. Another child lost.

18

Zyn'dri felt satisfied. She wasn't as hungry
anymore, and the quiet forest was comforting to her. She felt somehow closer to
her parents out here as if there was enough similarity to their old home for
her to feel them here. She decided to explore the island and see what was here
before dark came again. She needed to find a better place to sleep tonight,
away from the cold wind that blew off the lake at the edge of the forest.

The island was bigger than she first thought.
From the middle of the woods, she couldn't tell that water surrounded her.
There were some small slopes and rises, lots of tall trees, and more plants
than she thought she could ever recognize. The ground was littered with fallen
branches and logs she had to climb over.

She liked walking here. It was more like her home
than the hot, bright grassland where the village was. She walked with her eyes
on the ground, looking for more to eat. Suddenly, she froze. To her left,
half-covered in soil and debris, was a small cabin. Vines grew over it, and the
roof gaped inward. She approached cautiously. It was old construction, logs
piled on top of each other and interlaced at the corners, plastered in places
with mud. The doorway leaned a bit, but when she reached out a hand and pushed,
she found the building still sound.

She walked inside. It was fresh and dark. The
cabin was a single room, with the remainders of some furniture: an iron
bedstead, a rusted stove, some old pots and pans hanging on the wall. A little
home. "Thank you, senjhei and thentar," she spoke softly to her
parents.

Running a hand over the bed, she found it springy
with plant matter. It gave her an idea. Zyn'dri went outside to the big trees
and gathered all the branches she could carry. She piled them on top of the
bed, then carefully arranged them. Hot and tired, she lay down on the soft mattress
she'd made. Sweat trickled down her temples. She pulled a long woven tie from
her pocket and secured her hair behind her neck. It smelled like her mother. She
found herself crying again.

She rose and worked on tidying up the little cabin.
She used a handful of long grass to sweep away the dust, and found she could
use the grasses to tie the vines back from the windows, letting in a little
dappled light. She was just dragging a big branch over what would be her door
when she heard a twig snap. She turned, wide-eyed, to see a small animal
watching her. It had round glassy eyes and tall, straight ears. Its nose
twitched.

Zyn'dri spoke to it in Stracahn. It was not
unlike a semballa—the little creatures on Empyriad that skittered between the huts
and nested in the tall grass along the paths. "semballa aschki." She cooed.
Semballa
come here.

The little animal did so. It moved in a way that
made Zyn'dri giggle in spite of the heaviness of the last few days. It reached
its front feet forward and then jumped with its back feet to catch up. It came
all the way to Zyn'dri and reached up toward her hand, sniffing as it rose on
its back feet.

She laid the tips of her fingers on its head,
just between the large leathery ears. Its fur was cool and soft over the hard
edge of its skull. She remembered how the Semballa back home would stand still
in the road, watching her come. When she drew up next to them, they would take
off running alongside her. The children had Semballa races every day on the
path home from school.

But she didn't feel like running today. Today she
needed something living to be close to her. She sat on the ground and the
little creature tentatively crawled and hopped onto her lap. Zyn'dri sat
stroking the fuzzy creature. She wished she could show it to her parents, wished
they could see how it came to her.

They had always told her that she had a gift with
animals. When other children squealed and grabbed at them to get them to come,
Zyn'dri had but to look in their eyes and speak to them, and usually, they
responded to her. She had felt such a connection with the blind bison, only
much, much stronger. Perhaps her gift was more pronounced with Earth animals.
Or maybe the patterns she’d been tracing had some way of helping her connect.

Zyn'dri's mother had told her not to use her gift
in front of others—especially not the humans, at least until they knew if such
things were common on this new planet, but no one was here now, and she was
glad for the company.

Zyn'dri put the semballa down and stood up. She
was going to have to find more food, and though she'd been walking out to the
lake to get water, she needed to bring some in closer for the night.

The semballa followed her as she walked through
the brush and searched each plant. She found some of the roots that her mother
had brought back to the village for her, and she dug them up.

She also stumbled on a patch of bright red
berries, speckled with seeds. She took a tentative nibble, and the sweetness
took her breath away. She gathered all that looked ripe and took them back to
the cabin. There she took one of the pots from the wall and walked out to the
lake. Plunging it into the water, she struggled with its new weight, carrying
it back to her shelter as the dark began to fall. The Avowed said that the
energy of the dead surrounded the living. Zyn'dri tried to feel her parents'
presence, but she just felt their absence.

The next morning Zyn'dri woke and went directly
to the sweet berry patch she had discovered yesterday. It was big, and some of
the berries she had left there had ripened to perfection last night. Her
fingers were stained red when she finished, but her stomach was full, and she felt
peaceful for the first time since that awful night when her father's ragged breathing
had awakened her.

The old cabin smelled of earth and water. Zyn'dri
lay on the mossy carpet and stared at the blue sky through one of the holes in
the rotted roof. Her chest ached with that now-familiar sense of loss. She sat
up and dipped a handful of water from the pot she'd filled. The little semballa
had taken up residence in the cabin with her, and she liked its warm presence
at her side.

She lay back down. She could live here, she
thought. That would be much better than going back to the village and being
Chantha: orphan. Back on Empyriad, there were families in each village that the
Avowed had assigned to raise Chantha. There had been six such families in her community.
She had seen the Chantha cycling through their homes: six homes, but really no
home at all. And she knew the Chantha families: two of them had children who
lived to torment the Chantha, who stayed with them.

Now that there were so many Chantha, the system
didn’t work. Most of them, like Adrik and Asvika, were just living in their own
huts, like Zyn’dri was now. But the other children looked at them with pity and
fear, and Zyn’dri realized that she had done the same thing when she was lucky
enough to have parents to go home to.

The thought of huddling in the dim light of the
hut where her parents had died made Zyn’dri feel sick and sad. Though she was
alone here, at least she had the trees and the blue sky, the berries and the
semballa. She placed a few more berries in her mouth and squeezed the sweet
juice from them. Maybe she couldn't stay here forever, but she could stay here for
a long time.

19

Caldwell crushed his cigarette against the
callous he’d developed below the pinky of his left hand. He rolled them himself
from stramonium leaves, so once the fire danger was gone, he could safely
crumble the remainder and let the wind scatter the loose bits, back to nature.
He watched the line of Stracahn Avowed as they walked past him and up to Old
Faithful. They were doing some communing thing up there. They called it
devotion and did it every morning and every night. Though they wore soft shoes,
he saw the broken vegetation in their wake and turned away in disgust.

He tried not to think about the damage that all
those Rangers and volunteers had done out in the park, looking for the kid. He
had gone out along the main search routes yesterday, and even though it had
been two months since she drowned, there was still broken vegetation and scuffed
crusts where the searchers had left the trails. It made him cringe.

He approached the main Ranger station and watched
as the Rangers filed in for a briefing. He saw Allison walking up the path
toward him. She smiled as she saw him. Caldwell followed her in.

He slid into a chair in the middle, trying to
catch her eye. But Karson was just getting the morning debriefing going, and
she was paying attention.

Caldwell fidgeted through the first few
announcements: new assignments, reminders about filing reports, reminders to
check out Park Service equipment before you took it.

“We’ve finally finished the paperwork reporting
the allergic reaction and the Stracahn child,” Karson was saying. “Thanks to
all of you who submitted reports, but next time we have an incident, I’m not
giving you 60 days to file them. Get those done a little quicker.” Karson looked
pointedly at Syd.

Caldwell perked up. 60 days. That was Karson’s
promise. The Stracahn were supposed to be out of the park in 60 days. He raised
his hand.

“What is it?” Karson said, a little impatiently.

“When do we ship the aliens out?” Caldwell asked.

He saw Karson squirm, and the sight made Caldwell
uneasy.

Karson cleared his throat, then began to speak. “Okay,
it’s good you brought that up. That’s something we need to cover. A little bad
news on that front. It looks like our Stracahn situation is going to be slightly
less temporary than we originally thought.”

Caldwell bristled and was comforted to see
several other Rangers shifting angrily as well.

“What does that mean? Exactly?” asked Sarr, a
woman that Caldwell had agreed with more than once.

Karson held up a hand. “Now don’t get excited.
After the allergy outbreak, the global public has gotten a little more panicky.
They are not ready to have the Stracahn integrated according to the original
plan.”

Sarr’s voice was tight when she spoke again. “So
what is the new scheme, Karson?”

“The CDC wants to run some studies, and then,
early next year, a small group of Stracahn will be covertly integrated into the
sparsely populated area South of Liberty and North of Sonora, up in the Rocky
Mountains, called the disputed zone. The Leadership doesn’t expect much
resistance there because those religious nuts in Creed will be their closest
neighbors, and they have a lot of “goodwill to the refugees” propaganda going
on. If that goes well, they’ll reveal that the Stracahn have been out of the
park for some time, and they’ll try to integrate the rest of the population
after that. Depending on how that goes, it looks like we’ll have most of the
Stracahn at least another year or two.”

"Idiots!" Caldwell's voice trembled.

"Calm down, Justin." The director’s
tone held a warning.

"Enough. You're all leading this park to the
slaughter. I refuse to watch it."

"If you're not careful, you'll refuse
yourself right out of this park you're trying so hard to save."

Caldwell’s heart fought in his chest like a snared
rabbit. Eviction was the worst punishment he could imagine. He saw in Karson’s
eyes that he wouldn’t hesitate to do it. Damen, he was sure, had planted this
seed. Caldwell swore, then looked wild-eyed around the room. "I'd like to
see you try." He spun and strode out, leaving a silent room behind him.

He felt the gravel crunching under his tires as
he tore out of the parking lot on his motorcycle. That was it. He had thought,
when he came to the park, that he had finally found people who understood him,
who wouldn’t betray him. But he was wrong. People were weak, and he scolded
himself for forgetting that. The only surety was the park. His own weakness had
been evident in his failure to protect it. From the Stracahn, from Karson, from
Damen. But he would not fail any longer. He would protect this place no matter
what the cost.

It didn't take long for Caldwell to grab his gear
from the apartment. His survival pack stood ready by the door, so he just added
to it some of the comforts he hated to leave behind: a couple of good towels,
some chocolate and jerky, and an extra pocketknife. He left his bike in the
parking lot and left his apartment to save his home.

He paused briefly, thinking about leaving Allison
a note, but he couldn't take the chance. This was too important. Sometimes
sacrifices had to be made.

He had been thinking about this a long time, knew
just how to do it. He’d had his bag packed and at the ready for just this
moment.

Caldwell knew as he hiked south, that the access
points had weaknesses. He had studied the fence and the gates. They had been
built back before the Terrene War with the best tech and one purpose: to keep
people out.

He also knew that he was the only one who could,
who would save this place. People could never be trusted with something so
sacred. He looked up and felt the old reverence as his eyes slid across the
surface of Lewis Lake. He stopped for a drink there, amazed at how sweet and
clear the water was. It was better than it was when he came 18 years ago, a
stupid, blind kid running from every memory he had. His home, his failed
marriage, the constant corrections from the head Ranger in Mojave, his utter
failure at everything he had ever tried or ever wanted. He'd requested a
transfer here because he had wanted a death quick and cleansing, had found
solace in the thought of plunging into one of the deep boiling pools and ending
it all.

Caldwell smiled wryly. He'd failed at that, too.
Before he could get it done, he found Yellowstone. He found the solitude and
peace he'd been searching for all his life. He found the steam across the
geyser basins at dawn and the bugling of the elk and the profound silence of
the backcountry. The clamor and disappointment of his life and the
discouragement about everything else fell away.

Shortly after he came, the park closed to the
public for good, and he relished the near-complete solitude. There was no one,
in all those acres. He could go days, weeks, without seeing one soul. He
volunteered for perimeter duty so that he could spend weeks hiking without ever
speaking a word or hearing a human voice. When he bathed in the icy rivers or
drank bitter sawgrass tea to cleanse his system, he felt the cleansing going
even deeper, into his whole soul. He felt the old Justin Caldwell stripped
away, his weaknesses and insecurities burned off by the cold and the heat and
the pain and the triumph. The extremities of Yellowstone made him new in a way
that no other place could have done. What was left was hard and clear and strong.
And the new Justin Caldwell was sure of one thing: People destroyed. Nature
healed.

For a while, he had been foolish enough to
believe that that knowledge came to everyone who came to this place. Once he
was new, he sought company with the other Rangers. But then he saw things that
disgusted him. They were weak, still, even though they lived in this
strengthening place. They were soft and distracted and still dependent on each
other. Walt and Sylvia, still clinging to their antiquated ideas of marital
union, Syd, and even Gilette.

His mind slid over the thought of Gilette, and he
unconsciously glanced toward Tower Falls. If she had only been committed
enough, he would have taken her with him. They could have disappeared into the
park those years ago and stopped the travesties he was now facing before they were
conceived. But she hadn’t understood, wasn't strong enough, and it was her weakness
that had killed her.

Now Caldwell stood again. He had to go quickly.
There was a window of time that the other Rangers would expect for him to be
gone. He had walked out of meetings before and spent time in the backcountry.
But he never missed a shift, and he was on in two days. If he was going to do
this, he'd better get it done before then.

20

Sol pulled away from Mezina. Her hands were in
his hair, and she pulled him forward for one last kiss.

“You’re beautiful.” He said, and he saw her smile
as he lay back on the blanket. Above them, the night was still and clear.
Thousands of stars shone through the dark.

Sol’s smile faded, and he felt a shadow pass over
his mind.

Mezina must have sensed it.

“What’s wrong, Sol?”

"That's where Empyriad is.” Sol pointed to a
cluster of stars high in the Western sky. He had looked it up. “Or at least
what’s left of it.”

"Hm. Pretty."

The images that the scientists had brought back,
of the barren black planet, flashed through his mind.

“Not anymore,” he said darkly. He had spent a lot
of time this summer reading the reports from the scientists and soldiers who
had gone to Empyriad. Many had come back and were sharing their research. He
knew where they worked, what they were doing. Many of them were at the
University in Shoreline. He would love to go and talk to them.

"I know what I'm going to do." He said
suddenly.

"Oh do you?" she ran a hand down his
forearm and tangled her fingers in his.

He was mildly annoyed. "I'm serious. I know
where I want to go."

"Oh, yeah?"

"I'm going back to Shoreline. I’m going to
meet the people who have been to Empyriad. I’m going to find a way to help the
Stracahn."

Mezina was quiet. When she did speak, her voice
was flat. “Help them with what, Sol?”

“With their integration.”

Now Mezina sounded annoyed. "Sol, that's not
going to happen, not if the human population has anything to do with it."

He pulled his hand from hers. "That’s why
they need help. I thought they’d be taken care of in there, but nobody is
looking out for them. The Rangers want them out, and the world won’t let them
in. Somebody has to do something for them. I didn’t watch out for that little
girl, even though I felt like I should. And now it’s too late for her. I can’t
help her now, but I think I can find a way to help the others."

“They’re dangerous, Sol! They have weird powers.”

“Mezina, I’ve met them. I’ve talked to them.
They’re not dangerous. They’re beautiful.”

Mezina scoffed. “You’re throwing that word around
pretty easily tonight.”

He tried to make her see.

“This world is entirely new to them. You don’t know
because you’ve never left Liberty, but it’s scary going to a new place.” The
night wind ruffled the edge of the blanket, and Sol heard the crickets in
chorus around them. Even those peaceful things might hold unknown dangers for
the Stracahn. “And there are already so many threats to them, without adding in
humanity. Do you know how many of them died because of a stupid allergy? I saw
their dead—”

She interrupted.  "But Sol, that’s the
point. They can't survive here because they don't belong
here. It's natural selection."

"That’s heartless."

“It’s just a fact.” She said.

Sol tried to step back from the conflict. “I just
want to help them, Mez.”

She pushed harder. “So you want to help them?
Where does that end? You give them a place to live, but they also have to have
food, and they have to have clothes, and then they have babies, and the babies
need all that stuff, too. But they can’t do it themselves because they’re
allergic to our wildflowers.”

Sol shook his head. “You’re cruel.”

"I'm not. I’m practical. I don't dislike the
Stracahn. I just don't want them coming here and making humans miserable just
because they're sick and useless."

Sol stood up.

Mezina called after him. “And don’t you realize
that bringing them here could mean more war? You hate fighting with the
Cascadians so much, but what happens when the Stracahn numbers have grown? When
Yellowstone’s not enough for them anymore, and they come for Silver Lake Ranch?
How do you feel about them then? And what about when there are more of them
than there are of us? You think they’re pitiful now, but what if all your help
makes them powerful? That’s a very different alien race you want to bring into
our world.”

Suddenly, even with the moonlight glinting off
her raven hair, Mezina didn't seem quite so attractive.

The next day, Sol had so many chores that he
didn’t make it to the warehouse until midafternoon. Since school had ended, he usually
went early and made three, sometimes four supply runs every day. And he was
getting a pretty good amount saved up. Shoreline didn’t seem quite so distant
now.

The warehouse where Sol picked up things that
needed to be delivered into the park was one vast room. At one end the
donations were stacked. The ones which had traveled far were taken to the
middle, uncrated, inventoried, and crated again before they were sent out.
Local donations were moved right to inventory.

Sometimes Sol stopped to help unload the donation
trucks, and sometimes he just picked up his load. Today he ran into Syd, the Ranger
he’d met in the village, who took him along to help where they were shorthanded
in the inventory and recrating section.

The building was sweltering. Though nights here
in South Edge were cool year-round, the temperatures spiked in these late summer
afternoons, and the big building was only cooled by fans near the roof that
pulled outside air in. It wasn’t really meant for humans to work in. Before the
Stracahn refugee crisis, it had stored the Park Service’s fleet of spiders.

To make things worse, Sol was inventorying
blankets and coats.

Sol was often surprised at the strange things
people donated to the refugees. Sometimes boxes left at the door would be full
of old paint cans or office supplies. Sometimes people brought knickknacks or
picture frames, as if the donators were just cleaning out their closets and
thought the aliens might be able to use a resin teddy bear to ease their
transition to Earth.

“What are they going to need these for?” Sol held
up a heavy wool jacket with one hand and wiped a hand slick with sweat across
his forehead. “Are we even sending these in?”

Syd nodded and stepped close. “Listen, Sol, don’t
mention it to anyone, but it looks like the Stracahn will be in the park a
little longer than we initially thought.”

“Really?” Sol began folding the coat.

“Right. The big integration is called off. They
are going to send a few Stracahn out in the winter, but most of them will be
there through next year.” Syd shook his head, “And living in those Quickforms
through the Yellowstone winter; they’re going to need all the coats they can
get.”

Sol laid the coat in a crate. So the humans’
outcry had had its intended effect. The Stracahn would not be coming out.

He was so distracted by the thought that he
almost didn’t realize what he was folding next. He was about to lay it in the
crate when the bright purple pinwheels caught his eye, and he recognized his
mother’s quilt.

He turned it over. It was, absolutely, the quilt
she had been making. So this was why she didn’t want Uncle Carl to know about
it. She wasn’t worried about the cost. Molly was secretly making quilts for the
Stracahn.

Sol swallowed hard. He was proud of his mom. He
felt suddenly closer to her like they had more in common than he had realized.
Though Sol hadn’t told her about his job yet, he resolved to tell her the
moment he got home.

“Syd,” he said as he laid the quilt in the crate,
dropped the lid into place and tapped the tacks in to hold it closed, “I’d
better go get my delivery made.”

“Okay, kid. Thanks for your help.”

Sol hesitated. “Syd, could I deliver this one?”

Syd shrugged. “Has the stuff been entered?” Sol
nodded. “Great. Go for it. One less crate in the way here.”

Sol lifted it and loaded it into the truck, then
pulled around to finish out his load with food crates.

He was, for the first time in a long time,
excited to get his delivery over and go home. He wanted to talk to his mom.
Maybe he would even tell her about his plan to go back to Shoreline. Maybe she
would even come with him. Out there it wouldn’t be this constant battle between
what he wanted to do and what everyone else wanted him to do. His dad would
have understood that. His dad had always been able to make the tough decisions.
Sol pushed away the thought that perhaps if his dad had done what someone else
wanted, just that one time, he might still be alive. The thought cast a cloud
over his excitement. That's what Sol found exhausting about life. Just when you
think you've found an absolute, an "except" turns up.

Ranger Allison was at the gate. She was smiling
as she came up to check his permit. She was always friendly and seemed glad he
was helping. That wasn't true of all the Rangers. In fact, another one, a
dark-haired man whose nametag said "Henley," followed her, scowling
at Sol. As she handed him the pass back, Henley barked, "What you got in
these?"

Sol shrugged. "It’s a food load. Just picked
them up at the warehouse."

"Pull forward and get 'em out. Let's have a
look." Henley gestured to the pull-out just through the gate.

Sol maneuvered the truck through the big entrance,
parked, and stepped out. He moved to the back and dropped the tailgate. What
would he smuggle in here? A bomb? He jumped into the truck bed, scooted the
first crate back, then hopped down, strained to lift it, and carried it over
near the guard station, where the dark-haired Ranger was waiting. Henley popped
it open with a crowbar, revealing canned goods.

"Fine." He said, "Get
another."

Sol brought another, and another. Henley checked
them and passed them off. On the last crate, the Ranger swore as he pulled the
lid off.

"Hey!" he said, "does this look
like food to you?"

Sol stepped around the other crates and peered
inside. A cool breeze was blowing, and he saw it ruffle the edge of his mom’s
quilt inside. Henley dug through the box full of blankets and coats.

"Tryin' to pull somethin, here, kid?"
He growled. Sol realized that in the excitement of his revelation he had
forgotten to get the coded label for the crate.

Allison stepped up, "Cool it, Henley."
Then, to Sol, she said, "this happens all the time. It's label probably
just fell off.  Just take it back to the waystation."

“Actually, I helped pack it,” Sol said. “I just
forgot to label it. Sorry.”

"He's not takin' it into the park,"
Henley said.

Allison stopped just short of rolling her eyes.
"Okay, well, leave it here. Just pick it back up on your way out."
She said.

Henley stepped forward aggressively, "And
get the rest of these loaded back up.”

“Yes, sir,” Sol said. He was a little
disappointed he wouldn’t get to deliver his mom’s quilt, but he knew better
than to argue.

Henley kept on. “I know you, kid. I know this
truck sometimes gets ‘lost’ in the park and takes some detours. I’m going to be
watching for you. You'd better get these up to Hayden Valley and be back here
before my shift ends at ten."

Sol kept his biting remarks to himself like he
always did. "Yes sir," he said as they turned to go back into the
guard station. His arms and chest burned as he lifted the crates and loaded
them back into the truck. He left the box of blankets where it was.

Grunting, he lifted the last crate of food and
shoved it into the little space left between the others. Sol reached for the
tailgate.

At that moment, a clicking sound made him
half-turn, and he heard before he saw a bright, deafening explosion behind him.
The rolling shockwave that hit him threw him down on the tailgate of the
pickup, where months ago the bison had left the dent, sharp and now laced with
rust. Sol felt sharp pain where his head struck it. The blast pushed the truck forward
and slid the crates to the front of the truck bed with a crash. He fell to the
dirt and laid there, his head spinning.

Sol’s lungs burned with the dirt in the air.
Stones and wood and debris from the building rained down on him. He scooted
under the tailgate of the truck, wiping blood from his eyes, watching, and
trying to breathe.

Through the thick air, he could see that things
had changed. There was a crater bigger than the truck where the crate had been,
and the rocks and dirt that had been in the crater were now piled in a ring
around it.

Sol stared at the gate. Or what used to be the
gate. Where he had entered, the fence had fused closed. Though the base of the fence
was hidden behind boulders that had been churned up by the blast, and others
were still falling from the high peaks above, what he could see of the fence
ran in one smooth, unbroken barrier between him and home.

He looked away. Dirt and smoke still hung heavy
in the air, but the largest of the debris had crashed back to Earth.

Adrenaline hit Sol’s system. He scrambled to the
cab of the truck, turned it on, and threw gravel from his tires as he fled. He
looked in the rearview and saw motes of dust clouding the mountain of rubble
where the gates had been.

The world was spinning. Sol gripped the wheel and
tried to keep the truck straight. As Sol drove, he saw the outline of a man,
frozen for a moment on the edge of the Lewis River. Sol slowed—the man would
have to come back onto the road, there was nothing in front of him but the
water. He couldn't hike forward any farther. Sol glanced back at the road,
easing over into the middle to give the man room to come back on the road. When
he looked back, the man had vanished. Only the bright river lay glinting in the
sun. Sol shook his throbbing head and tried to focus on the road.

21

Zyn'dri heard a sound like distant thunder. She
called the semballa and held it close as she slipped back into the cabin. She
listened for more thunder, but she heard nothing except the forest silence as
she settled onto the floor. She was weaving a rug with the long grasses, one
like they'd had at home on Empyriad. The pattern wasn't quite right, and the
grasses were a bit too thick, and her work was much sloppier than her mother's
had been, but it felt good to do something they had done together, and the work
brought Zyn'dri's mother closer to her somehow.

Zyn'dri noticed the rug slightly shaking as she
worked. When she glanced over at the semballa, he was contentedly chewing the
end of one long, unwoven blade of grass. She breathed out in annoyance and
scooped him towards a pile of the tattered ends she'd been clipping off with
her teeth. "Eat those, not my rug!" she said gruffly. The semballa
switched to the new fare without seeming to mind.

22

Caldwell stooped at the edge of the river and
watched the last of the light fade. They wouldn’t even be able to track him
because he was hiking up the river away from the gate. He’d use the next few
hours to rest before heading into the backcountry. Everyone else’s panic and
the chaos he had left behind would provide the perfect cover while he got on
his way.

They wouldn’t be looking for him. Three days ago,
when he’d had a shift at the warehouse in town, he'd seen a crawler filled with
homemade explosives parked on Main Street in South Edge. Some rancher had been
taking homemade bombs to the Milguard armory, he’d guessed. He had snagged eight
of the explosive packs and used them on the gate. So if they got around to
looking for the cause at all they would start looking outside the park. More
likely, though, they'd spend the first while on recovery. He could hear the Ranger’s
crawler ambulance siren cutting through the night already. Not that there would
be much to recover.

The packs had been effective. Quality
military-grade stuff. They had compromised the fence, and it had fused just as
he had hoped, and brought down some of the peaks beside the gate for good
measure and dramatic effect. He hadn’t had time to check the site fully, but
everything seemed to have worked according to plan.

The other three gates would be harder, now that
they were alerted, and he would have to change his tactics, but he was satisfied
at how well this one had gone. Once he completely sealed this place off from
the outside it would be easy to take care of the malignancies inside. And Damen
couldn’t come in. And then the park could heal. He would help it. He just had
to be patient.

Caldwell froze. Impossibly, there was a vehicle
approaching. The young driver may already have seen him. Heart pounding, he
slid smoothly into the water and crawled away from the road.  The vehicle
didn’t slow, and as it moved past him he pushed away a weak thought: it was too
bad about Allison.

23

Walt sipped his stinging nettle tea. It was too
hot, and too strong because he'd made it himself, but he didn't care. Sylvia was
worse. He'd had to leave her this morning for the Ranger meeting, and now she
was weaker than she had ever been and vomiting. Late evening light streaked
through the windows as he tucked an extra blanket around her shivering
shoulders and tried to keep her distracted. He told her about Caldwell's
outburst and how he had subsequently stormed out of the meeting.

She spoke, but he couldn't hear her. She licked
her lips and tried again.

"I saw him." She said softly, moving
her head on the pillow to look out the front window, which revealed the woods
behind the Ranger housing.

Walt blinked. "When?"

"This morning." She said. "Thought
he was going hiking. He had that big black pack he keeps by his door."

Walt's heart stopped. "The black one? Are
you sure?" He didn't mean to sound so intense, but he had to know.

She nodded, drifting back to sleep.

"You're sure?" Walt asked, but Sylvia
was asleep, and he was already on his feet, stumbling to the front door to grab
his radio and gun. He had to get ahold of the Rangers on duty.

But as he switched it
on, he knew he was too late. The radio was clogged with the panicked voices of
the Rangers. Something had happened. Something terrible. For the second time,
he had been too late to stop Caldwell.

He strode to the window. The voices on the radio
were talking about the South gate. He could see little more in that direction
than the menacing outline of the trees, standing against the fading sky like
rows of teeth. But he did see two spots of light approaching, and he did see
Sol pulling into the parking lot below in his old truck.

"What's he doin'?" He wondered as the
pickup door swung open. The boy got out, stumbled, and slumped against the hood
of the truck. Walt bolted out.

When he got down there, Walt could see that thick,
dark blood streaked Sol's temple. A cut on his head was bleeding profusely,
throbbing as each heartbeat hit. Walt jammed a shoulder under Sol’s, supporting
him and leading him up the stairs and into the front door of their little
apartment.  Walt led the kid to the couch and watched him sink gratefully into
the softness of it.

Walt knew how to tend to people. He went to work cleaning
the wound, then disinfected it and got some pain reliever into the kid.

"What happened down there?" Walt asked
when Sol's eyes had cleared a bit, and he lay easier.

"An explosion," Sol said. "I was
just getting back in the truck." Walt watched his eyes cloud as he sorted
through the memory of it, “There was the boom, and it knocked me into the back
of the truck. But before that . . ." He trailed off, then was quiet.

"What is it?" Walt tried not to sound
too eager, or too commanding.

"I was turning to look at the guard station
because I thought I heard—“ Sol looked up, uncertainty and fear in his eyes.

"What?"

"A little scream."

He watched over the kid until the next day, but
Karson was bound to get news of the truck parked in the Grant Ranger Housing
lot. When Karson arrived with two other Rangers, Walt was planted firmly in the
door. He knew they would have seen the kid’s truck, and he’d been preparing a
speech.

"Now I know you've got to take him,” he told
Karson, and I know you're angry and afraid, but you need to understand that
he's hurt."

Syd, the biggest of the other Rangers, shouldered
past him and hauled Sol off the couch and to his feet. “You wanted to bring
that crate in yourself, huh kid? We trusted you.” Disgust trembled under his
voice.

“I don’t think he had anything to do with this,
Syd.” Walt didn’t understand the comment about the crate.

Syd spat an answer. "That's not what it
looks like, Walt."

“I know." Walt said, "But he's not the
only one who needs to be questioned."

"What are you talking about?" Karson
snapped, stepping aside as Syd and Giles escorted Sol out to their crawler.

Walt gestured Karson inside. "I think you'd
better talk to Caldwell." He said, wincing at what he was implying.

"Caldwell? About the explosion?" Karson
shrugged impatiently. "That makes no sense. I can see him being violent to
people, or the Stracahn, but why would he blow up the gate? Especially while
the aliens are still in here? All he wants it to get them out
of the park."

"I've got a bad feeling about him,"
Walt said. "He's too worked up, too volatile lately."

"Everybody has a bad feeling about
him," Karson said, "that's his main impression."

Walt hesitated.

"What aren't you telling me, Walt? What do
you know?"

Walt hesitated. "I saw something . . .
Strange." He said, not sure how far he should go with the little evidence
he had. Through the window, he saw the Ranger's spider move out. Sol slumped
against the window. Walt rushed on, "I was working on the schedule with
Caldwell a couple of months ago—not long after that little girl drowned—and I
saw that Caldwell had this big black pack next to his door. I commented on it,
and there was this eerie tone in his voice when he answered. He looked at me
and said, ‘I keep that there for the day when life becomes unbearable.’” Walt
was trying to articulate it in the most accurate way possible, but it was hard
to explain why he’d been so alarmed. "I got this weird feeling. Caldwell
said, ‘If that’s ever gone, Walt, you know I’ve reached my limit.’”

Karson blinked, and Walt put a hand on his arm.
"Right! You see, why would he say that? What does it even mean?" Walt
heard the intensity in his own voice. "He used to be at least sort of
stable, Karson, but since the Stracahn came, he’s been getting more and more
unstable. He gets angry at nothing; he makes threats. He just can't get past
it. I think he may have been entertaining some worrisome ideas for a while now."

Karson contemplated for a moment. "I'm not sayin'
that's good," he said carefully, "but it’s not evidence. Anyway, I
don't think Caldwell would attack the park like this. He's too attached to it
and likes to see things done by the rules too much. I don't know why he'd say
that, but it really doesn't matter. I think this is a pretty open and shut
case. The kid was at the gate; the electronic entry notes say he had an
unlabeled crate with him."

Walt shook his head hard, "But Sol isn't
that kind of—"

Karson went on, forcefully, "Walt, we found
part of the explosive packs that were used. They were registered to this kid's
uncle.”

Walt stopped talking for a moment. “I admit that
looks bad,” he said slowly.

“You want to know the clincher?” Karson was
grimly confident. “This kid's father was Timothy Brooks, the man who was shot
when we upgraded the fences ten years ago."

Walt's argument died in his throat as the name
brought the horror of that day sweeping back to him.

"I gotta go, Walt." Karson tried to
smile. "I'm sorry. I know you want to think the best of everyone."

24

Caldwell had hiked through the night and the next
day. The kid in the truck had spooked him, and he stayed off the road, walking
the roughcountry. He worked his way up to the abandoned boathouse at Fishing
Bridge, where he finally rested. When dark came on he snagged an old kayak.
Nobody was going to miss it. Since the park had closed to visitors, no one
kayaked anymore. But the way it cut low and silently through the water was
perfect for not drawing attention to himself.

The night was going to be full dark. Even now it
was probably too dark for someone to pick him out from the shore. He grinned at
his luck. He could hole up on Stevenson Island for days, getting ready for the
next phase. There was plenty to eat there and plenty of cover. He thought about
going back to his apartment, doing his shifts like usual and acting nonchalant.
He'd like to plant some ideas in their heads about the ranchers. But that was
too arrogant. He needed to disappear and do this deliberately. If he slipped,
or if that kid driver had seen him, the whole thing was shot. He could probably
beat it in court, he had done it twice before, but that would take up valuable
time, and every minute he wasted meant more damage to the park. No, better to
settle in and wait until they had realized the explosives were from outside the
park. Then he may go back.

All in all, it had gone plenty
smooth. Even the kid checking through was lucky. That was something he couldn't
have planned, and it made it unnecessary for him to plant the explosives
outside the gate. He'd just set them on the crate the kid had brought in. Easy.
Caldwell rowed on through the cold lake air, and the fury he’d felt inside for
the past several weeks began to subside. He was finally doing something to stop
this travesty.

As Caldwell eased the kayak onto the shore of
Stevenson Island, he felt an uneasiness he'd never felt here before. Something
was different. He tried to search his memory. There had been talk of placing a
fish monitoring station out here that would be staffed by a couple of Rangers,
but he didn't remember that ever actually going through. He couldn't imagine
what would feel different. Nobody cared about this place; nobody would bother
him here. He shook it off. Maybe all the excitement was making him jittery.
Stashing the kayak under a pile of boughs and leaves, he headed for the cabin
to catch some sleep before heading to the East Gate.

As he approached the cabin, a shifting of the
light near the door caught his eye. He froze, then realized it was just a
cottontail rabbit that had made the movement. Suddenly his mouth started to
water. Sleep would come, but first, he needed food. He walked towards the
rabbit, whose eyes were wide and questioning in the dark.

Why wasn't it running? Caldwell had caught a lot
of rabbits, most of them on the run, some of them in snares, but never had he
seen one that would let you just walk up to it. This one was different. He
crouched down, snapping off a handful of grass and holding it towards the
wriggling nose. The rabbit hopped closer, stopped, then came to nibble on the treat.

With a fluid, calculated movement Caldwell
grasped the rabbit's ears and swung it in a wide arc around his head, snapping
its neck.

For a meal like this, he had to have a fire. Who
knew how long it would be before he'd eat this well again. It would be okay. No
one would be looking at Stevenson Island when the whole South gate was
demolished.

When he hit the backcountry, he'd have to keep on
the move, and he may not even be able to risk a fire. So tonight, before he
slept, he'd feast. He made a fire and let it burn down to bright coals. He
skinned the rabbit and put it on a spit, roasting it slowly. It smelled delicious.
Finally, he could wait no longer. He pulled a strip of crisp meat off the side
and savored it. He was just starting on the foreleg when he glanced up and saw
the child.

She was standing in the old cabin, and she had
not yet seen him. Reddish light from the fire flickered through the vines
around her, casting shifting shadows on her as she stood in the doorway.

Her eyes were fixed on the roasting rabbit, and
in them burned a peculiar light. Caldwell had seen it enough to know what it
was: fury.

They stayed frozen for a moment, then he stood,
quickly.

"So you didn't drown, then?" he said in
a low voice.

He could tell that she saw him now. She shook her
head. She was looking through the rising smoke of his campfire, watching it.
She shook her head and crouched down, tracing a swirling pattern in the dirt.

He paused a moment, looking at the smoke, looking
at her. She was, for some inexplicable reason, tracing the design of the smoke.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked.

She kept tracing and
nodded.

He tossed the rabbit bone aside. "That's too
bad." He said softly. He took a measured step toward her. He saw the fear
on her face. She knew he was going to kill her. He wondered for a moment how he
should do this. Caldwell knew that the park could take care of itself. It could
rid him of this new problem.

She was one of the invaders, and he had a mission
to accomplish. She was the first of many beings he would sacrifice for the good
of this land. Not the first, actually, but the first alien. And he wouldn't save
this place by being weak.

But how? A wolf or a mountain lion could help him
get rid of her, but there were no big predators on the island. A tree was
unlikely to fall. There were no steep cliffs here. The lake was his only
option. Lake Yellowstone would have to take her.

He took another step. At that moment, though she
kept her hand moving, she shifted her gaze and looked directly into his eyes.

Later, when Caldwell looked back on it, he would
wonder what had happened. It was as if the world stopped spinning for that one
long moment. As if his mind stopped and his body stopped. As he watched her
draw, he was concentrating on moving forward, on ending this here and now and
finishing his rabbit and getting to the back country. But then he wasn’t moving
forward. He was doing nothing. He didn’t see her stop drawing or stand or walk.
Inexplicably, she was suddenly farther away, stepping sideways along the front
of the old cabin and slipping off into the trees. It was only when he heard the
brush breaking that he blinked rapidly and turned toward the sound. And by then
she was gone, and he was in pursuit.

The child ran blindly, pushing through the dense
undergrowth, trying to get away. Caldwell heard her crashing along in front of him.
Her breath was ragged, but she kept running.

He heard the moment she broke free from the
resistance of the brush, and he saw her ahead, out on the lake shore, slipping
across the rocks and splashing into the water. Before he could get there, she
had run into the lake. He heard her swimming, choking on the water as it rushed
in and fought to pull her under.

Caldwell got to the shore, searching the surface
for her. But the night was too dark. He felt exposed on the broad stretch of
sand. If someone else happened to see him now, he'd never get away. He swore.
Who was going to listen to a half-crazed alien girl? And wasn’t this basically
what he’d wanted? She'd likely drown before she got to shore. The park could take
her now.

Still, he needed to get moving. With her out
there he couldn’t stay on the island. The backcountry was his only sure chance
at staying hidden, and he'd have to vanish into it quickly now.

25

Nowhere seemed safe to Zyn'dri. She had made it
to the shore and found the long black road. As she stumbled along it, every
passing tree seemed to hold in its shadow the bearded Ranger with the weapon.
Even as the sun rose, his face haunted every rock and bend in the road. She
left the road and followed a more inviting side path that was dappled with
morning sun and alive with scurrying animals.

She felt the Earth under her feet here, felt its
tempestuous soul. It was never more evident than now that it was not the old
and serene world she had come from. This world was turbulent. Things were
happening inside it that she did not understand. What she did understand was
that it was no place for the tranquil Stracahn.

Zyn’dri struck out through a bright meadow. It
felt more like home. A small stream wound through the tall grass, its voice
laughing and singing beside her. She breathed in the warm smell of the grass
and the wildflowers. Primrose and lupine bloomed around her, and she found
herself transfixed by their bright colors. As she waded through the grass,
Zyn'dri let out a little yell.

There in the grass lay a woman, beautiful and
old. She sat up when she heard Zyn'dri's cry.

"I'm sorry I scared you," said the
woman. Her silver hair flowed out behind her. She wore a flowered wrap. There
were sandals beside her feet in the bright grass.

Zyn'dri looked for the fear she felt whenever she
spoke to humans but found none. She sorted through her vocabulary.
"Hello." She said carefully.

"My name is Sylvia." Said the woman,
smiling until her face folded.

"I am Zyn'dri." As she said it, the
woman blinked, then gasped.

"Zyn'dri!" The woman struggled to her
feet, slipping on her shoes and crossing the few feet between them. Zyn'dri
found herself caught in a warm embrace. "You’re okay!" Sylvia stepped
back and held out a hand. "Will you come with me?"

Zyn'dri hesitated. "Where will you take
me?" she managed.

Sylvia's eyes filled with understanding.
"You're afraid. That's all right. If you'd like, we can go to my house—"
she gestured to a row of buildings behind the meadow, "and have some fresh
strawberries. Are you hungry?"

Zyn'dri considered. She was
hungry, and she had certainly had enough of being alone with the specter of the
bearded Ranger hovering behind every tree. Tentatively, she reached out and
took Sylvia's hand. The two walked together to the cozy little apartment.

26

Sol could hear his mother's voice, high and wild,
outside the corridor of cells.

"I want to talk to my son!"

The Rangers had turned him over to the police at
the west entrance, and they had taken him into Cascadia, to a jail in the
nearest town: Sunset. It was a small jail, and on either side of him, the cells
held three drunken cowboys and a thief.

His ears were still ringing and his head still
throbbing. He didn't know what he was going to do to get out of this.

When she came down and peered through the bars at
him, tears formed in his mother's eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” He managed, “You were right. I
shouldn’t have been in there. I was going to tell you.”

She reached through the bars and placed a cool
hand on his bandaged head. "It's okay, honey," she said.

Sol, after the fear and confusion of this whole
day, couldn't stop his own tears as he leaned forward toward his mom. He tried
to stop crying as he saw Uncle Carl coming down the corridor, but it only made
his sobs come harder. Uncle Carl stood for a moment, then slowly put a big arm
around his sister and reached through the bars to rest a hand on Sol's
shoulder. His voice was choked with emotion when he spoke. "Thank God
you're okay," he murmured. "We're gonna fix this."

27

Walt spent the entire day at headquarters working
on a timeline of the explosion with the other Rangers. He almost couldn’t be in
the same room with Syd, who felt betrayed and had already convinced himself of
Sol’s guilt.

Walt hadn’t wanted to leave Sylvia. She had been
a little stronger, insisting that she was going into the meadow for some
sunshine. He had argued for a while, but there was no dissuading her. He’d made
her promise to keep her radio close.

He hadn't stopped thinking about her all day, and
as he left headquarters, he was disgusted to see that his radio’s battery was
dead.  He wouldn't know if she needed him.

By the time he got back to the apartment, Walt
had convinced himself of the worst. He threw the door open, his eyes sweeping
the room anxiously for his wife. They stopped to rest on two figures at the
table, Sylvia smiling broadly, Zyn'dri peering shyly from beneath long
turquoise lashes.

"Sylvia . . ." Walt attempted, crossing
the room to them and leaning on a chair, "Sylvia, what--"

His wife stood, "Walt, it's Zyn'dri."

He was suddenly dizzy. Walt sat heavily at the
table. He felt himself breaking into a grin as he studied her. "Where have
you been?"

She paused, searching for words. "I was . .
. In the water."

The couple exchanged glances. "In the
water?"

Zyn'dri shook her head, then rephrased. "On
the water. On the land on the water."

Suddenly Walt saw it. Saw what had happened.
"Stevenson Island? You swam all the way to Stevenson Island?"

Zyn'dri nodded. "I found a house there. I
made a rug."

Walt breathed out. "I never would have
figured." He said.

They watched her eat, her quiet, controlled
movements so unlike a child of her age. Walt was amazed at how many
strawberries such a little girl could eat.

"Are you feeling better?" Sylvia asked,
glancing anxiously at the child.

Zyn'dri finished off her berries and sipped the tea
Sylvia had given her. "Yes."

The child seemed old, somehow, and very wise.
Walt wanted to be near her forever. He saw the same feeling in Sylvia's eyes
and with a growing sense of horror he realized that if she became too attached,
she would grieve when the child had to go home. Grief takes a terrible toll all
on its own, and Sylvia didn't have the energy to spare. "Do you want me to
take you to your village?" he asked the child.

The little girl's eyes grew sad. She took the
piece of bison jerky Sylvia was offering, took a bite, and chewed as she said,
"Not really."

Walt was taken aback. "Why?"

For the first time since she'd come here, Zyn'dri
felt like crying. "My parents died. I will be raised Chantha. I will have
to live in my hut all alone." She held the jerky, not eating it now, just sitting
very still.

"Chantha is an orphan? It means not having
parents?"

Zyn'dri nodded.

Before Walt knew what was happening, Sylvia had
reached across the table and had taken the little girl's hand. "Would you
like to stay here? With us?"

"Sylvia,” he said. His voice was sharper
than he usually let it be when he spoke to her, but he had to stop this.

She raised her eyebrows toward him. He tried to
shake his head without the child seeing.

“Just a minute,” Sylvia said to Zyn’dri. She
stood and went into their bedroom. Walt followed, aware that she was angry.

She whirled on him as he closed the door behind
him. “Walt! She could stay here.”

The strain of the day—of the last few days—began
to surface. “There are so many reasons we can’t do that, Honey.”

“Tell me.” She sat on the bed and folded her arms
over her chest.

“The park service won’t allow it.”

“We don’t know. We haven’t asked them.”

“The Stracahn won’t allow it either.”

“We don’t know that either. But I think you’re
wrong. Their population has been decimated.  The adults are gone. Her parents
are gone. Why couldn’t we raise her?”

Walt looked at her. He was blunt. “I don’t want
her here, Sylvia. We don’t know enough about them. What if they are dangerous
somehow? And what about your illness?”

Sylvia wasn’t looking at him. She was looking
past him, and as he turned he saw that the child had opened the door a little
and was gazing through the crack. He opened his mouth to tell her to go, but as
he glanced at Sylvia, then back at Zyn’dri, he saw their eyes and knew that it
was too late. They had found each other.

Walt made salty flatbread for them to eat with
their elk meatballs and dandelion greens for dinner, and the child ate
voraciously. He admitted to himself that he enjoyed seeing her so excited. It
started him reasoning that there was enough going on at headquarters today, and
they didn’t need to discuss Zyn’dri with anyone else just yet.

It was Sylvia who rose after dinner and opened
the door to Sean’s room. She didn’t go in, just left it ajar and came back to clean
up from the meal, showing Zyn’dri how to compost and how to wash the dishes. The
child was a willing and cheerful helper, though she sunk at times into silence
that Walt recognized as grief.

Walt loved seeing Sylvia so happy.
Though she was still weak, there was a new vibrancy about her. It gave him
hope.

He slipped an arm around Sylvia and kissed her.
When he looked up, Zyn'dri's wide charcoal-colored eyes were on them.

"What was that?" she asked.

Walt looked around for any unfamiliar objects.
"What?"

The child reached up and brushed Sylvia's lips
with her fingertips. Walt saw his wife smile and take Zyn'dri's hand gently.

"It's a kiss," Sylvia said. She gently
pressed her lips to the child's hand. Zyn'dri's face bunched into a smile. Walt
hadn't been aware that the Stracahn could smile—he had never seen it before. It
was beautiful.

"What does it mean?" Zyn'dri asked.
Walt started to respond, but Sylvia was already speaking.

"It can mean many things. How does it
feel?"

Zyn'dri touched the place on her hand. "The
same."

"I mean how does it feel inside?"
Sylvia said.

Zyn'dri looked up at her. "Nice." She
said. "Safe."

"That's what it means," Sylvia said.
Walt loved her ability to teach. She didn't just tell the child the definition,
as he had been going to. Sylvia helped her discover the answer from inside
herself.

"My parents did this.” The child drew a
quick stroke on Sylvia’s arm.

Sylvia smiled. “Yes. That feels nice, too.”

“And this.” She tapped three fingers on Walt’s
shoulder.

“Very nice.” He said.

“May I kiss you?" Zyn'dri asked. Sylvia
nodded.

The child stood glancing from Sylvia's hands to
her face. Sylvia smiled, and Walt saw that she detected Zyn’dri’s puzzlement.

"We usually save a kiss on the lips for a
sweetheart."

Zyn'dri tipped her head sideways. "What's a
sweetheart?"

Both Sylvia and Walt chuckled. Walt answered this
one. "Someone special. That you want to spend your life with."

"Sylvia is your sweetheart." The child
said directly.

"Oh, yes," Walt said.

Zyn'dri turned her eyes to Sylvia. "And
who's yours?"

Sylvia giggled. She turned her laughing eyes to
Walt, and he looked into them, relishing the new light he saw there. She stood
on her tiptoes and lightly kissed his lips. "This guy." She said,
then leaned down and offered her cheek to Zyn'dri, tapping it lightly with her
fingertip. "You can kiss me here if you'd like."

Zyn'dri made a loud smooching noise and kissed
her, then kissed her again. Smiling broadly, Zyn’dri reached for Walt.
"Now you!" she said. He leaned down, and though her enthusiastic kiss
was loud and a little sloppy, as she pulled away he felt he'd been blessed.

Walt stayed away while Sylvia put Zyn’dri to bed
in Sean’s room. He hadn’t felt this afraid in a long time. It was so unlikely
that she would get to stay with them. There were so many others they’d have to
convince, and he dreaded how Sylvia would react if any of them refused. He
heard his wife cross the hall and go to bed in their room, but still he stayed
in the front room, avoiding them by looking out the window at the dark sky and
the stars over the park. When he was sure they were both asleep, he stood to go
to bed himself.

An unexpected shaft of light in the hallway
caught his eye. It was so strange to see the door of Sean's room open. Walt
wandered to the end of the hall and stood in front of it. It had been kept
closed for so long. They had still dusted and vacuumed once a month, and
sometimes Walt would sit on the little bed in the falling sunshine and try to
remember the exact color of Sean's eyes or the way his hair smelled when he
came in from running through the meadow, but mostly his room had sat still and
silent.

Waiting. Walt realized now that the room had been
waiting. He peered inside.  In the dim light of a little lamp shaped like a
bison, Zin'dri lay curled in Sean's little bed. The beige and green quilt that
Sylvia had made from their old uniforms, the ones they had worn before armor
was the new standard, was pulled up around the little girl. She looked safe and
calm.

That calm permeated the apartment. Walt still
didn’t know what would happen, but he fell asleep with a hope he hadn’t felt in
a long time.

The feeling was gone in the bright light of
morning. Walt woke with a sense of dread, subconsciously realizing that Sylvia was
not in bed beside him. He sat up, searching for the slippers beside his bed.
She was never awake before he was.

The little girl was gone, too. Sean's bed lay
empty. A wave of fear washed over Walt. He moved to the window. The meadow
behind the apartments shone in the early morning light, and there they were.

Walt felt himself smile. Their complete serenity
made his fears seem foolish. Sylvia's shining silver hair mingled with the
girl's turquoise hair as they sat shoulder-to-shoulder, focused on something
they were holding.

He felt drawn to them, wanted to be a part of that
safe little circle. Leaving the apartment, he crossed the landing between his
door and Caldwell's and made his way downstairs, out into the meadow. Walking
across the wide swath of grass, he paused, watching them. They didn't look up
from their work.

"Then you loop this one under this
one," Sylvia was explaining. Now he could see that she held a lovely daisy
chain crown, half-finished. Zyn'dri was mirroring her actions, crafting a crown
of her own. Walt smiled as he saw how carefully she worked, how coordinated her
hands were. Their iridescence reminded him of the dragonflies that hovered
around the edges of the lake. Her skin moved from bright orange through shades
of green and blue, to a deep, rich purple with a running black sheen. She was beautiful.

Sylvia was watching him watch the child. She
smiled at him, her eyes full of pride and excitement he hadn't seen since—

Walt shook his head, breaking his gaze away from
them and breathing through the thirty-year-old ache in his chest.

Their boy, Sean, had been smaller. Younger. They
lost him when he was only five, bright and beautiful.

Suddenly, Walt felt Sylvia's arms around him. She
had come to him, as she always did. Walt held her, and she reached up and
turned his head back toward the little girl, working carefully on her crown.

He saw again another parting looming in front of
them. Could Sylvia bear it when the child had to go back to the Stracahn
village? Could he?

Sylvia's thoughts reflected his. "We have to
talk to them, Walt. She has to stay with us."

He opened his mouth to tell her he didn't know if
she could, but all that came out, all that ever came out when Sylvia asked him for
something, was, "Okay."

They stood a moment in the full glory of
Yellowstone summer. The grasses in the meadow, deep green touched with gold,
waved around them. Wildflowers surrounded the child, and the park seemed,
somehow, more complete.

Walt hurried into his uniform. Who would he talk
to first? He needed to make sure this worked. He could not fail. As he drove to
headquarters, he thought about the different tactics he could use. He could
just not say anything. They thought she was dead anyway. But someone would
eventually notice that they had an iridescent girl living with them.

He passed a pair of the Avowed walking their
daily devotional path. They had received permission to move between Old
Faithful and the Sapphire Pool in Biscuit Basin—something about the energy flow
between those two features was necessary for their devotions.

He slowed, thinking of how invisible they had
become to him, now that he saw them nearly every day. But this time as he
approached them, he saw one of them stumble, then fall, and Walt watched anxiously
as the other bent over the fallen man, then arched his neck back and looked up
at the sky.

Walt had seen that before—in the village when so
many were dying. He pulled over and rushed out.

The fallen man's face was ashen among the orange folds
of his robe. Walt felt for a pulse. He was dead.

Walt looked up at the other man, forlorn on the
side of the road.

"He's gone," Walt said.

The other man nodded. "He has been weak for
some time. This new planet was not for him."

They had met before, but Walt couldn’t remember
the details. Walt wished he could comfort him somehow. "What's your
name?"

The Stracahn spoke quietly, still gazing at his
fallen companion. "Grandyn."

Nothing Walt could think of was the right thing
to say. He couldn't use any of the cliches: "He's in a better place,"
or "He's happy now." He was aware that those words rang hollow in the
face of loss. And Walt didn't know what the Stracahn believed about the afterlife.

He looked into the man's bright green eyes.
"I'm sorry."

Gravel crunched behind them, and Walt turned to
see more of the Avowed approaching. He recognized the leader of the Avowed,
Meir, by his vibrant green robes.

Meir knelt beside the fallen man, passing a hand
lightly over his face once, twice, three times, and murmuring some Stracahn
words before standing and gesturing to the others. They lifted the man. Meir
turned to Walt.

"Thank you for your help."

Walt watched the Avowed as they carried their
friend. It would be a long walk for them. "I can give you a ride. Let me
help you get him back to the village."

Meir shook his head. "In life, Albion carried
us. Now, we will carry him." He turned to follow the other Avowed.

Walt found himself speaking. He had not expected
to do it this way, but he couldn’t let Meir leave without trying. "Meir,
the little girl who was lost—Zyn'dri," Walt met Meir's eyes for a moment,
"She wandered out of the woods yesterday. We found her. My wife is taking
care of her."

Meir showed no surprise. It was almost as if he
had expected the news. Walt rushed on. "We wondered, well, if we could—” he
heard the desperate tone in his voice. Walt recognized for the first time how
much he did want her to stay with them, if only because she brought such light
to Sylvia’s ever-darkening life. "If we could look after her since her
parents died."

When it was said aloud, the myriad complications
arose in his mind. The fact that Sylvia was sick. The fact that Zyn'dri was an
alien girl in a completely new world. The fact that he was old, and the fact
that they knew almost nothing about her people or her culture. All those were
overshadowed by the horrible fact that humans had destroyed the Stracahn
homeworld. There were too many barriers. Of course, they couldn't raise her. He
didn't know what they'd been thinking.

But Meir's face was kind. "I sense in you,
Walt, a particular vision. Perhaps you can see things that others don’t. I am
happy to hear that the child is all right, and I think staying with you would
be an excellent idea." He said. "I sense a rightness about it as if
something important depends upon it. The child will be well taken care of, I
think."

Walt heard his own breath. "We have your
permission then?"

Meir bowed his head, once, serenely. "You
have more than that. You have my blessing."

28

Sol stared at the officer. "No, sir. I
didn't have those explosives with me. It was just blankets and coats in that
crate." Fourteen days he had been here, and fourteen days he had spent
trying to convince them of this one point.

"How did they get there then?"

"I don't know, sir."

This guy was the third officer
in four days, and they were having the same conversation.

"How did you know the safeguard on the gates
would bond the fence together?"

"I didn't, sir."

"Why did you want to do this? Is it the
Stracahn? Are you Anti-Stracahn?"

Sol was done crying. Had endured this treatment,
these endless questions, for days. He'd learned more about the attack from the
questioning than he had from actually being there. He knew they had searched
the ranch, taken all his stuff out of his room in boxes to find a clue to why
he would do such a thing. His mother and uncle and his friends had been
questioned. And his head was still tender. This was, he thought, the worst week
of his life. Then he remembered that week when he was six and reconsidered.

Finally, he broke. "I
didn't do anything!" he shouted. "I was just delivering supplies,
just trying
to help."

The officer stood. "Well, kid, you haven't
helped anybody, that's for sure." The heavy door slammed behind him.

Sol was escorted back to his cell by a couple of
guards who he didn't mind. They weren't friendly, but they didn't seem to find
him disgusting, either, like some of the guards did.

He lay on his bed, wracking his brain. In truth,
he remembered very little from the time he talked to Ranger Allison to the
moment he found himself lying on his cot in here. Nobody had found Ranger Allison
yet. Or Henley. There was just too much rubble. The whole mountain had come
down on that gate. The fence had fused, and the Park Service would never reopen
that entry point. They'd told him this morning that he'd probably be
transferred to a prison in Fruitland, North and West of here, deeper into
Cascadia, tomorrow. He didn't see any end to this.

"Brooks!" a guard barked as he strode
down the corridor and unlocked Sol's cell, "Get out here! You've got a
visitor!"

Sol followed him into the little white room where
he usually met his mother or the lawyer. He sat on one of the chairs that were
bolted to the floor. The door opened, and to his surprise, Mezina came flying
into the room. She had her arms around him before the guard got through the
door behind her. Mezina's few kisses were warm and encouraging, and Sol
brightened in spite of his surroundings.

"Over here." The guard barked,
directing her to the other bolted-down chair. She sat, gazing at Sol.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I'm okay. I just want to get out of
here."

"I know. I want you out, too! Do you know
they've been all over town questioning people? Nobody can believe you--"
she stopped just in time.

"I didn't do anything, Mezina. You of all
people should know that."

She studied him for a moment. "I know.
That's what I told them."

He searched her eyes.

Mezina leaned across the table, lowering her
voice.

“I didn’t know that your uncle had you in on the
initiative.”

There it was again. Sol wanted to know. He played
along. “Right. Well, he did. But I still don’t know why we’re doing it.” He
hoped that was sufficiently vague.

Mezina’s eyes lit up. “Because we have to protect
Liberty, Sol. It’s the only thing that matters. And the Isolation Initiative,
if we could pull it off, would mean that the Leadership would have a much
harder time getting to us.  It’s just that we all thought we were still in
recon phase. We just didn’t know the action phase was starting.”

It wasn’t a complete answer, and Sol still didn’t
know what exactly the initiative was, but he knew that it meant more barriers
between Liberty and the outside world. Sol’s weariness had returned. He saw in Mezina’s
eyes that she wanted for him to have done this, wanted the blood of two people on
his hands, just because they were her family's enemies and their deaths would
show Sol's loyalty to her side of the conflict. He knew she wanted him to be
hers, knew that her perfect life saw them ranching together on her father's
land, combining it with Silver Lake ranch, and continuing the struggle for it.
Sealing South Edge off from the park, making the closest entry point over 60
miles away, dealt a perfect blow to the enemy. Only he hadn’t done it.

"Why did you come, Mezina?"

She leaned away, looking hurt. "To see you,
Sol. I came because I'm your girlfriend, and you need my support right
now."

"I need your faith." He said forcefully.
"I need you to know that I'm not that person, that I wouldn't ever do
this."

Mezina smiled, nodding knowingly. "Right.
You wouldn't."

Sol's irritation grew. "I didn't!"

"Even if you did, Sol, I just want you to
know that it doesn't change the way I feel about you. I love you even more, and
I'm right here for you.” She leaned in again and lowered her voice. “I want you
to know that we can fight together when you get out of here.

She wasn't listening. It was as if she wasn’t at
all interested in the truth. Nobody was. His cell suddenly seemed more inviting
than staying here with her. Sol stood. "I'm not feeling so great, Mez.
You'd better go home." The guard gestured Sol out, and he left without
looking back.

29

Walt had been avoiding Karson: checking in just a
little early and waiting until the director was in a meeting before dropping
off his reports. Walt had successfully avoided him for three weeks, so when
Karson called his name, Walt jumped.

"Walt! Hold on!" Karson was striding
out of the office.

Walt braced himself for a fight, but Karson
didn’t look angry. He looked harried. "Any sign of Caldwell when you were
out near Fishing Bridge this morning?"

Walt shook his head. "No, but someone’s been
into the old boathouse.”

“Have you seen him at his apartment?”

“No. I haven’t seen him since he left the meeting
the day of the explosion.” Walt tried to keep from saying ‘I told you so.’
Instead, he said, “It seems that he's completely disappeared."

Karson let out a long breath, running his eyes
across the thick trees around headquarters. "Not so hard to do out
here."

Looking at the younger man, Walt felt the weight
of Karson's responsibilities for the first time. In his short time as director,
Karson had been forced to deal with the rising discontent of neighboring
communities, the Stracahn situation, the destruction of the South gate, and
now, a rogue Ranger. Walt felt for him.

"I'm going to have to head up a serious
search for him," Karson said. "I'm not going to have time to do
everything I've been doing. I wanted to talk to you because I need someone who
can take over coordinating with the Stracahn." Karson said. "Someone
who can work to find them housing in the Rockies next year and transportation
there, someone who can file all the paperwork that it's going to take."

He looked up at Walt. "You're good with
people, Walt. The best we have. Could I pull you off regular duty and give you
this as a special assignment? It will probably be a commitment for at least a
couple of years."

A cool breeze blew across Walt's face. He saw,
just for a moment, how this opportunity could solve myriad problems for them,
and it was as if a keystone was sliding into place.

"Could Sylvia do it?" he blurted.
"She'd be great at all the coordinating, and she's good with the Stracahn.
I've seen it."

Karson looked at him carefully. In his eyes was a
tacit knowledge. Without a word, the director had revealed that he knew about
Sylvia's condition. Walt knew that Karson had only one option—to send Sylvia
out of the park—and he braced himself for that.

But the younger man turned and gazed out into the
trees again. "I think that would work," he said nonchalantly.
"Her paperwork is always spotless. But she'll need to do most of it from home
because the offices are crowded already."

Walt couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He didn't
hide his gratitude. He took Karson’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. "That
will be perfect," he said.

"And that will ensure that she can keep an
adequate eye on the child, too," Karson said, turning back to Walt with a
pointed look.

"You heard about that, huh?" Walt said.
Karson's expression, accepting and friendly, told him that he didn't need to
worry.

"I’ve heard about that from nearly every Ranger
in your housing complex.” He said. “But I wouldn’t worry. It makes sense for
our Stracahn coordinator to know the aliens well." He straightened his
helmet. "Do you think the girl could teach Sylvia some Stracahn? Tutor
her? That would give us a legitimate excuse to support you taking her in."

Walt spoke eagerly. "Absolutely. I'm sure
they can learn a lot from each other."

As Karson walked away, Walt called, "Thank
you!" but the director didn't look back, just threw him a casual wave.

Just when Walt thought he knew people, one of
them always surprised him.

Days later, as he ate breakfast, Walt perused his
screen. Protesters had concentrated at Sunset, claiming the bombing was a
conspiracy to distract people from Stracahn being smuggled out of the park.

And the tensions between the regions surrounding
the park were growing, as well. Reports said that the people in Liberty, to the
south of the park, were afraid of an invasion by the Cascadians, who lived to
the West, and the Harvesters to the East. The Libertyites were also upset
because Sol would be tried in Cascadia, by a frontier tribunal who had the power
of execution. The Milguard, Liberty’s militia, was arming and training for
conflict.

Walt watched a video recording of the local leadership
overseer, Agent-In-Charge Damen. “Tensions among the regions are at a fever
pitch,” the man said. “the Consolidated Terrene Leadership remains very
concerned about these conflicts.”

The reporter interviewing him spoke up, “Mr.
Damen, what do you see as the main force driving these conflicts?”

Damen scoffed. “Well, ignorance, of course. The
locals have no vision of the United World. They are stuck in an antiquated
paradigm where they believe this land is theirs.”

“Is the land owned by the citizens of Liberty?”

“For the time being, yes.”

Walt also saw a spot on the news about Sol. They
were transferring him to the federal prison, deeper in Cascadia, to await
sentencing. Walt saw the kid on camera for a second. Sol’s brown eyes were narrowed,
his head hanging. Walt tried to push the thought of him away, tried to focus on
his oatmeal and the day ahead, but the injustice of it grated on him. Even with
the heaps of evidence, Walt couldn't make himself believe that Sol, who had
helped Zyn’dri when she was running for the Avowed, and who had searched harder
than anyone when she was lost, would have attacked like that.

He knew someone who would have. No one had seen
Caldwell since the explosion, and everyone else seemed to believe that he was
simply out in the backcountry, sulking over his run-in with Karson at the
meeting.

But Walt knew people. He knew their brilliance
and their darkness. He knew before most others when something was off. Sol
wasn't hiding anything, but Caldwell was.

He rose and gathered his things.

Walt moved more quietly as he went to the front
door and pulled his helmet from the peg on the wall. He slipped silently out of
the apartment, hoping the Sylvia and Zyn’dri could sleep for a while. For a
moment, he stood on the landing and stared at the door to Caldwell's apartment.
Behind it, he knew, there were four rooms and a broad window that framed a
stunning view of the meadow. But what else was in there?

Walt shook the thought from his head and made his
way downstairs. He was taking a shift at the village today. Before Zyn’dri had
come to live with them, he hadn’t liked village duty. It was uncomfortable to
be immersed in a culture so foreign, where any word that he heard was a strange
one, and where the people eyed him with a reserved distrust. Many of the Rangers
avoided it, requesting duties like kill counting that they would have shunned a
year ago before the Stracahn came.

But since Zyn'dri had come to live with them Walt
found himself drawn to the village and fascinated by its strangeness. The
Avowed recognized Walt now, and they were friendly, for Stracahn. Often they
would come and ask him how Zin'dri was doing. He enjoyed their conversations
and found himself looking for them, hoping they would approach.

He wanted to understand her better. He wanted to
know what her people believed and how they thought.

But today as he approached, he wondered how much
of what she had known before still existed, even with her people. The villages
were quiet places, sad ones. So many of the Stracahn had been lost, both back
on their home planet and when they arrived here. The village was still, Walt
supposed, grieving.

But the Stracahn revealed little. They sat
quietly outside their huts or walked to the wellhouse to get water, their faces
stone, and their emotions veiled. Walt couldn't imagine being torn so
forcefully from your society. It must have been terribly hard for them. He
wondered why they didn't express it.

He looked at the children. Their steps were as
measured and careful as those of their elders. They, too, sat motionless in the
sunshine.

It struck Walt that Zin'dri was different. When
he looked at her, he saw pain in her eyes; he saw sorrow. When she curled
between him and Sylvia as they read to her last night, he saw contentment and
hope. She smiled back at them when they smiled at her.

He was thinking about that when he heard a calm
voice behind him.

"Thank you for your assistance the other
day."

Walt turned to see Grandyn, standing abysmally
alone in the beaten-earth oval that was the center of the village.

"You're welcome. I'm sorry about your,"
Walt realized he didn't know the proper word, "your colleague."

"My Ally." Grandyn helped him.
"That is the closest word in your language."

"Your Ally. I'm sorry."

Grandyn raised his eyes slowly, meeting Walt's
gaze. "Thank you. I sense you are familiar with such loss."

The words hit Walt in the chest. He took a deep breath.
Not trusting himself to speak, he only nodded.

"These pains pass with time," Grandyn
said, and the words sounded hollow to Walt. Walt felt the old anger rise in
him, the way he always responded to trite euphemisms.

"Not always." He said coldly. He knew.
Sometimes you had to live with these pains for a long, long time.

30

A month in, and Sol had been transferred. The
Fruitland jail was no small time facility. The men here were rough. They were
mostly career criminals and violent offenders waiting for trial.

At least most of the murderers didn’t stick
around long. Since the Consolidated Terrene Leadership took over, local judges
had the power and responsibility to administer immediate capital punishment via
injection upon conviction. Sol tried not to let that worry him. After all, he
was only charged with an attack on the Leadership and destruction of Leadership
Property.

He’d been shackled in the back of a cramped
crawler for several hours during transport here, and the cramp in his shoulder
that had bothered him since the explosion just wouldn’t go away now. He figured
that the unyielding cot he was lying on wasn't helping it, either. He sat up.

The jail was quiet, except for the distant
snoring of an inmate further down the row somewhere, a steady moaning from
another inmate, and the occasional rustle of someone turning over in his sleep.

Sol had moved past disbelief. He had moved past
indignation and anger. Now, as he scooted back and leaned against the cold
wall, a dark acceptance seeped into his consciousness. This was real. This was
his life: the shadowy eight foot by ten foot room, with its cement floor, sink,
and toilet. It was not what he wanted.

He remembered the feel of his father's arms
around him. He had always wanted to be like his father.

Timothy wouldn't be proud to see him in this
place. Would he believe Sol? Would he believe that he was innocent? If he still
existed somewhere, as Sol's mother thought he did, his father may be the only
one who really knew what happened.

A month this nightmare had gone on, and nobody,
not the Rangers or the police or the guards, believed that he had not caused
that explosion. Even his friends seemed to be doubtful. Only Mezina had come to
visit him in Sunset, and now, deep in the heart of Cascadia, he didn’t expect
any visitors.

31

Zyn’dri loved living in the Ranger housing.
Though it looked very different from her hut back on Empyriad, it felt more
like it than the Quickform had. Because the apartment was on the second floor,
and because the broad window in the living room looked out over the meadow and
the trees, it sometimes felt as if she were back on Empyriad, climbing into the
treetops.

The trees outside were changing colors. They had
become a celebration of oranges, reds, and yellows. Sylvia taught her a new
word: Autumn. Back home, they had no change of seasons. Her village was
temperate year round. She played with the new word as she looked out over the
now-bright forest. Autumn. Autumn.

And she was beginning to hear some Stracahn words
around her new home, too, as she helped Sylvia learn the language, and Walt,
too, when he was home.

But their lessons would be less frequent now that
they were going to work part of each day in the Village. Zyn’dri would spend
that time in school, and Sylvia would spend it meeting with the Avowed and
other adults, seeing how she could help them learn to live in this world.

This was their first day and
Zyn’dri’s second ride in a spider. Walt was driving them to the village on his
way to park headquarters over by Old Faithful.

As they rode in the spider, Zyn’dri looked in the
mirror. She couldn’t keep her eyes off the striking pattern Sylvia had made in
her turquoise hair. It hung over her shoulder like a rope. “What is this?” she
asked.

“It’s called a braid,” Sylvia said, smiling.

Zyn’dri touched the woven strands. They echoed
yet another of the patterns from Laska’s books. She smiled, too, and tossed her
head around. She loved the heavy weight of it on her back, and she loved that
her hair wasn’t in her eyes. It was remarkable. She thought for a moment how
beautiful Asvika’s violet hair would look like this. Perhaps she could convince
Sylvia to do it while they were in the village today.

A weight pulled at her mind when she thought of
the village. Sylvia must have seen the shadow cross her face.

“What is it, sweetie?”

“I hope the—” Zyn’dri stopped. She didn’t want to
say it. Sylvia leaned down to gaze into her eyes, and her presence gave Zyn’dri
strength. “I hope the Trisne Rooth isn’t there anymore.”

Sylvia’s face folded into an expression of
sympathy. “I know. Me too.”

So Sylvia didn’t like death, either, though
Zyn’dri felt its cold presence hovering beside them in the apartment every day.
She gazed into Sylvia’s eyes and tried to see it, tried to pick out where in
her that chill came from.

Sylvia didn’t pull away. She returned Zyn’dri’s
look and waited patiently.

“Are you sick?” Zyn’dri asked pointedly.

Sylvia nodded. “Yes.”

“Will you die?” Zyn’dri knew the answer before
Sylvia spoke it.

“Yes.”

“When?”

Sylvia’s face was sad. “I don’t know, sweetie. It
won’t be long.”

Zyn’dri liked that Sylvia spoke plainly. Some of
the humans seemed to sidestep the facts, but Sylvia trusted her with the truth.

Zyn’dri nodded. She reached up and touched
Sylvia’s cheek, but pulled her hand back, surprised, as a tiny current passed
between them. Sylvia looked surprised, too.

“Awful quiet back there all of a sudden,” Walt
said, breaking the silence. He didn’t like talking about Sylvia’s illness. From
where he sat in the driver’s seat, he couldn’t look directly at them. Zyn’dri
wondered if she should try to describe to him what had just happened. Only she
didn’t know what had just happened.

“Look!” Walt pointed out the window at the
shining ribbon of the river as the spider stepped over it. A flock of the white
birds Zyn’dri had seen before rose from the water in a chaos of wings and
webbed feet.

“What are their names?” Zyn’dri cried, delighted.

“They’re pelicans,” Walt said. “They use those
big bills to scoop up fish.”

“I know. I’ve seen them.” Somehow, seeing them
again, and knowing what they were and how they moved and ate, made Zyn’dri feel
more at home here. Perhaps, as she learned more about this place, she would
come to know it as well as she had known Empyriad.

When they arrived, the village children were all
going toward the dining hut. Zyn’dri looked for the Trisne Rooth, but it was
gone from its place. She realized, suddenly, that they were not here.

Somehow, she had still been imagining that her
parents were here somewhere. Zyn’dri felt empty and afraid. She saw Pyrsha
walking with her parents. They were surrounded by Chantha children who drifted
along, looking at best timid and at worst, terrified.

“Pyrsha!” Zyn’dri waved. She saw Pyrsha’s bright
violet eyes turn toward her, then quickly drop to the ground. Her mother shot a
pointed look at Zyn’dri and, putting an arm around Pyrsha, turned her away.

Zyn’dri stopped walking for a moment and stood,
stunned. She saw Innueo and called to him, too, as she ran to him. She threw
her arms around him, but he stood stiffly. She pulled back and looked at him.

“Zyn’dri, don’t.” He muttered.

She felt confusion bubbling in her mind. “Why?
What’s wrong?”

Innueo glanced around. “Nothing. I just don’t
like those,” he squirmed, “human things.”

“Hugs?” Zyn’dri said. Hugs weren’t simply human,
though she did realize that they were only rarely shared by the Stracahn.

“And that,” he pointed to her face, “thing you do
with your mouth.”

Zyn’dri smiled tentatively. “This?”

Innueo turned and hurried toward the school,
leaving her on the path.

Sylvia approached. “Is everything okay, Zyn’dri?”

Zyn’dri didn’t know. She looked up at Sylvia.

“Things are a little different,” Sylvia said,
“for you and them. Be brave, and give them time. Just keep being yourself.”

Zyn’dri had no idea what that meant. Who else
could she be? And how? But she sensed that Sylvia was trying to help, so she
smiled and went toward the school.

The dining hut smelled like the many meals that
had been cooked in it. Zyn’dri found her way to one of the tables. It felt
strange to be back here, after everything that had happened. Sylvia was right. Everything
was different now. Even she wasn’t the same. She felt alone here.

As Pavela,
the teacher, stood in the center of the tables and tossed questions at the
children, Zyn’dri realized that she had missed so much. She tried to understand
what they were talking about.

“In what season was the first Empyriad flood?” The
teacher pointed to Zyn’dri.

Zyn’dri felt the gaze of her classmates. She had
no answer. “I don’t know,” she said, “but, may I ask a question?”

The teacher nodded. “You may.”

“Where is the Trisne Rooth?” Zyn’dri asked.

Pavela looked disapproving. Of course, the death
tent was not for polite conversation. But Zyn’dri had to know.

“Please? My parents were there the last time I
saw them.”

Reluctantly, Pavela gestured out the door of the
hut. “The Avowed have established a more permanent Trisne Rooth at the Old
Faithful Village, nearer to their new Vault.”

So she was alone. Truly. Even the place she’d
last seen her parents was gone. Nothing was left of them.

The brief daily breaks in the school day
illustrated her isolation even more. Adrik and Asvika were behind in their work,
and they often had to stay inside, so Zyn’dri found herself alone as the other
Stracahn children played stacking games and sang songs from Empyriad. Often she
slipped off to an empty hut to practice her designs.

Zyn’dri felt a deep sadness. Her parents were
gone. And though she had been pretending that Walt and Sylvia would make up for
that, she realized as she glanced around at her peers that in the eyes of her
people, she was truly Chantha.  She also realized that any time she spent with
the humans would only enlarge the gulf that had opened between herself and her
species.

32

The first graffiti was found on the back of a
Quickform near the North edge of the Hayden Valley Village. Walt was manning
the guardhouse with Angelo when Karson came on the radio and told him to go
check it out. The two Rangers exchanged glances. Angelo was one of the few Rangers
sympathetic to the Stracahn, and both of them knew that vandalism in the park
could get the aliens in serious trouble.

Walt walked along the path, where the grasses had
died back, and the earth was beaten bare by footsteps. He ran his hand along
the tops of the bristly Autumn grass along the path’s edge.

He saw it as he approached, a stark black design
on the back of the fawn-colored Quickform, and he stopped to stare. This wasn't
the same kind of vandalism—scratched names and carved obscenities—that still
disfigured the bacterial mats and geyser cones from a hundred years ago. It was
a delicate, intricate expression of something that Walt understood.

The design was nothing he'd ever seen before. Its curves, and angles were as foreign to him as the Stracahn language. For
all he knew, it was the Strachan
language. But somehow, on a level beyond what he could see, Walt knew it was
about loss. He knew it was a mourning symbol.

He radioed in and told Karson.

“Well, I guess we’d better scrub it off. We can’t
have that getting started.”

But when Walt went to work on it, he realized
that it wasn’t marked on the hut. It was burned into it.

But there was no charcoal, no ash. Walt ran his
fingers carefully over it. Was it acid? A chemical of some sort? Either way, it
wasn’t coming off with the soapy water he had carried over here.

33

Zyn’dri caught up quickly on the basics at school,
and she found that Adrik and Asvika hadn’t changed. They were Chantha, too,
after all.

They didn’t seem to mind if she smiled, or hugged
them in a moment of enthusiasm. They seemed glad to have some affection in
their lives.

She sought them out as soon as she came to the village
each morning, and the three sat together in school. They were sitting together
the day that the Agent in Charge visited.

“This is Damen,” Pavela said. “He is a leader in
the human’s government, and he will be assessing the progress of our class as he
assists the Consolidated Terrene Leadership in studying our needs.”

Zyn’dri was fascinated by his clothes. Shiny,
stretchy material with broad panels across his chest. She couldn’t help but
brush her fingers against it as he walked down their row, inspecting the human
writing they were practicing. He turned to fix her with his gaze.

“Did you touch me?” he asked, glancing at an
aide, who brought a cloth and wiped his suit where Zyn’dri had touched it.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “Your suit is so
shiny.”

Damen crouched down, inspecting her. “You speak
our language well.”

“Thank you.” She said. Adrik and Asvika were
keeping their eyes on their work, but everyone else was watching.

“What’s your name?” Damen asked.

“Zyn’dri.”

“Sydney?” he asked, and Zyn’dri didn’t correct
him.

“Okay, Sydney,” he said, “some of these Rangers
around here think you all are ready to go out into the world. What do you say?”

That was a complicated question, and Zyn’dri
didn’t have an answer.

He leaned in close and spoke in an exaggerated
whisper. “I think they’re just trying to get rid of you guys. I don’t believe
that you know enough about this world to go out of the park just yet.”

She sat quietly.

“I have some questions here. I want you to answer
them.”

Pavela spoke up. “Come to
the front of the class, Zyn’dri, so that all the students can hear the
questions Damen asks.”

Zyn’dri did as she was told. Damen’s aides
brought several cards to him, and he put one foot on the bench of one of the
tables, striking a deliberately casual pose.

“Can you tell me what this is?” He held up a
picture of a strawberry.

“Strawberry!” Zyn’dri said proudly.

He nodded. “Is it safe to eat?”

“It’s delicious to eat!”

Damen smiled and laughed, taking out another
card. On this one was a bison.

Zyn’dri was confident. “Bison!” she called out.
She could see as soon as she said it that he was not pleased. She should have
waited for him to ask.

“Is it a male or a female?” Damen asked. Zyn’dri
suspected that he had changed the question to trip her up.

She looked at the photograph, then closed her
eyes, trying to remember what the blind bison looked like. She knew he was
male, and this one looked a bit different. She recalled the feel of his hide,
the triangular shape of his head. She opened her eyes. The bison in the picture
had a rectangular head. It was leaner, and it lacked the thick curls on its
forehead that had entangled Zyn’dri’s fingers when she stroked the blind bison.
It reminded her of the mother bison that stayed back from the village nursing
their calves.

“Female.” She said boldly.

“Ha.” Damen snapped his fingers. “Good try. It’s actually
a male.”

Zyn’dri leaned forward. “No, it’s not. It’s a
female.”

Her contradiction seemed to annoy him. “See,” he
gestured to his aides, “write this down. This is the problem. They don’t even
know what they don’t know.” He pushed the card close to Zyn’dri’s face and
spoke slowly, “Can you see that it has horns?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“That shows you it is a male.” He said. “Female
bison have no horns.”

Zyn’dri’s mouth gaped. That was simply not true.
As she opened her mouth to speak, Pavela laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Sit down, Zyn’dri. Thank you.”

“But,” she started.

“Sit down. You are not helping anymore.”
Zyn’dri’s eyes burned. She could not cry now, not here in front of them all.

A voice came from the doorway of the hut.

“Have you ever actually seen a bison, Mister
Damen?” It was Walt, and he strolled forward. The smooth way he advanced made
Zyn’dri think of Obsidian, the Alpha wolf in the pack near their apartment.

“I saw some on the way here,” Damen said. “And
you are?”

“Ranger Bradley. That’s my girl there. Zyn’dri.”
He emphasized the correct pronunciation of her name, speaking to the agent in
the same slow way that Damen had talked to her. Suddenly, Zyn’dri didn’t feel
so much like crying. “Did you stop to check if they were male or female?” Walt
went on, still addressing Damen.

“Ranger, I’m not here to play games. I’m just
here to show that these,” he stumbled on the word, “people,
are not ready for integration.”

“Well that may be true,” Walt said, “but your
little quiz doesn’t prove that.”

“It’s a basic identification,” Damen began.

“Is it?” Walt asked. “Because if you need to pass
that to leave the park, we’d better set you up a Quickform.”

Damen stood, facing off with Walt as he
approached. Zyn’dri thought of the sparring wolves. Obsidian always won. “You
want to say exactly what you’re getting at, Ranger? And remember, we’re on the
same team here.”

Walt didn’t answer that, but he said, “Zyn’dri’s
right. That’s a female bison in your picture there.”

Damen glanced down at the image, looking, for the
first time, doubtful. “It has horns.”

“All adult bison have horns,” Walt said. “Which
you would know if your bosses hadn’t shut this place down two decades ago. If
you’d been in here before, you would have seen baby calves nursing from their
mamas, who use those horns to protect them.”

Damen had flushed red behind his beard. He held
Walt’s gaze for a moment, then turned to Pavela.

“Thank you for letting us visit. I have several
other stops to make,” he looked pointedly at Walt, “including Ranger
headquarters. So we need to be going.”

The aides gathered his cards and followed him out
of the dining hut. Walt closed one eye at Zyn’dri and smiled. She was enchanted
by the gesture, which she had never seen before. She copied it back at him, and
he let out a little laugh.

“Keep learning, everyone,” he said. He nodded to Pavela
and left the hut.

Pavela gestured Zyn’dri to
her seat. On the way there, Zyn’dri’s elation faded. The other children were
looking at her even more strangely. She realized she had no idea how to impress
them. And she realized that what she wanted to know was not in this place. The
dates of Empyriad events, the plants they’d lost and the people who’d died
there were not relevant on Earth. Damen was right about one thing. She didn’t
know enough about this world. She wanted to learn from the grasslands and the
mountains outside this hut. She wanted to know everything about this wild park
that was their new home.

In the following days, Zyn’dri found that if she
walked toward the school, Sylvia usually went to work in Malra’s hut and
Zyn’dri could veer off at the last moment and slip into Hayden Valley. She
spent her days at the river with the pelicans, and on particularly lucky days,
she spent them lounging in the shade of the blind bison, running her fingers
through his wooly coat and scratching the base of his broken horn.

She brought Laska’s journals sometimes and played
the matching game. His patterns were everywhere: in the clouds, in the eddies
of the river, in the roots of the grasses. She could spend hours finding them.
When Walt and Sylvia asked her about school, she made up Empyriad historical
events and hoped they wouldn’t check them out.

One afternoon, she found herself huddling close
to the blind bison, seeking the warmest place on his sunlit side. The wind had
turned bitterly cold. Before it was time for her to meet Sylvia, she saw low
clouds gathering over the mountains. Zyn’dri saw new patterns in them as they
moved over the valley and settled above her. Small pieces of the clouds began
to fall around her.

The pieces were cold and beautiful. But soon they
began to pile up around her. The bison heaved himself to his feet and chuffed
at her.

“Okay. I’ll go back to the village.” She rubbed
her hand across his curly forehead and watched him amble off.

She hoped he had someplace warm to go. The white
stuff was already covering the valley, and she shushed through it as she
returned to the village.

It was too early to meet up with Sylvia. Zyn’dri
slipped into an empty hut near the edge of the village. She had been here
before. Today she snapped on the little heater that sat against the wall. She
sat practicing her designs.

34

The winter set in hard and Sol watched it come
from the narrow window of his cell in Fruitland. After the first of the year,
he stopped hoping that they would get him out of here quickly.

Late one winter night, despite his best efforts,
Sol had fallen asleep against the cold cement wall behind his cot. When he
awoke, the chill had seeped into his bones. The thin woolen blanket was not
enough to restore his heat, so he stood and did a few jumping jacks.

"Quiet down over there, idiot." Came a
rough voice from the next cell. "People are still sleeping."

Sol glanced at the light outside the window. They
wouldn't be for long, he guessed. It was almost chow time. He saw a few stray
snowflakes falling outside the window. He pushed back the dark bitterness that
swelled in him all the time now. He had been in here for months. Six
months.
His friends had graduated. Trenton was probably gone now, off in the world
doing better things than putting banners on people. And Sol was missing it all
because these Cascadians were keeping him here.

It hadn’t mattered how many people he told the truth
to. The Rangers, the police, the other inmates, not one believed him. Some of
the inmates even congratulated him. And since he’d been transferred to
Fruitland, no one he knew had been here to visit. The border guards wouldn’t
let them this far into Cascadia. And they shouldn’t come, anyway. It had been
enough of a risk when they’d come to Sunset. His mom wrote him every day, and
he got seven letters at mail call once a week. He didn’t know if he’d ever see
her again.

He was trembling again. Sol checked the lights on
the charging station where his shocksuit was connected. All inmates were
required to wear them when they were out of the cell and charge them when they
were inside. There was an alarm that went off if your cell door was closed and
your shocksuit wasn't fully charged or connected to the charger.

His was fully charged, so the guards wouldn't
come after him if he slipped into it. It was heavy, studded with hundreds of
tiny electrodes. Their circular contact points were cold on his arms and neck
as he put it on, but the suit's thickness helped ward off the cold a bit. He
almost wished they'd buzz him, just to beat this chill.

He immediately regretted the thought. He'd seen
two men buzzed since coming here, and it was nothing to joke about.

When the guards came for him an hour later, he
was standing ready at the cell door. While the other inmates took their time
getting up and pulling on the shocksuits, he stood still in line and took in
every detail of the long hallway. It wasn't any more interesting than the cell,
but it was a change, and that was worth a lot to Sol.

He would be sentenced in a few days. Most likely,
according to the prosecutor, he would be stuck here for at least two
thirty-year sentences. If they dug out the bodies of the two still-missing Rangers
and had proof that they had died in the explosion, it would be much worse.

Since the unification and the erasing of borders,
the Consolidated Terrene Leadership had disentangled itself from local law, and
sentences came fast and harsh. Murder was an Intolerable Offense, carrying with
it the death penalty, and in Cascadia, there were no appeals.

Sol felt hollow. He thought briefly about the
prosecutor, who insisted that if he would only confess to the bombing the
sentence would be lighter.

But Sol didn’t believe that, and besides, he
hadn't done it. He wouldn't say that he had. And he wouldn't sign the paper
that tied nearly twenty other Libertyite people to the plot. So the prosecutor
was going for the maximum time and the maximum punishment.

The inmate Sol had awakened stepped out of his
cell and was suddenly uncomfortably close. He grabbed Sol’s arm and twisted. A
sharp pain shot through Sol's elbow and up through his already-aching shoulder.
Sol heard himself make a small, pained sound.

"Shut up." The man growled in his ear,
"I'll tear your arm clear off the next time you wake me up that
early."

Sol thought about calling to the guard, but he
knew that would only make it worse next time. He nodded to show he understood.
The man gave his arm an extra twist, then shoved him forward in the line.

Sol fell into the inmate in front of him, who
turned and pushed him backward. He stopped himself just before he hit the man
who had hurt him.

"That's right, kid. You watch out for me
from here on; you got it?"

Sol looked down and nodded. He rubbed his elbow
and rolled his shoulder, willing the throbbing pain to cease.

He had already had painful lessons about the
rules of this place. Don't make eye contact. Don't stick up for yourself. Don't
talk to people.

He would have to figure out a long-term strategy.
He had to find a way to escape the horror of this place, the horror of what was
happening to him. Would he be able to go to the library again? Could he study
here?

But did that even matter? If he was never going
to get out, what was the point of studying?

Looking around him, he saw it. These people lived
from day to day, thinking only of themselves. That probably was what got most
of them in here. Selfish choices and stagnant lives. They didn't want to be
better versions of themselves; they wanted everyone else to be like them.

Sol took the tray of sandwiches and fruit. Cold
lunches, hot dinners. For the rest of his life.

He had only taken one bite when he heard his name
called from the cafeteria door.

Sol stood obediently and crossed to the guard who
had called him.

"Dump your tray." The guard barked,
"your defender is here."

Sol didn't argue. Maybe they had found something
that would get him out of here.

The corridor leading to the consultation rooms
seemed longer than normal. By the time they arrived Sol was jittery with hope.

But Craig, the defender, looked dismal. Sol felt
lightheaded.

"I'm sorry, Sol, but the Park Service dug
out the bodies of the two Rangers today."

Sol knew that made things worse.

"This just went from a bombing to
murder." The defender said.

Sol shook his head. "What does that mean?"

He saw the ghost of distrust hovering behind
Craig's eyes as the man spoke.

"You’ll be charged with the murder of Allison
Lamm and Xander Henley." He seemed to expect Sol to know this.

The bright smile of Ranger Allison, her blonde
hair, flashed through Sol’s mind. He tried to speak, his head beginning to
spin. "Is there anything we can do? Why are you here?"

"Your sentencing has been moved up,"
Craig said. "We'll be heading to the courthouse in a few minutes."

"What will they do?"

"Sol, you're accused of killing two TPS Rangers.
Cascadia has no tolerance for murderers, and they’ve gotten pretty close with
the Leadership lately. They’re not going to just let this go. They're looking
for the death penalty."

Sol heard himself gasp and laid his head on the
table. The cool steel didn't stop the spinning. The death penalty was swift. The
local law didn't feed and house murderers. If they found him guilty, he'd be
dead before sundown.

He had stopped hoping that someone would find out
the truth. Who was there? His mother and Uncle Carl couldn't go into the park
to look around. Everyone who was at the gate with him was dead. Even if the
real bomber had left clues, there was no one to find them.

35

Six months. Caldwell had been gone six months. That
long his apartment had stood empty. That long the Ranger patrols had swept the
backcountry on their spiders looking for him. But this morning they’d called
them off. The park was fully in the grip of winter now, and the snow was deep.
Karson didn’t see any reason to have Rangers out there looking anymore.

“We’ll find him after the spring thaw.” He’d
said. They thought Caldwell had killed himself in the park. They had sympathy
for him, and loyalty that Walt found hard to understand.

No one would entertain Walt’s idea that dead or alive,
Caldwell was responsible for the destruction of the South gate. And that kid’s
trial was coming up. If Walt didn’t at least try to prove his theory, it would
be too late.

Caldwell’s door gave easily to the pressure from
the screwdriver. Walt slipped the tool back into his pocket, slightly unnerved
about how easy it had been to break in. Caldwell's apartment lay in its usual
eerie order, pens lined up on the desk, shoes arranged in a neat row by the
door, bottles on the counter turned with every label facing forward.

Walt didn't switch on the light. His presence in
here would be hard to explain.

Walt started with the desk. It was as neat inside
as outside. Files with pay stubs, health check records, and instruction manuals
hung in neat rows in the bottom drawer. The top drawers held writing paper, blank
schedules, and cables.

Walt closed the drawer, growing more
uncomfortable by the minute. What had ever possessed him to come in here? He
didn't even know Sol that well. Maybe the kid really was a complete radical who
had blown up the gate.

But it wasn’t just destruction of park property
now. They had found Allison and Henley, and if the kid wasn't guilty, he would
die for nothing. If there was any evidence that Caldwell was behind this, Walt
had to find it. If there wasn’t, then at least his conscience would be clear
about the kid.

The bedroom walls were stark, and the window was
covered with a thick blanket. The nightstand behind the bed was bare except for
a clock and a strange gray cylinder. Walt picked it up and rolled it around in
his hands. It was sleek and smooth. Both ends were capped, but he couldn’t seem
to get the caps off. It looked like it might hold something important. It was
about the right size to hold a sheaf of rolled paper. But Walt couldn’t get
into it, so he laid it back on the nightstand and opened the drawer below it.

Sylvia had said she thought Caldwell had a hard
time sleeping. He saw she was right. There were several kinds of drugs inside
the drawer; their labels stated that they helped insomnia. One was even the
kind that the doctors had given Sylvia for the nights when the pain was too
severe for her to sleep.

Walt sat on the bed as he looked through the
drawer. Underneath the pills was a book. Walt's stomach turned as he slid the
book out of the drawer. It was a copy of James Scoble's radical diatribe
against humanity called For Solitude.
Why would Caldwell want to read that garbage? It was written just before the
Terrene War, just before humanity had turned on itself and tore itself to
pieces. In the book, Scoble proposed a cleansing of the Earth, a deliberate
decreasing of the human population and a return of the pre-industrial
ecosystem. Scoble looked at humans as a scourge on an otherwise perfect planet.
He talked about removing them in the way others talked about removing mildew. Scoble
was long dead, and his radical ideas had faded for most people ever since one single
conflict—the Terrene War—and its consequences had reduced the population by
billions.

Caldwell had been holding on to the book, and the
ideas, for a long time.

Walt moved to put the book back, scooping up the
bottles to lay it in the drawer, but there were too many things in his hands,
and the book slipped, falling with a thud to the floor.

Walt froze. Would Ria downstairs have heard that?
He listened, but nothing had changed. Glancing down, he saw that several
photographs lay scattered around the fallen book. He dumped the pill bottles
back into the drawer and carefully picked up them up.

Walt knew he was invading Caldwell's privacy. The
moment he saw the first photo, obviously well-worn, Walt felt acutely the depth
of his intrusion. It was a picture of a young Caldwell, the pale scar on his
cheek already present, cradled in the arms of his mother. She held him
protectively, and in her eyes was defiance.

But what held Walt riveted was the absolute
terror in the boy Caldwell's eyes as he looked up at the person holding the
camera.

Walt pulled another photo from the loose pile he
had gathered.

A man, in a military uniform. The man had the
same cheekbones, the same hair, as Caldwell. Walt flipped the picture over to
see words scrawled on the back.

He squinted at them in the dim light.

Navin “The
Viper” Caldwell

Interrogation
Force

Consolidated
Terrene Leadership

Walt had heard the name before, and he looked carefully.
Was this Caldwell’s father? Walt had heard of The Viper. He had fought
ferociously in the Terrene War and risen in rank quickly near the middle of the
conflict. He had even been granted a position in the Consolidated Terrene
Leadership.

Walt sifted through the other papers, piecing
together the Viper’s story. There was a worn court document, detailing the
Viper’s betrayal of the Terrene Leadership, his attempt on the life of the
President of the Leadership. The report described the Viper’s flight and
evasion.

More photos, surveillance shots that accompanied
the text showed that the Leadership had tracked The Viper across the globe.
Walt saw that Caldwell had been with his father on the run. And there was
another child, a boy whose piercing eyes were vaguely familiar to Walt. The
mother was gone. It looked to be a rough existence, the boys sleeping in
ditches and barren wastes all over the world, laboring, hiding. The document
described four attempts on their lives during the five years of tracking.

The last photograph showing the Viper slid easily
from under the pile. Walt knew, from the moment he saw it, the real story of
Caldwell's life.

In this photo were two half-grown men, brothers,
one of them Caldwell, and one of them, unmistakably, Damen. That’s why the eyes
had been familiar.

They stood in front of a low pen filled with
pigs. The Viper sat on the fence between them, his hands on their shoulders.
The young man on the right was relaxed, happy, even, and the Viper's hand on
his shoulder laid easy.

But Caldwell's young face was a mask of pain, his
jaw tight and his shoulder arched against the savage grip of the man's other
hand.

Whatever the war had done to The Viper, he had
taken out on Caldwell. Walt pushed the photo back into the stack. He had known
that Caldwell's deep mistrust of people must have come from his early life, but
seeing him young and vulnerable broke Walt's heart.

The Viper was caught and executed. There were a
few more photos of Caldwell and Damen, but then only Caldwell. Walt saw now why
Damen had left behind his last name. He wondered if the Leadership knew who
their Agent In Charge really was.

Walt felt weary. He longed to be out of this grim
place and back in his bright apartment with his family.

He opened the book. He
was flipping through to find where the stack of photos might have been stored
when he found something he could use.

A hand-drawn map of the South gate, with detailed
notes on its voltage and safety protocols, and along the edge of the paper a
violent, hate-filled tirade against everyone who had defiled the park by their
presence and who threatened its sanctity.

Walt didn't know what to do. He had found what he
was looking for, but how could he get Karson to come in here and find it?

But Walt knew even as he tried to hatch a plan
that he wouldn't try to pretend he didn't know it was there. There was no time
for that.

He looked at his watch. Sol had less than an
hour. He slid the map and photos back into the book, carrying it with him. He
reached for his radio as he left the apartment.

But Karson didn't answer. Only Tillie's voice
came on the line, "I'm sorry, Walt, Karson's gone to the sentencing for
the bomber. He's incommunicado until tomorrow."

Walt thought fast. "Then I need clearance to
leave by the West gate." He said.

She must have heard the urgency in his voice. "You've
got it. I'm sending it over now." There was a pause on the line,
"What is it, Walt? Is Sylvia okay?"

There was no answer to that question, so Walt
ignored it. "I just have to get to Fruitland."

"You sound like it's urgent."

"Tillie," he said, "It's life and
death."

Walt was at the door of the courthouse when he
realized that he'd left the spider’s hatch open. But he didn't go back to close
it. He flashed his TPS badge as he ran through the lobby.

The building was full of Rangers wearing their
turnout gear, all speaking in angry tones about justice being done. They had no
idea what was just, Walt thought, and their acidic words didn’t make the kid
any more guilty.

Walt had been here before. Ten years ago, when the
civilian had been killed and they had let Caldwell off with a slap on the
wrist.

Hearings in Cascadia were public affairs. They
usually had a big audience. Today was no exception. The imposing courtroom
stood with its doors open.

Walt arrived just as the judge was about to pass
sentence. The verdict had been decided. Two orderlies were near with a lethal
cocktail of drugs that would end Sol's life before he'd even had a chance to
live it.

The boy looked up as Walt strode past him. Their
eyes met for a moment.

"Wait!" Walt said, his voice bouncing
back to him from the sterile walls of the courtroom.

"What the—" the judge started.

Karson stood up from the prosecutor's table and
looked at Walt with raised eyebrows. "Walt?"

The words poured out. "Karson, I've got
something you need to see." He held up the book, and Karson came out from
behind the table, gesturing apologetically to the judge.

"This will just take a second."

When he unfolded the map, Walt could tell that
Karson knew what he was looking at. The director's voice was quiet when he
walked forward and spoke. "We seem to have made an error, your
honor."

As Karson went forward to discuss the new
evidence with the judge in hushed tones, Walt glanced up at Sol. The boy's eyes
were wide. If Walt couldn’t stop this, the kid’s mother would lose another
person she loved to the park. He had seen her face splashed across the news
screens, and he recognized it. He had seen her in his nightmares ever since
that awful day ten years ago. Just thinking about it left shame burning in his
chest.

The TPS had done nothing when Sol’s father was
killed. Caldwell had walked out of this very room a free man.

Walt stepped over to Sol and Sol reached for his
hand. Surprised, Walt took the boy's hand and leaned down beside him.

"I didn't do it," Sol said frantically.

"I know, son. It's going to be all right."
He hoped that it would.

Karson came through. He convinced the judge that
they'd made a mistake, and the boy was released. Walt watched the kid step out
of his shocksuit and hand it to the guards.

“How will you get home?” Walt asked.

Sol turned wide brown eyes to him. It was obvious
the kid was having trouble processing what had just happened. Walt looked
around. There was no one here to look after Sol.

Sol grabbed his arm. “Please don’t leave me here.”
He said. “The Cascadians know I’m from Liberty.”

Walt considered for a minute. They had taken half
a year of this kid’s life. They could at least offer him a ride.

“I’ll drive you home,” Walt said. They walked out
into the gathering evening and climbed in the open hatch of his spider.

Later, after he’d made the long trip down to
Silver Lake Ranch, after he’d left the hollow-eyed boy on his porch and after
he’d stared down the barrel of the uncle’s convulsion gun, Walt went home.

The scene he found there was like a dream. In
stark contrast to the hatred and fear he’d seen all day, Zin'dri and Sylvia
were cuddled on the couch, singing a Stracahn song and laughing together at
Sylvia’s awkward pronunciation.

The smell of warm flatbread filled the air, and a
pot of soup bubbled on the range in the kitchen behind them. The girls smiled
up at him as he came in, and Walt was home.

36

The air in the little apartment felt chilly,
pressing against Zyn’dri’s cheeks as she lay under her blankets. The blankets
were heavy, and she lay in a little pocket of warmth. Lately, she’d been
feeling exhausted as if she could barely crawl out of bed. And her bones ached
in a deep and throbbing way. Walt and Sylvia had let her stay home from the
village the last two days. They had also mentioned that other Stracahn were
feeling this way, too. Zyn’dri closed her eyes against the thought.

She could hear Sylvia and Walt in the kitchen
making breakfast. They spoke quietly to each other, and the warm murmur of
their voices made Zyn’dri feel safe and whole.

She didn’t want to get up. Sometimes her new
parents did what they called “sleeping in,” where they stayed in bed beyond
their regular time. Zyn’dri thought that perhaps today she would do sleeping in.
She rolled over, reveling in the softness of the bed and the fresh scent of her
pillow.

But the sweet smell of sage and bison sausage
drifted into her bedroom through the cracked door. And Walt was making
something else, too. Something that smelled like Empyriad. Zyn’dri poked her
nose out of the blankets and breathed in deeply. It was a familiar smell mixed
with the tantalizing strangeness of the sausage. Zyn’dri’s stomach began to
growl. She had to know what it was.

Zyn’dri slid out from under the blankets and
stood, but as the cold air hit her she pulled the top blanket off the bed and
wrapped herself in its comfort. It dragged along the floor as she made her
sleepy way through the dim hallway to the kitchen.

She heard them talking. Sylvia’s voice held a
note of concern. “What do they think is wrong with them? Is it another
allergy?”

“Can’t be. The whole park’s slicked over with
snowdrifts. There’s nothing to set them off. The Rangers sent out bloodwork and
other samples to the CDC, and they’re running some tests. Of course, it’s
setting off another real panic out there.”

Sylvia sighed heavily. “There is so much fear.”

“It doesn’t help that they are locked up in here,
and nobody can get to know them. To most of the world, they are as alien now as
they were when they were on Empyriad.”

“I don’t think it’s contagious, or at least that
it can cross the species barrier,” Sylvia said, “because I think I would have
gotten it by now.”

From the sheltered edge of the hallway, Zyn’dri
saw how Walt’s face scrunched with concern. “Are you sure?” he asked, “You
haven’t felt like you’re coming down with anything? No aches? You’re not too
tired?”

Zyn’dri knew that Sylvia had more energy lately. She wondered if Sylvia had noticed the pattern Zyn’dri had been tracing on the old woman’s palms when they talked.
It was an intertwining of softly curved lines she had seen in Laska’s notebooks, and later in the slanting rays of the sun piercing a raincloud.

The rays had seemed healing, somehow, so she had tried the design on Sylvia. After she traced it, Sylvia always seemed more vibrant.

If she had noticed, Sylvia didn’t mention it. “No,
I feel fine. Better, even, than I have felt for a long time.”

“Good. Keep resting. I think you should keep
working from here most of the time. No reason to take chances. Karson promised
he’d let me know as soon as anything comes back from the CDC.”

Sylvia made a scoffing noise. “I’m sure they’re
getting right to work on it.”

Walt nodded. “It has already been a couple of
weeks. They don’t seem to be in any hurry.”

“Too busy mapping the Stracahn genome.”

“And trying to splice their best sequences with
human DNA.”

Zyn’dri wondered what that meant. She shuffled
closer. When Sylvia saw her, she held her arms wide. Zyn’dri stepped close to
her and felt her embrace. Walt smiled at them from the stove.

“What are you cooking?” Zyn’dri asked, crossing
the little room to peer into the skillet he was stirring.

“Something I think you’ll like. I’ve been talking
to Grandyn, and he says most children on Empyriad like fried orlyet root for
breakfast. Are you one of those children?”

Zyn’dri felt a little thrill. “Orlyet root? Where
would you find that?”

“Nevermind. Just give it a try and see if it tastes
like you remember.” Walt used the fork he was stirring with to spear a piece of
the thick, meaty plant in the skillet. He held up the fork and blew softly on
it. When it was cooled, he held it toward Zyn’dri. She pulled it off the fork
with her teeth and closed her eyes as a smoky, nutty flavor filled her mouth.

Zyn’dri closed her eyes. She could almost imagine
being back on Empyriad, eating her morning meal in the hut between her parents.
Their memory overwhelmed her, and she found it difficult to swallow.

But she wanted more, wanted to taste home again.
When Walt served the Orlyet root, she ate every morsel. After breakfast, when
they were cleaning up, she opened the refrigerator and found a bowl full of
strange plants with pointed, lacy domes.

“What are these?” she asked, lifting one and
inspecting its bell-shaped top and long, thick stem.

Walt looked proud. “Those are your orlyet roots,
or at least, the closest thing we have to them. We call them morel mushrooms.”

“Mushrooms.” Zyn’dri said. She liked the taste of
the word almost as much as she’d liked the plants.

“You girls enjoy your day inside,” Walt said,
strapping on his weapon. “I have to go check the Grant Pack. One of the Rangers
reported that Snowflake is hurt, and she should be settling in to have pups in
a couple of months. We need to make sure she’s okay.”

Later that day, with more snow falling outside, Zyn'dri
lay close to Sylvia. Her long fingers were tangled in the old woman's hair.
They'd been talking about Zyn'dri's mother, and for the first time since that
moment when they brought her mother into the Trisne Rooth, the thought of her
didn't hurt.

They talked about life on Empyriad, and about
being Stracahn.

At one point, Sylvia's eyebrows drew together in
what Zyn'dri had learned was a questioning look. "Tell me about being
Avowed," Sylvia said. "I don't know very much about that."

Zyn'dri thought a moment. "It's special, I
guess." She said, "You get a calling, and the Avowed come to tell you
about it. When you're called, you have a special connection to the Allbeings,
and you can use it to help others."

Sylvia nodded. "How do you get a
calling?"

"The winds reveal it to the First
Avowed." Zyn'dri said. "His name is Meir."

"Do you like him?" Sylvia asked, her
eyes searching Zyn'dri's face.

"Yes. He's very kind." Zyn'dri
hesitated, "But I did make him angry once."

Sylvia showed surprise on her face.
"How?"

Zyn'dri paused. She didn't want to tell Sylvia.
"I don't want to say." She said.

Sylvia slipped a hand up to Zin'dri's cheek. It
was a warm hand, and so soft. "Zyn'dri, I'm here to take care of you. It
will be easier to do that if you understand that you can tell me
anything."

Zyn'dri wanted to say and didn't want to. She
tried not to speak, but, like always, the truth rushed out. "I don't want
you to be disappointed in me." She said.

"That's not going to happen." Sylvia
waited, and Zyn'dri looked deep into the old woman's pale blue eyes.

Zyn'dri's voice was very
quiet. "I refused my calling." She waited to see the disapproving
look that she expected to follow that revelation, but it didn't come. She went
on. "I don't want to be Avowed. I don't want to go and live in the Edifice
and be trained. I don't want to be alone!" She heard her voice, high and
desperate, and felt Sylvia sit up quickly, pulling Zyn'dri onto her lap and
holding her close.

"Walt and I are right here. You don't have
to be alone."

Zyn'dri felt safe and warm. She tucked her head
close to Sylvia's chest and pulled her knees up. Sylvia wrapped her arms around
the girl. "I was called, and I told them no."

"That's okay," Sylvia said.

"I was the youngest ever to be called,
except the Ola’an."

"There's plenty of time for a calling,"
Sylvia said. This was not something Zyn'dri had ever considered. Could she
choose to accept her calling sometime in the future? She had thought that once
it was declined it was final. But Meir and the others had still treated her as
if she was called. They had given her the small Avowed robes. They had greeted
her with "Allandar," the greeting of the Avowed, when they had seen
her.

But she did not want to be Avowed, and she would
not be. "I will not be Avowed," she said, her words falling like
stones.

She felt Sylvia's light fingers, stroking her
hair. "You don't have to be." She said.

37

Walt had been off for a few days taking care of
Zyn’dri. As he moved across the snowdrifts, he saw something ugly—a scar in the
valley. There, ringing the village, was a thick alloy fence. The village was
accessible only from the checkpoint on the road. Now there were barriers within
barriers. The park had been fortified against encroachment from the outside,
and now from the inside as well.

“Nothing has changed,” Karson explained over the
radio. “Stracahn will still be allowed to leave the Villages with permits if
they state why they are leaving and where they are going. We just don’t want
them wandering off and freezing, or starting to hunt the park animals.”

“Why would they do that?” Walt asked, annoyed.

“I think it’s a good preemptive move,” Karson
said. “When people are cold and hungry, they do desperate things.”

“Then we shouldn’t be letting them get cold and
hungry.”

“Look, Walt, things in the village are not great.
The Quickforms aren’t meant for this kind of weather, and the Stracahn aren’t
feeling very well. I need to know where they all are at all times. We had an
old woman wander off while you were away and she froze down by the river.”

The words hit Walt hard. He didn’t have anything
more to say. The specter of the  Stracahn’s first illness and the bodies it
left in its wake rose before him. Perhaps the fence was necessary.  He pulled
the spider into the parking lot and dropped it into spraddle mode, the center
cab low to the ground and the legs spread wide around it. This made it easy to
hop down out of and allowed him to avoid the rungs of the entrance ladder,
which were slick with ice buildup from the journey.

He saw it was bad when he entered the dining tent.
The Stracahn children sat and lay scattered throughout the room, listless and
apathetic. Even Pavela was seated at the front, leaning heavily on the table as
she talked about the sixty-two continents of Empyriad.

“They are the laziest bunch of beings I have ever
seen.” Ranger Sarr, a wiry woman with short-cropped brown hair, spoke from
behind him.

Walt looked at her. “It’s obvious that they’re
ill.”

“Only because they lay around and don’t do
anything all day.” She countered. “It would probably cheer them up if they
would get up and work.”

“What do you expect them to be doing? There’s no work
for them. On Empyriad they wove remarkable grass tapestries, but we won’t let
them gather anything. They can’t hike, because they can’t leave the village. We
won’t let them explore. We’ve forced them into this stagnant existence, and who
knows how long it will go on?”

She looked at him with disgust. “I don’t expect
you to see them as they are. Not with one of them living in your house.”

“I don’t expect you to see them as they are
without one living in your house.” Walt countered.

Crossing the village back to the Ranger’s hut,
Walt heard strained voices. He turned to see two of the Avowed making their
slow way along the drifted pathway. They turned and followed the trail down
toward the river. Walt knew that the new fence would soon confront them. It
embarrassed him. He thought maybe he could try to explain it to them, make it
seem less like they were being caged and more like they were being protected
like Karson had suggested. He hurried after the two figures.

They were obviously Allies, a man in the bright
orange robes of a Mentor, and a woman wearing the dark blue robes of an
Observer.

Walt crossed the Village Commons, overhearing
more of their conversation as he tried to catch up to them.

“This is unacceptable. We must be reassigned.”
She was saying as they slipped down a side path between two huts. Walt wondered
if they were lost. Sometimes, when Avowed came from the Vault at Old Faithful
to the Hayden Valley Village for the first time, they got lost in the maze of
huts.

“O’neva,” the Mentor replied, “we can talk to
Meir.”

Walt saw the Observer, O’neva, catch the Mentor’s
hand. The two stopped and looked at each other a long moment. Walt slowed, sensing,
suddenly, that he may be intruding.

“Wan-seh,” she said, gazing at him, “I don’t want
to be your Ally. I want to be your wife.”

Wan-seh’s voice was stern and unemotional. “That
would be selfish of both of us. We can do much good for our people as Allies.”

Though her expression was still calm and her
voice still even, Walt saw the desperate way she grasped Wan-seh’s sleeve. He
saw her hand trembling, and wondered if it was the mysterious illness or if it
was the bitter cold. “Please.” She said. “Wan-seh, please. The bonding tay’ren
has been initiated. We have to complete it. You taught me yourself the dangers
of leaving a tay’ren incomplete.”

The Mentor took her wrist gently and pulled his
sleeve from her grip. “There will come a time when you are no longer my Observer,
and we can continue what we began. But a Mentor and an Observer cannot be
involved in that way. If we continue now, it is a rejection of our callings. I
will not do that, and I will not allow you to, either.”

Walt felt as if he had heard too much. He
shouldn’t have followed them. But it was too late now. He needed to let them
know he was there. He cleared his throat.

“Hi, there!” He said, trying to make his voice
light. The Allies turned, stepping unconsciously away from each other. “Can I
help you find something?” Walt asked.

O’neva’s eyes were the color
of sandstone. Her skin was dark umber, and its iridescent sheen caught the
light from the snowdrifts. She looked frail as if she might take flight with
the next winter gust and tumble away over the drifts of Hayden Valley. Walt saw
how Wan-seh’s eyes lingered on her, concerned, for an instant before the Mentor
turned to him and spoke.

Wan-seh’s skin shone pale green. His eyes were as
deep blue as the night sky. He seemed perfectly composed. “We are looking for
the school.”

Walt gestured. “No problem. It’s back this way.”

The Avowed came toward him, and he noticed that O’neva
moved as if in pain. “Do you need to rest?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “I have been resting for many
days. My Ally has cared for me well, but I am not getting any better.”

“Do you mind telling me what you are feeling?”

“Weary.” She said, “and a deep pain in my bones.”
They were the same symptoms that had been bothering Zyn’dri.

“I’ll take you to the school. We’ll get you
something to eat.”

It wasn’t yet time for lunch, and the Rangers in
the kitchen looked at Walt as if he were a raccoon in the trash when he went
into the cooler to find something for the Avowed to snack on. The crates of
liver were still there. Walt suspected that those generous donations would be
utilized at some point to get the wolves in the Grant pack through the winter.
Who else was going to eat that stuff?

He found a jar of huckleberry jam and pulled a
fresh loaf of acorn bread from the shelves. He took them out to the table where
the Avowed were sitting. They looked at him gratefully as they ate, but Walt
suspected any energy they got from it would be temporary. Whatever this was, it
was more than mere hunger.

“What brings you to Hayden Valley?” he asked.

Wan-seh replied, “We were sent to evaluate the
number of Stracahn stricken with this illness.”

The mention of it made Walt’s heart skip. Zyn’dri
had to get better. She had lain, listless, in her bed for days, barely finding
enough energy to talk to Sylvia when she lay beside her.

As if he could tell what Walt was thinking,
Wan-seh asked, “how is Zyn’dri? Has she been afflicted?”

Walt told him about the last few days. Wan-seh
leaned forward, his eyes searching Walt’s face. “I am sorry. I can see your
great affection for her.”

Walt couldn’t help but glance toward O’neva.
“It’s hard to watch the ones you love suffer.” Though Wan-seh didn’t show any
of the usual human signs that he was worried, Walt sensed in him a deep
empathy. A shadow of fear played behind the Mentor’s eyes.

“We must find a cure.”

Walt spent what was left of the morning clearing
snow off the roofs of the Quickforms. They were not made for these conditions,
and one had already caved in under the new weight.

He was warming up in the Ranger hut that
afternoon when Sylvia hailed him on the radio. Walt was instantly afraid.

“What is it, Syl?”

“It’s Zyn’dri.”

“Is she worse?” Walt was already walking toward
the door.

“No. She’s better! Much better!” Walt heard
Zyn’dri singing in the background.

Walt put a hand to his head. “What? Is the
sickness breaking? Do you think it’s just run its course?” he asked.

Sylvia was quiet so long that he thought he’d
lost the connection. “This is going to sound crazy, but . . . I think it’s the morels.”

Walt was quiet for a moment. “The mushrooms?”

“Right! I cooked up some more, and she ate all of
them. And you know the catfish you brought home? She couldn’t get enough of it,
either. I hate to prove you right, but there may be some good in those ugly
things after all. She ate them for lunch and now she is bouncing off the
walls.”

Walt grinned. “I told you those would come in
handy.” He glanced up, and Nichols, who was supervisor on duty today, was
eyeing him. “I’d better go, Honey,” he said. “I’m glad to hear she’s doing
better.” He watched through the window of the Ranger hut as the Stracahn
children left school and slogged across the beaten snow paths to their huts.
Even though Zyn’dri was feeling better, he was glad that she wasn’t out in the
cold now.

Nichols was watching, too. He gestured at the
village. “This place is starting to become even more of an eyesore than it was
when we first put it up.”

Walt looked out. In the last six months, after
the integration had been postponed, the Stracahn had begun to settle in. They
had made shades out of blankets stretched on poles by their doors. They had dug
fire pits and ringed them with stones so they could sit around and talk. The
original, orderly arrangement of the Quickform huts was broken by newly-built add-ons
and passageways between them. The new construction was haphazard, made mostly
of the sides of crates, blankets, and even meal trays stolen from the dining
hut.

It did look rough, but Walt couldn’t blame them.
They were living here, after all.

“What’s the matter Nichols,” he asked, trying to
get a smile out of the serious young Ranger, “worried about property values? Afraid
of what the neighbors might think?” He was only half joking. What did it matter
how the village looked? No one was going to come in the park to see it.

Nichols scoffed. “I’m more worried what those
crates are leeching into the ground, and what keeping the snow from falling on
the grassland will mean next Spring.”

Walt conceded. He had a point. But before he
could come up with a response, Nichols was on the radio talking to Karson.
Within minutes, he had the director’s permission to instruct the Stracahn to
dismantle their additions and take the village back to its original
arrangement.

Nichols was triumphant, and he headed for the
closest hut to let them know. “Come give me some backup.” He barked at Walt.
Walt followed reluctantly.

"You can't build on like this."

The frozen ground was slick beneath Walt's boots
as he stood listening to Nichols try to reason with a solemn Stracahn woman
whose hair was the color of sunsets.

"Where shall I put all the children,
then?" She asked, gesturing to the seven or eight little Stracahn that
moved in and out of the hut like honeybees.

"You're going to have to get rid of some of them,"
Nichols said, and the sound of it turned Walt's stomach. "These huts are
only made for four occupants."

"We have created spaces for all of
them."

Walt ran his eyes over the chaotic lean-to that
stretched from the side of the neat round hut like a broken wing. It was made,
mostly, of shipping crates and lunch trays from the dining hut. As he leaned
through the doorway to get a better look at it from the inside, the Stracahn
woman grabbed his arm.

"Come in. Come and see." She led him to
the makeshift doorway that they'd created by taking out one of the narrow
panels from the side of the Quickform. The lean-to stretched before him. It was
lined with blankets. He could see dried grass, from the surrounding Hayden
Valley, no doubt, stuffed between the blankets and the outer wall of crates.
"See?" she went on, "it's dry and warm. It's a place for
them."

Nichols pushed in front of Walt and reached in,
tearing a handful of the grass from the wall. He held it up accusingly.

"Where did you get this?" His arm shook
with anger.

The Stracahn woman bowed her head. "We had
to keep them warm."

“This is why we had to put up the fence.” Ranger
Nichols spat every word out hard. "You don't have to keep them at all.
They are not your children. They have been assigned huts of their own. They
will stay there. We'll be here in the morning to tear this out."

“Please,” she said, softly, “they need a home
with a mother in it, and with a father. It’s not the same when they’re all by
themselves. It’s not a home.”

Nichols leaned forward.  “You’re going to have to
adapt.” He said. He turned around, and Walt tried not to look at the woman, or
the children, as they left.

Walt waited until they were back in the
checkpoint building to speak.

"I'm not sure that's necessary," he
said carefully.

Nichols spun to face him. "I'm not sure it's
your call."

Walt held up a hand. "You're right. But
she's looking after orphaned kids. I don't think we should punish her for
that."

"Oh, I'm not." Nichols' voice trembled.
"The punishment is for what she—and all of them—are doing to the
park."

Walt had had enough. “The park,” he said, “can
take care of itself.”

“That’s right.” Nichols growled, “as long as we
don’t get in its way with our ‘humanitarian efforts.’”

“You sound as if you want them to die out there.”

Nichols turned away from the village. Walt
followed his gaze, out of the hut, beyond the spraddled spider, and across the
polished knolls of Hayden Valley. The snow lay smooth and unbroken as far as
they could see, rising and falling like waves. Nichols didn’t respond.

38

Walt waded through the snow to the mushroom
cultivation shed. It was a long, flat room built into the side of a hill
several hundred yards from the Ranger housing. Inside, trays of mushrooms lined
long shelves that stretched the length of the room into the hillside. Zyn’dri’s
appetite for the things was voracious. And there were plenty here, growing
individually and in squarish clumps in soil specially prepared here in
Yellowstone. It was a Ranger, in fact, about sixty years ago, when the morel was
hunted to near extinction, who figured out a three-step process for nearly perfect
propagation. The secret was in the soil. Walt didn’t do much except harvest and
eat them, but he always took the time to thank the Rangers who now kept the
crop producing strong.

He debated briefly between the bags of dried
morels and the fresh ones, but the trays were overflowing, and he thought the
fresh tasted better than the dried, so he cut several bunches and headed back
to the apartment, protecting his harvest from the bitter snow outside.

His face felt tight. He’d been out all day
shoveling and patching Quickform roofs at the Old Faithful Village, and though
it was a sunny day, the wind and blowing snow had been biting.

Sylvia scolded him when he came in. “Walt! Your
face!”

He didn’t miss the opportunity to tease her. “You
just now noticed? I’ve had it all these years!”

She laughed ruefully but laid a gentle hand on
his cheek.

“You’re sunburned.” She said.

“Sunburned?” He glanced in the mirror by the
door. “Huh.”

He hadn’t been sunburned in years. But this year
he’d been inside more, with Sylvia sick, and then with Zyn’dri. His cheeks and
forehead were certainly red.

“Well, at least I’m making some Vitamin D,
right?”

The words were barely out of his mouth when he
grabbed for Sylvia’s arm. His mind was flying through possibilities, reaching
back into the past.

She looked startled. “Walt? What is it?”

“Syl. Remember that Ranger that was here a few
years ago? When Caldwell was in his no meat phase? Remember? He tried to
convince her to go live wild with him; only she had that deficiency, and she kept
getting sick?”

Sylvia was nodding, but her eyes held confusion.
“Gilette. I remember. She told me he wanted to go completely back to nature, go
live in the backcountry.”

“Wasn’t it Vitamin D that she lacked?”

“I think so.” She ran a hand over his forehead,
and Walt realized he must seem fevered. His mind was working so quickly, and he
couldn’t quite articulate what he was thinking.

“Honey, do you remember that she got really ill? Really
weak? All the Rangers took a shift, and we had to check her Vitamin D blood
levels several times a day. Remember?”

“I remember you were squeamish about it. And that
you brought her catfish all the time.” Sylvia said. “Where are you going with
this?”

“Yes! She loved catfish! And the medical guy said
that it probably was because it is one of the best sources of Vitamin D.”

Walt glanced across the room. Zyn’dri was washing
the morels, the purple sheen bouncing back to him from her cheeks and her
lovely dark hands.

“Laska’s diaries talk about how he had to wear a
special sunscreen because the sun that shone on Empyriad was so close and so
direct. That’s why the Stracahn have that iridescence.” He gestured toward the
little girl. “Look at her skin. We make Vitamin D when our skin is exposed to
sunlight. But here, the Stracahn’s iridescence has got to be blocking most all
the UVB rays that would get in and—if her body makes that vitamin like
ours—stimulate that production. What if she’s not making enough Vitamin D?”

A light crept into Sylvia’s eyes. “The catfish.
That’s why she’s feeling so much better?”

Walt walked over to Zyn’dri. He picked up one of
the meaty morels and held it up. “And I don’t know, but I’d be willing to bet
that these are full of Vitamin D, too.”

Walt got on the radio and tried to hail Karson.
Maybe he could get hold of the CDC and have them check for it. But it was
almost dinnertime and Tillie, the communications Ranger who ran the main
office, couldn’t locate him.

Zyn’dri noticed his agitation. “What is it?” she
asked.

“I think that we need to get some special
supplements for your people.” He tried to explain, “to help them not feel so
sick.”

“Let’s get them!” Zyn’dri headed to the door.

“Hold on,” Walt called.

“We’ve got to go help them.”

“Well, Sweetie, we don’t have the supplements yet,”
Sylvia explained.

“What did you give to me?” She asked pointedly.
“It worked great.”

“Well,” Walt said, “we think it may have been the
morels. And maybe the catfish.”

“Let’s get them catfish!” she said excitedly.
Walt wondered if she was hoping for a bit more herself.

He thought about that a moment. Who knew how long
the CDC would take to come back with results. What if something as simple as
mushrooms would help them? He thought of the shed. It did have a huge crop, but
he wondered if it would be enough. There were a lot of Stracahn, and if Zyn’dri
was any indication, they could eat a lot of morels.

Walt reached for his radio.

“Tillie, put me through to
Sanchez.” He said. He waited.

“This is Sanchez.”

“Hey, it’s Walt.” He took a few minutes to
explain his theory to the medical specialist. Sanchez thought it sounded
plausible, but he didn’t have many Vitamin D supplements on hand.

“Could we do it with food?” Walt asked. “Zyn’dri
responded to catfish and morels.”

“Right.” Sanchez said, “let me check something.”
There was a long pause. “What’re the chances of getting more catfish?”

Walt sighed. He’d been mulling that over himself.
“Everything’s iced. We could get some. I’ve caught some nice ones in the winter
before, but we’re not going to have anywhere near enough.”

Sanchez was quiet again. “How are we on bison
meat?”

“We’re good. Still plenty. Why?”

“Well, it’s a pretty good source of Vitamin D. I
wish we kept more liver on hand, though. That’s full of it.”

“Wait, what?” Walt was remembering.

“Liver. It’s full of Vitamin D.”

Walt gestured to Sylvia and Zyn’dri to get their
coats on. He knew where to find plenty of that.

The air in the dining hut smelled thick and heavy.
Walt watched as Zyn’dri looked at a dark slab of meat on her plate. All around
her, the Stracahn were consuming this new meat like wolves at a kill. He
watched her take a piece of it on her fork and turn it around. It was burgundy-colored
and thick. She put the fork in her mouth.

Walt took a bite, too. It had a juicy, savory
flavor. Zyn’dri glanced up at him, surprised.

“It’s not as bad as I thought,” she said, and
Walt smiled at her.

Zyn’dri took another bite.

Karson approached, wearing a tee-shirt under his
coat instead of his button-up uniform shirt.

“I see you changed the menu.” He said to Walt,
irritation evident in his voice.

“Sorry. I couldn’t get ahold of you.”

“Because I was off. I’m not on duty every minute,
you know.”

“Look,” Walt said, “None of the Rangers wanted to
cook this stuff. It’s been frozen in there since the Stracahn came. By using
it, we’ve made a little dent in the storage, and maybe it will help them. It’s
good for everyone.”

Karson looked at him, long and hard. Walt saw him
glance at Zyn’dri, who was shoveling the liver into her mouth now with no sign
of aversion.

“Well, I guess we’ll see how they respond,”
Karson said finally.

When the CDC reports came back, nearly a month
later, the Vitamin D deficiency was apparent. But the Stracahn, by then, had
mostly recovered. Their pain and fatigue had eased, and Sanchez had rigged up
two sun-huts, one at each village, for them. He had raided the storage and
found sunlamps from the old Mammoth greenhouse. Walt remembered bringing them down
fifteen years ago, just before the park service determined the road to Mammoth
was causing too much erosion, and they took it out.

The sun-huts were bright and cheery, and Walt
tried to get Zyn’dri there as often as he could. He didn’t want to risk her getting
sick again. She was beginning to mean a lot to him.

***

Spring came to Yellowstone as it always did, with
a wash of mud and an explosion of romance. The birds began to pair off with
mates, and Walt knew that warmer days were just ahead. One morning he woke to
the sound of laughter in the apartment. He was disoriented for a moment before
he rolled out and stumbled to the kitchen.

Golden light streamed through the window and enveloped
them in morning rays. Zyn'dri, just tall enough to work on the kitchen counter,
was squeezing blackberries in a manual juicer. She smiled up at Sylvia, and
Walt saw her pride in the accomplishment. As soon as she got just enough juice
to cover the bottom of the glass below the juicer, Zyn’dri put it quickly to
her lips, slurping it noisily and closing her eyes. "Let's do more!"
she said, and Sylvia's crystal laugh splashed through the air. Walt felt his
heart catch. He hadn't heard that in so long.

He stood there blinking. They didn't see him.

This place had been just the two of them for so
long. When they left society to come and live in the park, they had known that
it would break all but the closest ties they had. There had been those few bright
years when Sean ran and chattered here. But the years since then had been a
long stretch of quiet.

And, after the wound of Sean's loss had become a
smooth scar, only remembered, they had been happy again. But Walt hadn't
realized until this moment that their happiness was an empty shell: beautiful,
but not complete.

He hadn’t been able to love the child fully until
this. This moment. As the girl concentrated on placing each berry in the
juicer, as she squeezed and slurped and delighted in the tiresome task of
juicing, he found the wonder he had felt when Sean was born. He felt it fresh
and new and complete.

And suddenly, he saw Sean dancing through this
same kitchen. He saw him reaching up to the counter. He saw him standing beside
Sylvia, looking up. And Sean was smiling.

Sylvia leaned down to take a crock from the lower
cupboard and Walt saw again that something else remarkable was happening. It
wasn't possible, but it was true. They had seen it over the last few months
since Zyn'dri came to live with them: a slowing of the progression of Sylvia's
disease. At first, they had counted it as wishful thinking, or the power of
newfound purpose. But then the doctors in Sunset had confirmed it. She wasn't
healing, but the disease was progressing at a much slower rate.

And now, all Walt wanted was to be with them, to
be near them, to absorb some of that light that radiated from them.

39

Sol rolled out of bed and leaped up, pinning
himself against the far wall, reeling. His head spun. It took him a moment to
focus on the still form of his mom, standing in the doorway.

She was repeating something in a soft voice.
"It's all right, Sol." She said, "You're home."

He breathed long and deep, trying to calm
himself. He was home. He was safe. The rough walls of the cell were gone. The
morning sun filled his bedroom with light. Even so, the nightmares had gotten
worse these last two weeks since he’d been home. And even when he was awake he
couldn’t stop thinking of the explosion and the cell walls closing in around
him.

Six months he had been locked up. And two more
he’d been recuperating here at the ranch. He had missed culling the herd and
selling the calves. He had missed the Autumn Ball, which he found out Mezina
attended with Kade, and he had missed New Years’ and the February Freedom
Festival. The Rangers had, for the second time in his life, taken something he
couldn’t get back.

And more than that, they had changed him. Finally,
last night, Juice had convinced him to go skimming. Sol had thought it would
feel like before. Mezina was trying to talk herself into trying it, and she had
taken Sol’s hand.

“Come on, Sol.” Mezina’s voice had been alluring.
“I want you to be with me for my first time.”

Sol had looked at her. He had looked at the
skimmer, sitting solidly on the ground. He had looked at his friends stretched
out in the back, gripping the cargo bar and grinning at him as if the last eight
months hadn’t changed the whole world.

But they had. What was the thrill in risking a
fall when he’d been moments away from a lethal injection? Who needed the buzz
of the drop when he had felt the force of eight explosive packs? He felt old
and weary.

There was another new feeling in Sol. He recognized
it because Uncle Carl had borne it with him for as long as Sol could remember.
It was hatred. He wanted to extract those months, and more, his innocence, from
the Rangers and the Cascadians and anyone else who had taken them from him. He
hadn’t hated the Rangers when he went into the park, but he hated them now.

The anger scared Sol, but it also made him feel
less helpless. All that time in prison he had tried to convince people, sought
to get them, through begging or shouting or insisting, to believe that he had
not done anything wrong. But they had the power to keep him there. They had
caged him and degraded him, and there had been nothing he could do to stop
them.

He had left the party last night, and now, as he
looked at his mom standing anxious and guarded in the morning light, he knew
what he wanted to do.

***

Uncle Carl took him directly to the armory, where
he was greeted with enthusiasm. In under an hour, Sol was committed to the
Liberty Milguard. He was assigned to Tavish’s unit, and the sandy-haired giant
handed him a weapon and a duffle with his uniforms and armor in it.

The armor was more comfortable than Sol had
imagined. It was lighter and more flexible than even the leather chaps he wore
when he was working cows. He looked in the mirror. The ribbed alloy panels made
him look bulkier than he was, and they made him feel stronger. He liked how
dark they were, how his skin and hair and eyes seemed part of his armor. He
liked that no one would see him in the dark. The Cascadians and Rangers would
never see him coming.

He pulled the helmet on and fixed the clasp on
the side. He felt his breath bouncing back from the faceplate. He heard the
sound of it. Looking through the thick faceplate, he felt briefly disoriented. Sol
waited until his head and neck had adjusted to the new weight before he left
the locker room and made his way to the inspection station Tavish had pointed
out.

Tavish, Juice, and Uncle Carl met him there. He
glanced at his uncle and suddenly knew what Juice had meant about his father
being different when they were out here.

Uncle Carl’s eyes were open wider than usual, and
he was smiling. It was as if he was seeing Sol for the first time.

Sol smiled back at him, a new confidence surging
in him. Why had he fought so hard against this? It seemed to him, at that
moment, an entirely natural direction for his life to take.

“Aright, not bad.” Tavish said, “First of all, keep
that barrel pointed to the ground or at an enemy. Nowhere else.”

Sol hadn’t realized he was holding his convulsion
gun directly at Juice.

His friend spoke up. “Yeah. You don’t want to
shoot somebody with that.”

“It’s bad?” Sol asked.

“The rule is, no shooting anyone on base unless
they’re fully armored,” Tavish sidestepped the question. He indicated the dial
on the side of the gun. “Guns stay turned down to three for training, but it
would still sting pretty bad. Especially if someone wasn’t armored.” He must
have detected Sol’s discomfort, because his voice was encouraging when he said,
“Don’t worry. If you do get hit, your uniform will absorb the impact and ease
the convulsion,” he said.

“Tavish?” Sol started.

Uncle Carl corrected him. “When you’re here,
you’ll call him Sergeant.” He said sternly. “We don’t have a lot of rules, but
rank is one you need to understand. You’re at rank one, so you’re a soldier or
a noob. Rank two are specialists. You’ll refer to them by their specialty, like
Arms Specialist Hastings here.” He gestured to Juice. “Rank three is Expert rank.
Rank four is Sergeant Rank. Rank five is Commander Rank. You’ll call me
Commander as long as we’re at the armory.”

Sol nodded. “Yes, sir.” He tried it out.
“Sergeant, what happens if you don’t have a uniform? And the gun is turned up
higher?” Sol asked though he thought he knew.

Tavish chuckled, “What if you’re a Cascadian, you
mean?” He held a hand up to his head and made a slicing motion. “Kkkkkcct.” He
said. “Nearly instant death.” Sol didn’t speak again as the young sergeant
continued checking his uniform.

“Your GO ring is under the strap of your holster.
Get it out.”

Sol blinked. He looked down at his armor. GO ring?
He ran his fingers along the shoulder strap and found a circular piece of metal
on the left side of his chest. It took him a moment to readjust his gun to hang
on his left and free the ring.

“Always check that. It should hang loose and
free. You should be able to get to it at any time.”

Sol wanted to ask what it was, but he didn’t want
to look stupid.

Juice must have seen the question in his eyes.
“We call it the ‘game over’ ring. GO ring.”

Nevermind looking stupid.
“What does it do?”

Tavish and Juice exchanged a look. They hesitated,
and the ensuing silence made Sol nervous.

Uncle Carl stepped up. “It takes out everyone
around it.” He caught Sol’s eye, and there was a serious light in his gaze. “Everyone.
Including the wearer. Don’t use it unless you think that your situation is worse
than death.”

Suicide ring.
Sol thought, and for the first time since the courtroom, he felt the sharp edge
of his own mortality. He had an urge to take the suit off immediately.

“Don’t worry,” Tavish said, “It’s not armed
during training. That wouldn’t be a good idea.” He and Juice laughed, but the
sound was short and tense.

Uncle Carl must have seen that they were uneasy.
“Don’t worry about that right now,” he said, glancing up toward the distant
hills. “We’ve got to get him on the field. We’ll do some training with the GO
ring later. Sergeant Tavish, finish turning him out.”

They went over the rest of his armor, tweaking
things here and there, tightening his chinstrap, checking his gun. When they were
finished, Tavish nodded. “You’re ready to go.”

Sol had been saving up a question. “I know about
the initiative,” he said. “When do we pull that off?”

Uncle Carl looked surprised, but nodded. “I don’t
know where you heard about that, but you should know that it isn’t a priority
anymore. Since—” he stopped and cleared his throat, “the Rangers sealed the
gate, we are less concerned about infiltration from the Leadership and more
focused on defending against threats from Cascadia and Harvest. You’ll be
training for actual combat, not covert operations.”

Sol was disappointed. He’d been hoping to strike
out against the Rangers immediately.

“Don’t worry,” Juice said. “Now it’s time for the
fun part. I’ll take you over to the training exercise they’ve got going.”

For the first time, Sol heard the low
thump-thump-thump of artillery on the other side of the ridge behind the
armory.  He felt a slow surge of apprehension that stayed with him all the way
through the spider ride to the practice range.

Low clouds were gathering as they drove, and the
percussions were growing louder. Sol was glad for the thick armor. He glanced
at Juice, who was whistling. He didn’t want Juice to know that he was nervous,
so he didn’t say anything.

Juice pulled the spider to a stop behind an
embankment. When the friends climbed down, Sol tried not to gag on the hot,
thick air. It was filled with an acrid flavor.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Exhaust from the convulsion guns.” Juice said,
reaching for his helmet. “These filter it out pretty good. Although you’ll
taste it for days anyway.”

Sol pulled his helmet out of the spider.

Juice paused before putting on his helmet. He
laid a hand on Sol’s shoulder, and Sol sensed, suddenly, an unusual
protectiveness in his friend. Juice’s cheery exterior vanished. “Sol, listen,”
he said, leaning close. “You don’t have to do this. I’ll totally take you home
right now. You don’t have to be here.”

There was an intensity in his eyes and a nearly
pleading tone in his voice. It reminded Sol of what his mom had said this
morning. He felt a wrenching fear. Maybe he should go home.

But before he could say anything, Briian came
scrambling over the embankment.

“Whoo! It’s hot out there!” His uniform was
steaming, and Sol reached up to help him down.

“No!” Juice said, too late.

Sol felt a jolt as his suit absorbed the shock of
Briian’s convulsion gun, aimed at his belly. He was only immobilized for a
breath, but it was enough time for Briian to step in close and jam the barrel
of the gun against the back of his neck, just above his collar, and fire.

Sol screamed. Pain knifed through him, crackling
from his neck to his heels and exploding into his head. His body arched
backward, and he fell into the dirt at Briian’s feet. He dully registered a scuffle;
then Juice was leaning over him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Sol’s body was beyond his control, the muscles in
his back and sides seizing, his arms jerking, his legs twitching. For the first
time since those long, quiet days in prison, Sol was aware of his own
heartbeat. Only it wasn’t a heartbeat. It was a branch against a window, a
chain dragging the ground, a fast, irregular rattling in his chest. His breath
wasn’t coming, either, and he felt himself panicking.

Dimly, he registered Juice’s voice, “Hold on.”

Darkness began to creep in around Sol’s vision.
Mercifully, he was blacking out. He felt a sharp pinch in his shoulder, then a
warmth that began to spread across his chest. As the wave of heat engulfed him,
his muscles relaxed. He took a ragged, gasping breath. Then another. His heart
slowed, then its beating evened out.

He closed his eyes, feeling heavy and weak. Juice
was talking, his words coming incessantly and fast.

“ . . . goner. I’ve never had to use that stuff
before. Whew!”

Sol’s words were slurred. “What stuff?” he tried
to say.

“It’s an injection,” Juice said, “that
counteracts the convulsions. We all have three vials in our chest pockets. It
looks like it works pretty well.”

Sol didn’t try to speak. He was exhausted as if
he’d run all the way up Wildcat Peak. But he asked the question with his eyes,
glancing toward the last place he’d seen Briian.

“He’s on the other team,” Juice explained, “in
the training exercise. But he wasn’t supposed to do that.”

Sol tried to sit up, and Juice steadied him.

“Should we tell someone?” Sol asked weakly.

Juice shook his head quickly. “That’s probably
just going to be more trouble.”

The incessant booms of the training grenades
rattled the windows of the spider. They were growing closer.

Juice noticed, too. “We’d better get out of here.
Can you walk?”

Sol tried pushing himself up. His muscles felt
loose, but he could stand. “I think so.”

“Okay.” Juice drew a rough rectangle in the dirt.
“We’re here,” he said, pointing to the middle of the bottom side of the rectangle,
“and we need to meet Tavish at the goldmine.” He marked an X near the top right
corner, “to pick up some armbands which show we got there. Then, we have to
make it back here,” he put a circle in the middle of the rectangle’s left side.

It didn’t look like much of a challenge, but Sol
soon found he was wrong. As soon as they left the shelter of the little hill,
he and Juice were engulfed by chaos.

Acrid smoke drifted across the training field,
making it difficult to see. Every few seconds, an explosion took Sol’s breath
away. The explosions around him shook him worse than surfing the skimmer ever
had. He tried to keep the thought of the gate explosion out of his mind. He
gritted his teeth and followed Juice.

Fifty paces in, Sol felt a thud and his armor
began to heat up.

“They’re on us!” Juice shouted.  “Let’s go! Let’s
go!”

Sol had never heard Juice’s voice so commanding,
so confident. He ran after his friend, through a storm of
convulsion fire. The armor did its job, though, and he felt little more than
the heat.

The two dived into the open mouth of what Sol
soon realized was the goldmine.

“Nicely done,” Tavish praised them, strapping on
their armbands. “You made good time. Now, though, you’re going to find that the
red team has some serious surprises for you. Stay alert.”

Sol’s head was still throbbing from the
explosions. He took off his helmet and rubbed his temples.

Tavish was suddenly shouting in his face. “What’s
the matter with you? Get that helmet back on! You stay armored up until you’re
back home safe in bed, you got it?”

“Yeah.” Sol stammered.

“What?”

“Yes, sir!” Sol realized, with a sickening
feeling, that he had traded one kind of powerlessness for another. He strapped
the helmet back on and followed Juice back into the smoke.

The explosions had stopped, and the field seemed
to be waiting. Before Sol could process what might be coming, he heard the high
whine of a spinner engine.

“Juice, look out!” He grabbed his friend’s arm
just as the shining blades of the spinner cut the air in front of them. Sol
scrambled backward and ran.

“Drop down!” Juice called, and his voice crackled
in Sol’s helmet. “Drop down!”

Sol looked ahead just as the ground fell away and
he realized they were running for a canyon. His boots slid over the edge, and
his arms shot forward as if he were trying to swim. He dropped his weapon, and
it snapped its tether and disappeared below. From the corner of his eye, Sol
saw a rope and grasped frantically for it.

His gloves smoked from friction as the line
slowed his descent. Above him, Juice was letting himself down quickly and
carefully, feet on the rock wall and rope wrapped around his waist.

Sol struggled to his feet and let himself down to
the muddy floor of the canyon. He and Juice crept along it, next to a rolling
river swollen with spring runoff. They flattened against the stone walls
whenever a spinner passed overhead. At the end of the canyon, the stone walls
narrowed and they were forced to splash into the river and then swim fifty
yards before the canyon widened again.

As they pulled themselves out of the water, Sol
remembered his gun. “We gotta go back.”

Juice shook his head. “We can’t. We only have
fifteen minutes to check in, and we’ll need every minute to get through that.”
He pointed.

Ahead of them was a massive ropes course,
spanning the canyon like a giant spider web. Juice pulled Sol’s helmet close to
his. “Blue’s safe. Red’s hot. If you listen close, you can hear the hot ones
humming. But don’t wait too long on one because they switch.”

“Hot?”

“Yeah. They’ll give you an awful shock.”

Sol didn’t need another of those today. He
followed Juice with a growing apprehension.

From the ground, it didn’t look too bad. Sol
easily scaled the side of the course and worked his way toward the middle. But
his arms were aching by the time he made it there. He had been in a cell too
long and hadn’t built up any muscles for a while. Even Juice was sliding along
with more ease.

Sol stopped to rest on a crisscrossed pair of blue
ropes, but before he could move, the course changed, and a painful shock cut
through him. Sol cried out and let go, falling ten feet before hitting another
hot rope that numbed his arm. He caught the last blue line at the bottom and
heaved himself up and over as quickly as he could. It was then that he noticed
his friends.

Briian and Connor stood below the ropes course.
Their weapons were pointed directly at him. Sol scrambled upward, feeling the
heat as their shots grazed his shoulders and calves. He remembered Briian’s
fire, and he couldn’t bear the thought of it again, even though his suit should
protect him better this time.

Hand over hand he climbed, scanning the vast web
for Juice. He saw his friend reach the top and disappear into a cave high on
the canyon wall.

Sol had to reach it. Briian and Connor were
climbing now, and they had obviously had more practice at this. He wouldn’t
make it in time.

Just then, the line of blue ropes in front of him
switched abruptly to red. The one he was standing on and the one he was
grasping were the only two left blue.

He glanced back. Briian and Connor were gaining
fast. Sol began to panic. He would do almost anything to stay away from the tip
of Briian’s gun. He thought about letting go, about letting himself fall and
crash into them, taking all three of them down, but it would take perfect aim
and would almost guarantee a shock somewhere on the way down.

How did these things work? They must have current
flowing through them to produce that kind of shock. He eyed the nearest red.

Sol felt a hand on his ankle. Briian’s eyes were
gleeful as he raised his weapon. Sol was out of time. He had to try it.

Sol grasped the blue line above him with both
hands and kicked free of Briian’s grip, throwing his whole body weight
sideways. The blue line arced out with him. He stepped, hard, onto Briian’s
shoulder and boosted himself and the blue line up just enough to cross it with
a red one.

A blinding spark shot from the intersection and
the humming of the maze stopped. The lines flickered and went gray. Sol didn’t
stop to celebrate. He scrambled up, not looking back until he was hauling
himself over the ledge and into the congratulations of his teammates.

“How the heck did you know to do that?”

As the victory washed over Sol, he started to
laugh. “My old truck.” He said. Maybe Uncle Carl had been right to insist they
have engines they could get their hands on. He wouldn’t have known what to do
if he hadn’t had to jump that thing so many times.

With the whole unit celebrating, Sol forgot, for
a moment, the intensity of the situation. He even took his scolding for losing
his gun, which Tavish gave back to him with a stern lecture, without feeling
the earlier resentment.

The whole unit loaded into a crawler to head back
to the armory. It was then, during the ride, that Sol started feeling uneasy.
The others kept looking sideways at him as if they were sizing him up.

Sol tapped his fingers against his knee as the
crawler made its way through the slick mud. Everyone was jubilant over the
victory. But Sol was still jittery from the convulsion incident and the
explosions, and he could sense something worse was coming.

40

Zyn’dri
traced the design absentmindedly on the wall of the empty hut. The best wall
was in the kitchen: a big blank space where she could try the patterns large
and small. She was getting skilled at the curves and angles of the most common
patterns, and she barely had to look at Laska’s books anymore.

Zyn’dri froze as she
heard voices coming down the path outside. Since the fence had gone up, more
people came walking by her little hut. She recognized Walt’s voice and the one
belonging to the village supervisor, Nichols.

“We can check this
one,” Walt was saying, “but the only thing I know wrong with it is the
graffiti.”

Zyn’dri tasted that
word: graffiti. It sounded nice. But then the door was opening, and she
scrambled to duck behind the table.

Walt froze as he
came in. Nichols bumped into him. “Walt! Keep going.”

“I think someone’s
in here.” Walt said, then called out, “Hello?”

Zyn’dri’s heart felt
like bison were thundering through her. She couldn’t move. If he saw her, he
would know that she was skipping school.

But Walt left her no
choice. He walked to the table and peered underneath. “Zyn’dri?” he said, and
confusion showed in his eyes.

Zyn’dri stood
slowly.

“What are you doing
here?” Walt asked.

Zyn’dri didn’t say
anything, just looked at the floor of the hut.

Nichols broke in.
“Who are you? Why aren’t you in school?”

Zyn’dri glanced at
him, but she couldn’t find any words.

Walt stepped in.
There was annoyance in his voice. “You should know her by now, Nichols. This is
my girl, Zyn’dri. Let me talk to her a minute, will you?”

Nichols grunted. “I
need to go back to the office anyway. Check this place over. If it’s sound, we
need to get more of those kids in here this week.”

When he had gone,
Walt turned to her.  “Zyn, what’s going on?”

She looked up,
begging him to understand. “I’m sorry, Walt. I can’t go there. I don’t fit in,
and I don’t care about what we’re learning, and the kids don’t like me, and I
just want to be with you!” It had all come out in a rush. She stood waiting for
him to chastise her.

But he didn’t. Walt
was simply nodding slowly. “Well, what have you been doing here?”

“Just thinking,
mostly. And I sometimes practice designs.”

Walt’s eyes
narrowed. “Designs?”

She laid a finger on
the wall. “Like this.” She started to trace a pattern she had seen in the
clouds this morning.

“Zyn’dri, stop!”
Walt’s voice was alarmed. “Don’t do that.”

She lowered her
hand. “Why not?”

Walt looked at her
for a long moment. “You don’t know?” when she shook her head, he said, “come
with me.”

He led her outside.
The valley smelled wet and fresh around them. Walt led her toward the fence,
around the back of the hut, to the other side of the wall she’d been tracing
on. Zyn’dri gasped.

The whole wall was
covered with her designs. Large and small, individual and overlapping, they were
burned into the side of the hut.

Walt was looking at her
in a new way. A frightened way. “How are you doing that?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve
just been tracing these patterns.”

“What patterns?” he
asked.

“Patterns from the
natural things. I found them in the notebooks of a human who was doing research
on Empyriad. Once I saw them, I couldn’t stop finding them. They’re
everywhere.”

Walt shifted
uncomfortably. “Don’t mention this to anyone.” He said. “You could get in some
trouble for defacing a park structure. But I see it was an accident.”

Zyn’dri looked down.
“Are you going to make me go back to school? Because I hate it there.”

Walt sighed. “We’ll
have to talk to Sylvia about that.” He said, but his eyes brightened when he
added, “I’m sure we can work something out.”

Hand in hand, the
two walked up to the Ranger hut, where Sylvia was working. Before they entered,
Walt stopped.

“You’d better let me
go in and work on this a minute.” He said. “I’ll come get you when I’ve filled
her in a little.”

“Okay.” Zyn’dri sat
down on a rock at the edge of the path, facing the village’s open center field.
The other kids were leaving school, coming from the dining hall, and she ducked
her head in embarrassment. She stared at the mud in the village center. Slowly,
she reached down and began to trace the time-stopping pattern.

As she completed the
second arc, Zyn’dri felt the world around her grow
sluggish. She looked up to see the children on the path slow. The colorful arcs
of their hair froze on the suddenly still wind. Their laughter moved past her
in deep, slow waves, as if they were underwater.

Zyn’dri’s
hand paused in the pattern, and the world resumed its normal speed. Zyn’dri’s
hand trembled as she reached for the mud again and froze her classmates in their
steps. A slow, deep sound from behind her caught her attention, and she turned
to see Walt, frozen in his approach. The heavy sound of his voice rolled past her,
and she realized he had been speaking her name. Zyn’dri stopped the pattern and
watched him resume his normal speed. He didn’t seem to know that he had slowed
at all.

“She’s busy,” Walt
said, “but I got enough of her time to explain things. We think it 'd be nice
if you spent some time outside the village. I’m on thermal checks the next few
days, so you’ll just come with me.”

***

The next day,
Zyn’dri found herself walking along a creaky boardwalk in a place Walt called Sulphur
Cauldron. Neither of those words meant anything to her, but she soon learned
what to expect when she heard the word Sulphur.

Walt laughed as she
wrinkled her nose and covered her face with her hands. It smelled terrible.

“So tell me more
about these patterns,” Walt said nonchalantly as they moved toward a large
circular depression in the otherwise drab landscape. She could tell he was
trying not to let her know he was concerned.

“They’re
everywhere,” Zyn’dri said. “In the clouds and in the flowers and in the bison’s
coats. I can’t stop seeing them.”

They reached the
side of the hole and Zyn’dri looked down to see that it was filled with a pasty
yellow mud that bubbled lazily.

She grabbed Walt’s
hand and pointed. “See! There’s one!”

When she glanced up,
Walt was peering at the mud, and she could see he was puzzled.

“You don’t see it?”
She asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Look. It’s like
this,” Zyn’dri knelt down and began to trace a pattern in the dry dirt at the
edge of the cauldron.

Walt opened his mouth to tell her not to disturb the natural
crust, but just then a deep rumbling shook the earth below them.

A split formed in
the ground in the shape of the design, exactly as she had traced it. She
stepped back as the edges of it crumbled and fell into the cauldron.

Something had begun.
The mud in the cauldron began to bubble, then to churn. Steam rose from somewhere
deep within the Earth.

“Stand back!” Walt called, laying a hand on
Zyn’dri’s shoulder. As they stepped away, Zyn’dri caught sight of the same
pattern she had just finished drawing. It was churning in the mud, swirling and
arcing.

“There!” Zyn’dri pointed. “See the pattern?”

Walt looked mystified. I do, now that you point it
out to me.” He pulled Zyn’dri back several more paces, just as water, mud, and
steam began an intricate dance in the cauldron. It looked, to Zyn’dri, like a
pot of soup. She said so.

It took Walt a moment to answer. He was staring
intently at the jumping water. When he did, his voice sounded distracted.

“Right. That’s what a cauldron is. It’s a big
pot, just like you’d make soup in. Only sometimes it’s something more magical
than soup. Like a potion or—or—” he trailed off. “Do you see that? In the
steam?”

Zyn’dri looked. She did see it. The same pattern
rose above the cauldron.

Walt’s voice was full of wonder. “I’ve lived here
nearly my whole life. How have I never seen this before?”

41

No one had to tell Sol that this was his induction.
He knew as soon as they led him into the room.

They were all out of their armor, dressed in day
uniforms. Sol instantly wished that he had his armor back. The festive
atmosphere was gone. His friends stood solemn and quiet in two long lines on
either side of the room. Juice wouldn’t look at him.

Between the rows of soldiers, a long beam ran
down the center of the room, about four feet off the floor.

Sol’s stomach tightened. He waited as a
commander—Juice’s father—walked along it, down the center of the long rows of Milguard
soldiers, to face him. Sol saw Briian and Tavish and Mezina. Uncle Carl was
conspicuously absent.

“Solomon Brooks,” Juice’s father spoke his name
with a hint of contempt. Sol knew he still harbored resentment because they had
given Juice a place to go. “You want to join the Liberty Milguard?”

“Yes, sir,” Sol said, trying to disconnect his
feelings for the man from his obligation to obey his orders.

“You think you can handle this induction?”
Commander Hastings growled.

Sol didn’t know what to say. He figured it would
be a physical test of some kind. The only thing that made sense was that he
would have to cross the long beam to the other side. And he’d had plenty of
experience with heights and balance.

“Yes, sir,” he said. He tried to ignore the
uneasy feeling he got when he glanced at the soldiers on either side of the
beam. They radiated a grim anticipation that Sol had only seen in wolves on the
ranch when they were gathered around a kill.

“Then you’ll need to get from one end of this
beam to the other,” Hastings said. “The distance is fifty feet. If you quit before
you make it to that end, you will not be a member of this fighting force.”

Juice’s dad strode to the platform at the end of
the beam. He pulled himself up onto it and walked a step or two back on the
beam before gesturing to Sol to climb the platform. Sol mounted it quickly and
stood to face the older man.

From here, the beam looked longer. It was just
wide enough for a single boot. Hastings stood easily on it, comfortably, with
his knees bent and one foot in front of the other. He gestured to Sol and Sol
took a tentative step onto the beam.

Sol saw the cruel light in the man’s eyes and was
half-expecting the blow that landed on his jaw. He staggered backward onto the
platform as Juice’s dad advanced. This time, Sol was ready. Using the more
secure footing of the platform to widen his stance, he ducked the next punch
and threw a shoulder to the man’s lower ribcage. Hastings went off onto the
floor below, and Sol scrambled along the beam as the man fell.

He was expecting Juice’s dad to come back at him,
but he wasn’t expecting the rows of soldiers to suddenly, savagely, join in.

They clawed at him, jabbed at him, leaped onto
the beam and struck at him. Sol was overpowered by the smell of their starched
uniforms and his own blood.

Sol felt a massive fist and a sharp pain across
the back of his neck. Instinctively, he spun and swung, barely catching the
beam with both feet, his fist connecting with the soft gut of an older guy who
sucked air and staggered backward. The man fell off the beam.

A jolt coursed through Sol, and he realized that
someone was firing a convulsion gun at him. Looking to his left, he saw Briian
standing less than three feet away, pointing the muzzle of his gun at Sol’s
chest.

Sol didn’t hesitate. He bent his knees and
reached a hand down to the beam. When he had three points of contact, he kicked
out. His boot skimmed the top of the gun before connecting solidly with
Briian’s throat.

Sol heard the pop and Briian’s strangled cry, but
two other soldiers were on the beam, and he had stopped thinking. Sol lashed
out at the pain covering his torso and shoulders and face. The beam was a
disadvantage to him, but it was to them, too. The soldiers on the ground
grabbed at him, and as he began to lose his balance he saw how tightly packed
they were, like fish squirming and writhing to get closer to the beam, to him.
He aimed carefully and caught himself by planting a boot on the shoulder of the
nearest soldier. He rocked back to the beam and struck, then stepped forward,
onto another soldier, and repeated the process.

They were infuriated. He heard them roaring, felt
them snatching at his boot every time he stepped off the beam and leveraged
against another one of them.

It was like fighting on uneven ground, but better
than the single track of the beam. Sol made progress fast, using his arms,
shoulders, and hips to knock the soldiers off the beam in front of him and
using the troops on the ground to give him more leverage.

When he shoved the last soldier off the end
platform, Sol turned to shoot a triumphant gaze back across the crazed crowd.
But they didn’t stop. Sol saw Kade climb onto the beam and run toward him,
plowing into Sol with a force that knocked the breath out of him. Sol fell backward
off the platform and landed hard.

He scrambled to his feet, but they were all upon
him. Even guys Sol had known for years had suddenly turned on him. Mezina was
there, her long hair tied back, her fists striking him wherever they could
reach. He tried to block, tried to dodge, but there were twenty or more of them,
and they drove him to his knees, and then to the ground. Sol saw Juice standing
against the far wall, his back to the room, lifting a heavy weight over his
head. He choked out his friend’s name. He thought about Juice throwing up
during his induction, and knew he was about to do the same thing. But Sol’s bad
shoulder popped under the weight of a boot, and searing pain washed the nausea
away. He saw Kade standing above him. Kade’s boot was on Sol’s back, and Kade’s
buddies laughed.

“All right!” A loud voice cut above the crowd. It
was Commander Hastings. At a signal Sol couldn’t see, the soldiers dropped back
into line. He lay there, bleeding, and wondered if he should get up. When
Juice’s father barked at him to do so, he pulled himself to his feet.

He felt sticky blood running down from his
hairline, and he wiped it away before it ran into his eyes. His body ached, and
a sharp pain radiated from his knee. But he had done it. He had crossed the
bridge into the Milguard.

“Well, you made it. Though you stepped on your
fellow soldiers to do it. And you think this was too rough. I see it in your
eyes. But you know, don’t you, that this is nothing—nothing—compared
to what the Cascadians and the Harvesters will give you.” Hastings growled.
“You remember this beating, and when you see a fellow Milguard soldier down,
you’ll help him, because you remember what this felt like.”

Sol’s breath was coming in racking sobs. He heard
it bouncing around the room. Not likely,
he thought. I’ll remember that it was them who did
it to me.

Juice’s dad walked around him slowly. The small
man slid his own convulsion gun off and shoved it into Sol’s hands. “Here.” He
said. “Go ahead and get your revenge. On any of them. They’re not wearing
armor, and that that thing’s turned up to 10. Kill ‘em.”

Sol knew it was a trap. He was aware that they
were baiting him, but he turned and rushed at Kade anyway, throwing the butt of
the gun into his temple as the kid threw his arms up to protect himself. It was
too late. Sol hit him full on. Just once, hard enough to drop him.

It didn’t feel as satisfying as Sol had hoped it
would feel to see Kade lying on the floor. He turned back to Hastings. Having
his back to the man made him nervous.

“You might make an okay soldier after all,”
Juice’s father said. His praise made Sol feel sick.

“What do you think, Milguard 8?” The commander
called out. “Is he Milguard material?”

There was a chorus of cheers.

“You’re in.”

Sol’s head was throbbing. He shot a look at
Juice. His friend was still against the wall. Juice stood trembling under the
weight in the corner, and Sol realized that was his friend’s punishment for not
participating.

Commander Hastings gestured him through an open
door to the left. Sol limped through it, finding his left knee was sore and
beginning to swell.

The corridor was dim, and Sol felt jittery as
Juice’s father followed him along it. Near the end, the man grunted, “There.”
And Sol stopped beside a nondescript door.

“I’ve got a little task for the newest member of
the Milguard,” Juice’s dad said, laying his hand on the doorknob. He looked Sol
in the eyes. “And this is a top secret, Sol. Nobody better find out about this,
or else.” Sol wondered what that meant, then he thought back to Juice, standing
in the corner. This guy wouldn’t mind taking out Sol’s disobedience on his son.
Something told Sol that he knew that would hurt worse than anything the man
could do to him.

As the door opened, Sol swung his aching head to
see two big Milguard soldiers muscling a smaller guy through the door.

It took Sol a long moment, staring at the sunken
face, squinting through the glare of the caged bulbs in the room, to realize that
their prisoner was Sonny Lundgren, the kid who’d crashed in their field over a
year ago.

Sonny was gaunt and broken. His purple-stained
fingertips flexed again and again as if clawing the air at his sides. Sol stood,
feeling scared and sick. He didn’t want to believe that Liberty had its own
Disclosure Squad, the cruel Cascadian interrogators that Sonny had told him
about, but there was no denying it.

“We’re done with this
prisoner,” Hastings leaned close to Sol and jerked his head toward Sonny. His
voice was a low mumble. “Your first act as a Milguard soldier is to dispatch
him.”

Sol searched his mind for a possible military
meaning of “dispatch.” Did that mean to send him somewhere? Juice’s father
caught his eye, and Sol realized what he meant.

“You want me to—”

“Shut up.” Juice’s father growled, “I told you
this was confidential. Take the gun, take the spinner that’s parked outside,
and take him to these coordinates.” He pushed a slip of paper into Sol’s palm.
It’s right near the border. Set him up facing you, then finish him. Be sure he is
headed away from Cascadia, into
Liberty.”

Sol saw why. So that they could pretend he had
crossed the border. He tried not to look the kid in the eye.

“Bring the spinner back here. Leave his body at
the border as a warning to his Cascadian friends.” Juice’s father spat at
Sonny, and the kid ducked his head further. “Don’t mess this up, kid.” He gave
Sol a long look.

Sol’s heart hammered as he and the kid were
ushered out a back door to a waiting spinner. It was coated with matte black
stealth paint, and they threw the kid in the passenger’s seat and cuffed him to
a rail that Sol hadn’t seen in any of his friends’ spinners.

One of the big soldiers slid the key to Sol, and
they disappeared back into the shadow of the armory.

Sol lifted off. He wanted away from this place.
The kid kept his eyes on his hands. When he spoke, his voice was jagged.

“They said I’m going home, but I saw that guy
talking to you. I’m not going home, am I?”

Sol considered. He rested his hand on the
convulsion gun. He knew how a jolt from this thing felt. He wasn’t sure he
could shoot this kid.

But before he could answer, he thought of Juice. Juice
had been his friend since the first day Sol walked into South Edge Elementary
School, only weeks after his father had been killed. Juice had stood by him
through the teasing, through the schoolyard fistfights, through it all. Sol
thought of Juice standing alone under the weight his father had placed on him,
like he had all his life. Sol thought of what could happen to Juice if he
didn’t do what he’d been told. He’d brought Juice enough pain.

“I don’t want to do it,” Sol said. “It’s just
that I’ve got this friend, and I think something bad will happen to him if I—if
I don’t.”

Sonny started to cry, softly.

Sol tried not to hear it as he navigated the
spinner down into the trees at the coordinates Juice’s father had given him.

The evening had fallen, and the last of the light
was ebbing from the forest. Sol got out and unchained Sonny from the spinner,
helping him out without looking the kid in the eye.

Without warning, Sonny struck out at him,
catching him above the left eye with his handcuffs. Sol staggered backward, his
injured knee giving slightly as he caught himself, He reached out and grabbed
the kid’s flight suit. It was rough under his fingers as he held on.

Sonny threw all his weight into breaking free,
but he was weakened by his long confinement and he fell to one knee, then
dropped to all fours and clawed at the slick mat of pine needles that covered
the forest floor, trying to crawl away.

He was no match for Sol. Sol slid his arms around
the kid’s chest and hauled him to his feet. Sol could feel the night air where
it stung his fresh cut, and he clenched his hand into a fist to throw a punch
in return. He spun the kid around.

The shadows of evening had gathered under Sonny’s
eyes. His shoulders slumped, and his hands hung loosely in the handcuffs in
front of him. He turned his face slightly, leaving his jaw open for a punch.
Sol saw that he had given up.

Sol knew that feeling. He knew the moment when
all hope was gone. Unbidden, an image of the Ranger, Walt, who had saved him in
the courtroom came into his mind. He stepped back from Sonny, letting his fist
relax.

Sonny didn’t run. He didn’t even look up. This
was the moment, Sol realized. This was the moment he should shoot. The
Cascadian kid had his back to the border. He was perfectly still. Sol could
place the shot wherever he wanted.

But Sol knew too much. He knew imprisonment. He
knew injustice. He knew the dark bitterness that came from both.

Sol stepped forward, fumbling with the keys.
Sonny glanced up as he approached. There was a tight, puzzled expression on his
face. It stayed there as Sol unshackled him and backed away.

“Can’t stand to shoot me when I’m chained up like
an animal?” Sonny said. “It will look better if you kill me when I’m free?”

Sol breathed in a deep draft of the cool mountain
air. “I’m not going to shoot you, Sonny.”

For the first time, the kid looked up.
Tentatively. “What about your friend?”

Juice’s face flashed in front of Sol briefly. “I
don’t know.” He said.

Sonny stood still, rubbing first one wrist and
then the other. He didn’t say anything.

“Go home, Sonny. The border is five hundred yards
behind you.”

“You’re not going to shoot me when I try?” Sonny said
his voice wavering.

Sol shook his head in the fading light. “Just go
home.”

Sonny turned then and looked at the dense forest
behind him. He looked back at Sol, who laid his gun on the ground and held his
hands up in front of his chest. “I’m not like them,” he said, and he heard the
words himself and knew they were true.

Sonny took a few steps toward the woods, then
glanced back over his shoulder. He moved like a scared animal: sideways,
slumping, his hands half-raised. Sol watched him as he ran into the thick
trees. It took a long time.

Sol spoke, finally, and his words chased the last
of the light out of the woods. “Sonny, I’m sorry.”

42

After nearly forty
years, the park was new to Walt again. He and Zyn’dri spent almost every
evening poring over the field journals of this geologist, Laska, who she said
had saved her. The patterns were everywhere. He and Zyn’dri watched for them
throughout the spring as they monitored the thermal features, counted wolf
pups, and recorded the locations of mountain bluebird nests.

When summer brought
bison calves and cygnets, Sylvia was full of health again. She worked every day
at the villages and was out of bed before Walt every morning.

When Walt’s shift
took him to find elk calves on a three-day hike into the backcountry, Sylvia
insisted that she'd be all right by herself and that Walt should take Zyn’dri
along with him.

They traveled the
elk trails and slept in the meadows under stars so bright that Walt stayed up
most of their last night watching them as they moved across the sky. In their
brilliance, too, he saw the patterns. He had to know more about these designs.
Walt resolved to talk to Meir as soon as they returned from the hike.

The next day was
their last day. They were on the trail of a couple of cow elk that should have,
by now, brought their speckled babies into the world. The calves needed chipped
and recorded, and it had to be done when they were newborn. Newborn elk stayed
still long enough for the chips to adhere to the adipose tissue in their
shoulders. Any older and they were too active. The chips had a serious chance
of migrating to their chests or bellies: regions deeper under the body where
they’d never be detected by the trailside scanners that helped keep track of
the elk population.

Walt was using the
feeds from the scanners now as they tracked the cows. Zyn’dri was up the trail
in front of him a hundred yards. He knew they were close, but he was still surprised
when she nearly stepped on a hearty, spotted fawn lying in the deep grass of
the mountain meadow.

The little animal
should have risen and fled. It should have, like all the other elk calves Walt
had startled, clambered to its feet and staggered toward its mother. Instead,
it turned its enormous, gentle eyes on Zyn’dri and lay breathing peacefully
among the wildflowers. Its mother, grazing nearby, looked up and then went back
to grazing.

As he approached,
Walt felt suddenly proud. Could these elk be evidence that the tumultuous
history of human predation had passed from their memory? Could eliminating most
humans from the park have given these wild creatures a chance to start over and
forget that humans were a danger to them?

But as he approached
he saw that wasn’t the case. As soon as the little calf caught wind of him, it
began pulling itself to its feet. Walt stopped. He backed up twenty feet,
forty. The calf calmed and looked back at Zyn’dri, still frozen beside it. The
calf glanced toward its mother, then lay at Zyn’dri’s feet.

Walt realized it was
Zyn’dri. The calf didn’t fear Zyn’dri. Perhaps because she was alien? But that
seemed more likely to make the calf afraid. There must be something else.
Whatever it was, it gave them an opportunity to make this less stressful for
the elk. Zyn’dri turned to look at Walt, and he gestured her over.

“I’m going to teach
you how to chip him,” Walt murmured when she arrived.

Zyn’dri eyed the
tranquilizer gun he was offering her. She shook her head. “We won’t need that.”

“Oh, yes we will. He’s
going to take off as soon as you touch him, and you’ve got to have him still
long enough to push this,” Walt showed her the blocky injection cartridge,
“against his skin and press the plunger. It’s spring-loaded. The needle will
shoot out and inject the chip, then pull back out.”

Zyn’dri seemed to be
weighing the gun with her hand. She took the injection and slipped it into her
pocket. “I’ll take care of it,” she said.

They had practiced
this at home, shooting chips into the couch cushions, but as she walked
carefully toward the calf, Walt wondered if he should be letting her do it now.
He had meant to be beside her, to help her.

But Zyn’dri, he
learned quickly, didn’t need his help. She walked directly to the calf and
crouched beside it. It looked at her trustingly. She laid the tranquilizer gun
on the ground and reached into her pocket.

“Zyn’dri!” he
hissed. If she chipped the calf without putting it to sleep, a number of things
could go wrong. Though the injection was carefully designed, and anyone could
do it, Zyn’dri was at risk. The calf could leap up and hurt her in the process,
or the cow could see the calf’s pain and come after the little girl.

But Zyn’dri shook her
head. She laid the injection on its skin, in the perfect location, and pressed
the button.

The little calf
cried out briefly in surprise, and its ears flicked wildly for a second or so,
but Zyn’dri laid a gentle hand on its broad forehead, between its wide eyes,
and Walt heard the soft sound of her words as she spoke to it. The calf calmed
and lay its tapering chin back down on its forelegs.

Walt checked the
scanner readouts. The chip was working and was transmitting vast amounts of
data about the animal, including its gender, its immunity profile, and its
vital signs. The calf—a male—showed up as a fresh green dot on the map.
Surrounding it were the dots of its herd mates, in colors ranging from the
young green ones through the middle-aged yellow ones, to the older members of
the herd, which showed up in dark red. Walt nodded. The task was done, and
Zyn’dri came back to Walt’s side quickly.

Walt felt awe as he
glanced at her. He had never seen anyone interact with an elk in that way, and
he had walked among many herds himself.

But he was always,
he realized, an outsider. The elk never truly accepted him, were always wary of
his presence among them. The calf had been completely comfortable with Zyn’dri.

He realized that in
more ways than one, Zyn’dri was alien to him. He needed to know more about what
she was, and how he could help her become who she should be.

43

Zyn’dri’s second summer in Yellowstone passed
quickly. She spent nearly every day with Walt in the park.

She had finally found several delicacies that she
loved to eat, and wandering through the bushes looking for huckleberries was
one of her favorite activities. The animals in this wild place also entranced
her. Watching the bison flow over the hillsides or crouching by the river
watching the pelicans fish brought her a sense of peace in this troubled place.

But as she had grown more at home in the park,
she had become less at home in the village. She was the only Stracahn who
didn’t have to present a permit when outside the villages and the others had
begun to notice. More and more, she stayed away from the Stracahn settlements
and away from her people.

44

Sol looked at the target with satisfaction. Eight
rounds, every one a hit. The target showed charred figure eights everywhere his
convulsion gun had hit. He glanced up to see Tavish and Uncle Carl grinning at
him.

“You’re a natural,” Tavish said.

Sol smiled back. He was good at it. And that
wasn’t all. He could outpace nearly everyone in the unit. He was able to focus
in a way that no one else seemed able to do.

That night he talked to his mom about it. “I
don’t know why, I just seem to have more concentration, and I’m able to set
aside my physical comfort more than some of the others.”

His mom’s reaction, as usual, was reserved. She
had changed since he was in jail. She was more timid, more unsure, and angrier.
She didn’t like that he’d joined the Milguard, but she was glad to have him
back. He watched her still hands with an uneasy feeling. He tried to think of
the last time he had seen her quilting. Had she done it since he’d been home?
He didn’t think so.

“Maybe that’s from your time in prison.”

The words were like a slap. They didn’t talk
about it. Not ever. He felt his defenses rise. He had watched every one of his
friends carefully when he came back, waiting to see which ones had changed
toward him. And he had seen it in some of them. They had looked away seconds
before he was finished saying hello. They had fidgeted when he approached. They
had, some of them, told him outright that their parents didn’t want them
hanging around with him. Not his real friends, of course, not Juice or even
Mezina, but enough of them to make him sensitive to it.

“Mom, I’m still the same as I was!”

She raised her sad eyes to him. “In many ways,
you are. And I’m not saying these are bad things.” In a swift, unexpected
gesture, she reached for his hand. Hers was cold, and smaller than he
remembered. He held it with both of his. “You were in that cell for a long
time, son. It was an awful place, but it changed you in good ways, too. You
appreciate your uncle more. And this. I can see you’re more focused, too. That
might be because you had time to think. There were no distractions.”

Sol had been so focused on what he had lost that
he had never thought about what he had gained. For the first time since his dad
died, he considered that even terrible days might hold unexpected gifts.

Sol held his mom’s hand a long time. The guilt
he’d been carrying for months threatened to overwhelm him. Finally, he spoke.
“I-I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was working there.” She started to look away,
but he caught her gaze with his and held it. “I’m sorry I did it after you told
me not to.”

Molly looked at him for a long time. “See, not
everything you learned there was bad.” She smiled, and Sol felt, finally, like
he was safe.

They were still talking when Uncle Carl’s crawler
rumbled to the ground outside the farmhouse. Sol turned toward the door as it
flew open. Uncle Carl was agitated.

“What is it, Carl?” Molly stood, pulling her hand
from Sol’s.

“Something is about to happen, Mol,” he said. “We
just got these.” He clicked a controller in his pocket, and the screen on the
kitchen wall leaped to life.

It was an aerial view of an enormous encampment.

“Cascadian troops. Camped over at Robinson Creek,
right on the border, in that wild country by the old Rising Butte Road.”

Sol peered at the screen. It was, unmistakably,
the area where he had left Sonny. Spinners and haulers and strafers made dark
shapes around the camp. He saw hundreds of dots that he knew were Cascadian
militiamen.

“Didn’t we know that they were near the borders?”
he asked.

“We knew that they were near the borders.” Uncle
Carl confirmed, “but not that an invasion was imminent.”

45

When the autumn had arrived, and Zyn’dri was at one
of her infrequent school days, Walt tried not to miss her as he checked ground
temperatures around Biscuit Basin. The creaking of the old boardwalk and the
bubbling of the thermal features were the only sounds he heard as the sun
warmed his back. Around him stretched the knobby white crust of the basin
floor, giving way here and there to a frothing geyser ringed with rusty orange
bacteria or a quiet pool steaming in the morning sunshine.

It was moments like this that he loved living
here, that he couldn't imagine leaving.

And now that Sylvia was so strong, they might not
have to go for a long time. Before, as she had grown worse, he had thought
about leaving. He had promised her that he would never take her back into the
world, and he had lived here, isolated, all these years because he loved her.
But if she wasn't here, he wouldn't stay. Only partly because he missed people.
Also because if she was gone the weight of their every memory here would be his
to carry alone. After all these years, they had spent a moment together at
every place in this vast wilderness.

Even now, he felt the ghost of their first trip
out on this boardwalk, heard her delighted cries every time she found a new
feature, saw her crouched at the side of the boardwalk to peer into the depths
of the springs and pools and vents that dotted this landscape. He stopped by
Wall Pool and gazed into its creamy blue waters, thinking of how young they
were then, how wounded. He was glad those days were behind them, although he
hadn't expected the end to come so quickly.

A gruff bellow snapped Walt from his reverie.
Ahead of him, several bison were coming out of the trees, on the other side of
Wall Pool, trotting across the basin.

He started walking farther along the boardwalk as
he watched them. He wondered again how it was that they roamed freely in the thermal
regions, and still seemed to avoid the thinnest crust. Though they did
occasionally break through with a hind leg, and he'd seen some young ones who
had died in the pools, they were remarkably adept at navigating their home
range.

And they were majestic. He knew it was cliched
and that people's fascination with the animals had caused a lot of trouble a
couple of centuries ago, but there was still something about the shaggy heads,
the deliberate gait, which gave bison a regal quality and transfixed him.

This was a small group: four
females and a few of this year's calves, grown out of their red coats and
looking like smaller versions of their shaggy parents. They stopped here and
there to pull strands of grass from the ground and wandered nonchalantly along
the edge of the trees. The animals were slick and fat, their coats even and
thick and brown in the morning sun. He was so fascinated with them that he
didn't even glance at Sapphire Pool until he was almost past it. But then he
stopped on the boardwalk and turned back toward it.

There was something wrong--something out of
place. Walt searched his memory, but couldn't pinpoint what had bothered him.
The pool lay glistening azure in the morning light, its lighter edges
intensifying to a vibrant blue center where it dropped away to its full depth.
A growing sense of uneasiness gripped Walt as he walked slowly back along the
old boardwalk, searching the pool for what had seemed out of place. Small
ripples sparkled on the surface of the water, indicators of the superheated
water rising from the depths of the pool.

A waving orange ribbon caught his eye. Dancing up
through the rising water, but anchored somewhere below, it fluttered and
twisted, its vibrant orange contrasted with the brilliant blue of the water.
That shouldn't be there. He hoped that the Stracahn hadn't been throwing things
into the pools. These pools were more than just beautiful. They were delicate
ecosystems that relied on the unimpeded passage of hot water through their
vents to keep the correct temperature for the bacteria that lived in them.

A couple of centuries ago, humans had filled some
pools with trash or laundry or coins, and their vents had clogged, choking the
life out of them. Those pools, now, had filled with soil or collapsed in on
themselves, leaving only scars where once complex microscopic ecosystems
thrived.

Walt leaned out, trying to see where the orange
ribbon came from, but the pool angled off, and he couldn't see very far into
it. Carefully, he climbed over the wooden railing, setting his feet gently on
the uneven ground, testing it before putting his full weight on it. It was
solid, and he stood on the crust of the basin and leaned out over the water to
get a better view of the depths of the pool.

Walt heard his own cry of surprise and reached
backward for the railing to steady him.

Floating below him, in the crystalline blue
waters of Sapphire Pool, was Wan-seh, one of the Avowed, his orange robes
billowing around him. The man was dead, floating in a more-or-less upright
position, as if he had simply walked into the shallow edge of the pool and
stepped off into the depths, sinking until he came to rest on a small ledge
where the pool began to narrow.

However, such a peaceful end would not have been
likely. Walt could feel, even here, the heat coming off the pool. Submersion in
it would have been agony. He closed his eyes, fighting a wave of nausea at the
thought. Wan-seh had been kind. He had asked about Zyn’dri. This was an awful
end.

But how had it happened? The railing was high
enough to prevent accidents, and the Stracahn were not prone to carelessness.
Walt looked down again. Wan-seh's face was tipped just slightly upward, and
through the strikingly clear water Walt could see a cut above his left eye. He
had been struck.

Walt climbed slowly back over the railing. Who
could have done this? Who would want to? He remembered the argument between
Wan-seh and his Ally. She had wanted more than Wan-seh was willing to give.
Could this have been her doing? Walt got his radio.

"We've got a problem at Biscuit Basin."
He said evenly. Sometimes he even surprised himself with his ability to control
his emotions.

***

The investigative team found no disturbed crust
around the edge of the pool, indicating that Wan-seh had been thrown from the
boardwalk.  If they were human, that alone would have ruled out O’neva. But
Stracahn were slightly stronger than their human counterparts, and they
couldn’t be sure that she didn’t have the ability to have done it. There was no
obvious answer. The Avowed went to find O’neva.

After the team had extracted the body and the
Avowed had carried it off down the boardwalk toward the Trisne Rooth at Old
Faithful, Walt noticed a solitary figure standing beside Sapphire Pool, staring
down into its depths.

It was Meir, and his deep green robes reflected
off the crystalline blue surface of the pool. Walt walked toward him.

Walt glanced down at Meir’s hands. He noticed
that one hand was tracing a pattern on the palm of the other.

Walt tried not to sound too eager. “That pattern.
Can you tell me about it?”

Meir glanced down and finished tracing. He curled
his long fingers into a ball and smiled at Walt.

“It is a tay’ren.”

“Tay’ren?”

“The tay’ren are the patterns of life.”

“Yes. I’ve seen them. Where do they come from?
What do they mean?”

Meir shifted slightly. “These things are not
spoken of outside the walls of the Vault. It is only there that we teach of the
tay’ren.”

Walt felt embarrassed, as if he had yawned during
a eulogy. He had stumbled into something sacred without realizing it.

“Oh. I—I just wondered, because I’ve seen the
patterns, in all kinds of natural things, and they seem to draw me somehow.”

Meir nodded. His eyes were kind. “Both Stracahn
and humans are enchanted by natural wonders: the stars, a butterfly wing, or
even the brilliance of this pool.”

Walt glanced at it. He blinked away the memory of
Wan-seh, submerged in the blue water.

Meir stood quietly. Walt supposed he was thinking
of the same thing.

“I’m sorry,” Walt said.

Meir sighed heavily. “This planet has taken so
many of my people. I fear we have made a grave mistake, coming here.” When he
raised his violet eyes to gaze at Walt, the Ranger saw sadness greater than any
he’d ever seen. He looked away. The weight of it was too much.

Meir nodded slowly and turned away from the pool.
His green robes dragged along the ground, vibrant against the white floor of
the basin.

Walt followed him back onto the boardwalk. It was
rare to find the First Avowed by himself, and though this was a solemn time,
Walt couldn’t help but use the opportunity.

“Meir, could I ask you about Zyn’dri?”

Meir paused on the boardwalk and turned to Walt.
“Certainly.”

“I just,” Walt tried to think of a way to phrase
it that wouldn’t make him look too ignorant. “I’ve just noticed that she has
some . . . special qualities. And I’m not sure if all Stracahn have them, or if
I’m imagining them or what.”

Meir was genuinely interested now. The shadow in
his eyes was replaced by a spark of curiosity. “Special qualities?”

Walt hesitated, then thought of the little elk
calf. “She seems to have, what we’d call a ‘way with animals.' They appear to
trust her more than they do others.”

Meir was nodding. “Hm.” He said.

Walt went on. “At least, I think we could call it
that. But maybe that’s a Stracahn thing.”

Meir shook his head. “No, that is special even
for us.” He said. “It is a gift. Few have it.”

Walt smiled. “See, I thought it was special.”

Meir leaned forward. “Are there other gifts?
Things you’d like to know?”

Walt thought of the designs again, but before he
could speak, he suddenly began to wonder how much he should share. Could he
trust Meir? Was this breaking Zyn’dri’s confidence? Why did Meir suddenly look
so eager? His usually detached expression had changed. It made Walt nervous.

“I think everything about her is pretty special,”
Walt said guardedly. “What would someone with that kind of gift offer your
people?”

Meir looked out over the flat floor of the basin.
“We never know, precisely, how one’s gifts can help others until the moment
comes for them to be used.” He said. “But our tradition is very focused on
living in balance with our surroundings, and it sounds as if Zyn’dri has
special insight into the animal inhabitants of this planet. The Allbeings may
use that, at some point, to protect her or to lead her.”

Walt had heard of the Allbeings. Zyn’dri had told
him about them, and so had Grandyn. A race of all-knowing beings who intervened
across multiple universes to keep things running smoothly. They seemed, to
Walt, like some kind of giant computer, calculating the best possible outcome
for the most possible beings out of an infinite number of causes, actions, and
reactions. It was dizzying. Grandyn said the Allbeings tried to communicate
their calculations to beings throughout the universes, and sometimes they
succeeded.

His ancestors had believed in similar things, but
Terrenes had drifted away from it so far that it sounded a bit like magic to him.

Meir must have seen his doubt. “Humans have such
difficulty accepting that there are beings greater than themselves. Why is
that?”

Walt was embarrassed. That was exactly what he
had been thinking, but when Meir stated it that way it was obviously false. In
many ways, Walt knew, even Zyn’dri was superior to him.

Meir let the question hang between them for a
moment. Just when he looked as if he might speak again, a pair of Avowed Allies
approached.

“Vanquis,” they said, using the term that Walt
had heard the Stracahn use when they spoke to Meir, “O’neva is not at the
Vault. She has not been seen since she and Wan-seh left for their devotions
this morning.”

Meir’s eyes were clouded with worry. “We must
search for her. Perhaps the Allbeings can guide us to her.” He turned back to
Walt. “You will please excuse me. I must return to the Vault.”

“Of course,” Walt said, gesturing him down the
boardwalk.

When he had gone a few steps, Meir turned. “I
would like to speak to you some more, Walt, another time.”

Before he could answer, Walt’s radio crackled to
life. Karson needed to see him. The Grant wolf pack was moving erratically, and
Karson wanted to know why.

Walt and his family hiked into the backcountry
later that afternoon. Watching Sylvia shoulder her pack and head off down the
trail after Zyn’dri made Walt’s breath catch in his throat. She was robust and
able, so unlike the woman who had, only months ago, lain in bed for days at a
time. What was happening? Was it simply Zyn’dri’s presence or was there more to
Sylvia’s miraculous recovery?

Walt had found in his life that sometimes the
‘whys’ didn’t matter. Sometimes he just had to enjoy the result. This
afternoon, as the smell of dying leaves filled the air and the chill of autumn
touched their cheeks, Walt decided not to ask why. Just for today, he would
revel in Sylvia’s health and Zyn’dri’s enthusiasm, and he wouldn’t worry about
how they connected or how to sustain them.

Ahead, Zyn’dri startled a flock of small birds.
They rose into the sky and reeled across the swath of blue that capped the
pines along the trail. The hikers stopped to watch them.

“What are they?” Zyn’dri asked.

Walt squinted.

“I think they’re Kinglets,” Sylvia answered.

“You know it’s autumn when they flock up like
that. They all get together to head South.”

“South?” Zyn’dri glanced at him, and Walt
pointed.

“To where?”

“Different places,” he said. “Warmer places,” he
remembered the bitter winter they’d spent last year, the Stracahn’s Vitamin D
scare. “Places they can get more sun.”

“They leave the park?”

“That’s right. They get together with their
families and go on a little vacation until it’s warmer. Then they come back to
lay their eggs and raise their babies here.” Sylvia’s voice was light and
hopeful. Walt liked hearing it that way.

“Look!” Zyn’dri said, pointing. Walt looked up
and stared. Just for a second, as the birds swirled around each other in the
air, they made one of the patterns from Laska’s journals.

“What is it?” Sylvia asked, oblivious to the
design.

Walt spoke up. “A tay’ren.”

Zyn’dri looked at him. “What?”

“I talked to Meir this morning. He calls the
designs tay’ren.”

Zyn’dri grabbed his hand. “Meir has seen them,
too?”

“Yes. He was tracing one today.”

“Where? What did it do?”

There Walt paused. He hadn’t told her of his
grisly discovery, and Sylvia had said he should not. Zyn’dri already had a deep
fear of this planet and its dangers, Sylvia had explained, and she didn’t need
more to worry about.

Her question struck him as odd. “What do you
mean, ‘what did it do’?”  He asked.

Zyn’dri looked trapped for a moment. “I just
mean,” she paused, “what did it look like?”

Walt wanted to chalk the slip up to the fact that
Earth’s language was still new to Zyn’dri, but she was too proficient for him to
excuse it entirely.

“Zyn’dri, do the designs do things?” he asked.
“Have you noticed that?”

Zyn’dri looked him in the eye. “I think so.” She
said.

This fascinated him. Walt
crouched down on the trail beside her. “What do they do?”

He saw the hesitation in her eyes, and even when
she spoke, he knew she wasn’t telling him everything.

“Well, I think one makes Sylvia feel better.”

Her words made Walt’s chest tighten. “What?”

“So that’s why you like to draw on my hands with
your finger!” Sylvia’s eyes were wide.

Zyn’dri looked down. Walt grasped her arm. “Show
me, Zyn’dri. Show me the design.” He didn’t realize how intense his voice had
become until he saw how large Zyn’dri’s eyes were.

He tried to calm himself.  “I’m sorry. I just—I
want to know so I can help her, too.”

Zyn’dri nodded, but she stepped back from his
grip as she reached for Sylvia’s hand.

Sylvia held out her palm, and Walt got the
feeling that this was familiar to her. Zyn’dri began to trace a design there,
but Walt couldn’t tell, exactly, which one it was.

There was no visual evidence that anything was
happening to Sylvia. When Zyn’dri finished and drew her fingers away from
Sylvia’s palm, his wife looked no different than she had a moment before.

Still, something had happened over the last year.
Sylvia was better.

“Can you teach me the design?” he asked.

Zyn’dri nodded. She knelt on the path and swept
the fallen leaves aside, then drew in the dirt an overlapping design that
reminded Walt of an intricate spider’s web.

When she finished, she looked up. Walt saw in her
eyes a desperate need for his approval. He smiled.

“Beautiful.” He said, “I’ll practice that.”

Sylvia was quiet as they started back down the
path. When Zyn’dri was far enough ahead, Walt felt his wife catch his hand.

“We can’t get her hopes up like that.” She said.

Walt tensed. He didn’t want to go where he knew
this conversation was going. “What do you mean?”

“She can’t start thinking that she can cure me. This
is a reprieve, Walt, and it’s a temporary one. I’m enjoying every minute of it,
but she can’t start thinking that I’m not going to die.” She stopped on the
trail and made him look at her, “And neither can you.”

Walt searched her eyes. They were still the same
as the ones he gazed into all those years ago, back when he was just a farm boy.
And he still got completely lost in them.

“Syl,” he said carefully, “you’re not going to
believe these patterns. They’re everywhere.”

She shook her head impatiently and let go of his
hand. They continued down the path, keeping Zyn’dri in sight but speaking
quietly enough that she couldn’t hear them.

“Syl, they really are. I saw one just now in that
flock of birds.”

“Are there natural patterns?” Sylvia said
sharply, “Of course. Is one curing me? No.”

“But how do you know that?” he asked. “Something
is making you better.”

“It’s Zyn’dri, all right,” Sylvia said, “but not
her patterns. Just her. It’s having her to look after, having her to lay her
head on my arm, having her to help me see the world in a new way, too.” Her
voice was wistful. “Walt, it’s just having her in our lives. You’re different,
too.”

Walt couldn’t deny that. And he had no proof of
his other theory beyond Sylvia herself. He couldn’t stand fighting with her,
though, so he let it drop for the time being. They carried on down the trail,
following the shining girl.

They camped next to the river. Two small geysers
gurgled just across the water, and bright steam hissed from a little further
down. The steam made a constant, even sound that Walt found immensely calming.

Steam vents were the hottest features in the
park, though, and he spent several minutes warning Zyn’dri to stay away from
it.

Walt taught Zyn’dri about building a fire. He
watched as she chipped the flint to the steel. Once, twice. It made a sharp ting
each time. He watched her eyebrows draw together as she tried again.

She readjusted the flint and leaned close. “Like
this?” she asked, peering up at him from beneath her turquoise hair. Sylvia,
sitting on a log at Zyn’dri’s side, reached down and pulled the curtain of her
hair back, away from the sparks that the child was throwing from the steel.

He nodded. “If it starts, don’t suck in the smoke.
It will make you cough, and you’ll blow out the flame.”

When the spark sprang to life, Walt moved in to
coax it into flame. Zyn’dri stood back, watching proudly. The little pile of tinder
smoked profusely, and Walt blew on it and dropped light twigs on it. When they
took, he added larger ones. It wasn’t long before they had a bright fire,
dancing cheerfully at the center of their camp.

Sylvia took Zyn’dri to gather sego lily bulbs,
and Walt heard her warning the child away from the death camas that looked
similar. When they returned, hands full of the papery treats, they cooked their
dinner in the coals at the edge of the fire. In addition to the bulbs, which
were the closest thing Walt had found to potatoes in the park, they also had
sweet acorn rolls stuffed with ground bison and dried blueberries. It was one
of Walt’s favorite meals.

Zyn’dri particularly liked the bulbs, but she
looked up at Walt with confusion in her eyes. “That other plant that looks like
this one, why do they call it the death camas?”

“Well, it makes people very ill if they eat it.
Sometimes they die.”

Her eyes were earnest as she asked, “Is
everything on your planet trying to kill you?”

He thought about that for a moment. “Certainly a
lot of things.”

“Like the death camas.” She said. He nodded. “And
the steaming holes.”

“And those.” He said.

“Some Rangers are afraid of the bison.” Zyn’dri
said.

“And you should be, too.” He said. “If not afraid
of them, at least very careful around them.”

“It’s just humans they dislike.” She said. “But
they are safe for me. One is my friend.” Both Walt and Sylvia looked at her in
surprise.

“What does that mean?”

“There’s a blind bison, and he’s my friend.
Before the fence around the village, I used to go lay by him and tell him about
Empyriad.”

Walt was speechless. He didn’t know whether what
he was feeling was fear or anger.

Sylvia spoke up first, a little tremor in her
voice. “Bison aren’t pets, Zyn’dri. You can’t approach them. I’ve seen them
throw Rangers—who were trying to help them, even—ten feet in the air. I’ve seen
them trample people. They are very dangerous.”

Zyn’dri spoke slowly, as Damen had when he had
visited the school. “To humans
they’re dangerous. It’s just your kind.” She said clearly.

Walt spoke up. “Maybe not. I think, Zyn, that you
have a special gift with animals. I saw how the elk behaved toward you. It’s
possible that you connected with that bison in the same way.”

Zyn’dri looked away, and as she did, Walt saw
something in her eyes that he didn’t like. It was fear.

“You don’t want me to know that?” He asked,
making his voice gentle.

Zyn’dri glanced at him, her dark eyes seeking
reassurance. “My mother told me not to tell anyone.” She finally said.

Sylvia had regained her control. “You can tell us
anything.” She said. “I think that’s amazing.”

A little smile played around Zyn’dri’s lips.

“Is it just the big animals?” Walt asked.

Zyn’dri shook her head. “The little ones, too.”

The night had come on, light and chill. The birds
had grown silent. A strange noise filled the camp. Zyn’dri stood and walked
toward the edge of the firelight.

“It’s like a massive door creaking open.” She
said, tipping her head to hear it better.

Walt and Sylvia exchanged a look. “It’s a bull
elk,” he explained. “This time of year is called the rut. He’s bugling to
attract females and to scare other bulls away.”

The eerie calls echoed through the mountains.
Like a trill of notes played on a wooden flute, the first few notes were
beautiful. Then the elk’s desperation became evident as the bugle came to a
screeching and abrupt end.

Sylvia, too, was on her feet. “Let’s go.” She
said. “I think we can see him if we are quiet.”

Fallen leaves crunched under their feet. The
woods held that thick, rich smell of decay that Walt loved about the autumn.
The bull bugled again and this time, he was answered by a contender. Walt and
Sylvia each took one of Zyn’dri’s hands. Walt was on high alert. He wanted her
to see them, but rutting elk were wildly unpredictable.

When the bugling became louder, and they heard a
crashing in the bushes nearby, the three froze and stood at the edge of a
meadow. In its center, the moonlight glancing off its sleek back and antlers,
was a magnificent bull. In the deep shadows of the woods around him, Walt could
just make out the forms of the cow elk the bull had gathered: his harem.

Before Walt could speak to point them out to
Zyn’dri, another bull pushed its way into the clearing. This one was smaller,
and his coat was a lighter shade. In the moonlight, he looked pure silver.

A clatter of antlers echoed through the night as
they leaped together and engaged. Sylvia gasped, and Zyn’dri’s eyes were wide
with excitement. Walt watched as the two powerful animals angled and hopped, wrestled
and pushed, around the clearing.

Their powerful shoulders and hindquarters
strained as they locked together and twisted, each trying to drive the other to
his knees. Their blows of their antlers sounded hollow and dissonant in the
quiet night.

The larger bull was relentless. He pushed forward,
walking with measured, careful steps as he drove the younger bull backward,
toward the trees.

The heavy breathing of the bulls and the racket
of their antlers were the only sounds until a deep and urgent howl split the
air.

Walt flinched. It was close. Too close. Even the
elk paused in their battle. The wolf’s cry echoed throughout the meadow again.
With a parting flick of his head, the older bull raked the younger one down the
side with his massive antlers. The younger bull bellowed in surprise but didn’t
stop to re-engage. He was already trotting off, away from the source of the
eerie cry.

Walt looked at Sylvia. They needed to get back to
their campsite. He turned around, back the way they had come, still holding to
Zyn’dri’s hand. Her four fingers made the clasp of their hands feel loose, and
he tightened his grip.

He knew wolves, and this one was calling in its
pack. Sure enough, they had only taken three steps when the wolf’s lonesome
melody was joined by at least three others, adding in a haunting harmony. Walt
stopped. From the sound of it, the new wolves were directly between them and
their camp.

“We’re going to have to go around.” He said.
“Maybe even cross the river.”

Sylvia nodded. Her eyes were tight with worry. “Let’s
go.”

They switched direction again, this time heading
West, toward the river. But it only took a few minutes for Walt to realize that
they had chosen the wrong direction.

More wolves had joined in the song, and they
seemed to be coming from all around them now. He could only guess that either
they were stumbling directly toward a kill or something worse: the wolves were
coming after them. He loosed
the strap on his twister gun, though he knew it would be folly to try to shoot
during a wolf attack. If a pack came after them, shots would kill few and whip
the rest into a frenzy. Better to avoid the wolves altogether if possible.

He reached down and scooped Zyn’dri into his
arms. At ten Earth years old, she wasn’t a small child, but his fear made him
stronger. He had often been around wolves, and had often successfully avoided
them, but there was a strange, excited quality to their song tonight, and he
couldn’t be sure what that meant. They crossed a dark patch of woods and
slipped into another small, moon-washed meadow.

And then Walt saw them. Wolves, their lithe
bodies sliding through the shadows at the edges of the field like shining fish
along the prow of a boat. He never saw a whole wolf, just a silvery side here
and a triangular head there. He froze. Sylvia froze beside him. Wolves almost
never attacked humans, especially amid the abundance of summer and fall. Still,
the wolves were most certainly circling, and Walt’s family was at the center.

He paused, peering through the darkness toward
the river. It could only be a few hundred yards away. His arms and back ached
from carrying Zyn’dri, but wolves always went for the smallest, weakest prey.
He’d seen many a baby bison fall to the snapping jaws, and he couldn’t bear to put
the little girl down. He gritted his teeth against the pain.

Zyn’dri started to speak, but both he and Sylvia
shushed her, realizing that their only hope was if the wolves didn’t detect
them.

Zyn’dri, usually so obedient, spoke louder. “No.
Wait! Over there.” She was pointing to the bright spot at the center of the
clearing.

Walt looked, and his breath stopped in his chest.
There, under the pearly light of the moon, was a figure dark and ominous. The
figure moved as if oblivious to the creeping wolves. It crouched, working with
its hands on something Walt couldn’t see. What Walt could make out, past the
figure, was a shapeless lump. As a breeze touched his cheeks, it brought with
it a singular stench and he knew what the lump was: carrion. He squinted and
saw the curve of antlers. The dead animal was obviously an elk. They had
stumbled onto a wolf kill, after all.

What the figure was doing at the kill was hidden
by the night. Walt couldn’t guess what would have drawn someone to such a
place, especially in the dark. The figure was focused on the kill, but Walt
couldn’t see why. Whatever it was, it caused a cold terror to seep into Walt. Slowly,
he eased Zyn’dri to the ground and stepped in front of her. The wolves became
his secondary fear.

As the figure straightened, Walt pulled his twister
gun from its holster. Though he’d walked these mountains and basins for nearly
forty years, and he had sent many warning shots into the air and tearing
through the bushes, he had only fired his weapon at a living being once. He had
fired at the bear that had taken Sean’s life. But he had fired too late.

Walt wouldn’t make that mistake again. He pulled
his gaze from the figure just long enough to catch Sylvia’s eye. He was not
surprised to see that she’d drawn her weapon, as well. She had her free arm
wrapped around Zyn’dri. She nodded encouragement at Walt, and he gestured her to
back into the woods.

As she moved with Zyn’dri into the shade of the
tall pines, Walt advanced along the edge of the meadow. He stayed in the
shadows as much as he could.

When he got nearer the kill, Walt had to breathe
through his mouth. The stench of the dead animal was suffocating. The wolves
continued to call to each other, no doubt growing impatient with the figure
whose presence was keeping them from their meal.

Amidst the chorus of howls, Walt suddenly heard
another sound. It was weeping, coming from the direction of the dark figure.
The figure stood, and Walt was close enough now to make out a heap of deep blue
fabric on the ground at the figure’s feet, precisely framed by the two sweeping
antlers of the dead elk. It took him several seconds to realize that it was the
robe of a Stracahn Avowed. The cries were coming from that heap. Walt realized
that O’neva’s disappearance was solved.

Walt braced himself, took aim, and set up for a
shot before he called out, “Hey!”

The figure whirled, and Walt could see it was a man
whose mouth and neck were hidden by a full, scraggly beard. But the eyes Walt
knew. The wild, angry eyes were Caldwell’s. Walt was close enough to see that
his hair had grown long, and his cheeks were lean.

Caldwell threw his arms wide. “Are you going to
shoot me, Walt?”

Walt readied himself. “I’d rather not,” he called
back. “Just tell me what you’re doing there.”

“Walt, I’m doing what we all should be doing,”
Caldwell said. His voice was rougher than Walt remembered it. Probably the
effects of Yellowstone cold and prolonged exposure to campfire smoke.

“Why don’t you tell me what that is,
specifically?”

“We swore—swore—to preserve this place. To
protect it. Didn’t you swear?”  Caldwell was talking fast and taking short,
jerky steps forward and backward. “Because I swore. And I thought we were all
on the same page. But when the idiots out there,” he threw an arm wide, and
Walt forced himself not to shoot, realizing that Caldwell was talking mostly to
himself, “said that we shouldn’t protect it anymore, we just rolled over. Just
rolled over and opened the park to everyone
and anything.”
He kicked at the figure on the ground, and the Avowed in the blue robes let out
a pained cry.

“Don’t do that, Justin. Don’t.” Walt took a step
forward, keeping the twister aimed at Caldwell’s chest.

“I’m protecting the park, Walt. I’m doing what
none of the rest of you cowards will do.”

“You’re hurting people, Justin.”

Caldwell ran a hand down his beard and then
gestured at the huddled Avowed. “This isn’t people, Walt. This is alien.”

Walt struggled to stay in control. A flame of
anger was kindling in his chest, and Caldwell’s hatred and cruelty were fueling
it.

“And they don’t belong here. Even they know that.
The land has been rejecting them since they came. Remember when they were all
dying? That was the Park, Walt. It was the Park cleansing itself. It will
cleanse itself if we let it. If we help it.” He crouched, suddenly, and ran a
hand gently along the blades of the dried meadow grass. “The Park is the one
that’s suffering, Walt. The Park needs us now. These aliens break its grasses
when they walk. They scare the bison and make them change their natural grazing
patterns. The wolves are avoiding Hayden Valley now, and if it keeps up,
they’ll starve because they can’t get enough to eat without the bison and elk
calves. These Stracahn are hurting the Park. And I’m going to stop them. I have
stopped them. When I found this one and the other one off the boardwalks in
Biscuit Basin, didn’t I stop them? Didn’t I stop them from breaking the fragile
crust of the Basin? Didn’t I stop them from ever trampling the grass in the
Valleys again? Didn’t I?”

“Did you throw Wan-seh into Sapphire Pool?”

“I wouldn’t leave anything to block the vent. I
was going back for him. But they found him and took him out, and I had this one
to take care of.” He gestured again at O’neva. “But I was going back to get
that one.” Caldwell was agitated and defensive. “I wouldn’t hurt the Park.”

“But you’d kill people?”

Caldwell nearly shouted. “They’re not people!”
and then, more quietly, “Don’t you understand? This makes sense. I didn’t kill
them. The Park did. I’m helping the park to help itself. I’m letting it rid
itself of them.” He gestured to O’neva, who’d gone quiet and still at his feet.
“See? She’s alive. When I leave, she’ll still be alive. The wolves will exact
from her pound for pound what her presence here has cost them. It’s about
balance, Walt.”

Walt swore. “That’s not balance, Caldwell. It’s
murder. But that’s not new to you, is it? The civilian you shot when you first
arrived? That was just the beginning. And Gilette? That wasn’t an accident
either, was it?”

Caldwell wrung his hands. “Gilette. Gilette said
she could live in the backcountry with me. She said she wanted to be one with
the Park. I let her try. Living in the backcountry means you gather food and
bathe in the rivers. I took her to Tower Falls, and I let her swim across so
she could become strong. But she didn’t. She was weak.”

“She was ill, Justin.”

“She was weak. And Tower took her.”

Walt flinched. “You let her go over the Falls?”

“I didn’t stop Tower from taking her.”

Walt didn’t know why he was trying to make
Caldwell see. Maybe it was because of the kid he had seen in the pictures, who
had never had a chance to see the world without cruelty. The kid Caldwell used
to be.

“What about Allison? And Henley? They were your
friends.”

“The Park took them, too.” He said, “It buried
them under its boulders.”

His callousness fanned the flame of Walt’s anger.
“We’re done talking, Caldwell. You’re going to lay down, and I’m going to take
you back to Karson.”

“I’m not going, Walt.” Caldwell’s teeth flashed
white against his beard. “And I doubt you will either.” He looked up at the
sky. Walt watched as he cupped his hands around his mouth and made a perfect
wolf howl. Caldwell lowered his hands and began to back away.

“The Park is coming for you, now, Walt. Because
you aren’t committed enough to it. You stopped protecting it. I’m sorry about
that.”

“Don’t go any farther, Caldwell, or I’m going
to—”

Walt was interrupted by a jagged sound that
shredded the night air around him. Walt turned to see Obsidian, the black Alpha
male of the pack. His teeth showing, his head stretched out low, he had come in
response to the call. And he wasn’t alone. At the periphery of his vision, Walt
registered at least six more dark bodies moving deliberately toward him.

Walt looked back to see Caldwell slipping past
the elk carcass.

Without pausing, Walt took three steps forward
and shot. The twister projectile left the gun, and a wave of heat blew back
over Walt’s face. Before he could blink, before he could breathe, Caldwell
screamed and went down in the meadow.

Walt turned toward the wolves, and aiming the
twister above him, fired again. He heard the wail of the projectile and felt
the wash of heat again. Obsidian paused in his advancing.

Walt aimed at the ground between them and fired
again. Dirt and rocks kicked up, spraying both he and the big Alpha in the
face.

Obsidian shook his head and began to back away.
Without warning, another shot landed on the ground between Walt and the rest of
the pack. They backed into the shadows, too. Walt looked up to see Sylvia
standing at the edge of the meadow, Zyn’dri at her side.

“Keep me covered!” he called to her, then turned
and crossed to O’neva. She was hunched over inside the cage of the big bull’s
antlers. The thick, rancid smell of the elk carcass penetrated the night, and
it grew stronger as he moved toward her. He ignored it, murmuring a few of the
Stracahn words that Zyn’dri had taught him.

“Tr’scha. Tr’scha. Unorlaa aschki.” He said. It’s
all right. A friend is here.

Slowly, she raised her head, and Walt clenched
his fists at the sight of her.

O’neva’s face was awash with pain and fear. Walt
had never seen an adult Stracahn without their characteristic composure, and
the sight was wrenching. Her long hair was matted around her face, and her eyes
were pleading. She raised up onto her knees. Walt noticed for the first time
that she was bound. Her arms were taut behind her; her shoulders arched backward.

He crouched beside her. A stake was driven into
the ground just above where the elk’s head rested. O’neva’s wrists and ankles
were bound to the stake.

Walt pulled a knife from his belt. Carefully, he
eased the tip of it under the cords that held her and began to saw.

He knew the wolves
were not far away. He could hear their howls and listened for the branches
breaking to hear how close they were. They wouldn’t leave a kill this size.
Even now, he could hear them moving in on the other side of the elk.

He holstered his weapon and lifted the Avowed
free of the elk’s antlers. She was light and balanced in his arms.

Walt threw a glance toward the crumpled heap that
was Caldwell. He could hear the man moaning, and saw him reach a hand out,
dragging himself forward toward the woods. Just in front of the wounded man,
two young wolves peered from the bushes, the moonlight shimmering on their
silver fur. Walt shook his head, feeling a deep regret over the choice he had
to make. There was no way to save them both, and he must help O’neva. Caldwell
had left him no choice, and, Walt admitted, there was an ugly kind of justice
to it. He turned away and carried O’neva to safety, leaving the wolves to their
kill.

46

There was no doubt about it: The Milguard was
preparing for war. Sol had moved to the barracks at the armory. He rarely saw
his friends or Uncle Carl, and he missed his mom. He didn’t like thinking about
her out at the ranch by herself.

Sol hadn’t been assigned a specialization yet, so
he just did what needed to be done, working nonstop on everything from fetching
tools and parts for the mechanics to inventorying weapons.

This autumn day he was distributing new
wristguards to all personnel. The small pieces of armor that fit between the
sleeve and the glove had just arrived from Megalopolis, the manufacturing
region in the top eastern quadrant of the continent, and everybody was supposed
to get a pair of them and two lengths of cord to bind them to their uniforms.
Sol glanced into Uncle Carl’s office and counted: Uncle Carl, Commander
Hastings, Tavish, another sergeant, and Mezina, who had just been promoted to
head up the Comms Specialists. Sol lifted five pairs of wristguards and their
accompanying cords from the cart and walked into the office.

“What do you mean they know where we are?” Tavish
was sitting in one of the chairs in front of Uncle Carl’s desk, and he took the
wristguards without looking at Sol.

“They have intel about the location of the
armory,” Mezina was saying. “And that’s not all. I think they’ve got info on some
of our people and our equipment.”

“How could they have that?” Uncle Carl was
asking. Sol froze.

It had been months since that cold spring night
when he’d watched Sonny run off into the darkness. But Sonny had been here so
long, had been right in the center of the Milguard’s fortress. If anyone had
inside information, it would have been him.

And Sol couldn’t blame him. If Sonny led his
fellow Cascadians directly to their door, it was no more than the Milguard had coming
for keeping him here so long.

Sol was torn. He had fired the weapon into the
ground so a round would be missing, and he had told Hastings that the task was
done. He hadn’t followed orders; he had lied to a Rank Five, and now he
realized that he’d caused a major security breach. He couldn’t even imagine
what kind of punishment there was for that combination of offenses.

“Sol!” Uncle Carl was barking his name. He
realized that he didn’t know why.

“Yes?”

“Get out of here. This is above your rank.”

“Yes, Commander!” Sol laid the other wristguards
on the table and hurried out of the office. He glanced up in time to see
Hastings watching him go.

In the hall, he tried to breathe. Nobody had
found out what he’d done that Spring night. Now, Autumn was ending. Sol saw it
in the barren trees outside the window, in the low gray sky hovering over the
armory. He smelled it in the crisp air and tasted it in the wood smoke from the
chimneys in town. All this time and nobody had found out about Sonny. Nobody
had even ever asked about it after his report to Hastings.

After delivering all the wristguards and cords, Sol
took the long way around the building to avoid running into Hastings on his
back to the uniform supply room. He was pushing the cart around a corner on the
upper balcony above the main repair hangar when he nearly ran over Damen,
striding down the hallway with his aides in tow. The armory was off-limits to
the general public, but the Leadership had an all-access pass to anywhere in
the world. Uncle Carl said the quickest way to bring them down on you was to
try to keep them out of somewhere they wanted to go.

“Sol,” Damen said,
pausing to smile benevolently.

Sol tipped his chin up in greeting but tried not
to make eye contact.

“It has been so long since I’ve seen you. I
didn’t know you’d joined the Milguard.”

Sol didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure how much
he could say.

“You’ve got the code of silence mastered,” Damen
said. Sol could see by the way the man was lacing and unlacing his fingers that
he was getting impatient.

“I’m sorry, sir. Welcome to the armory. Can I
help you find anything?”

“I am just checking in to see if I can find out
when that winter stock sale is going to be. The Consolidated Terrene
Leadership’s market analysts are saying we’re going to see a surge in demand
for beef over the next few months, and they want to know if Liberty can meet
that demand.”

Sol wanted to say that Liberty could meet it, but
the events of the last few weeks: the scrambling to arm themselves, the
strategy meetings, the ground troop drills, had kept them from their ranch work.
He wasn’t even sure there would be a winter stock sale this year. At least
Silver Lake Ranch wasn’t anywhere near ready for one. They hadn’t identified
their culls yet or even checked to see which cows were going to calve.

But admitting that to the Leadership was akin to
admitting that you hadn’t paid your taxes: it suggested irresponsible
citizenship at the least and at the worst outright rebellion.

It was hot on the balcony, and Sol wiped a hand
across his damp forehead. He forced a smile. “I can find someone to talk to you.
C’mon with me.” Sol led Damen toward the Commanders’ offices.

“This place is busy lately,” Damen said, fishing.

“Yes, sir. The Milguard likes to be prepared for
anything.”

Damen stopped and gazed out over the hive of
Service Specialists that were under, on top of, and beside the spinners and
haulers. Every craft had been fitted with weaponry, even the light spinners.
“It doesn’t look like you’re preparing for just anything. It looks like you’re
preparing to fight.”

Sol froze. Again he didn’t know how much to say.

Uncle Carl’s voice came from behind them, strong
and confident. “Better safe than sorry, Damen.”

Damen turned, and his hands rose slightly as if
to block a blow.

But Uncle Carl was smiling widely, and he
gestured them into his office. Sol tried to slip away, but Uncle Carl said,
“Pull up a seat, Son.” So he found himself next to Damen across the alloy desk
from his uncle.

They finished discussing the winter stock sale
within minutes. Uncle Carl showed none of the hesitation that Sol had felt. He
assured the Agent in Charge that though the sale would probably be postponed,
that was simply because the Rangeright systems under the pastures were
struggling with the extra cold winter they were having. The feed had been sparse,
and it would take a bit longer to fatten up the culls. Of course, Uncle Carl
and the others wanted to put the very best animals on the market rather than
rush a sale of inferior stock. Damen could understand that, couldn’t he?

Sol had never seen his uncle so slick.
Damen seemed to be buying it. He thanked the commander and shifted in his chair
as if he were about to leave. But instead of standing, he leaned closer, across
the desk.

“Look, Carl,” he said, “I have one more thing we
need to discuss.”

Sol’s stomach tightened, thinking of the various
ridiculous regulations that they may or may not be keeping at Silver Lake
Ranch. Authority figures still made him nervous, and he began to worry about
his mom, all alone out there in the ranch house. What would she do if the
Leadership showed up?

Uncle Carl revealed none of Sol’s anxiety. “Sure,
Damen. What can I help you with?”

Damen’s voice was low. “I want you to know that
we’ve got a load of Stracahn headed through here in two weeks.”

This news stripped away some of Uncle Carl’s calm
demeanor. “What?”

“The first integration is planned, and we need to
get aliens out of Yellowstone at the West gate and down to the disputed zone.
South Edge is the only town in Liberty that lays directly on that path.”

“Why are you moving them now? In the winter?”

Damen fidgeted. “Honestly? Because the anti-alien
protesters outside the park have thinned considerably. Commitment to causes generally
goes down when the weather is this cold.”

“So you think you can sneak them out of the park
without people noticing.”

“Without as many people noticing.” Damen was
blunt. “And once they’re integrated, people will see that having them here
doesn’t necessarily mean the world is ending. When Spring comes, they’ll find
that they’ve been living side-by-side with the Stracahn for months with no ill
effects.”

“Who all knows about this?”

“Just a few people inside the park. I’m trusting
you with it, too, because I need to ask for your cooperation.”

“What does that mean? Our cooperation?”

“Listen, I know how a lot of people have strong
opinions about the Empyriad refugees coming to live near them. But this is
happening, and it needs to happen as peacefully as possible.”

Uncle Carl was quiet a long time. “What do you
want us to do, Damen?”

Damen was agitated. The silver fabric of his
comfort suit flashed as he bounced his knee up and down. “I want you not to
kill the aliens, Carl. I want you to let them come through South Edge safely.”
Damen had a way of speaking slowly when he was being condescending. Sol heard
that now.

Uncle Carl stood. “Damen, we’re not going to hurt
anyone who doesn’t pose a threat to our families or our livestock.”

“See,” Damen jumped in, “that’s all I’m asking—”

“But,” Uncle Carl stopped him, “if they do, I’m
not making any promises.”

47

“Karson, you coward!” Walt pounded on the door of
Karson’s office. In his hand, Walt gripped a crumpled piece of paper, one of
many that had cropped up around the Stracahn villages sometime in the bitter
December night. It was an announcement of the first integration. At its bottom
was a list of Stracahn who would be sent out of the park in less than two
weeks.

Karson opened the door, and his eyes were weary.
He held up a hand.

“I’m sorry. The list came straight from Damen,
Walt. I don’t have any say in it.”

Walt stared. So that was it. Zyn’dri had shamed Damen,
and now he was getting revenge. He pushed his way into the office, trying to
explain that to Karson, but the man stopped him.

“No, Walt, you have to think of the bigger
picture here. It just makes sense for Zyn’dri to go: she has the most
experience with humans. She is skilled at communicating with us and, thanks to you;
she’s got a grasp of the plants and animals on this planet that even the adults
don’t have. She’s going to be vital to the success of this integration.”

“She can’t go, Karson.” Walt heard the pleading
in his voice. He had only spoken like this twice in his life. The other time
was when he begged the doctors to take back Sylvia’s diagnosis. It hadn’t
worked then, either.

“She has to, Walt.”

Walt considered, long and carefully, before he
spoke. He walked to the door and closed it, then stood in front of Karson.

“She’s doing something for Sylvia,” he said.
Karson gave him a puzzled expression, so he went on. “Somehow, Karson, Sylvia
is better when Zyn’dri’s here. She’s healing her somehow.”

Karson’s expression changed to skeptical. Walt
couldn’t blame him. A year ago, he would have dismissed such a claim himself.
But he was beginning to think there were layers of existence he had never
imagined and power in the universe he had never suspected.

“I’m serious, Karson. Something has changed since
she came to live with us. She—”

Karson cut him off, “Look, I’m sure it’s been
very nice to have her with you, Walt. I expect it’s been lonely since your son
died.”

Walt slapped the desk between them. “Don’t—” his
voice trembled with anger now, “don’t imagine you know anything about what
happened then or what’s happening now.”

Karson shook his head. “I’m sorry, Walt, but when
that crawler leaves here, Zyn’dri needs to be on it.”

The late autumn chill was so much more bitter
when Walt left the office. The gold of the trees seemed duller, the wind
blowing down from Purple Mountain seemed crueler. He thought, suddenly, of
Caldwell. Walt had never before understood him, but the anger and fear he felt
now made Caldwell’s choice to strike out at those in power and flee to the
backcountry more fathomable.

Walt navigated the spider to Hayden Valley
Village, where Sylvia was carefully constructing an itinerary for the
integration. She hadn’t burst onto the radio in a panic as he’d expected. Walt
figured she hadn’t seen the list yet.

But there it was, on the desk next to her. Her
back was to him as he entered, and Walt felt shattered. He couldn’t bear for
her to turn around. For thirty years he had lived with the image of her hollow
eyes the morning they had found Sean, small and perfect, killed by a single
blow from a grizzly’s massive paw. It had only been one blow. After that, the
bear had left him untouched. For that, Walt had always been grateful.

But now, how would Sylvia ever bear it? Though
she was so much stronger now, Walt feared what it would do to her.

“Honey,” he said, quietly.

Sylvia turned to him with a smile. “Lunch
already?” she said.

Walt was taken aback. He sat in a chair at the
side of her desk.

“Are you all right?” he asked, as gently as he
could. He gestured to the list, not able to even reach over and pick it up.
“You’ve seen this, huh?”

Sylvia nodded, and though he saw her lips tighten
slightly, she forced herself to smile. “I have, and I'm all right.” She said.
“I just got off the phone with Karson.” She picked up the paper, and he saw her
hand was shaking. “There’s nothing he can do. There’s nothing we can do to keep
her here.”

Walt shook his head. This was not his wife. He
felt her fear and anguish, but she was not revealing any of it. Was she just
going to allow this to happen? Walt leaned forward and laid a hand on her knee.

“What about the backcountry?” he said in a hurried
whisper, “With the anti-aircraft field above the park, they won’t find us. They
didn’t find Caldwell.”

Walt saw her eyes soften. He felt the warmth of
her hand on his cheek. “You and I could be happy living like fugitives, Walt,
but that’s no way to raise her. She can’t live like that.” Sylvia glanced away
from him, out the window by her desk that framed a perfect picture of the wide
Yellowstone River, shining silver in the gray afternoon. Then he heard something
he never thought he’d hear from her.

“We’ll have to move to the Rockies, Walt.”

Her words took his breath away. He stayed quiet
for a heartbeat, then said softly, “Leave the park? Honey, are you serious?”

Sylvia nodded. “If she can’t stay here with us,
then we’ll do what it takes to be where she is. We’ll move to the integration
area with her.” She took Walt’s hand, “She needs us, Walt.”

“What about Yellowstone?” He asked, “What about
our work here?”

There was a sad acknowledgment in her eyes as she
spoke. “Yellowstone will go on with or without us, Walt. It never really needed
humans as much as they needed it.”

***

Zyn’dri’s charcoal eyes were wide and scared when
they told her what was happening.

“I’ll be all alone?” she asked, her voice
trembling, “with them?” Zyn’dri was holding the paper, gripping it until it
crinkled.

“For a little while,” Walt explained, “but not
long. You’ll go with them, and the Park Service says we can leave two weeks
later and join you.”

He saw that she wanted to cry. He saw that she
was looking back and forth between them and that her world was shattering. Walt
reached for her. He enfolded her in his arms, and Sylvia moved to embrace them
both.

Every night after that, Sylvia held Zyn’dri until
the child was asleep. Walt scrubbed the apartment until his knuckles bled. He
stopped when Sylvia came out.

Walt watched and saw, not for the first time, the
sheer strength that made Sylvia remarkable. Zyn’dri had become theirs, in every
respect, and having her torn from them was torture. But Sylvia didn’t let on.
She kept up a running commentary on their new lives in the Rockies, painting
pictures of the warm summer days and cozy winter evenings.

48

Zyn’dri loved snowshoeing.
Trudging along on the crust of the snow dampened the tumultuous voice of the
Earth below her. She still didn’t know what tormented this planet. It seemed,
here on the surface, so serene.

That’s how she had felt every day since Walt and
Sylvia had told her that she would be leaving Yellowstone without them. She
only showed them her Stracahn face: the mask of calm that she wore even when
her mind and soul were in turmoil.

Added to her fear of leaving was the specter of
the night, the wolves, and the Avowed. Since the night they’d found O’neva,
Zyn’dri had been terrified that the bearded Ranger, the same one who had killed
the little semballa, would come back.

Walt had assured her that the Ranger was dead.
But there was a ghost of doubt behind his eyes, and when she asked to go back
and see, Walt had grimaced. “Sweetie, that wouldn’t be good.” He’d said. “The
wolves will have gotten to him. We’ll let the other Rangers take care of his
body.”

So Zyn’dri was left with a vision of his wild
beard in the moonlight, and with the knowledge that he had killed her people,
and with a grisly image in her mind of his body half-eaten by wolves. Together,
they made a terrifying phantom that lurked at the edge of her consciousness.

“Careful,” Walt called as they walked. “We’re
getting close to a stream here.”

Zyn’dri slowed and let him catch up with her. He
was more transparent. He had been snappy and gruff with everyone outside the
apartment, and overly gentle and tender with her and Sylvia. She knew he was
upset and afraid and trying to pretend he wasn’t. In fact, whenever he talked about
the looming integration, his voice was forced into cheerfulness. He was afraid
that she would be afraid.

Sylvia was quietly, calmly, optimistic. She talked
of the Rocky Mountains and how their lives there would be even better than they
were here. She spoke of a cabin they’d build and promised Zyn’dri would have a
loft with western-facing windows so she could watch the night sky until the
star that was Empyriad’s sun appeared each night. Zyn’dri held the idea of the
warm loft in her mind as she pulled in the icy air. Though the sun made this
slope a single blinding sheet of light, Zyn’dri’s toes and fingers and the tip
of her nose were still stinging with cold. Sylvia and Walt had bundled her up
in a thermal suit and tucked hot packs in her pockets, but Yellowstone in
winter was bitter.

Walt came up next to her. “Okay. They should be
around here somewhere.”

It would, Zyn’dri knew, probably be her last
backcountry trek in Yellowstone. She had seen the big fences at the West gate.
She knew that once she went through them, it was likely that she would never be
back.

In front of her, the snow suddenly opened up, and
dark water caught the sunlight as a stream flowed away from them. Not far along
its length, it joined a river, and the water flowed along its icy banks. As
they approached, a mass of brown on the opposite bank caught Zyn’dri’s
attention. She walked carefully forward and stared as she realized that what
she had thought was a log was actually a squirming mass of fur. Five large
river otters were writhing and playing in a pile.

Without warning, one popped up from the mound,
its long tail arched and waving behind it, and slipped into the stream. It
emerged moments later with a large fish. The other otters snatched it and a
chase ensued. Some otters ran, others dropped to their bellies and slid
effortlessly after the fish. The fish was passed around, snatched back and
forth, and tugged until all five otters got a mouthful or two.

The otters crowded together and dropped to their
bellies, grooming and rolling and periodically popping their heads up to stare
in Zyn’dri’s direction. She was delighted by them.

Walt kept a low profile as he spread a blanket on
the ground. The two sat on it and watched as the sleek animals frolicked.

“This is my favorite part!” Zyn’dri whispered as
the biggest otter arched down and slipped into the water. “How do they do it
without making a big splash?”

Walt responded with something about how the otter
evolved but knowing how was not enough. She wanted to know what made it happen
so quickly. But she couldn’t observe like Walt was always telling her to do
because the otter moved with such speed.

Now he was gone, and she sat impatiently waiting
for another otter to dive. She was ready when he did, and she quickly began to
trace the time design. She knew she shouldn’t, knew this was probably not an
appropriate use of that design, but she tried it anyway.

The otter stopped, perched on the edge of the
river. It and everything around them was still and serene. Zyn’dri continued
the pattern, slowly, steadily, in the snow before her. She watched every
movement the otter made, each tiny whisker as it flexed and bobbed. She glanced
at Walt. His eyes were half-closed in a blink, but they were fixed on the
screen where he was recording the otter info.

The otter, his back legs gathered under him, was
frozen with his nose plunged into the still river. Zyn’dri could see the ripple
of the fur on his strong back. She could see every inch of him clearly. When
she had studied him entirely, Zyn’dri smiled and completed the design.

The river began to flow again, and the otter
slipped into it, the tip of his tail disappearing. The otter resurfaced at his
frantic, wriggling pace, and Walt’s taps and scrapes on the screen continued.
Zyn’dri looked around. Nothing seemed worse off for her having slowed them for
a moment. If only she could find a way to stop time for good and keep the day
she had to leave from dawning.

“What’s that?” Walt was gesturing toward the snow
at the edge of the blanket in front of Zyn’dri, where she had traced the
design. Quickly, she swiped it away.

“Just another design.” She quickly corrected
herself, “another tay’ren.”

Walt turned to her, laying the screen down. “Zyn,
how are you doing?”

The question was jarring. She knew that she would
be sent away in just a few days. She would leave the wonders of Yellowstone
behind to live as one of a passel of Chantha children who would be more or less
looked after by Pyrsha’s family in the new place.

Walt and Sylvia would come soon, she told
herself. She tried to control her voice when she said, “I’m doing fine,” but it
cracked on the last word.

She thought Walt would start talking in that cheery
way. Thought he would paint her Sylvia’s rosy picture and try to make her stop
feeling terrified and sad. But he didn’t. Instead, Walt reached a long arm out
and draped it around her shoulders. He looked down into her eyes, and she saw
tears there before he looked back at the otters on the river. They sat in
silence.

***

The next three days passed too quickly.
Integration Day arrived bitterly cold.

Walt and Sylvia woke Zyn’dri long before dawn.

Their breakfast of sausage and morels, Zyn’dri’s
favorite, was subdued. Sylvia kept telling Zyn’dri to stay close to her Chantha
family and that they would join her soon. They bundled her up in the best of
her winter clothes, for which Zyn’dri was grateful as they left the little
apartment. The sun was still hours from rising. The wind was still and the
world was black.

Sylvia held Zyn’dri’s hand, sitting in the back
of the spider with her all the way to Old Faithful Village. There, in the midst
of glaring floodlights, rows of Leadership soldiers in red uniforms were
ushering Stracahn onto a big rust-colored crawler. They threw dark shadows onto
the wall of the Vault behind them.

That crawler would take Zyn’dri out of the park.
It looked to her like a Western Balsam Bark Beetle, which had an elongated body
and a blunt head. Six flat legs sat motionless, waiting to move the crawler
along the ground.

Walt hated bark beetles because their presence
turned a healthy thick fir tree into a ragged yellow forest skeleton. They
burrowed under the bark of the tree and cut it off from everything that gave it
life.

The park was dark and brooding around them, the
lights too bright. When the loading hatch of the crawler cast its shadow across
them, Sylvia dropped down and took Zyn’dri in her arms.

“When you feel scared, just look North. We’re
here, loving you every minute. We will get there as soon as we can.”

Zyn’dri didn’t want to let go. She didn’t want to
turn and make her way up the narrow steps of the crawler. She didn’t want to
sit on the hard bench and gaze out the dirty window. But she did, and Zyn’dri
kept her eyes on Walt and Sylvia, begging them with her eyes as the crawler
whooshed to life and began its slow creeping toward the West gate. The fear in
their eyes paralyzed her.

When they were out of sight, she finally turned
from the window, casting her gaze around the crawler. The driver was a human,
and there were at least twenty human soldiers from the Consolidated Terrene
Leadership standing alertly at the front and back of the passenger area. An
uneasy quiet rested over them. The rest of the group was Stracahn. There were
about fifty of them. Mostly children and women. Two sets of Avowed sat stoically
on the hard benches, one set on the first row and one set on the last. Zyn’dri
saw that their hands were moving slightly. They were drawing tay’ren on their
palms. Zyn’dri wished she were close enough to them to ask about the tay’ren,
but there were four rows of Stracahn between her and the Avowed. Instead, she
rested her forehead on the cold window.

There was a steely light touching the sky.  Low
gray clouds hung over Yellowstone, cutting the mountains down to half their
usual size. Zyn’dri could just make out a pair of trumpeter swans gliding
between the snowy banks of the Madison River. How, on a day like this, could
they be so serene?

It was cold in the crawler, and she was glad for
the thick Megalopolis Industries coat that blocked the chill for her. Most of
the other Stracahn were wrapped in ragged quilts and worn clothes donated,
Zyn’dri knew, by humans.

Though Zyn’dri knew that the soldiers were there
to protect her, she still felt a slash of fear when she looked at them.

It was washed away by real terror when the
crawler arrived at the big West gate, and she saw the chaos surrounding it.

Floodlights washed away the soft dawn and left
both sides of the fence bathed in garish white light and sooty shadows. Inside
the park, Rangers stood in full armor, their faceplates lowered and their
weapons drawn. On the other side of the gate, humans of all descriptions stood
on filthy snow that was packed solid from their feet.

Some of them held signs written in the human
language or sloppy attempts at Stracahn:

Stop
the Integration!

Alien
Integration=Alien Invasion

Today
our Sympathy, Tomorrow our Masters

There were soldiers outside the gate, too, in
spiders and crawlers and standing with their weapons drawn. They were dressed
differently than the Leadership soldiers inside the crawler. Those outside had
gray uniforms with green pine trees stitched on them. Zyn’dri heard one of the Leadership
soldiers refer to the ground troops as Cascadians. She remembered that the West
gate opened into Cascadia.

A tiny group of humans stood off to the right
edge of the teeming crowd. They held signs that said:

Welcome
Stracahn

Stracahn
are not Strangers

and

Save
the Stracahn

Zyn’dri loved them immediately.

As the crawler approached, the air filled with
noise. The humans were shouting, screaming, waving their arms to show they
didn’t want it to come out. The crawler didn’t pause as it reached the gates.
Instead, the gates opened fluidly, just enough for the crawler to slide
through. Still, Zyn’dri saw other humans watching the gates, who tried to slip
through as they opened. The Rangers inside drove them back. Zyn’dri pictured
herself as one of them, trying to get back into the park, and saw that it was
impossible.

Fear set in as the crawler echoed with the sounds
of shots. Projectiles striking its sides made deafening, hollow booms against
its sides. Some humans hit it with their fists or their signs, and some climbed
on the rounded surfaces of the legs. Zyn’dri saw one man get his leg caught in
the scissor-like forward crawl of the leg beneath her window. She looked away
as the crawler moved again and the scissors opened, revealing an ugly red
wound. She lost sight of him as he fell among the crowd. The Leadership
soldiers stood still and firm, completely unresponsive to the tumult.

Liquid ran down Zyn’dri’s window, and flames
streaked down after it, inches from her face. The people were throwing flaming
bottles filled with liquid that exploded and ignited as they hit the crawler. Though
the rest of the Stracahn huddled on the floor, Zyn’dri couldn’t tear herself
away from the window. The Cascadian soldiers outside jogged next to the crawler
and sprayed the crowd with a strange kind of gunfire.

She had seen, had even fired, the twister
projectile guns that the Rangers used. But these were different. The Cascadian
guns fired tiny beads which flashed on impact. The humans who were hit by them
or who were near when they landed jerked and writhed in pain, clawing at their
eyes and their mouths. Something in those beads brought them severe pain.

The soldiers sprayed the beads across the crowd
at a constant rate. The crawler inched forward as the crowd began to fall back.
Many of them ran back toward the gates, seeking refuge from the searing beads.

As they moved away from the screaming crowd, an
eerie silence filled the crawler. Stracahn tentatively reclaimed their places
on the benches, and the soldiers remained still. Though Karson had said that the
Leadership felt it was time, and the Rangers had been overwhelmingly in support
of the integration, one thing was very clear: the rest of humanity did not want
the Stracahn to leave the park.

49

The Milguard was at the ready. They were hidden
all along the road that came down from Cascadia, across the border, and through
the woods to South Edge.

Nobody was comfortable. Though the winter sun was
up now, they had been in position, huddled in the snow throughout the freezing
woods, since before dawn. The Stracahn coming through was, by itself, enough to
make them jumpy. But the vast encampment of Cascadian soldiers at Robinson
Creek had grown to epic proportions, and the long-feared Cascadian invasion
seemed closer than it ever had.

Sol’s convulsion gun was heavy and cold in his
hands as he crouched between Tavish and Juice. They were hiding in a huge pipe
that ran under the road. It was more than eight feet in diameter, and his whole
unit would have fit inside if they weren’t spread out along the road and into
the woods around them.

They had just finished a quick breakfast of ready
to eat calorie bars, and all three of them were silent. Uneven ruts of frozen
mud beneath Sol’s boots left him feeling off balance and unsure.

Mezina came on the radio to tell them that the
Stracahn crawler was approaching their position.

Uncle Carl had promised Damen that the Milguard
would stay out of the woods. He had promised that they would only have a
presence within two miles of the center of South Edge and that even then the Milguard
would not be fully armed. But they hadn’t kept those promises. Though Sol’s
unit was the first unit along the route, there were eight more units spread
along the length of road from here to South Edge and beyond the town. Uncle
Carl called it the “better safe than sorry strategy.”

Ideally, the Stracahn would pass through without
ever knowing the Milguard was there. They were supposed to lay low, to allow
the Stracahn to travel without alerting them to the Milguard's presence. But
the Stracahn crawler was supposed to proceed without stopping straight through
Liberty, to the disputed zone south of them. Instead, the steady pop, pop, hum
of its legs slowed and then ceased somewhere on the road directly above Sol’s head.

Tavish perked up, listening. “What’s going on?”
someone asked, and he silenced them with a raised hand. There was a long,
penetrating quiet. A door seal hissed, and metal creaked.

“Is that the hatch?” Sol whispered.

Tavish shifted his gaze to Sol, focused on him,
and then, speaking quietly, said, “Brooks. Go up there and see what’s
happening. Stay low. Report back in no more than five minutes.”

Sol hit the timer built into his new wristguard. He
adjusted the cords so he could reach the button. As it began counting down, he
wished he hadn’t been the closest to Tavish. He was sure that he got the job
because he was close enough to receive the whispered order.

The hill beside the pipe was steep and slick with
powdery snow atop fallen pine needles. The morning light was gray and cold. Sol
dug his elbows and toes into the soft ground and moved up the hill on his belly
as quietly as he could.

The road stretched before him, and he froze as he
saw a dozen Leadership soldiers exiting the rusty crawler. Their red uniforms
were striking against the white snow and the green pines. They walked around
the crawler, scanning the woods. Sol pressed his stomach to the ground. He
stopped breathing.

“Okay. We’re alone.” He heard one of them call.
Another gestured up into the crawler, and there was movement at the hatch.

Sol couldn’t take his eyes away. Down the steep
staircase, moving hesitantly, came a rainbow of Stracahn. They spilled out, an
explosion of color, into the bleak landscape. There were four Avowed, and maybe
twenty other adults, but most of them were children. They looked disoriented,
confused. It reminded Sol of the first time he had seen Stracahn stepping off
the transport on his first day in Yellowstone.

The Stracahn were followed out of the crawler by
several more soldiers, who moved to surround their charges. The Stracahn,
standing in the middle of the road, mingled inside the ring of soldiers. The
aliens were pacing, bouncing their babies, and glancing furtively at the dark
shapes the trees made beneath the steely clouds.

Perhaps, Sol thought, the soldiers were letting
them have a break to stretch their legs during the long journey. The soldiers
were moving in a taut and measured way, and their guns were drawn.

Their guns. They were not the standard Leadership
issue. Instead, they looked just like the one slung across Sol’s back. Sol
squinted to be sure. How had they gotten their hands on Libertyite convulsion guns?
Would the Commanders have supplied them with those? Why?

His wristguard vibrated, signaling that his five
minutes were up, but instead of returning, Sol inched up the bank a bit more to
peer at the Stracahn. There was something odd about the way they were moving.
He had seen it on the ranch, when the cattle drew together, almost
unconsciously, in the seconds before a threat was detected. It was as if they
sensed danger.

Sol was on his feet a second too late. Before he
could rise, the soldiers had opened fire and cries of agony knifed through the
air. The Stracahn began to fall, recoiling from the convulsion blasts. The
lucky ones lay immediately motionless on the ground, while many more writhed
for aching seconds before their thrashing limbs grew still.

Above the sound of their cries, Sol heard his own
voice, screaming, and Tavish barking orders at him through the speakers in his
helmet. He ignored them, running directly toward the nearest soldier, somehow
firing his gun and taking a bitter satisfaction as the red-clad figure fell.

Other Leadership soldiers turned to him, and Sol
felt the heat as his suit took their fire. He shot again, and then swung the
butt of his gun and caught a third soldier in the chest, knocking him backward.
As the soldier struggled to stand, Sol turned the dial on his gun up to ten and
shot the man.

Only a small group of Stracahn still stood, and
as Sol glanced up, he saw in the center a girl with shining turquoise hair. She
leaned down and snatched a baby carrier from the arms of a dead woman, then
shouted at the children around her, who were wailing. Two adults crouched in
the center of the circle, covering their heads. The girl, hair streaming behind
her, shouted a single word at them. Sol didn’t need to know Stracahn to know
what it meant: run.

As his unit poured over the other edge of the
road, engaging the soldiers on the far side of the circle, Sol stepped aside to
let the girl and the straggling Stracahn run past him and down the bank, away
from the monsters in red who continued to fire at them.

When the last one had disappeared over the bank,
Sol finally heard the chaos of voices in his helmet. He heard only one thing:
“Cascadians!”

Sure enough, as Sol looked up, a low-flying strafer
peppered the road with burstbeads, Cascadian ammunition that was filled with a
burning poison. He felt his eyes begin to sting, and he fumbled for the mask
switch on his faceplate. Within seconds, his faceplate sealed around his face
and cool oxygen flowed into the mask, clearing his vision.

Finally, all the Leadership soldiers were down. Death
lay heavy in the morning light, bodies scattered on the cold, flat surface of
the road. Sol heard Tavish’s voice, “Retreat! Spread out! Company, now!”

More
strafers were streaking overhead, and the growl of crawlers filled the woods.
In the midst of this horror, this massacre, the Cascadian invasion was
beginning.

Sol started back for the safety of the pipe,
sucking the cool oxygen. Mezina’s voice rattled in his helmet. She was on the
radio, calling for backup, alerting the rest of the Milguard that the Cascadians
were here.

50

Walt stood staring at the barren meadow out the
window. Midmorning and the somber clouds still hadn’t lifted. The apartment was
quiet. The emptiness was worse—so much worse—than it had been before Zyn’dri.
Sylvia lay lethargic in their bed, and though she tried to manage a smile when
Walt entered, her eyes were vacant caverns, as they had been after Sean.

Neither of them had the energy to speak of going
to meet her, or to paint the dream of their cabin in the Rockies. Even the
weight of each other’s company was too much, so Walt had retreated to the
living room, closing the door to Zyn’dri’s room as he passed it.

Walt’s radio crackled on the counter, and he
vaguely registered that someone was speaking his name. He turned and listened.

“Walt, can you read me?” The words were broken by
a sharp ping every three seconds. Someone was using the emergency band, the
secret backchannel that the park administration didn’t know about. Walt crossed
to the counter and snatched up the radio.

Carefully, he dialed into the same band.

“This is Walt.”

“Walt,” a breathless voice scratched through the
speaker, “It’s Tillie. Something’s gone wrong with the Integration.”

Walt’s blood roared in his ears. He could barely
hear her as she went on. “I don’t know what happened, but there’s an aerial
photograph online of the crawler stopped somewhere in the woods, and there’s—”
the ping cut her off.

“What?” Walt could hear his voice, high and
sharp. “What, Tillie?”

Her voice was small when she spoke again.
“There’s bodies all around it, Walt.”

Walt seized his screen from the table and
switched it on. His knees gave out as the feed brought up a picture of carnage.
He sat heavily in the chair. The photo was blurred and grainy. There was no
identifying anyone in particular, but an attack had been made, and the soldiers
and Stracahn were dead.

And somewhere, in the middle of it, was his
little girl.

Walt had called to Sylvia before he even realized
it. Had filled the apartment with a strangled plea that was her name.

She clawed at the screen, and Walt didn’t know
what she was doing until she returned it to him with the coordinates shown in
the picture.

Without a word, they ran downstairs to the
spider. Walt pushed aside the knowledge that he should never have sent the
child alone. Just like he should never have let Sean go huckleberry picking by
the river alone. But what good were his regrets about either one now?

Walt had never seen such a heavy contingent of Rangers
guarding the gate. He drove the spider directly toward them.

Syd stepped from the ranks and stood in front of
the spider, waving his arms.

“Stop! Stop, Walt!”

Walt spraddled the spider and popped the window
open. “We’ve got to go through, Syd. We’ve got to go get Zyn’dri.”

Syd shook his head. “Sorry, Walt, you can’t.
Cascadia has invaded Liberty. There’s a war going on out there and we are not
allowed to open these gates.”

“You have to let me out!” Walt cried.

“I can’t. Look at all those scared people. If we
open these gates, they will pour in here.”

Walt looked at the protesters. Huddled together,
they were covered in blisters. They had dropped their signs and kept glancing
back over their shoulders toward the line of Cascadian soldiers that were
standing firm behind them, weapons drawn. Their anger was gone, and the
protesters were now begging for entrance.

“Then let them in,” Walt said. “They just want a
safe place to be.”

Syd looked at him for a long moment. He looked back
at the crowd of people pushing and jostling to get as close as possible to the
gate without activating the electrical charge. He looked like he might respond,
but Karson was suddenly beside him.

Karson aimed a handheld Twister directly at Walt.
“Get this spider out of here.” He said. “Those gates aren’t opening again
today.”

Walt looked down the barrel of the twister. He
shifted so that his own chest lay between it and Sylvia, but he knew that at
this close range that wouldn’t matter. It would tear through them both.

Karson looked scared and angry. Walt didn’t know
if he was fully in control or not. He couldn’t take the chance. He nodded
curtly and maneuvered the spider in a slow, backward crawl away from the gate
and the miserable crowd beyond it.

51

Zyn’dri felt the earth shuddering as she crouched
beside the Ponderosa pine, clutching the Stracahn baby in his hupta to her
chest. She breathed in the vanilla scent of the tree’s bark and tried to
pretend that she was home with Walt and Sylvia.

Pyrsha and her parents, along with eight other
children and the baby, were all that were left of the Stracahn integration
group. They had run until the other children began to fall from exhaustion, and
then they had crouched here, in the forest, to rest so they could continue.
Zyn’dri had to get them back to the only safe place she knew on this planet:
the Park.

The winter sun was a vibrant spot behind the
clouds above them. Zyn’dri realized it was almost mid-day.  The clouds and the frozen
ground encompassed them with a chill that even Zyn’dri’s thick coat didn’t stop.

The baby in Zyn’dri’s arms squirmed, and she
realized how tightly she was holding him. Even through his traditional carrier,
the hupta, he must have felt her desperate grip. She loosened her hold and ran
a gentle finger over his cheek. She didn’t even know his name, and his mother
was dead

Zyn’dri felt the ground shake as the distant
sound of big guns ripped the air. A little child next to her moaned, and the
baby began to cry, wriggling in his hupta. The other children remained quiet,
but when Zyn’dri looked around at them, she saw that their eyes were wide and
scared.

Zyn’dri thought of Walt. What did he say about
being scared? That you could use it. You could use your fear as fuel to keep
you going. She spoke boldly.

“We have to go back to the Park.”

She could see that the others were in shock. Even
Pyrsha’s parents, whose demeanor was stable and silent, looked at her for
guidance. They would go wherever she told them to. She remembered Sylvia’s
words and turned her eyes to the North.

52

It was an hour past noon, and the Cascadian attacks
had been constant for the last four hours. Sol’s unit had spread out and fallen
back two checkpoints, joining with other groups there. But there were still not
enough of them left to hold off the Cascadians. They were being driven down the
road, ever closer to town. The sergeants had ordered them to spread out and use
the big drainage pipes and the dense forest for cover. Most of Sol’s unit was
out there somewhere, engaging with the Cascadian infantry that pushed ahead of
their artillery. The infantry was vital, clearing the way for the artillery to
follow.

He knew that the strafers depended on the
infantry. If they didn’t clear out the BlueSky field generators and keep new
ones from being laid, the fields would fry the strafers just like they had in
Uncle Carl’s early fighting days. He remembered again how many friends Uncle
Carl had lost and wondered if he would ever see the soldiers of his unit again.

Sol was huddled in another drainage pipe with
Tavish, Juice, and two Bluesky Field Specialists named Gutierrez and Savoy. They
were moving along the road, planting the portable field generators to take out
the strafers that were pelting their troops with burstbeads.

It was early afternoon, but it was dim inside the
big pipe. Beside Sol, Juice was shaking. There was no telling whether it was
from cold or fear, but Sol guessed it didn’t matter which one. He reached out
and put a hand on Juice’s shoulder, and Juice shot him a grateful look.

The Cascadians would be here again any minute. He
could hear the growl of their crawlers and the ground shook as they approached.

Nervously, Sol reached down and checked that the
dial on his convulsion gun. It was still turned all the way up to 10.  Cascadian
armor was thick and padded with fibers that insulated against the blasts of the
convulsion guns. A lethal shot required a direct hit at full power.

Mezina’s voice had been with
them the entire campaign. It came through now, bold and clear. “Company One,
what is your location?”

“We are at Checkpoint Three,” Tavish responded.

“Are the generators planted at your location?”

“Not yet, but we’re moving in now.”

“Hold your ground.” She said, and Sol remembered
that they had heard that twice before, at Checkpoints One and Two, when their
unit was twice as big and half as scared. He didn’t think they’d be able to
hold it here, either.

There seemed an endless supply of Cascadians. And
when the infantry did their job and took out the BlueSky fields, the Cascadian air
strikes were brutally efficient. Sol had seen, in the last several hours, Milguard
soldiers burned beyond recognition by the burst beads, which, when applied in
enough quantity, began to melt the Milguard soldiers’ armor directly onto their
bodies.

Tavish’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Gutierrez
goes left out of this pipe, Savoy, goes right. Get those generators planted and
drop back toward Checkpoint Four. Hastings, Brooks, move out with me and prepare
to engage on the road.” Sol found the sergeant’s face in the dim light. “Keep
the Cascadians distracted and give these specialists time to do their work,”
Tavish told him. “We have to get these field generators planted up there. The
enemy is pushing through with the infantry, and that’s plenty bad, but the
artillery and the air force are following them, and if we can’t bring down
those strafers, our guys don’t have a chance.”

“Where are our strafers?” Sol asked, then
regretted it as Tavish spoke with derision. “Haven’t you seen, kid? They’re
falling like flies. The Cascadian infantry is frying them with fields left and
right.” As they moved out of the pipe, Tavish gestured at the surrounding
woods, and Sol noticed, for the first time, the eerie flicker of far-off fires
burning around them. The already dreary air was filled with smoke filling the
space between the trees.

As they crawled up to the edge of the road, Sol kept
his eyes out for Cascadians in the woods behind them as they had forgotten to do
at Checkpoint Two.

Tavish peered up over the bank and ducked back
down. “Listen,” he said, and there was urgency in his voice. “We’re in deeper
than I thought.” Sol heard Tavish breathing over the comms line. Though his
voice was firm, his breath was coming quick and shaky. “This is not just any
infantry.” He said. “This is the Disclosure Squad.”

Sol blinked. He remembered all those months ago,
talking to Sonny at that armory. He remembered Sonny telling him about the
Disclosure Squad, hinting at their cruelty.

Tavish spoke again. “These guys aren’t only
trying to kill you. They’re going to try to take you alive.” His voice wavered
slightly. “I don’t know everything they use, but they’ll have percussion guns.
Your armor will hold up under some fire from them, but if they get your helmets
off they can knock you out with one hit.” He turned toward Sol. “You hear that,
Brooks? Keep your helmet on. And don’t let them catch you, understood?”

Bright lights swept over the bank and Sol jumped.
He heard Tavish say, “Steady.” Sol wanted to pull out, to fall back. He didn’t
want to face them. But the fields had to be placed. He tried to think of his
mom back on the ranch and wanted more than anything to keep the strafers away
from her.

Savoy’s voice cut into their helmets. “First
field laid, Sir.”

As Sol watched Savoy working on powering the
field up, he heard the scuff of a boot above him, and then a shout. A Cascadian
soldier was looking directly at him. Sol staggered to his feet and raised his
gun. He took two steps, trying to set up for a direct hit.

Tavish stood and fired, taking the soldier down,
and then the Cascadians were everywhere. Tavish fired again, and two more
dropped. Sol saw them fall and saw their mouths open in agony, but their
screams were lost in the rush of blood through his ears. His heart was
hammering, and he couldn’t think what to do.

He shifted his terrified eyes to Tavish, who ran
to the middle of the road, firing. Juice was there too, yelling at Sol and
gesturing for him to follow.

A flash of color in the hazy woods beyond Juice
caught Sol’s attention. It was the bright little group of Stracahn that had
fled earlier. They were scrambling farther North, back into the wild woods. So
many of them were children, and their presence in this cruel place took Sol’s
breath away. He wanted to call out to Tavish, to the Cascadians, wanted to tell
them to stop fighting, to wait until the children were out of the way and safe.
But the horrors of the day flashed before him, and he knew there was no
stopping this now, not until it had played out to the end.

A mortar full of burstbeads hit the bank behind him,
and he prepared himself for the burning. But the beads didn’t sear. These only
popped as they hit him and a sour taste filled his mask. Somehow, his mask
wasn’t stopping them. Whatever was in them was seeping through his armor. Suddenly
he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. It was a stun gas. The Disclosure Squad was
immobilizing them. Sol felt a rising panic. He hadn’t experienced such an
intense rush of fear since that summer afternoon at the Park gate when the percussion
of the explosion had echoed around him and changed everything.

Sol couldn’t see Juice anywhere. He tried to call
to Tavish, tried to tell him that he was frozen, but Tavish was turning, loping
down opposite bank into the trees, and the Cascadians were the only ones
coming.

Sol knew they would hurt him, saw it in their eyes
as they came. He tried to swing his gun toward them, tried to pull the trigger,
but he could do nothing. A round of convulsion fire took some of them down, and
Sol knew that Tavish was somewhere giving him cover.

A weight around his
shoulders drew his attention. With great effort, he turned his head to see
Juice beside him, arm around his shoulders.

Juice pulled Sol’s head down until their
foreheads touched, forcing Sol to look at him. He reached up to Sol’s helmet
and switched the mask off. “Breathe out.” Juice commanded, and Sol pushed the
air from his lungs as fast as he could. Juice turned the mask back on. “Now
in!”

Sol took a deep gulp of fresh oxygen. He felt the
weight on his limbs begin to ease.

Sol heard Juice’s voice, tinny and strange,
through the commline in his helmet. “Come on, Shoreline. Let’s get out of
here.”

The kid was calm. The hint of a smile played
around his mouth. Though he was significantly smaller than Sol, when he tugged
there was enough power in it that Sol began to move.

The muzzle of Sol’s gun dropped and dragged
across the frozen ground as they stumbled together toward the edge of the road.

But they weren’t fast enough. The Cascadians were
upon them. Sol felt the thumping of their percussion guns against his body
armor. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck crackle with the excess energy
that his armor didn’t absorb. He heard them shouting, and he smelled the hot, sour
scent of the stun beads still falling around him.

The squad was close enough to grab him. Hands
were reaching for him, trying to get a grip on his suit somewhere.

Sol was pulling himself out of the paralysis. He
thought back to his induction. A deep fear gripped him, and he writhed, pulling
Juice with him as he tried to get away. But the Cascadians were strong, and
many. The enemy wrenched him away from Juice and knocked them both to the
ground.

Sol covered his head as a rain of fire from their
percussion guns descended on him. His suit crackled, and he felt the inner
plating heating up. It wouldn’t last much longer. Through the fingers of his
gloves, he saw the forms around him. He saw Juice, just a few lengths away, on
his knees, blocking every blow and striking out at every chance. He was amazing.
One of the Cascadians reached down and wrestled Juice’s helmet off. His
straggly brown hair fell around his temples.

Sol saw Juice reach for the ring on his suit.

Sol pushed back at the gun barrels around him.
Even with his gloves, the charges shot through his palms like fire, but he
barely felt them as he lunged to his feet. He heard his own voice, panicked and
high, “NO! Juice, no!”

Juice looked at him. Sol
saw a Cascadian soldier deliver a blow to his friend’s temple. When Juice
raised his head again, he looked directly at Sol. Blood was streaming into his
eyes. His voice was strong, and that characteristic hint of a smile played at
his mouth.

“Sol, run!”

Juice pulled the ring.

Sol barely had time to fall to the ground as the
silent flash radiated from his friend. The Cascadians around him jerked, caught
in the wave, and those closest to Juice flew backward. Juice fell and lay
still. Sol ran.

It was as if he were invisible. In the aftermath
of the flash, the Disclosure Squad was scrambling to retreat. Nobody seemed to
notice the scared kid running for the trees. When he reached the edge of the
road, Sol dove down the embankment and crawled, at the bottom, into the
deserted Checkpoint Three, the pipe where they had hidden a lifetime ago.

His chinstrap was slick against his neck, and Sol
realized that he was crying. He clawed at the clasp and pulled the helmet off.
It fell with a hollow thud as he dropped his face into his hands and wept.

***

When Sol found his way out of the pipe, the late
afternoon sun was still shrouded in clouds and the battle had moved away, down
the road toward town. Cascadians were sweeping the woods on either side of him.
Their dark gray uniforms, with the deep green pines stitched on them, provided
them with amazing camouflage in the smoky shadows of the late-afternoon forest.

Sol ducked low as they passed him, moving up
toward the line. He saw them stop near a fallen Milguard soldier to finish him
off.

Sol’s breath came hard. He looked away and
slowly, carefully, began to flee. Something had changed in him. As he looked
around at the fallen soldiers, Libertyites and Cascadians alike, he felt sick
and strange.

Juice was gone. His half-smile stilled, his life
over. Sol didn’t know where to go. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to get
home.

And then he would go back to the sea. He would
leave for Shoreline, whose tiny borders and sandy shores no one wanted. He
would take his mother with him, away from this war-torn place. Maybe there they
could find some peace.

Sol felt his hands shaking as he crouched and
shuffled along. He was moving away from the battle, but directly through its
aftermath. Black uniformed Milguard soldiers were everywhere, their bodies
still. There were far fewer Cascadians.

He walked through the darkening woods for a long
time. Sol’s gun was secured to his hip, and when he crouched, the tip of it
dragged in the snow and dirt and pine needles of the forest floor. He stopped,
fumbling with the catch on his side, trying to release it so he could abandon
the gun.

Before he could release it, he heard a chilling
sound.

A thin warbling was coming from one of the
Cascadian soldiers. Sol couldn’t tell if he was crying, or just struggling to
breathe. He moved backward, into the shadow of a tree, but the soldier had
spotted him.

The soldier, lying on his left side, reached
forward. Sol saw the man’s gloves and gun several feet away. He saw from the
flared barrel of the weapon that it was a burstbead gun. Looking closer, Sol
saw the beads scattered around it. The Cascadian must have been reloading when
he was hit.

Sol backed away. He could easily be out of range
before the wounded soldier got to the gun. As he moved, the man’s wailing
increased. Suddenly, Sol realized that the man was saying a word, repeating it
over and over in that high whine.

“Please.”

Sol glanced at the dark woods behind him. In
seconds he would be away from here.

But what would happen if he left this man? How
much suffering would he have to endure, laying on the ground alone?

“Please, please.” The man kept crying, reaching a
bare hand toward Sol.

Sol’s better judgment screamed at him as he
walked forward. It was as if the man’s suffering was drawing him. He had to
help, had to try at least.

Sol kicked the gun farther away as he passed it.
He took the man’s outstretched hand and knelt beside him. The soldier clawed at
his own helmet with his other hand, and Sol reached up and unbuckled it,
sliding it off gently.

The man had startling blue eyes, which he fixed
on Sol for just a moment before closing them. His breathing came irregularly,
and with great effort. He rested his head on his other arm, outstretched above
him in the dirt.

Sol tried to move away, but the man didn’t want
him to go, and he held on. “Please.” He said again.

“Okay. Okay. Easy,” Sol said, trying to think of
something that would comfort him. The man’s body twitched violently, then
stilled, then twitched again.

Sol remembered the injections. He reached up to
his chest pocket and pulled one out. He found the right place, and just as the
man seized again, Sol plunged the needle into his shoulder.

He watched as the medicine flowed through the
soldier’s body. He heard the man’s breath come more easily, but it was still a
jagged sound. He saw the tension ease from the soldier’s limbs and saw him
relax against the ground. His eyes were closed.

Sol looked down at their clasped hands. His was
still gloved, and it looked huge compared to the soldier’s. The man’s nails
were neat and trimmed. There was a long, thin scar across the back of his
knuckles.

But something wasn’t right. Sol tried to figure
out what was bothering him. Something about this wasn’t making sense. He looked
up, into the woods. Had he heard something?

But the woods were still, and they were alone. He
glanced back down at their hands. And then he realized it: the tips of this
man’s fingers were as clean as his own. There was no sign of the characteristic
purple staining on them.

Sol had met few Cascadians, he admitted, but all
that he had met had the stains in common.

The man moaned. Sol glanced at the soldier’s
other hand. Nothing. He sought for answers. Could the man be like him? Could he
have moved in from another region and found himself in the middle of the local
conflict? Could he be a supervisor, not working closely with the fruit? Could
he be somehow immune to the staining?

“Please.” The soldier’s voice came again, weak
and thready.

Sol abandoned the mystery. It was more important
to keep the man comfortable. “Don’t try to talk.” He said. “Just rest a
minute.” Sol saw that the injection had made the man more comfortable, but he
also saw that it had come too late. His breath came more and more slowly. At
least the man was suffering less now.

Sol waited for him to speak again, and it was
several heartbeats before he realized that the man had stopped breathing. He
sat back. The forest was dense here, and the early snows had not yet stuck. A
soft layer of long pine needles made a carpet on the ground, and Sol released
the man’s hand and laid it gently atop them.

Sol looked at the grey-clad bodies of the
Cascadian soldiers scattered around him. He rose and walked near a soldier to
his left.

For a long moment, he stood over the man. Sol
couldn’t stop himself from reaching down. Under the dappled light of the
forest, in the last rays of the day, he lifted the heavy weight of the dead
soldier’s arm and slid the glove off his hand.

Pale skin, no staining. Sol laid the hand down
and mechanically went to the next body. Ebony skin, no staining. The next, and
the next—all of them the same. These men, though clothed in Cascadian uniforms
and fighting the Cascadian battle, were not from Cascadia.

Sol stumbled away from the carnage. Who would
pretend to be Cascadian? Who would fight their battles for them? The precision
of the attack began to make more sense, as did the skill of the soldiers and
the new weapons. Maybe Cascadia’s General Taylor had hired professional troops
to come in for defense. But bringing new people in was not one of the
priorities for these regions. In fact, the opposite was true. Most people in
this part of the world had a substantial distrust for outsiders, due to decades
of interference. And Cascadia was not rich. Especially now, people were
scraping to get by. No, it didn’t seem likely that Cascadia had brought them
in.

Sol had to find Uncle Carl. He had to tell the Milguard
that they were not fighting who they thought they were fighting. He had to tell
them to be more careful, and that they didn’t know their enemy.

Reluctantly, Sol turned around and began making
his way back toward the front line. He stayed as far from the fighting as he
could, though it meant he lost time. The evening passed, and the last of the
light began to ebb. He steeled himself against the dark and the cold.

53

Walt maneuvered the spider along the cleared path
inside the Park fence. In much of the park, this ring had grown over, but here,
between the West gate and what used to be the South gate, it was still broad
and clear most of the way.

He had the spider extended to its full height,
and he was looking for a weakness, any weakness, in the fence. The sun was gone,
and the last light was dimming. They had come all the way from the West gate,
and in front of them lay the crater and boulders kicked up by Caldwell’s blast:
what used to be the South gate. If there was no weakness here, there was no
weakness for them to find.

The boulders lay piled in front of what used to
be the South gate, many simply too big to bother moving. It was a slide that
had been threatening ever since the earthquake before the Terrene War when the
earth had folded into two high peaks just outside the edge of the park. They
had stood glowering down on the park entrance, every drop of rain and every
gust of wind eating away at them, until Caldwell had brought them crashing down
on the gate. The fence had fused before the boulders hit, and it had turned any
that hit it directly into pebbles, but others had fallen on the two sides of
the fence, and they lay in tumbled chaos under the glare of the spider’s
lights.

Park security engineers had determined that the
fused fence was secure, and there were no more guards stationed here. Karson
said the entry point would remain closed. Walt wasn’t surprised. He suspected
that one less gate made keeping the public out of the park much easier for
Karson.

Now, as true darkness settled in, Walt wished for
that gate back. Sylvia sat quiet and tense beside him, her eyes following the
sweep of the spider’s lights around them. Even with the spider extended to its
full fifteen-foot height, they were still ten feet short of the top of the
fence, and they couldn’t see over it.

The windows were open as they listened to the
constant hum of the fence, trying to detect a different pitch where the fields
that ran through it and up over the park may be weakened. The freezing air had
filled the cab of the spider. Walt glanced at Sylvia. He detected a tiny
shiver.

“Honey, close your window.” He said gently. “I’ll
listen out mine.” He worked the knobs on the heater and warm air began to swirl
around with the cold air in the cab.

Sylvia didn’t fight him. She closed her window.
That worried Walt. He wasn’t sure how much longer he should keep her out here.
And it had been nearly twelve hours since he’d seen the photograph. Who knew if
the bodies of the Stracahn were even there anymore?

In desperation, Walt switched course. He backed
the spider into the woods and aimed it directly at the fence.

“What are you doing, Walt?” Sylvia’s voice held a
hint of alarm.

“We’re going over. This thing is insulated enough
to stand the mild charge on this side. As long as we push off the fence, we
should clear the charge on the other side. It should get us up and over.”

“No, Walt!” She reached for his arm, but Walt had
already engaged the spider, and they were moving fast toward the fence. She
braced against the dashboard.

As the first metal leg reached the fence, Walt
extended the back ones on the ground, and he felt the front leg take hold. He
had a brief surge of hope, but then a bright flash lit the night, and the
spider shuddered. The front leg slid down the fence, throwing sparks, and the
cab fell to the ground, jarring Walt to his bones.

They sat stunned for a moment. Walt was grateful
that the charges that split cowhide were only on the outside of the fence. In
here, it was just a jolt. The design was meant to keep the wildlife safe, but this
time, he and Sylvia got the benefit.

Walt looked at the fence. Its hum still filled
the night air around them. For all his fury, for all his desperation, it was
unchanged.

Walt vaulted out of the spider and scrambled to
the ground. He sunk up to his thighs in the soft, dry snow. He tried to wade
through it to the fence, intending to climb it with his bare hands, but the
snow slowed him and cooled his anger to deep disappointment. He stopped and
turned, looking up at Sylvia, who was carefully leaning out of the cab.

“We can’t get out!” he cried, furiously.

She shook her head.

“We can’t get to her. We can’t help her.”

“No honey. Not this time.” There was a deep
sorrow in her voice.

He was pulled back 30 years. He remembered
rushing to Sean, lifting him just in time to see his eyes close for the last
time. Walt hadn’t even been able to give Zyn’dri that. He had failed at
watching over both of them, had failed at keeping his family together for the
second time in his life. Walt fell to his knees in the snow, the strength gone
out of him.

54

Darkness had fallen on the little band of
Stracahn trying to make their way back to the park. Zyn’dri had led them into
the thick woods. They had climbed a peak, and she had seen, below and across
the valley, the razor’s edge of the park fence rising behind wide fields.

Pyrsha’s parents were becoming more vocal. The
ruggedness of the terrain had taken them by surprise, and though they had more
stamina than humans, the night had grown cold, and they were wearing down.

She didn’t know what they’d do when they reached
the fence. It was too high to climb, and she knew it held a protective charge
on this side. As she gazed down toward where she knew the park would be, she
squinted at the pale shine of the moonlight on the fence’s in the darkness far
below. She was trying to decide what to do when a bright light illuminated the fence
near the two peaks where the old South gate used to be. It was a vibrant, blue
light, and it flashed and then died.

It was like a signal. She had to get to it.
Zyn’dri gestured to the other Stracahn and began making her way down the steep
mountainside.

It took hours to descend, and the flat pasture at
the bottom of the mountain was a welcome change. Even with the deep drifts of
snow, the going here was easier.

She felt the night growing colder around them. If
she were home, in the little apartment, Walt and Sylvia would have tucked her
in an hour ago.

The clouds had gone, leaving a merciless clear
sky. Now, as the moon began its steady rising, a wild and bitter wind began to
blow.

Pyrsha cried out, pulling a corner of her
mother’s blanket over her own face.

Her mother called to Zyn’dri. “We must stop. The
children need to rest.”

Zyn’dri didn’t want to stop. The safety of the
park grew ever closer with each step. But Pyrsha had sunk to the ground, and
other children were following.

“No! Wait! We have to find some shelter from this
wind!” Zyn’dri looked around. A dark depression dipped away into the field a
little to their right.

“Follow me!” she called, and the weary group
trudged on. They climbed carefully down into what Zyn’dri now saw was an empty
pond and huddled below its edge, out of the reach of the wind for a moment.

Half an hour passed and Zyn’dri tried to get
them to continue, but they wouldn’t leave. Adults and children stayed curled in
the curve of the pond, and its rim touched the stars in the sky above them.
Zyn’dri felt like they were in a sphere, nestled in a bowl with a bowl arching
over them. It felt safe, but the chill in the ground had leeched into her
bones, and she shifted uncomfortably.

She didn’t know what they would do when they made
it to the fence, but she felt driven to find the place where the bright light
had flashed. Pyrsha’s parents would not listen to any plans of leaving. Zyn’dri
leaned over and whispered to Pyrsha, the girl that was once her friend.

“We have to go. It will be very, very cold before
Earth’s sun rises.” Zyn’dri thought of a night she and Sylvia and Walt had
spent out in the mountains winter camping. They had carried the most advanced
sleeping bags, a little heater, and a tent. Walt and Sylvia had made certain
Zyn’dri was bundled to twice her regular size. Still, the mountain cold had
eased its way into the tent and found her nose and fingers and toes. Now she
looked at the baby. One of the other children was holding him in his hupta on
her lap, but that girl was shivering herself. How could any of them keep him
warm? How would he ever make it through the night?

Pyrsha shook her head and turned away. Of course,
she wouldn’t challenge her parents. But blind obedience had never been
something that Zyn’dri was good at. She stood, her voice growing stronger as
the cold wind slid over the lip of the pond and slapped her face.

“We have to find a better place to stay.”

Pyrsha’s father tried to hush her. “Sit down,
child. We can’t leave. You don’t know what dangers lay outside this shelter.”

“This isn’t a shelter!” Zyn’dri’s voice was
tight. “It’s a grave! We’ll be here in the morning, all right, but we’ll be
frozen dead.”

Pyrsha’s father turned his calm eyes to her.
“Then that is our fate.”

Zyn’dri opened her mouth to give him her opinion
of fate, but the words stuck in her throat. Above them on the edge of the pond,
the constant stars were blocked out by the shaggy forms of several wolves.
Their narrow muzzles had already started edging over the rim of the pond in
their direction. She thought of Caldwell, of the smell of the elk in the
meadow, and fear rose in her throat.

Zyn’dri gestured toward them, and as Pyrsha’s
parents turned and saw the animals, they finally stood. Their voices were tense
as they herded the children toward the center of the pond.

“Move quickly, children. Quickly.” Pyrsha’s
parents each held one of her hands, and they gathered the Chantha children and
pushed them toward the opposite rim of the pond. They were nearly there when
Zyn’dri heard a sound that filled her with horror.

The baby was crying somewhere behind them. In her
fear, the child who had been holding him had left him behind. Zyn’dri could
make out the wolves moving down toward the place the Stracahn had huddled,
toward the crying baby.

Pyrsha’s mother shouted and ran back, waving her
arms. Zyn’dri ran at them, too. She passed Pyrsha’s mom. Zyn’dri stopped as she
saw the alpha male standing guard between the humans and his family. His lips
were pulled back in a snarl, and he held his head low.

“Wait!” Zyn’dri said as Pyrsha’s mother arrived
next to her. The woman dropped to the ground and worked to pry loose a stone
frozen in a patch of ice.

“Help me, Zyn’dri!” she cried, but Zyn’dri had
become very still. She was sensing an alpha female with the pack. She heard the
baby’s cries begin to quiet, and instead of fear she felt relief. She walked
forward, speaking quietly to the male wolf as she had to the little semballa
when she’d first arrived.

“You are brave.” She told him. “You are
protecting your family, and you think we’ve abandoned the little one.” As she
drew closer, the male snapped the air in her direction, and the tumble of
half-grown pups behind him mimicked him.

Zyn’dri didn’t flinch. She was close enough now
to see, in the gentle light of the moon, the gravid alpha female, her warm body
wrapped around the bundle that was the baby. Her muzzle lay next to him, and
she flicked her ears toward Zyn’dri in a subtle sign to her pack that the girl
wasn’t a threat. The alpha male’s snarling quieted.

“I’m just coming to help him.” Zyn’dri said. She realized
that the wolves had watched all the bigger Stracahn moving away from the baby,
leaving him to certain death. These wolves were different from the Grant pack
at the elk carcass. They weren’t hunting, and there was no malice in them.

It was at that moment, as Zyn’dri entered the
tumultuous circle made by the pack’s furry bodies, that Pyrsha’s mother let the
rock fly. It struck one of the young wolves, and she yelped.

The next events happened so quickly that Zyn’dri
could barely understand them. On seeing his offspring wounded, the alpha male’s
fury returned, and he turned to snap at Zyn’dri, who staggered backward just in
time. The female wolf grasped the hupta with her teeth and half carried, half dragged
it, with the baby inside, up over the lip of the pond. Her pups and her male
stood between her and the Stracahn, snarling, giving her time to escape before
they turned and ran after her.

Zyn’dri stood, stunned. Pyrsha’s mother had sunk
to the ground. She sat, staring vacantly, and Pyrsha’s father came to her and
laid a hand on her shoulder. Zyn’dri saw the horrors of the long day reflected
in their slumped shoulders, their weary eyes. Zyn’dri herself was tired, and
she was angry and scared, but there was only one thing to do now. She followed
the wolf.

55

Sol kept to the deepest brush in the woods,
avoiding the road that was the epicenter of the battle. Ahead of him, he heard
the ever-growing sound of shots and shouts. The heavy artillery, though
infrequent, shook the needles from the trees in showers.

He skirted the bodies as best he could, but the
night was coming on quickly, and occasionally he stumbled over a still limb or
a helmet. The only live and moving soldiers he saw were the Cascadian-uniformed
ones sweeping the area.

Sol wasn’t sure he could stay out of their way. He
had lived in these mountains, had hunted here and hiked here, long enough to
know the sounds of the forest, and whenever a twig snapped or a bush rustled
wrong, he dove to the ground and played dead or hid under something.

Twice patrols passed within ten feet of him.
Twice they were close enough that he could hear their voices and see the
details of the pine trees stitched on their uniforms. But they didn’t see him
or thought him dead. Either way, they left him alone.

When the second one had been gone five minutes, ten,
he rose. To his surprise, a yellow square of light fell through the darkened
woods only feet from his hiding place. He rose and followed it with his eyes to
the window of a little structure.

A Quickform hut. He had stumbled onto one of the small
communications centers that dotted the woods and allowed for communication with
the commander on the front lines. Inside would be a couple of communications
specialists and a line straight to Uncle Carl.

He nearly ran the several feet to it, not
considering why it was that the patrols hadn’t stopped at it.

He was reaching for the door handle when he
glanced through one of the high, square windows and saw two gray-clad soldiers
inside. There was no sign of the Milguard Soldiers that should be running it.

He stepped back, crouching into the shadow of the
hut, and listened. The soldiers were giving maneuvers over the comms equipment.
They must have retuned it to the Cascadian frequency. There would be no direct
line to Milguard Command. If he wanted them to know, he was going to have to
tell them himself.

The Command Center was at Checkpoint Five, just
outside of town. It was the last holdout before the Cascadians descended on
South Edge.

From the sound of it, the worst of the fighting
was still at Checkpoint Four. The black-uniformed bodies of Milguard
soldiers in their wake grew more numerous the closer Sol got to the fighting.
And he was on the wrong side of the line.

He ran wide around it, feeling a pang of guilt at
the realization that his unit was probably over there now, working to keep the
enemy from making it to the Command Center. Sol cut through the trees, and then
through the wide field where he had gone skimming and gotten his banner that
night so long ago.

His head ached at the thought of it. He wished,
briefly, that he was back living that moment instead of being stuck in the
horror of this one.

He cleared the field. There was only one more
stand of trees before Briian’s family’s barn, which was the Command Center at
Checkpoint Five. As he moved through the now-dark woods, he realized that what
had begun as a jumble of small conflicts had turned into a systematic
progression. The Cascadians—or whoever they were—had used their greater skill
to consolidate into a seamless front line that was advancing steadily.

He stayed low. Checkpoint Five was just ahead, and
he could see the dark silhouette of the barn through the trees.

He was so focused on getting there that he didn’t
see the attack coming.

Burstbeads, from forty feet to his right, smacked
onto his armor and stuck. The inner plating stopped the gel from most of them,
but one lucky shot tore through the gap between two plates at the back of his
left knee and burned into the soft flesh there.

Sol didn’t cry out as he fell. Adrenaline surged
through him as the pain pulsed in his leg. He freed his gun, then reached a
gloved hand behind him and dug the thick goop out of the wound. He felt it blistering
his flesh on the way out, but leaving it in would have caused much more damage
as he tried to run.

He made it to his feet amid the shouts of two
advancing Cascadian soldiers.

Sol raised his gun and fired. Once, twice. He
imagined himself back on the shooting range, and every shot found its mark. He
didn’t watch as the two soldiers fell. He was already running into the woods, Heading
for the barn.

A couple of Milguard soldiers grabbed him outside
and hauled him into the barn.

Though the outside was nothing but a dark shape
against the sky, inside the barn it was so bright that Sol was blinded for a
moment.

In the center of the main floor, Uncle Carl was
barking orders at Mezina, who was relaying them to the units on the field.

Sol staggered a bit as he lunged forward and
grasped Uncle Carl’s arm.

“I have to talk to you!”

“Tavish reported that you deserted.” There was
disgust in Uncle Carl’s voice.

His words stopped Sol short. Had he deserted? He’d
run from the battle. He hadn’t gone back. He supposed that he had deserted. For
a moment, he didn’t know what to say.

But then he remembered the men in the comms hut.
“Uncle Carl! We’re not fighting Cascadians!”

Uncle Carl looked at him like he had been struck
in the head. “Sol, I don’t have time for this right now. And you need to be out
there with your unit!”

“Listen! I’m telling you these soldiers are not
who you think they are!”

Uncle Carl’s eyes flashed. “Right now, Son, it
doesn’t matter. They are killing our friends out there. We have to stop them, regardless
of where they’ve come from. And the only way I can do that is if you shut up
and let me work.”

Sol fell into silence. Uncle Carl thought he had
deserted, and now he didn’t trust Sol. LeSue pushed Sol aside as he burst in.

“It’s not good, Commander. We’re running out of
troops. We’re running out of options. Our comms are down, so I can’t even
contact the squads. If we can’t find an edge soon, it’s over.”

Uncle Carl grabbed LeSue’s uniform. “Comms are
down?”

LeSue didn’t speak, but he nodded gravely. Uncle
Carl looked at Mezina. She nodded, holding up her hands in a helpless gesture.

“I’m not getting through, Sir, and I’m not
getting anything incoming, either.”

“I know why. ” Sol spoke up, and he knew that the
intel he had would make up for how he’d disappointed Uncle Carl.

“I passed a comms hut on my way here.” He said
excitedly. “The Casc—” he stopped himself. “The enemy had taken it over.”

Uncle Carl eyed him. “Which one?”

Sol wasn’t a comms specialist. He wasn’t sure,
but he told them he could find it again.

“Commander Sinclair, take over here.” Uncle Carl
barked to another commander.

“Show me.” He waved at LeSue and Briian to
follow, and Sol braced himself for the night’s bitter cold as they left the
bright barn.

He led them out and around, through the skimming
field, the way he had come. As they approached the comms hut, Sol saw the
gray-uniformed soldiers still inside. Uncle Carl didn’t wait for his men to
advance. He strode up and tore the door open, firing as he did so.

Both soldiers fell, but as Sol followed Uncle
Carl into the hut, and Briian started working on the equipment, he saw that the
officer was still moving. The team had secured the hut, and the man was no longer
a threat. Sol couldn’t bear to see the soldier’s convulsions. The fallen man
was beginning to make a sound, and Sol knew there were only seconds before one
of them finished him off.

Without thinking, Sol grasped the second
injection from his pocket. He was just pulling it away from the man’s shoulder when
he heard Briian’s voice.

“Sol! What a waste!”

Sol shielded the officer with his body. “He’s immobilized,”
Sol said. “That’s enough.” He leaned over and unbuckled the man’s helmet,
hoping he had been quick enough.

As the helmet slid free, Sol recognized the
terrified face of the Agent in Charge. Damen looked back at him with wild eyes,
the last of the spasms shaking him.

Uncle Carl looked around, and Sol saw the shock
on his face. In a heartbeat, he moved across the hut, lifting the agent as if
he weighed no more than a calf.

“What the—” Uncle Carl pushed him into a chair.
“You’d better start talking, Damen. Or I swear I’ll—”

The man’s voice was weak as he interrupted. “Never
trust a Libertyite promise.”

Uncle Carl’s face contorted. “Don’t you dare talk
to me about trust. You brought them in here when you thought we weren’t armed.”

“I figured you would be. But I didn’t figure your
little militia would be such tenacious fighters. Well done on that.”

“None of them are Cascadians,” Sol said. “Who are
they?”

Damen closed his eyes briefly as another tremor
shook him, “It’s over now, though.”

“What’s over?”

“We got confirmation that we’d pushed through
your line just as you burst in here. It’s only a matter of hours before the
Harvest team pushes in from the other side and Liberty is just a memory.”

Uncle Carl nodded to Briian. As comms specialist,
he could relay the information about the Harvest strike back to Mezina at the
command center as soon as the lines were up again. “Why are you here?” Uncle
Carl asked Damen.

“I’m just overseeing.” Damen feigned. “Just doing
my job.”

Sol watched as Uncle Carl deliberately calmed his
own anger, watched as he clenched his fists and pushed it down in a way that he
never could seem to do at home. His voice was controlled as he spoke. “What
exactly is your job, Damen?”

Damen was regaining strength, and he laughed
slightly. “I’m just the local agent. I’m here to count your cows, Carl.”

Uncle Carl spoke again. “Why are you fighting for
Cascadia? Why are you helping them?”

Damen rested his head against the back of the
chair. “The kid’s right, Carl, and it’s time you saw, too. Those aren’t
Cascadian soldiers. They’re Terrene soldiers. In fact, there is
no Cascadia. There is no Liberty. You are all
citizens of Earth, governed by the Consolidated Terrene Leadership. Any other
designation is a construct of your imagination. I have told you for years. This
is not your world anymore. You are obsolete, and it’s time you accept that—all
of you—the Cascadians and the Harvesters included.”

Uncle Carl was quiet a long time, scrutinizing
the agent. There was a new light in his eyes. “How long has this been going
on?” he asked.

“What?” The agent feigned ignorance. Sol didn’t
understand what Uncle Carl was driving at. He searched his Uncle’s face.

Uncle Carl must have felt his gaze, because
though he didn’t take his eyes off Damen, he began speaking to Sol.

“We’ve all been played, son.” He said. Sol waited
for him to go on. “Isn’t that right, Damen? Cascadia doesn’t want half of
Liberty. At least not bad enough to kill and die for it. But you let them know
that they wouldn’t have to, didn’t you? You let them know that if they’d let
you run operations from there, and bring your own troops in, and if you could
buy uniforms and weapons from them, that you’d hand them their half of Liberty
on a platter. And they bought it, because you bought them.”

Sol’s mind was churning. The Leadership was
behind this? Didn’t they just want people to unify and erase boundaries and all
that?

“And once you’d eliminated Liberty, you’d start
stirring up Harvest and Yukon and do the same thing to split Cascadia. And then
Yukon and Sonora could take over Harvest. And then, well, there’s no end, is
there? You’re funding these local wars, and spurring them on. And for all your
talk about unity, it’s war you want. War among the little regions, which
threaten your ideal with our independence. You know that coming in and taking
us over yourselves would create a backlash against the Leadership that would
never end. But if you let us take each other down, if you let us destroy each
other’s families and breed hate and fear between us until we’re worn down and
weary with war, we’ll be happy when you come in and take over. And then you can
offer to manage our crops and our herds. We’ll be in no shape to keep them
going when we’ve worn ourselves out with fighting.” Uncle Carl shook his head,
“I’ve already neglected my ranch for two months preparing for this thing. And
when our operations are failing because we’re so distracted fighting each
other, we’ll welcome your help. We’ll be totally on board with your vision and
turn everything over to you so we can go on fighting to keep our little spots
of land from our neighbors. But that’s how you’re erasing boundaries. You’re
gaining control of everything. ‘No Borders’ doesn’t mean unity to you. It just
means that there is no corner of the world that you don’t control. And you want
control, don’t you, Damen? You want to be in charge of everything. You believe
that the people can’t be trusted with the resources in their own regions, and
you think you can control not just the resources, but the people.” Uncle Carl
spat. “The way we’re falling for your tricks, you might be right.”

Uncle Carl turned away, and Sol looked at Damen.
He wasn’t confirming anything, but he didn't deny anything either.

Uncle Carl moved quickly. He took Damen by the
throat. “Well, let me tell you something, you lying scum, I’m not about to let
you trick us into destroying ourselves.”

Damen struggled. A choking, gasping rattle filled
the room. Uncle Carl didn’t stop. The Libertyite soldiers stood motionless and
silent. Some of them watched, some looked away. Only Sol moved forward and laid
a hand on his uncle’s arm.

Uncle Carl looked at him, anger and shame in his
eyes, and released the agent. Straightening, he spoke, and his voice was rough.

“Briian. How’s that comms line coming?”

His voice was subdued. “Almost done, sir.”

“You need to let them know what we’re up against,
specialist.”

“Yes, sir,” Briian said.

And you two get him to the armory brig.” He said
to two field guards.

“Yes, sir,” they answered.

“And the rest of us had better get back to the
front. We’ve got people to protect.”

Sol and the others followed him out. Sol looked
through the trees, watching the field guards as they dragged Damen through the
carnage he had created.

56

Walt registered Sylvia’s voice calling to him
from the spider, but he couldn’t stand. He knelt in the snow, his feet and
knees numb. He heard the hum of the fence and the deep booms of artillery
somewhere outside the park.

The boulders to his left shifted slightly with
some of the larger percussions, and tiny pebbles sifted down through gaps
between them, making a sound like rain.

One of the stones lost its support in the
shifting and fractured with a loud crack. Part of it fell away, sliding down
the pile of rubble and thudding into the drift at the bottom. Sharp crystals of
snow sprayed Walt’s face. He snapped out of his daze and looked up to see,
where the stone had broken, an opening the size of a bison.

Snow fell in a fine powder over the gap like a
waterfall, and Walt squinted, not daring to hope that he could be seeing what
he was seeing.

Sylvia was suddenly beside him.

“Honey, let me help you back to the spider. I’ll
get you home.” She was saying.

Walt didn’t take his eyes off the dark space
between the boulders. He took Sylvia’s hand and walked slowly toward it.

She quieted as she saw where they were going.

The shower of snow had stopped when they arrived,
and Walt approached the crevice. He leaned inside and saw the beginning of a
ten-foot tunnel, with a morel-sized crevice at the other end. He pulled out of
the fracture and judged the distance to the fence. It was not ten feet.
Somehow, this tunnel led directly through what appeared to be a fault in the
fused fence. The tiny crevice at the other end was outside the park.

The tunnel, clear at the opening, was filled with
pebbles and fine dirt at the other end. Walt climbed in and scooped at the
rubble with cupped hands. It moved easily, but his fingers weren’t strong
enough to clear much at a time.

Leaving Sylvia standing, stunned, just inside the
mouth of the tunnel, Walt went back outside to the spider. Detaching the
toolbox from its belly, he removed three of the metal kneecaps off the spider’s legs
and went back into the tunnel. They made the process of digging and scooping
the loose material out much easier. Sylvia went to work too, and together they
began, clearing the passageway to get to the little window at the other end.

Midnight passed. It was warm inside as he and
Sylvia worked, and as they grew closer to the other side, he tried to ignore
the way the earth trembled and the way the dust sifted through the angular
ceiling of the tunnel each time the artillery fired. He tried not to wonder if
the slabs would shift and come down on them. At least, if they did, they would
go together and at least, if they did, they would work to their last breath to
find Zyn’dri.

57

Uncle Carl spoke strongly. “We know more about
our enemy now, but our immediate objective is still the same. We have to stop them.”
Sol and the five they’d come with followed him as they headed back the way they
had come. “We have a couple of options,” Uncle Carl strategized with LeSue and
another sergeant as they walked. We could go back the way we came and try to
meet them at the front, or we could attack from behind.”

Sol saw the sergeants exchange a look, and Uncle
Carl responded with what they must have been thinking. “That’s right. It’s a
lot more dangerous. We’ll have the remainder of their force to contend with.
But taking them out from back here could be more beneficial to our front line.
It could give them a chance to punch through and start breaking up that
advance.”

Sol thought of the patrols he had seen. He kept
an eye on the woods. He nearly ran into LeSue as they stopped and drew out an
attack plan in the dirt. They decided to go to the North end of the line, where
the most of the Milguard units were still holding out.

It was the best tactical move, but the thought of
facing the soldiers, especially now that he knew that they were trained
military, terrified him.

They hiked on through the rough terrain as Uncle
Carl took stock of their assets. “We’ve got seven of us. Everyone has several
charges.” Uncle Carl gestured in the direction of the front. “I figure if we’re
careful and accurate, we can probably take out sixty, seventy guys.”

The sergeants nodded.

“And we’ll have some help from the units at the
front, and more help as we go along. As we thin out the enemy line, the units
can help us more.”

Sol thought of all the soldiers he had seen, all
the burstbead rounds. His knee burned again at the thought of them.

The little band made it to the final ridge. Sol
knew that when they crested it, they would see the full fury of the battle
again, and he steeled himself. He tried to avoid looking at the Milguard
casualties, tried to avoid wondering which of his friends was there. He glanced
at Briian to reassure himself that some remained.

They topped the ridge on their bellies, crawling
on their elbows until they had a clear view of the battle. It had moved
swiftly, far beyond what they had expected, and they were able to stand in the
night shadows of the Ponderosa Pines without fear of being seen.

It was worse than they thought. The enemy was
advancing quickly, and the Libertyite army was retreating. Sol hoped they would
come up with a different plan at the same time as he realized that punching
through from behind the line was the only way to turn this tide. Sol saw that
they had to go through. He also saw that they wouldn’t make it.

Uncle Carl saw it, too. “This is it, soldiers,”
he said. “I think you all know what we’re up against here. I think you all know
how this is going to go.” He turned and looked at them. Sol could make out his
face in the dim light. “Take as many out as you can.”

Uncle Carl’s hand went, involuntarily, to his GO
ring, and Sol saw that only by using them would they have a chance. His heart
hammered in his chest. He thought of Juice, of the bright flash that had ended
him, and wondered if he would have the same courage himself when the moment
came.

Uncle Carl pulled his gun and held it a moment
before he began walking carefully forward. Sol followed him, gun in hand, but
stumbled on the boot of a fallen soldier. His knee gave way, and he fell heavily
beside the dead man.

Sol lay for a moment as searing pain streaked up
his leg. The band proceeded past him carefully. Sol tried to maneuver into
position to stand again, but his leg would bear little weight. He scrambled to
find a good place to put his hand so he could boost himself up.

Inadvertently, his gloved palm brushed the chest
of the dead soldier. Sol sucked in a breath. That was it. He called as loudly
as he dared, “Uncle Carl!”

The soldier nearest him passed the message up,
and when Uncle Carl returned, he was not angry, like Sol expected. He only
looked weary and sad. He reached wordlessly for Sol’s hand and lifted him easily.
His uncle put an arm around his shoulders.

“I’ll walk with you,” he said.

“Wait.” Sol grabbed his arm, trying to speak
quietly. “We don’t have to use them.”

Uncle Carl’s expression grew more sorrowful.
“I’m sorry, son. I think it’s the only way. We have to use our GO rings.”

Sol gestured to the battlefield around them. “Not
our
rings, Uncle Carl. What if we use theirs?”

Uncle Carl shook his head, quickly, and Sol saw
that he was disturbed by the idea.

Sol hurried to explain. “We detach them,” he
leaned down and pulled the dead man’s collar back, exposing the GO pack, and
delicately threaded the ring backward through the suit. When he straightened,
he was holding the GO pack aloft, with the ring dangling.

Uncle Carl looked sorry, “They still have to be
activated, Sol. Someone’s going to have to pull those rings, too.”

Sol hurried to explain. “Do you remember that
summer that Juice and I were messing around with the explosives we found in
your shed? Juice taught me how to make a tripwire that we used to set off the
blasts from behind the hill. I think I could rig one that would trip all of
these at once.”

Uncle Carl stood very still for a moment. He
looked at the little band of soldiers, standing a few feet away. He looked
across the slope at his fallen friends. Sol could see he was thinking.

Finally, he nodded. “Okay. Let’s give it a try.”

Sol was ready with his plan. He hobbled forward.
“I need all the cord you can find.” He said, unlacing the cord from his wristguard
as he spoke. “And gather all the GO packs you can get your hands on.” He sat
heavily on a rock and began to fashion a long tripwire, with loops every six
inches where a GO pack could be attached.

“The packs will have to be held stationary.” He
said.

“We could bury them,” LeSue said.

“No good,” Briian answered. “The ground will
absorb the blast.”

“Rocks?”

“What if we can’t find enough when we get up
there? And again, we don’t want the blast to be absorbed by the ground. We need
to be able to slip them in close to the line and get out of there.” Sol said. They
needed something heavy, but it couldn’t sit on top of the packs. Sol ran his
hand over the pack he had taken from the fallen soldier. It was smooth. If they
wanted it on top of something and wanted it to stay put, they’d have to tie it
on.

Sol’s gaze landed on the shined toe of a
soldier’s boot shining the feeble moonlight back at him.

He waved Uncle Carl in close.  “We need their
boots,” Sol said, as gently as he could, “We can tie the packs to the boots
using the laces, and they’ll be sitting up, facing the line. No dampening
effect. The blast goes straight out.”

Uncle Carl leaned down. He looked Sol in the
eyes. “Your dad was a smart man,” he said, sincere admiration in his voice for
the first time Sol could remember. “I’m glad you got that from him.”

Uncle Carl didn’t wait for a response. He stood
and directed his soldiers to gather the boots. In the end, they had collected
nearly twenty packs and boots to go with them.

When he was done stringing the GO packs and
standing each at attention on a shined boot, the band divided them up between
themselves and stealthily carried them forward. The Libertyites were beyond
Checkpoint Five. They were not far out of town now, and they were making a
final stand to protect their homes and families. They were fighting ferociously
on the other side of the line, which was several enemy soldiers deep.  The
little band was able to slip in and drop their payload. Sol lay behind a
boulder. He thought his tripwire was long enough to keep him out of the blast
zone, but there was no way to be sure. He watched as Uncle Carl and Briian, the
last two to lay out their boots, made for the safety of the trees.

They were almost there when one of the gray-clad
soldiers turned. He must have seen them because he took two steps forward and
took aim. Just as he did, Sol saw him trip on the cord, and he felt it jerk
slightly. The soldier started shouting and fought to pull his foot free. As
more soldiers turned to see what the ruckus was about, Sol saw the entangled
soldier lurch forward.

Sol held tight to the end of the cord as it
pulled tight and activated the packs. This time, the flash was so bright that
he could see nothing else. A split second after the flash, the blast wave drove
his face into the snow. Debris showered over him, and he felt his breath sucked
out of him before he lost consciousness.

58

The moon shone off the snow in the woods as
Zyn’dri walked, watching the tracks as Walt had taught her to do. The wolves
were traveling close together, and their paws left a wake of churned snow.
There was a wide streak of smooth snow in the center, and Zyn’dri knew the
alpha female was still dragging the hupta with the baby inside.

She was walking away from the Park fence, but the
trees around her made a tall, imposing shape that made her think of it. The air
was sharp and clean, and there was no sound but the muffled explosions coming
from somewhere behind and to her right. They made Zyn’dri think of the horror
she’d seen, of the Stracahn, confused, in pain. She thought of the red-clad
soldiers, of how they had fired on the unarmed Stracahn, on the children.

What if she were to meet some of those soldiers
here? What would they do? Zyn’dri felt scared and shaky. She pulled in long
breaths, trying to calm herself as her Stracahn mother had taught her to do.
What fear she couldn’t erase, she used to fuel her steps as Walt had taught
her. It was through their combined wisdom that she found the strength to keep
walking. She thought about the benefits of being both Stracahn and human,
drawing on the knowledge of each gave her twice the resources.

She was thinking so hard about her two cultures
that she didn’t notice for several minutes that the clear air held a new
flavor. It was warm and inviting, and Zyn’dri knew it. It was the scent of
cinnamon.

She stopped for a moment, to determine where it
was coming from, but she couldn’t tell. It swelled through the crisp night air,
weaving toward her from every direction.

A warbling cry from ahead froze her where she
stood. It was the baby. Zyn’dri ran toward the sound.

The tracks led her to the edge of the woods, and
across a wide pasture where the dark forms of bison-like beasts huddled
together for warmth. She reached a fence and saw where the wolves seemed to
have had some trouble getting the hupta through. On it, ribbons of shining
fabric twisted in the night breeze. She squeezed between the wires and walked
on.

And then, glowing golden in the blue snow, a
house. Zyn’dri saw the wolves at the door, saw the alpha female drop the hupta
with the wailing baby inside. The female curved her neck and looked pointedly
back at Zyn’dri. They had known she was here all along, then. As she neared,
the alpha female snorted, and the pack trotted away from the house. She watched
them move together, like a single shadow, and disappear into another wide swath
of woods.

Zyn’dri went toward the baby. He was crying
terribly now, and she imagined how cold he must be. As she reached him and
lifted the hupta, the front door opened, and a woman appeared, carrying a
weapon.

Zyn’dri couldn’t move. All she could think of was
the massacre on the road, and she curved her body around the infant in a feeble
attempt to protect him.

When the woman saw them, her mouth opened.
Zyn’dri heard her gasp and saw her lay the weapon on the porch before carefully
approaching them.

“Don’t be afraid,” the woman said, and suddenly,
Zyn’dri wasn’t. Something in the woman’s voice was gentle and familiar. The
woman held out her arms and Zyn’dri lifted the baby, offered him to her. The
woman took him and led Zyn’dri into the house.

The kitchen was bright and warm and full of the
scent of cinnamon. The woman looked ragged, like she had been worrying and
crying, but whatever her worries were, she set them aside to lay the baby on
the table and unlace the hupta. She peeled back frozen layers of cloth and
lifted him, shining and naked and screaming, out into her arms.

She gestured at Zyn’dri.

“Quick, down the hall in the closet. There are
quilts—blankets. Bring some to me. And get one for yourself.” The woman moved
through the kitchen into a sitting room, and through the arched doorway,
Zyn’dri saw a fire blazing in the hearth there.

Zyn’dri did as she was told. The closet was full
to bursting with bright and beautiful blankets. She bundled as many as she
could carry into her arms and went to the woman’s side.

The woman had unbuttoned her shirt. She knelt on
the stone hearth, strong and beautiful in the firelight, holding the iridescent
baby against the warmth of her pale bare skin. She was the color of the prairie
smoke flowers in Yellowstone.  Zyn’dri laid a golden quilt next to her, and she
moved onto it with a grateful look.

“My name is Molly.” She said. “You’ll be safe
here.”

“I’m Zyn’dri.”

“Wrap yourself up.” The woman tipped her chin
toward the pile of blankets. “I need to attend to him, but you’ve got to be
frozen, too.”

Suddenly Zyn’dri thought of the others, huddled
in the cold. “Please,” she managed, “There are others. They’re in an empty
pond. Please, can you bring them here?”

A look of distress crossed Molly’s face. She
looked down at the baby. “We can’t take him out yet, not so soon. We’ve got to
get his core temperature back up.”

“But they’ll freeze.”

“I’m sorry.” Molly looked tormented. “I can’t
take him out yet.”

Zyn’dri stood. “Then I’ll go. I’ll go and bring
them here.”

“No.” The woman’s voice was stern. “You can’t go
out. It’s negative ten degrees out there.”

For the second time that night, Zyn’dri defied a
command. “Take care of him,” she called, sprinting through the kitchen and out
onto the porch. The air hit her with more force, this time coming from the warm
house. She tried to hold the warmth of the cinnamon-flavored air in as long as
she could as she followed the wolves’ tracks back the way she had come.

59

When he came to, Sol was in the back of a
crawler, lurching across the open pastures toward home. There was a painful
ringing in his ears, and his body ached. He turned his head and saw Uncle Carl
in the cab.

When they arrived in the yard, the crawler’s
engine quieted and the night was filled with silence. Sol was surprised to
realize that the sounds of artillery had ceased.

Uncle Carl came and lifted him like a child out
of the crawler. Sol tried to make himself easy to carry, but his body was weak
and he finally just relaxed. Uncle Carl slowed as they reached the stairs, and
Sol saw a worried look cross his face. Sol followed his gaze. The gun they
always left with his mother was lying on the porch.

Uncle Carl kicked the door open. “Molly!”

Sol’s own voice was shaky as he called, “Mom!”

Sol heard the panic in their combined voices.
Their echo had barely died when a startling sound filled the house: the sound
of a baby crying.

Molly stood in the doorway; a quilt draped over
her. Peeking from under the quilt were the delicate, four-toed feet of an alien
infant.

Uncle Carl swore. Sol wasn’t sure if it was an
expression of relief or surprise.

Molly’s eyes grew wide at the sight of Sol. She
rushed to them, pulling a hand from under the quilt to lay it on his cheek. She
spoke to her brother, and there was an edge of hysteria in her voice, as well.

“What happened? Is he all right?”

Uncle Carl moved around the table and into the
sitting room. He laid Sol on the big sofa and stood to stretch his back. “He
will be.”

“What’s going on out there, Carl?”

Uncle Carl nodded grimly. “It’s pretty much over,
Mol.”

“The Cascadians? They’re gone?”

“In the end, they weren’t even Cascadians.” Uncle
Carl explained about the Leadership involvement. “But we got them turned
around.” He paused, turning his gaze to Sol. “Our boy here got them turned
around. He took out the infantry, and that gave us enough of an edge to get the
BlueSky fields up to stop the strafers and run some EMPs to take out their
crawlers. Things wrapped up pretty quickly after that. By the time I went to
the infirmary and got him, all the threats were neutralized. I’ll have to go
back to the Armory in a while, but as of a couple of hours ago, Liberty was
secure.”

“And the Harvest invasion?”

“It’s done, too. The Leadership was coming in
over there, too. Once we got the word out to Harvest about what was happening,
they attacked the Leadership forces from the other side.” Uncle Carl shook his
head. “Can you believe that? We thought they were the enemy, but they ended up
saving those East Liberty troops.”

Molly sat down next to Sol. “A lot has changed
since we woke up.” Her eyes were still troubled. “But you said they were posing
as Cascadians. How will you prove they aren’t?”

Uncle Carl’s eyebrows drew together. “That part
I’m not sure of yet.” He spoke to Sol, “How you feeling, son?”

“I’ll be okay.” Sol couldn’t take his eyes off
those iridescent feet sticking out of the blanket. “Mom, what—” He didn’t even
know how to finish.

Molly glanced down at the child in her arms as if
suddenly remembering that he was there. She turned wide eyes to her brother.

“Carl. There are more. You’ve got to get them.
They’ll freeze out there.”

Uncle Carl looked surprised. “What?”

“The Stracahn. A little girl showed up here with
this baby—they were nearly frozen. She said there were more and that they were
in a dried-up pond. That has to be the North stock pond, doesn’t it?”

Sol struggled to sit up. That little band of
Stracahn he had seen fleeing into the trees. They must have made it all the way
here.

Uncle Carl still looked confused, but he nodded.
“Only one that’s not filled with ice right now.”

Molly put a hand on her brother’s arm. “Please,
Carl, you’ve got to go get them.”

Sol’s uncle shook his head. “We can’t bring them
here, Molly. It’s not safe. They invaded our planet. They don’t belong on
Earth. We don’t know what they’re—”

She stood, and her pale hair caught the
firelight. “Carl, I have spent the last ten years helping your people. I’ve
given them injections, I’ve bandaged them. I’ve operated. And I have never,
once, drawn lines based on whether I thought they were worthy of help. When
someone needs help, you don’t assess whether or not they deserve it.”

Uncle Carl stood still a long time. It was only
then that Sol saw how weary his uncle looked. What Sol had seen today had
changed him, and he saw now how much more Uncle Carl had seen, and for how much
longer. Sol tried to sit up, but his head was still spinning. He couldn’t go
for them. But he couldn’t lay here while they were freezing out there, either.
He thought of the awful scene that morning, the Stracahn inside the vicious
ring of Leadership soldiers. Sol saw it now.

“Uncle Carl, that’s it.” He said.

“What?”

“The Stracahn. I saw them this morning. Just
before the Cascadian invasion.” He reached a hand pleadingly toward his uncle.
“I saw the Leadership soldiers take them off a crawler and massacre them. If
you help them, they’ll be another witness of the Leadership’s involvement.” Sol
heard the pleading in his voice. “You said it yourself: it will be hard to get
people to believe that the Leadership was behind this. But these Stracahn were
there. They saw the actual Leadership soldiers turn on them.”

A light of understanding touched Uncle Carl’s
eyes. “You’re right.” He looked at Molly. “You’re both
right.” Uncle Carl moved to the door and reached for the fleece-lined coat he
used when he had to be out in the fields for winter calving.

“Molly,” Uncle Carl started, “I’ll go. I just,”
he stopped, “it’s awfully cold out there. I don’t think a little girl could
make it long. Or anybody she was going to get.”

Sol spoke up, and his voice sounded strange to
him behind the ringing in his ears, “they’re Stracahn, though. They are a
little tougher than we are, remember?”

Uncle Carl scooped a pile of quilts from the
floor by the fire and headed for the door. “I hope you’re right, Sol.”

After the door had closed, Sol’s mother left the
room and returned with a quilt from Sol’s bed. She laid it over him, balancing
the baby in her arms as she did so. She went to the kitchen and brought back
some pain medicine. Then she sat beside him on the sofa and stroked his hair.
They didn’t talk for a long time.

60

Zyn’dri lay in the snow, her fingers stiff and
still. The pond should have been right here, but this field was flat and empty.
She tried to crawl, just a little more, but her body wasn’t working anymore.

She had always felt stronger than the humans. She
knew she could outwalk Walt and outswim any human. She knew she could breathe
things that they couldn’t. So she had thought that the precautions Walt and
Sylvia had taken to protect her from the cold were unreasonable.

Now she realized, though, that they must have
known something she didn’t. Empyriad, nearer to its sun than Earth was to its
own, never got this cold. Never in her life, nor in the lives of her ancestors,
had Stracahn bodies had to adapt to temperatures this far below freezing.

And now she was paying for the weaknesses in her
DNA. Her body was shutting down, and she was drifting into a sleepy state. She
wondered if the world were slowing around her, as it sometimes did, but her
fingers were too cold to make the tay’ren she often used for that.

She heard a distant growl, and she briefly
wondered where the wolves were. Maybe, if they weren’t frozen, they could drag
her back to the warm house. But that wasn’t likely. She sensed that they had
gone, that they were now curled in their cozy den, oblivious to the freezing
girl in the snow.

She was glad that the shivering had gone. It had
been so painful. Now, she just felt cold and heavy. She closed her eyes against
nausea induced by the tumult in the Earth below her. She had been right: it was
much, much worse today. Though invisible on the surface, at its core the planet
Earth was writhing, and though she didn’t know how that would eventually manifest,
she knew it would be catastrophic.

But she wouldn’t need to worry about that. She
opened her eyes to see that the wind was sculpting the dry snow around her. She
would be covered with a freezing blanket of it soon. She wondered briefly what
her next life would be like. There was no Avowed nearby, and she would likely
not be found until the sweet spring sunlight crept through this field and set
new wildflowers alight.

Would they take her bones to the Trisne Rooth so
she could be with her parents? Or would they dispose of her in the crude human
way, with a hole that would trap her in this tormented planet forever?

Zyn’dri fought against that. She put all her
energy into her limbs and tried to move. But they were heavy as fallen logs and
useless. A flash of light streaked across her vision. She squinted against it,
but it came again, and this time stayed steadily on her.

Dimly, Zyn’dri registered the deep rumble of a vehicle.
She heard a voice and forced her eyes open. Through frosted lashes, she saw the
bulk of a human man wearing a long, thick coat. He was silhouetted in bright
beams of light. He knelt beside her, and she heard him speaking, but didn’t
understand what he was saying. She saw him kneel, saw his hand go to her cheek,
but Zyn’dri didn’t feel anything.

The man half-turned and she saw him remove his
coat. Zyn’dri sensed that he was laying it over her, and she felt herself move
as he lifted her, wrapped in the big coat, and carried her to his crawler.

As he laid her inside, Zyn’dri sank into
darkness.

61

Sol watched as his mother pulled quilts from
every available storage space. Uncle Carl had found the group of Stracahn
huddled together in the North stock pond, and had brought them back in the
crawler.

Now there were bright Stracahn wrapped in vibrant
quilts spread around Sol like a patch of wildflowers.  They sipped hot cider
that his mother had brewed, and they were awfully quiet. His mother said that
the girl who had brought the baby was not among them, and Uncle Carl had gone
out to look for her. Sol hoped that she was the turquoise-haired girl that he
had seen. He hoped that girl had made it.

The baby was content now. He refused to leave
Molly’s arms. Sol watched her, busy taking care of the Stracahn, and saw in her
a joy he hadn’t seen for a decade.

When they heard the low rumble of the crawler,
Sol forced himself to sit up and look out the window. He watched as Uncle Carl
swung out of the cab and carried a bundle, wrapped in his own coat, into the
kitchen.

Sol watched through the arched doorway as Molly
left the sitting room and met her brother. Sol felt sick at the look on her
face as she pulled back the coat and peered at the child. Molly rushed Uncle
Carl into the back bedroom—her bedroom—still cradling the baby in one arm.

62

Walt sat in the soft dirt at the end of the
tunnel. Tears of frustration made dirty tracks down Sylvia’s cheeks. They had
cleared the entire length of the ten-foot tunnel only to find the end of it
blocked by an elk-sized, immovable stone.

They had opened the tiny crevice as much as they
could, and in the end, the opening was only the size of Walt’s head. There was
no way to get through it. It was only a window to the area outside the park
that they couldn’t reach. Reaching through, knowing how close they’d come, was
almost worse than standing beside the impenetrable fence had been.

The artillery had ceased, after one blinding
flash about an hour ago. And the tunnel was warm from their body heat. They sat
and shared their disappointment and their defeat in silence.

Scuffling at the other end of
the tunnel made Walt look up. He blinked in disbelief as Meir entered the tunnel.
The First Avowed’s green robes stirred up the dust as he approached. The tunnel
was narrow, and Meir filled the space.

Meir’s eyes were full of sorrow. Walt remembered,
then, that he had not only lost one of his family—he had lost fifty. And more
before today’s tragedy. He thought of what Meir had said. This planet had taken
so many of his people.

Walt stood and reached for Meir’s hand. The
Stracahn looked at him and, as they shook hands, Meir paused and traced a small
tay’ren on the back of Walt’s hand. Walt bowed his head in respect.

“I’m so sorry about your people.” Walt began. “We
should have fought it. We should have kept them here—” Mier interrupted him by
raising a hand.

“Walt,” he said slowly, “My friend, I have
learned that regret is a useless emotion. It changes nothing except your
willingness to move forward.”

Walt didn’t speak, but he wanted to.

“And the experience has taught us,” Meir said.
“Though we do not know what happened, we know that we must be very careful when
choosing humans to associate with. Someone wanted our people dead, and until we
know who, there are very few we can trust.”

Sylvia asked the question Walt was thinking.

“How did you get here? It’s freezing out there.
And it’s three in the morning.”

Slowly, Meir eased himself to the floor. Behind
him stood Syd.

When Walt gave the other Ranger a quizzical look,
Syd explained. “He came up as I was getting off gate duty and asked me to help
him find his people,” the Ranger said, “and I knew you wouldn’t have given up on
the search for Zyn’dri. I tracked the spider and saw you’d been here a long
time.”

Walt stepped forward. “Well, it doesn’t matter.
We can’t get out.” He gestured toward the stone. “I thought we had a chance.”

63

When Zyn’dri opened her eyes, a sweet smell hung
around her. She was in a dim room, and the woman, Molly, was sitting beside
her, holding the sleeping Stracahn baby. The clock beside the bed told her that
it had been almost twenty-four hours—a single rotation of Earth—since she’d
left the apartment with Walt and Sylvia. It seemed like much longer.

“I didn’t die?” Zyn’dri asked, shaking the sleep
from her mind.

Molly smiled. “No, darling. Just rest.”

But before she could lay back down, the house
began to shake, and a rumbling came from the ground. Zyn’dri struggled to her
feet. “The others!” she said, fighting her way out of the covers. She was
pulling the door open when the shaking stopped. She heard Molly say, “It’s
okay, Zyn’dri. They’re okay.” The shaking subsided, rolling away from them and
leaving quiet in its wake.

“The quake is over,” Molly said.

Zyn’dri had to see the Stracahn for herself. She walked
down the hallway and through the kitchen. The Stracahn children, and Pyrsha and
her parents, lay about the living room, sleeping. It didn’t seem as if they had
even noticed the quake.

Zyn’dri breathed more easily. She turned to see Molly
following her down the hall. When she turned back to the kitchen, Zyn’dri
collided with a young man. A smile crossed her face as she looked up.

“It’s you!” she said, and the night he’d helped
her on the road came flooding back to her.

He looked puzzled, then leaned down, peering into
her eyes. His voice was doubtful when he spoke. “You’re alive?”

She threw her arms around him. “I’m alive!” she
cried, hugging him. Several of the children stirred.

He laughed. “You’ve grown!” He said. “Tell me
your name again.”

“It’s Zyn’dri.” She was delighted to see him
again. He had been her first human friend.

“I’m Sol,” he said, smiling.

She looked around the happy little kitchen. The
big man who had brought her here was speaking to Molly as he stood in the
corner, hastily drinking something that smelled like cinnamon.

“I’ve got to get back over to the armory,” he was
saying. “I just wanted to bring him home to you. He did good, Mol.”

Zyn’dri crossed the room and hugged the big man,
too. He seemed surprised.

“That’s my uncle Carl you’re hugging,” Sol said,
still smiling.

“This is perfect!” She said, turning again to
Sol. “You deliver things inside Yellowstone. You can deliver us. You can take
us all home!” she said, “Back into the park.”

Sol’s face clouded. “No, Zyn’dri. I’m sorry, I
don’t work there anymore.”

Zyn’dri stepped backward. She felt a knot in her
stomach. “I have to get my people back to the village.” She said. “If you can
take me to the fence, at the South gate, I’ll find a way to get them in. I saw
a flash of light there, and I think it was some kind of signal.”

She saw the two men exchange a look.

“This has been an awful day for everyone.” The
big man said. “You need to stay here a while.”

Something about his words struck Zyn’dri wrong.
Stay here? They couldn’t stay here. They needed to make it back into the park,
back where they were safe.

Before she could respond, another tremor shook
the little house. The dishes rattled, and Sol’s uncle grabbed for the
countertop. Amidst it, there was a commotion outside, and Sol strode past her.
Uncle Carl followed him into the yard, and Zyn’dri stepped tentatively out onto
the porch behind them.

A bright, light craft was landing outside.
Zyn’dri hadn’t seen anything like it in Yellowstone. She was fascinated by the
way it bobbed down to the ground, blades spinning, and the whoosh of warm air
that engulfed the porch when it landed.

A boy about Sol’s age jumped out. “It’s Mezina!” he
cried. Zyn’dri saw Sol and his uncle move toward the craft.

“We need your mom!” the boy shouted.

“She’s inside.” Sol’s voice was strained. The boy
from the craft ran past Zyn’dri into the house as two men unloaded a board
carrying a dark-haired girl. The girl’s arms drooped over the side, and bright
drops of blood fell from her fingertips onto the moonlit snow.

Molly followed the boy back out onto the porch.
“No!” she called, “Take her to Doctor Jalloh in town!”

“He’s swamped. He said to bring her to you!” the men
were heading toward the porch. “And there are a lot more coming. We need all
the medical help we can get.”

“Here, Zyn’dri, take the baby,” Molly thrust the
sleeping infant into Zyn’dri’s arms. “Take her to the barn!” she called to the
men as she disappeared back into the house. Sol was walking alongside the girl
as they carried her away from the house, into the barn. His voice was urgent.

“Mezina, Mezina, listen. I’m here. Hang on, Mez.”
Zyn’dri saw his hand grasping the girl’s. It was covered in blood, too.

She listened as the other men spoke to Sol’s Uncle
Carl.

“They made it to the Command Center just before
your team stopped them. Made a real mess of it. She was in there.”

“I’ll ride with you,” Sol’s uncle was saying. “I
got the boy home. His mom says he’s going to be all right.”

He looked up at Zyn’dri. “Tell Molly I’ve gone to
the Armory to help.” Zyn’dri nodded.

The kid who had gone into the house was speaking.
His voice was high and agitated. “Commander, your house is full of aliens!”

“Shut up, Connor. They were in trouble, and we’re
helping them. Just like we’re helping Mezina.” Uncle Carl’s voice was rough.

“You’d better not let Commander Hastings find
out.” The kid named Connor replied.

“My house is my business. Get in the spinner.”

After the craft had taken off, Zyn’dri stood for
a moment on the darkened porch, gazing at the trail of blood in the snow, and
it began to make sense to her.

There were, she had learned, patterns in
everything. And the way this world had moved a few minutes ago reminded her of
the barren rock of Empyriad in the days before they fled. What had made
Empyriad, their gentle, stable world, so violent at the end?

The scientists from Earth had hypothesized that
it was the deforestation that had caused unnatural heating and subsequent
shifting in the crust. But now, with the terrors of the day fresh in her mind:
the angry mob at the gates, the soldiers firing on the Stracahn, the young girl
broken and wounded, Zyn’dri saw that it could be more.

The humans had brought more than a fungus to
Empyriad. They had brought jealousy, hate, and fear. What role had those new
emotions played in inciting the violence at the planet’s core in the months
before they left? She thought of the disasters on Empyriad and thought of those
she’d witnessed here: eruptions and earthquakes and storms. This planet was
trying to tell them something.

She looked at the blood again, dark against the
snow, and remembered what Laska had written about Empyriad:

These
beings are so interconnected with the world that gave them life, that it has
taken their turmoil for its own. It is not only geology, but Stracahn conflict,
that will tear Empyriad apart.

Ormes had been so angry about those journals,
back on the ship, when he was trying to find out what Laska had left humanity.
But maybe that was it.

Zyn’dri cradled the baby
and walked forward, shushing through the snow, following the trail of blood.

Zyn’dri stepped inside the warm barn. Fine, soft dust
covered the floor. There were cows in stalls along the edges and a long, rough
table in the center. The girl on the board lay there, Sol holding one of her
hands. Through an open door, to the left, Zyn’dri was surprised to see a shining
steel room, where Molly was rushing around pulling instruments from various
cabinets.

Zyn’dri looked back at Sol and the girl. The arm
nearest Zyn’dri was extended, and Zyn’dri watched with fascination the slow
drip of red human blood that ran down the girl’s arm and fell from her
fingertips off the edge of the table. She watched, transfixed, as it was
received by the dirt below, as the dust parted and absorbed this tangible
remnant of pain.

And Zyn’dri knew. The Earth would not stand it
much longer. Her elements combined to make these people, yet her ungrateful
human children had burned the face of the land, destroyed her gifts, and spilled
back the blood she had given them for centuries, splashing it back onto the
Earth again and again, as many times as she gifted it. What had Walt told Zyn’dri?
Human history was full of wars and conquests. There were millions killed in the
previous centuries, and in his generation, billions of humans had died in their
Terrene War? And today, more death. Now it made sense. Humans had incited the
turbulence of this world.

Zyn’dri felt the baby move in her arms. Would he
somehow contract this plague of violence? Would the other Stracahn, who for now
slept so peacefully in the house? And how long would the Earth tolerate the
hostility of its children?

Zyn’dri understood the turbulence at Earth’s core
now, and she needed to tell someone. She needed to tell Walt and Sylvia, and
she needed to tell Meir. The Stracahn could not stay here.

Molly’s voice pulled Zyn’dri’s mind from the
revelation. “We’ll bring her in, but then you’ve got to leave.” She said to
Sol, then looked at Zyn’dri. “All of you.”

Zyn’dri nodded and watched Sol as he helped his
mother carry the girl into the shining room. When he came out and closed the
worn wooden door, there was no indication of the room. He walked wearily into
the house and washed his hands. The blood ran in pink rivulets down the drain
of the white kitchen sink.

Pyrsha’s mother was awake,
and she took the baby. Sol and Zyn’dri sat in the living room, both watching
the fire, as the seconds of the night ticked on.

They were listening for Sol’s mother to return,
and when the seconds stretched to an hour, she finally came in, exhausted,
supporting a drowsy Mezina.

Sol moved to them and lifted the dark haired
girl. “Put her in my room, Sol.”

Zyn’dri heard him ask if she would be all right.

“She’ll be okay with some rest,” Molly said. “Her
mom is on her way over, and I’ll look after her myself for the next couple of
days.”

Molly touched Zyn’dri’s hair softly when she
walked by, then laid on the couch and soon fell asleep.

Zyn’dri saw Sol go into another room. When he
came back, he had changed out of the black uniform, into a tee shirt and jeans.
He sat beside Zyn’dri on the floor.

Zyn’dri looked at him.

“How many years are you?” she asked. She knew she
was almost eleven Earth years old, but she had a hard time judging humans’ age.
She had thought Walt was about forty, and he had laughed heartily at that.

“Seventeen,” Sol said.

That surprised her. He looked weary, and his eyes
looked much older than seventeen. He looked more comfortable now that he wasn’t
in his uniform, and Zyn’dri felt more comfortable beside him, too. She noticed,
for the first time, a design on his forearm.

Zyn’dri was mesmerized by it. She reached out and
ran a finger along its curve.

It was a water pattern, and Zyn’dri had seen it before, in the tumbling water at the edge of the river. She recognized it as a wave.

Sol didn’t move. She looked up into his eyes.

“What is this?” she asked.

Sol shrugged. “Just a banner.” She could see he
was trying to explain. “A drawing on my skin.”

“Where did you get it?”

“An old friend.”

“Do you know what it is?” Zyn’dri asked.

“It’s just a wave.”

“No,” She said, running her fingers over it
again, “don’t you know? It’s more than that. It’s a tay’ren.” She couldn’t hide
the excitement in her voice.

Sol gave her a puzzled look. “A what?”

“A tay’ren. A special pattern. They do special things. I know one that is a healing tay’ren.” She shook her head, “Or maybe a cleansing one. I don’t really
know a lot about them, but I think that one helps people get better.”

Sol looked down at it, then shifted away, running
a hand over the design. Molly stirred in her sleep.

Sol motioned for Zyn’dri to be quiet. “That’s
cool about the pattern,” he whispered, “you’ll have to tell me more about them
sometime.”

Zyn’dri realized she didn’t know very much about
them. She wanted to know more. She wanted to ask Meir. Glancing again at the
bold tay’ren on Sol’s arm, she wondered how Sylvia was doing without Zyn’dri to
trace the healing tay'ren for her. Maybe Walt remembered it well enough.

Zyn’dri pulled the thought of Walt and Sylvia
close to her. She felt the ache of being away from them.

“Sol,” she said softly, looking at the sleeping
children around her. “Help me get home.”

Sol glanced up at her as if he were waking from a
long sleep himself.

“We need to go before that girl’s mother
arrives,” Zyn’dri said, “who knows how she feels about us? And you heard those
men. More people are coming for your mom’s help. We need to go home.”

“Zyn’dri,” he said, and his voice had a stubborn
note, “the park is sealed up. There’s not even a South gate there anymore. It’s
just a solid fence.”

She still couldn’t explain it. Something was
leading her there. “Please, Sol? Just take us there and if it’s impossible, then
you can bring us right back here.”

“It’s freezing cold out there.”

“It’s not far. If you have a vehicle, it won't
take long.”

Sol looked as if he were considering. “We have,”
he hesitated, “a big hauler that we never use. It’s not the nicest way to ride,
but it would get us all there much quicker than the crawler.”

“Yes, Sol. Please?”

He looked at her for a long moment and Zyn’dri
knew he was out of counterarguments.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll take you there. But my mom’s
going to be furious that I let you talk me into it.” They both glanced at
Molly, asleep on the couch.

Pyrsha’s mother put the baby
back in his hupta, where he gurgled happily. Sol insisted that he ride in the
front, out of the cold, and that Zyn’dri ride there, too, to tell him where she
wanted to go, exactly. She watched as Sol made sure the rest of the Stracahn
were bundled in Molly’s quilts in the cargo area of the hauler before they lifted
off and flew above the fields. Zyn’dri was chagrined to see that the dry pond
they’d sheltered in was not too far from the gate. They could have been here
hours ago. At first, Sol kept up a conversation with Zyn’dri as they flew, but
gradually he grew quiet.

“What is it, Sol?” she asked.

“I think someone’s following us.” He said, urging
the hauler up a little higher.

Zyn’dri tried to turn around and see, but there
were Stracahn in the way, and the baby’s hupta in her arms limited her
movement. She tried to focus on the dim shape of the broken peaks ahead.

There was a soft light touching the Eastern sky
when Sol stopped the crawler beside an enormous boulder. Dawn was coming, cold
and clear.

Zyn’dri saw the fused fence and the boulders and
the broken peaks above it all. The sight was disheartening.

She got out. Sol took the baby while Zyn’dri went
to inspect the fence.

“Stop! Zyn’dri! Wait!” Sol cried out, and Zyn’dri
froze. “There’s a charge. If you get within fifteen feet, it will zap you.”

He ran toward her, still holding the baby and
scooping up a rock with his free hand as he came. He tossed it at the fence
beside the pile of boulders. There was a loud snap and the rock exploded.

Zyn’dri took a step back.

Sol was breathing hard.

“Are you all right?” She asked.

“Fine,” he answered, but his voice was strained.
“It’s just that the last time I was here was not a good day for me.”

Walt had told Sylvia all about Sol’s troubles,
and Zyn’dri had been listening. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t know how they
ever thought it was you.”

Sol picked up another rock and threw it, angrily
this time. It popped, and he grabbed another.

But Zyn’dri saw the baby squirm, and Sol’s throw
was off. The rock went sailing toward the fence behind the boulder field where
the gate used to be.

The stone sailed, unimpeded, to the fence and
bounced off, clattering against the boulders and down to the ground. Sol and
Zyn’dri looked at each other. Zyn’dri tossed a rock of her own. It hit the
fence and bounced off unharmed.

Sol was nodding. “That’s where the gate used to
be, Zyn’dri. There must not be a charge on the section where it fused.”

She moved forward.

“Wait!” he called. He tossed several more rocks
all along the section, aiming some high and some low. When he seemed satisfied
that there was no charge, he nodded. “You can go check it out. But be sure you
don’t go more than fifty feet or so. The other side of this fused section is
likely to be hot, too.”

Zyn’dri made her way around the boulders and saw
an odd, jutting part of the fence. As she approached she saw that two slabs of
rock had kept the fence from fusing here and that a boulder lay between them, a
small crevice gaped open where the three stones met. With the sky lightening
above her, Zyn’dri heard a sound more beautiful than music: the gentle tones of
Sylvia’s voice.

“We need to get back to the West gate.” Sylvia
was saying. “It’s the only way out.”

Though Zyn’dri still couldn’t tell where it was
coming from, she heard Walt speak next, “Dead or alive; we have to find Zyn’dri.”

And finally, Meir’s mellow voice reached her, “I
suspect we’re about to.”

A light flickered. It was coming from
shoulder-height,  in a crevice near the top of a large stone. Zyn’dri leaned
down and peered inside. She heard her name spoken with surprise, and then
Sylvia’s face was next to hers, and the woman’s hand was reaching through the
narrow opening to caress her cheek.

“Zyn’dri, Zyn’dri, how did you get here?”

Zyn’dri was crying, and her voice was weak as she
answered. “Sol brought me.”

She heard Walt’s startled laugh. “That kid knows
just when to show up.”

She turned to look at her friend. He was gently
helping the Stracahn out of the hauler.

But in the wan morning light, Zyn’dri saw
something else. Behind Sol, a small, angry man was coming out of the shadows of
the forest. She cried out in warning and Sol spun, placing himself between the
approaching man and the Stracahn. Zyn’dri left the crevice and inched closer.

“So it’s true,” the man said, leaning around Sol
to sneer at the Stracahn in the back of the crawler, “Carl’s been harboring
aliens.”

“Mister Hastings,” Sol said, gently passing the
baby to Pyrsha and then holding his hands up.

“Commander
Hastings.” The man corrected. He took a swing at Sol, but Sol ducked.

“I’m out of the Milguard,” Sol said. “Out for
good.”

The man grew still. “You should be. You were nothin’.
Nothin’ like my boy.”

An eerie tension settled over both of them. Sol
stood quietly.

“It’s your fault!” The man cried. His voice was
so loud that the Stracahn began to stir. They scurried out of the hauler and
moved toward Zyn’dri. She gestured them toward the crevice, and she saw them
huddle near it, next to the big fence. She heard Meir speaking to them in a low
tone, and she saw them pass the baby through the little opening.

The man went on. “It’s your fault he’s dead, you
know?”

Sol’s voice was pained. Zyn’dri could find no
anger in it when he spoke. “I know.” He said.

“Do you?” The man growled. “Because your little stunt
letting that Cascadian go caused them to know all our secrets.” The man walked
a tight circle.

“I thought that was it, too,” Sol said, his voice
pleading, “But Mister Hastings, that had less to do with it than I thought.”

The man was shouting again, and pacing
erratically. “What do you even know?”

The Stracahn crouched in silence, watching the
angry man.

Sol went on, backing away from the man. “It
wasn’t the Cascadians that attacked us. It was the Leadership. It was Damen.”

“Why would you say that?” Hastings said, looking
over his shoulder. Zyn’dri followed his gaze and saw the dark oval of a spinner
behind him, half-hidden in the trees.

“Because it’s true,” Sol said. For the first
time, Sol raised his voice. “Isn’t it, Mister Damen?”

A figure in a gray uniform stepped out of the
spinner. “Sol. I told you, it’s just Damen.”

Zyn’dri knew him. She knew him from the day he
came to the school. She remembered his sneer and his swagger.

The small man, Hastings, was looking back and
forth between Damen and Sol. Zyn’dri sensed in him confusion and anguish.

“What is he talking about, Damen? You said we
could come out here and arrest him for letting that Cascadian go. You said my
son died because of that. And you said we could gather evidence that Carl was
harboring aliens.”

“Well, see, that’s where I wasn’t completely
honest with you, Hastings. I needed out of the brig, and I needed somebody to
get me to my spinner, where I had this handy tool.” Damen pulled out a short, gray
cylinder from his coat. “I should come clean and say that I actually don’t care
who killed your son. And I actually don’t care if Carl was harboring aliens.
What I do care about is the aliens not getting a chance to go back and talk
about their failed integration, because that’s going to be hard to explain.” He
ran his hands up and down the sleek cylinder, and Zyn’dri saw Sol freeze.

“You mean their fake integration?” Sol asked. “I
saw what your men did, Damen.”

“That’s no good.” Damen said, “That means I can’t
let you talk about it, either.”

The small man leaned forward. “What did his men
do, kid?”

“They shot the Stracahn in cold blood. With our
weapons, so people would think the Milguard did it. They framed us, Mister
Hastings. And they invaded Liberty dressed like Cascadians so we wouldn’t know
it was them stirring up trouble. It’s because of him that Juice is dead.”
Zyn’dri heard Sol’s voice catch on that, and she walked over to him, putting
her hand in his.

“Sidney,” Damen said, and
Zyn’dri knew that he said it wrong to remind her of that day in the school hut.
“Why am I not surprised that you made it out? You seem to be an unusually lucky
kid.”

“What part of having my home destroyed and my
parents and dozens of my people killed makes me lucky?” she asked, using a tone
she had heard Walt use with other Rangers sometimes when he didn’t like what
they were saying.

“That’s true, isn’t it?” Damen asked, his voice
smooth. “You seem to be at the center of every catastrophe.” He eyed her.
“Maybe you’re not lucky. Maybe you’re unlucky. Maybe it’s you that’s bringing
all this bad luck to your people.”

The words hit Zyn’dri hard. She stepped back,
trying to think of a reason this wasn’t true.

“That’s enough.” Sol’s voice was harsh.

Hastings cut in, and Zyn’dri, through her
swirling thoughts, heard him say, “Your people killed my boy, Damen?”

Damen must have sensed his only ally was
shifting. “No, Irv. No. Like I said before, this kid was right there. He was
always egging Juice on. He used his phone to call the park, didn’t he? He
talked him into applying to work there? I showed you the documentation.”

Hastings turned back to Sol. “That’s right.”

“But Mister Hastings, Juice was my best friend.
He would be here if it weren't for this guy and his invasion.”

Hastings looked agitated. He glanced from one to
the other.

Damen walked several yards away. “So we disagree.
Either way, I think we’re done here.” He spun quickly, and Zyn’dri saw the
cylinder fly, arcing high and plummeting toward the snowy patch exactly between
where she and Sol were standing and where the Stracahn were huddled against the
rock.

She felt Sol pull his hand from hers and dive to
catch the cylinder, but she could see he would come up short. Damen had aimed
well.

She dropped down. Before she could think, before
she could breathe, Zyn’dri’s fingers were tracing the time tay’ren in the snow
at her feet.

She looked up to see the cylinder slow, then stop
its descent about five feet above the ground. She saw the small man, Hastings,
frozen on his way toward Damen, and she saw the Stracahn frozen in their terror
by the boulder.

Morning light illuminated the little opening in the rock, and she saw the face of Meir peering through it, his eyes wide. He would have seen
her begin the tay’ren.

But what was she to do now? If she stopped the
tay’ren, time would resume, the cylinder would fall, and whatever evil Damen
had planned would be released. But she couldn’t keep time still forever. Even
now she felt the Earth’s impatience, felt it straining to resume its usual
rotation and bring bright morning to chase away the shadows of yesterday.

And then Meir blinked. Not a slow, half-blink,
but a real-time blink. His voice came to her as it always did, not in the
underwater way that voices usually worked while using the time tay’ren.

“Zyn’dri, you’re doing well. Keep going. If you
want to get to that cylinder, you’ll have to transfer the tay’ren to your palm.”

Zyn’dri shook her head. “I can’t! I’ll get lost
in the pattern.”

Meir’s voice was calm. “It takes practice.” She
saw his long fingers appear in the little window of stone. “See, I am
completing a tay’ren right now, in thin air, in order to avoid the effects of
yours so I can help you.”

Zyn’dri hadn’t known that was possible. But what
did she really know about these patterns, anyway? She dropped her eyes back to
the snow. She could not err now. She continued to trace the tay’ren, though her
fingers were growing numb from the cold.

“You’re going to have to walk to the weapon and
alter its course.” Meir sounded as if he were saying she’d have to do something
as simple as tying her shoe.

“I can’t!” Her voice was high with fear.

“You can.”

Two more completions and Zyn’dri was beginning to
feel the strain. She realized she could not do this forever.

“What do I do?” she asked, terrified.

“The easiest way to transfer it to your palm is
to lay the opposite palm down just above the tay’ren you are tracing. Begin to
make the tay’ren bigger, until part of it moves onto your palm. Then gradually
do a bit more and a bit more until you are completing the whole tay’ren on your
palm.”

Zyn’dri processed that, then laid her left palm
in the snow by the design. On the next pass, she exaggerated the first loop slightly
and shortened the second. She did it just as Meir said. After only two terrible
seconds where the world began to speed up again, she managed to correct her
pattern.

She was tracing the tay’ren on her hand at just
the right speed as she carefully walked toward the cylinder. She glanced at
Meir, who was nodding encouragement, and then realized her next problem: with
both hands engaged in making the tay’ren, she had no way to reach for the
cylinder.

Meir advised her to try the tay’ren in the air.
Slowly, she began to move the design off her palm. Slowly, she reached up with
her free hand. Just at the moment she was going to grasp the cylinder, she
faltered in her tay’ren, and the world sprang back into motion. In a panic,
Zyn’dri batted at the cylinder and connected hard. It flew back toward Damen.
The second before it hit, Hastings took Damen to the ground.

As the cylinder hit the ground next to the two
men, a sweeping pink flame leaped from it and engulfed the two men. Zyn’dri
turned away, but their short, anguished screams rang in her ears. In the
instant it took those screams to fade, their bodies curled and disintegrated. A
ring of charred vegetation and Damen’s Agent in Charge badge were all that remained.

Sol stood, shaking his head. He looked at the circle
melted in the snow.

His voice was puzzled. “Zyn’dri? What just
happened?” he asked. Zyn’dri felt her heart beating hard. She said nothing,
just turned away from him and walked to the little rock window. The other
Stracahn moved out of her way, and she knelt by the opening, dropping her chin
and letting her long hair fall around her face to cover her tears.

She felt a gentle hand on her head. “You did well,”
Meir said.

Zyn’dri was weary. She wanted to be in Sylvia’s
arms again, to go home to the apartment and eat morels and catfish, to walk the
trails with Walt. She wanted to go home to Yellowstone.

This single stone stood between her and her
family. She glanced up. It lay beneath the two huge slabs that formed the roof
of their tunnel, but the slabs didn’t seem to be resting on it.

Zyn’dri ignored the Stracahn around her. She
forgot about Sol and focused solely on getting through to Walt and Sylvia. She
raised her hand and began to trace, in wide loops, what she thought of as the
cauldron design.

She remembered the deep lines that formed at the edge of the
Sulphur Cauldron, remembered how the ground had crumbled. When the pattern
began to form in the rock under her fingers, she was not surprised. She made
the tay’ren broad and sweeping, feeling the fatigue in her arm. Her fingers
scraped from one side of the big stone to the other, its rough texture making
her skin sting.

Meir must have realized she was completing a tay’ren.
He spoke her name, sharply, just before the rock split and crumbled between them.

As the dust cleared, Zyn’dri left the snowy
morning behind. She crawled through the new portal, into the waiting arms of
Walt and Sylvia.

64

Sol saw every Stracahn through the opening
safely. Another quake had struck, and there was a deep creaking coming from the
slabs above the tunnel. Sol wasn’t sure how long they would stay up. The sun
shone, dazzling, on the snow as the last one ducked into the tunnel and made
her way back into the park. Sol crouched down, peering into the dim interior to
make sure she made it.

It was a natural kaleidoscope: the dark tunnel
framing the vivid Stracahn standing in the sunlight at the other end. Their
oranges and blues and yellows and greens against the snow made him blink. Meir
was still in the tunnel, his green robes blending with the shadows of the
boulders.

“Come,” Meir said, holding out his hand.

Sol hesitated. Cross illegally into the park?
There was no way.

But when a Ranger leaned into the tunnel and
called to him, it seemed more like an order than an invitation. Sol crawled in
and made his way into the brilliant light.

Snow-blind for a moment, Sol blinked it away to
see Walt Bradley standing in front of him. Tears had streaked through the dirt caked
on the old man’s face, and his bright blue eyes searched Sol’s. He tried to
speak, then reached out and pulled Sol into a hug.

Sol thought of the day, so long ago, when his
father had died on the other side of this fence. He thought of the hatred he
had felt toward the Rangers, the bitterness he had carried, and he felt those
burdens slipping away. His mind reached for them for a moment, tried to hold
them, but he realized how heavy it would be to carry those feelings all his
life and dropped each burden like a stone. The vibrancy of the Stracahn around
him, the victory over Damen, the safe, accepting space that Walt had made for him
just now, all washed the pain away.

“Thank you,” Walt managed as he stepped back. “We
thought we’d lost her.”

Sol didn’t know what to say. “Thank you. For
fighting for me when you didn’t have to.”

Sylvia and Zyn’dri stepped up and slipped their
arms around Walt. He held them close.

Syd walked up, ducking his head as he greeted
Sol. “I radioed. Karson’s on his way with spiders to take them back to their
villages.”

Walt nodded.

Syd looked uncomfortable. “Sol, I’m sorry. I—I
don’t think you should be here when he comes. Things are too unstable around
here still.”

Sol waited for the bitterness to return, but
something had happened in his mind. He saw the sense of it, saw that Syd wasn’t
trying to hurt him, was actually trying to help him. He nodded. “I’m glad they
get to go home.” He looked down at Zyn’dri. “You’re a tough kid.”

Zyn’dri hugged him. “I’m barely a kid.” She said.
“I’m eleven Earth years old.”

“Barely,” Sylvia agreed with a smile. “And a lot
more grown up than most adults.”

“Good luck in here,” Sol said, casting a gaze
around the former gate area. It was too familiar. He began to move back toward
the tunnel.

“Hey,” Syd said as if to make up for asking him
to leave, “You should volunteer here again this summer. You were the best
worker we had.”

Sol waved, an unspoken understanding between
them. “I’ll think about it.” He took one last look at the beautiful Stracahn
and walked into the dim tunnel. A rock chip the size of Sol’s palm fell next to
him, and he jumped.

He flinched again when he heard Meir’s voice.
“Don’t worry. You’ll make it through.”

The Stracahn leader stood just inside the tunnel.

Sol didn’t know whether he should bow to him or
what. He bowed, just to be safe, and Meir nodded acknowledgment. He was moving
his hand in an unusual motion as if drawing in the air. Sol didn’t ask if it
was the same thing that Zyn’dri had done to break the stone outside, but he
wanted to.

“You’re a unique person, Sol,” Meir said. “You
are a combination of many things.”

Sol supposed that was true.

“I sense connections to both to solid mountains
and ebbing tides.” Meir continued. “Unusual for your species.”

“Well,” Sol said, “I grew up by the ocean, then I
moved to the mountains.”

“Ahh.” Meir seemed to be pleased by that
information. “And other combinations.”

“My mother and father are from different races,”
Sol said, enjoying the thought of being more than he had realized.

Meir nodded. “Perhaps it is why I sense in you,”
he said, “an unusual capacity for peace and teaching. Also a depth of
compassion unique among your species.”

Sol wanted to discount that. He didn’t want to
believe that such things could be sensed, but he remembered the comfort that
his father had always carried with him. It was a tangible feeling of peace and
serenity.

An aftershock made the floor of the tunnel
tremble. Fine sand sifted down and dusted them. Meir went on. “These seismic
events, as you call them, are increasing. Zyn’dri was very quick to tell me
that she feels the Earth’s turmoil is connected to humans’ turmoil. She believes
it will not be soothed until your species is at peace, and perhaps mine, as
well.” Meir waved his free hand at Sol. “You may play an important role in
achieving that peace.”

Sol thought about yesterday’s long battle, about
the anger and hatred he had carried all these months. “I don’t know about that,
Sir.”

A cracking sound came from above them. “It is
something to consider,” Meir said softly. His eyes held a certain strain, and
though his expression hadn’t changed, Sol noticed that the hand he was moving
in the air seemed to be shaking a bit.

“Are you all right?” Sol asked.

“I will be momentarily. You must go soon, I know.
But please,” Meir said, “consider the Ranger’s offer to come back to
Yellowstone. Our people will not always remain in this park. A permanent
integration must occur if we are to truly live on this planet. And I would like
you to help us prepare to make the next integration more successful than the
first.” Meir searched Sol’s face. “Consider it, please.”

Sol was taken aback. “I will. Thank you.” He
tried not to make it sound like a question.

He saw that Meir was ready for him to leave, so
he bowed again, just in case that was the proper thing to do. He ducked back
out through the opening into the broad pasture.

Sol had worked his way through the boulders and
back toward the hauler when the tunnel collapsed, shaking the ground around him
and spewing pebbles into the air. Sol ran back toward the tunnel to see if Meir
was all right, but to his surprise, the slabs had shifted backward, and the
fault in the fence was gone. Yellowstone was again impenetrable.

He cupped his hands and shouted. “Is Meir okay?”

The reply was faint. “Yes! He’s all right.”

A thought crossed Sol’s mind. Could Meir have
been holding the tunnel up for him? Somehow? Using the same principle that
Zyn’dri had used to break the rock?

Sol thought about it on the long, quiet ride back
to the farmhouse.

During the next week, Sol didn’t have much time
to think about anything but the amount of ranch work to be done. Sol’s work had
tripled since his mother was busy mending patients in the barn and Uncle Carl
was busy mending Liberty’s relationships with the Cascadians and the
Harvesters. All three regions were embarrassed that they had been fooled by the
Consolidated Terrene Leadership, and Cascadia was quick to offer assistance to
rebuild Liberty’s damaged equipment and weaponry.

As Sol fed the cows outside and checked the Rangeright
system under the pastures, he realized he didn’t mind the work. Thought,
probably, that he would miss it when he left for Shoreline. And he was going to
Shoreline. His time with the First Avowed had convinced him of that.

If he was going to make a difference, he needed
to talk to those who had lived among the aliens before, who had known Empyriad
firsthand.

It was three weeks after the battle when he had
worked up the courage to tell Uncle Carl and his mother. They sat at the
kitchen table, where Uncle Carl was going through the mail and Molly was
working on a small, perfect quilt to send into the park for the Stracahn baby
whose life she had saved.

Sol shifted in his chair and cleared his throat.
“Listen, I want to talk to you both about something.”

Uncle Carl looked up with interest, and his mom
said, “Hmm?” around the pins she held in her mouth.

“I want to go study in Shoreline.” Sol blurted.
He instantly regretted his bluntness, but his uncle looked up with a surprising
smile.

“I never went to the University. What do we need
to do?”

Sol felt the closeness that he and Uncle Carl had
shared since he began doing things that mattered. His mother was smiling, too.

It was going so well that he kept talking. “And I
want you guys to come with me.”

Molly blinked. She looked up, searching his eyes.
Uncle Carl just laughed. “Thanks, son. But I’d better stay here and look after
the ranch. The cows don’t know I don’t have a university education, and as long
as you don’t tell them, they won’t find out.”

Sol couldn’t help but smile. He glanced at Molly,
who was looking at her quilt again, stitching furiously, not saying a word.

Sol saw Uncle Carl looking at her, too. He saw a
softness in his uncle’s eyes. Uncle Carl was more gentle than normal when he
said, “Your mom will go with you, though.”

She looked up, quickly, then back down. She took
the pins from her mouth. “Oh, Carl, I couldn’t go. You can’t take care of
everything around here.

“What do you think I did when you were off in
Shoreline the first time?” he joked. “I made my own dinner for ten years. I
think I can still remember how.” Uncle Carl’s smile faded, and he looked
earnestly at his sister. His voice was soft when he spoke again. “Go, Molly. Go
home.”

***

They left two weeks later, just in time for Sol
to begin his studies in Shoreline. Uncle Carl sent them in the hauler, and Sol
saw Molly’s tears mirrored on the face of her brother as they lifted off and
flew southwest over the mountains.

65

Zyn’dri had been home over a month, and after
participating in the Stracahn mourning services for those who had been killed
in the integration, she had settled again into the comfortable routine of
family life with Walt and Sylvia.

This morning Walt had brought home a bag of fresh
morels and a full package of bison sausage to share with his family. It had
tasted fantastic and had given them plenty of fuel for a snowshoeing trip they
were planning that afternoon.

Snow had piled deep overnight, and the cozy
apartment kept the bitter chill outside as Zyn’dri gazed out the window. The
morning was bright, and she squinted down at fresh tracks across the
snow-covered meadow below, trying to figure out what had made them.

Walt came up beside her and gave her a little
hug. “What do you see, kid?”

She pointed. “Usually, there are wolf tracks down
there, but those are too big. And they can’t be elk because they’re too close
together.  They’re not bear tracks because they’re too narrow. I can’t figure
it out.”

Walt chuckled. “They are from the most dangerous
animal of all.”

Zyn’dri put a hand on the window, trying to think
what that would be.

“Humans,” Walt said. She
could see that he was smiling, but the description was too accurate to be a
joke. She told him so.

Walt sobered quickly. “I guess you’re right.” He
said, then went quiet for a moment.

“Walt, did you patch that leak on the landing?”
Sylvia called. “I nearly broke my neck on a little patch of ice when I stepped
out the door this morning,” Walt promised he would do it.

“Come help me,” he said to Zyn’dri.

Zyn’dri held the bucket of Quickpatch while he
worked. She looked around the dismal little space. Her eyes came to rest on the
door of Caldwell’s old apartment across the landing.

“Is that supposed to be open?” she asked.

“Huh?” Walt said, glancing down to dab the brush
in the bucket she was holding.

“That door. To that other apartment. Is it
supposed to be open?”

Walt looked over at the door. She saw his gaze
shift to the floor. There, coming up the stairs and across the landing, were wet
spots the same size and spacing as the tracks she had seen in the meadow. Walt
grew very still.

“Zyn’dri, you need to go back into the apartment
and lock the door.” He said.

The tone of his voice was new to her. It was sharp,
commanding. She did as he said. When Sylvia asked what she was doing, she told
her what they had seen.

Sylvia’s hand went to her mouth. She went to the
door and opened it a crack, hissing, “Walt! Get back in here! Don’t go in there
by yourself.”

When Zyn’dri peered around Sylvia, she saw Walt
pushing open the door of the other apartment. His twister gun was drawn.

“Lock the door.” He said, and that same tone
echoed in the landing. Sylvia tried to convince him, but when he stepped into
the other apartment, she reluctantly closed the door and locked it, pulling
Zyn’dri behind her in a protective way.

The minutes were long until Walt shouted, “All
clear!”

Sylvia opened the door.

“Nobody is in there.” He said. “At least not
right now.”

“Walt, do you think it could have been—” Sylvia
stopped, and Zyn’dri knew she didn’t want to say it.

He nodded grimly. “No forced entry. Survival staples
are gone, plus the junk from his little shrine. It was definitely Caldwell.” He
slammed a palm against the doorframe. “I knew it. I knew that shot wasn’t
enough to kill him. I thought the wolves would finish the job, but that was
naïve.”

“You didn’t have a choice,” Sylvia said. “You had
to save O’neva.”

“He also took all the drugs from the drawer and that
weird paper holder or whatever it was,” Walt said.

“The cylinder you told me about?” Sylvia asked.

Zyn’dri grabbed Sylvia’s arm. “A cylinder?”

Walt looked surprised. “That’s right. About this
long,” he held up his hands, “dark gray. Have you seen one? Is it Stracahn?”

Zyn’dri shook her head. She took their hands and
pulled them into the apartment. Walt and Sylvia watched with concern as she
carefully locked the door and turned back to them. Their concern turned to
horror as she told them about Damen’s strange weapon and what it had done to
him.

Walt radioed Karson immediately and explained.

Karson swore. “I should have had that place
emptied months ago,” he said. “I just didn’t have the manpower, and with no new
Rangers coming in, I didn’t think there was any rush. I’ll put a call into the
new Agent in Charge and see what he can tell me about these cylinders. Walt,
you put out a call for everyone to be on the lookout for that maniac.”

“I’ll do that,” Walt said. A shadow had crept
into his eyes, and he and Sylvia canceled the snowshoeing trip so the three of
them could stay safe inside the walls of the apartment.

Late that afternoon, a heavy knock sounded on the
door, startling all three of them. Walt peered out the peephole and breathed a
sigh of relief. He opened the apartment door and found Meir standing outside
it.

Walt and Sylvia welcomed him in warmly. He was
alone, and he sat in a chair in the living room and stared intently at Zyn’dri.

“You are rested from your traumatic excursion?”
Meir asked.

Zyn’dri nodded. She found herself shy in the
presence of the First Avowed, partly because he now knew her secrets.

“We’re still a little confused about what
happened out there,” Walt said. “Though we’ve figured out it had something to
do with the tay’ren.”

Meir’s eyes were troubled. He shifted
uncomfortably. “I find myself in an unusual situation.” He began. “I want to
answer your questions, but I have never had occasion to discuss the tay’ren
with those who are not Avowed.”

“Much less those who are not Stracahn,” Walt
said.

Meir nodded, and there was a grateful tone in his
voice when he spoke, “That is true. Thank you for being understanding. I don’t
even know if I have the right words in your language.” He went on. “But I feel
that Zyn’dri has powerful gifts, and in order for her to develop them—” he
glanced at Zyn’dri. She knew what was coming.

“In order for us to teach her fully, all we know
about the tay’ren and the Allbeings—”

She had just regained her parents. Zyn’dri would
not lose them again. The fence had fully fused now, and they were safe in the
park, away from the terrors of the outside world. And they would keep her safe
from the dangers of the park, including Caldwell. She didn’t need the tay’ren
now. She didn’t need anything except Walt and Sylvia and Yellowstone. Zyn’dri
stood, catching Meir’s eye.

“I will not go to the Vault.”

His voice was desperate. “Zyn’dri, we need to
teach you. Please, let us share with you what we know.”

She shook her head and fell beside Sylvia on the
couch. She felt sobs welling up, and she was aware of Meir’s discomfort over
them. She would never be, she knew, fully Stracahn. But she would never be
fully human. The realization made her cry harder.

Sylvia pulled her close. “No one has said
anything about leaving us,” Sylvia spoke to Meir. “Leave the teaching for now. Can
we just discuss the tay’ren?”

Walt spoke. “Right, like how she can . . .”
Zyn’dri could tell that Walt didn’t know how to continue. “How she can crack stone?”

Zyn’dri glanced at Meir. She wanted to know, too,
the mysteries behind these symbols.

“Very well,” he said. “The tay’ren are the
patterns of life. They are all around us, on every planet, in every star, in
every universe.”

“Like the elements?” Sylvia asked, standing.
Zyn’dri stayed close to her and stood, too.

“Yes, yet even more basic. The elements
themselves contain these patterns. You have seen them yourself, Walt.”

“Right. In the clouds and the eddies of the
river. I’ve seen them in the bacterial mats and the wildflowers. They are
everywhere.”

“Yes.” Meir seemed to be warming to the topic, “Within
them lie the answers that your species and mine have spent countless millennia searching
for. Within them lie the secret to communication between species, and
connection with our planets as well as connection with beings beyond our
sphere. Within these patterns lie the secrets of health and disease, turmoil
and peace.” Meir sighed. It was a long, weary sound. “All knowledge is
connected to them.”

“And they have effects on the physical world?”

Meir sighed again. “Not effects. They are
the physical world.” He was searching for words. “They are the fundamental
units of life. They give structure to everything that exists." Meir reached for a carved wooden talisman, called a mea, attached to his sash. He pointed at the pattern on it.

“This is the genesis tay’ren. It is made of the same pattern of ellipses seen in tiny molecules and vast solar systems.”

They were nodding, but Zyn’dri could tell that
Walt and Sylvia were as confused about the mechanics of the tay’ren as she was.

Absentmindedly, Zyn’dri traced the healing tay’ren on Sylvia’s hand. It was a pattern she’d come to know well.

Meir’s eyes rested on her. Had he seen the tay’ren? Did he know what she was trying to do?

Meir answered her question. “There is great power
in the tay’ren, but also great danger.”

Danger? Zyn’dri looked at him.

“If you want to help people,” he said, without
revealing what he had seen, “you need to learn how to use the tay’ren
responsibly. You cannot expect to use them in ignorance and avoid their
destructive consequences.” Meir caught Zyn’dri’s gaze and held it.

“Zyn’dri,” he said, and his voice was solemn, “I
have something to tell you. Something which you have heard before.”

Zyn'dri looked at him. She held tightly to
Sylvia’s hand as she stood in front of the First Avowed. Her head was spinning.
There was a chance of destruction? Of danger? What if she were putting Sylvia at
risk by drawing the designs? She realized that Meir was right. She needed to
know more. Suddenly, she wanted to know everything about them.

Still, a familiar knot twisted in her chest as he
went on. "It is your choice whether to accept or not. As you know, no one
will force you. But you should understand that this is a great honor, and you
should understand, by now, that it will not go away." Meir paused,
allowing heavy silence to fill the room.

She knew, of course, what he was about to say.

"Zyn'dri, the everwatchful eyes of the
Allbeings are upon you."

Zyn’dri closed her eyes. She thought back to the
moment on the ship, standing with her first parents in this same way, hearing
these same words. She thought about the tumult in the Earth, about the semballa
and the bison. She thought about the massacre, and she thought about the
patterns of life.

Accepting the calling was as easy as speaking
four words. Zyn’dri spoke them, softly. “I will be seen.”

When she opened her eyes, she expected to see a
happiness or relief on Meir’s face, but he was stoic as usual.

She immediately regretted it.

“But I don’t want to live in the Vault,” she blurted,
her too-human emotions surfacing again. Her gaze passed from Meir to Sylvia and
back, and finally settled on Walt. He stepped forward.

“Does she have to?” he asked, searching Meir’s
face. “Can’t she live here, and we bring her to the Vault to study? Like
school?”

It took Meir so long to speak that Zyn’dri feared
she had offended him deeply.

When he finally did, his voice was unsure. “It is
our tradition, our way, to bring the Avowed to the Vault to learn.”

Zyn’dri swallowed hard.

But Meir continued. “However, Earth has required
of us many adaptations and has shown me many new ways. I know that living away
from those you love has always been something you feared, Zyn’dri. I believe
that coming to live in the Vault would be best for you, and that trying to
study there and live here may impede your connection to the Allbeings.” His
eyes were kind, “but I also believe that you have much to teach us. I do not
want you to be unhappy in your study. If you desire, you may remain here and
join the Avowed each day from morning devotions to evening devotions.”

Zyn’dri couldn’t help but smile. Walt and Sylvia
were smiling, too, and the late afternoon sun had lit the room with a golden
glow.

“The hour grows late,” Meir said. “I must return
for devotions.” He paused, then continued. “Will you,” he waved a hand, “all of
you, please join us tonight for our evening devotions? As the sun sets? At the Faithful
geyser?”

Walt and Sylvia agreed, and Zyn’dri cast her bright
smile at all of them, then remembered that her people didn’t do that. She
smoothed her face into a Stracahn expression of tranquility, then tipped her
chin up, slowly, and held it, as a symbol of joy that Meir would recognize and
be comfortable with.

He bowed his head in response.

“Thank you,” she said, then tried out his formal
title, “Vanquis.”

66

Walt stood with his wife beside Old Faithful and watched
Zyn’dri approach in a long line of Avowed. She was newly adorned in blue robes,
and Sylvia had braided her turquoise hair. Suddenly, she looked older and wiser.
Walt squeezed Sylvia’s hand, and his wife smiled back at him. A small group of
bison was making their way across the geyser basin, and Zyn’dri broke out of
line to cross to them.

Walt felt Sylvia squeezing his hand in fear as
Zyn’dri leaned into one, scratching its broad forehead.

“It’s him,” Walt murmured, “the blind bison.”

Zyn’dri patted the big animal and jogged back to
the line. She slipped in as if nothing had happened. Zyn’dri walked with a
casual stride that sometimes tripped up the serene Avowed around her, but Walt
had no doubt she would soon learn the pace.

The bison wandered off toward the trees. The line
of Avowed crossed the newly fallen snow slowly until they reached the wide
circle of stone that was cleared bare from the heat beneath the geyser. Solemnly,
with measured steps, they encircled the great geyser cone and then sat down on
the warm ground to await its sunset eruption.

Seated in the circle
between Sylvia and Zyn’dri, Walt didn’t feel as old as he was. A perfect
silence and a deep calm settled over them as they gazed at the billowing steam
rising from the earth.

From where he sat, Walt could also see columns of
steam rising from Beehive Geyser, Grand Geyser, and the newest, Bison Geyser,
created when a bison stepped through a patch of thin crust during Walt’s first
year on the job.

He watched the intricate patterns of life, the
tay’ren, swirling in the steam. The sight filled him with wonder, and with a
sense of hope as he recognized the vast reach of these designs. Walt had
thought he had learned everything he could about Yellowstone in his nearly
forty years here. And now there was more to discover.

This was the code of life.
Where human understanding ebbed and ended, this knowledge began. Jamal Laska
had followed it back through the stone of Empyriad, through the water, through
the magma, through the gasses of first life, to the heart of creation. Somehow,
he had found the spark that lit the fire of life. Zyn’dri had presented his
journals to Meir, whose reverence and awe at their contents illustrated their
worth. Meir had said that there were tay’ren inside them that were new even to
the Avowed.

Laska’s patterns, their valleys and peaks, their
swirls and eddies, were everywhere. The more Walt looked, the more he saw them.
When he looked at the seismic imaging of the magma chambers and channels that
ran beneath the park, there they were. When he looked at the curl of a bison’s
coat or the pattern of color change on an autumn hillside, there they were.
They were in the archaea, the microscopic thermophilic bacteria that gave the
thermal pools their striking colors. On every scale, in every structure, Walt
saw them.

The geyser began to erupt, and Walt breathed the damp
air as steam washed over him. Walt had lived in a world of divisions all his
life. Lines had been drawn between people, erased, and drawn anew. He had seen
barriers that kept people in and barriers that kept people out. But now he knew
the truth. If he looked hard enough, everything was connected. The sunset
glowed orange, and he saw the tay’ren in the bright stratus clouds on the
horizon and in the jets of water that leaped in jubilant pulses from Old
Faithful. Beneath it all, within them all, were woven the same patterns of
life.

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About the Author

Josi Russell is the author of the Caretaker Chronicles and the Shadows of Empyriad series of science fiction novels, as well as numerous science fiction short stories.

Her science fiction novels explore familiar human relationships in unfamiliar contexts. She currently teaches creative writing and fiction courses as an Associate Professor of English for Utah State University Eastern. She lives in the alien landscape of the high desert American Southwest with her family and a giant tortoise named Caesar.

Josi is captivated by the fields of linguistics, mathematics, and medicine, by the vast unknown beyond our atmosphere, and by the whole adventure of being human.

https://josirussellwriting.com/

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