Damia (27 page)

Isthia clucked at her. “Afra’s been very good to come as often as he has, Damia. He has other friends . . . to visit than young girls who make impossible challenges.”

“Was not impossible! Neither Larak nor I had been hit when Teval threw that stone!”

“He’s not likely to throw another,” Isthia said, her expression grim.

“Why, what did you do to him?” Damia asked with a certain understandable vindictiveness in her voice.

Isthia shrugged. “I did nothing. Didn’t have to,” and she let a smile twitch at her lips. “I wouldn’t have thought a foam ball could be flung that hard.”

“Who?”

“Larak, of course.”

“You see, it wasn’t an impossible challenge. It’s so good to make Jeran eat crow . . .”

“You eat your meal, young woman, or you’ll find me an unpleasant challenge!” Isthia said, and set down the tray.

When Damia had finished the light meal, she lay back, wondering if she
dared
ask for Afra again.

Oh, she’s all right
, Damia heard her grandmother saying, projecting tremendous relief.
And, fortunately, all she understands about that wretched game was that she and Larak won. She hasn’t an inkling of what that exhibition demonstrated of her potential.

How could she?
and Damia recognized the weaker voice of her aunt Rakella.
Not even Jeff could explain it and Angharad still doubts it.

Afra has a theory
, and Damia heard her grandmother mulling it over in her mind before she projected her answer.
He thinks that Damia is a catalyst: she steps up anyone else’s ability. Afra says that’s what she did when he rescued her from the capsule that time. THAT was why the
power surged in the Tower: Damia tapped it. He didn’t and neither did Angharad.

A Talent with an extra go-gear?
Rakella asked.

Something like that.

Then both voices drifted out of her “hearing” and she drifted off to sleep again.

*   *   *

A week after Damia was allowed back to school, she had an unexpected visitor. She was in her room wondering if she dared sneak out and visit Jupe when she heard Isthia’s voice giving directions: “Her room is the one at the end, on the left. I’ll bring down some drinks later.”

Whoever it was paused for a long while at her door.

“Well?” Damia called, her curiosity overwhelming her. Teval’s head slowly peered around the door. If the light wasn’t deceiving her, his nose was thicker and there were discolored patches and barely healed cuts on his face.

“Damia?”

“What do
you
want?” she demanded, suddenly deciding boredom was better than this guest.

Teval shook his head, entering the room. A heavy schoolbag swung from one hand, nearly dragging the carpet.

“I’ve been assigned to teach you self-defense,” he said, looking miserable.

“I can learn that watching a tape!”

“You’ve also got to pass a practical, so I got assigned as your mat partner. ’Nother thing; you’re supposed to be my teacher.”

“Your teacher?”

“Remedial language,” he mumbled, blushing in his misery. “I failed my exams.” He held out the texttape.

That didn’t surprise her, but she decided it wasn’t fair to kick someone when he was down. Damia upended the bag. “Am I supposed to teach you all these, too?”

“Not exactly. I’ve got to bring you your homework assignments and help you catch up on what you’ve missed.” He looked sheepish. “You’re taking almost all the same
stuff I am, except math and language, and you’re way ahead of me there.”

“What if I don’t want you?”

“You’ve no choice, Damia Gwyn-Raven!” Isthia called from beyond the door, entering the room with a tray of beverages and a light snack in her hands. She put the tray down and looked at her granddaughter critically. “Actually, you do,” she corrected herself. “If you don’t take Teval Rieseman here as your tutor and you don’t tutor him on those subjects assigned, we will have no choice but to release him from the Special School.”

Damia looked horrified. “Expel him?”

Isthia nodded. “Fighting is against school rules,” she said sternly. “He threw that rock without any provocation whatsoever. By rights he should already be expelled. But someone intervened on his behalf.”

Both Teval and Damia were surprised. “Who?” they asked, almost in unison.

“Afra Lyon.”

“Afra?” Damia was confused, almost angry. How could Afra do that? Didn’t he know that this was the boy who had tried to hurt her Larak? That he’d cracked her skull? Then she knew that, of course, Afra had known the whole thing. So why?

“Why?” Teval beat her in asking the question. “I thought he was her uncle.”

“He used to be my special friend!” Damia exclaimed heatedly, glaring fiercely at her grandmother to answer the question. Isthia handed her a note. Damia opened it, turned it around, frowned, turned it over, and finally looked up at Isthia.

“I can’t read it.” She handed it back to Isthia. Isthia glanced at it. “I can’t read it, either.”

Perplexed, Teval leaned over and looked at the writing. “That looks like the printing in some old books my grandfather used to have. He was Russian, I think.”

“What’s it say?”

Teval lifted his shoulders with an indifference that didn’t match the emotions which Damia suddenly felt
roiling in his mind. “I don’t know! My family was killed by the Beetles. I only recognized the script, not the words.”

Damia could feel the pain emanating from him and, while she had always thought Teval was a dork, in that unguarded instant she learned that she had misjudged him badly. He’d had a little sister, just about the same age as Larak, when the Beetles came: he’d had a mother and father, and the Russian grandfather. Now he lived with an uncle who worked too hard to have much time for his nephew. It was like Afra to know more about Teval Rieseman than she, Damia Gwyn-Raven, had bothered to find out in the years they’d spent as classmates.

“Why don’t we study Russian as your language?” she suggested gently. “Then we’ll find out what this message says.”

It took them many months and they became good friends, tho’ still not without some quarrels, when they finally translated the one-line message. It read: “Friends don’t fight with rocks.”

*   *   *

“Let’s go hunt Beetle junk!” Damia suggested one day to Larak as Deneb VIII sweltered in an unusual heat wave.

“Uncle Rhodri said he’d found all the near stuff.” Larak, at eight, sometimes questioned his sister. It was so hot, he didn’t like the idea of hunting Beetle metal. It stank and, if you touched it, it went “sting-pzzzt.” He hated the feel.

“I need new stirrup leathers and that takes cash. Uncle Rhodri pays good for Beetle metal. And I don’t have enough money. Grandmother’s stingy.”

“I’ll lend you my cash,” Larak said, more so that he wouldn’t have to go hunting than because he was generous.

“No, Larak, that’s very nice of you, but I’d rather spend money I’ve earned. And, besides, if we keep sitting here, Gran’ll discover another nice cool job for us.” She could see that that appealed to her brother. They’d already been nabbed for some dirty, dusty garden chores.

“But we’re not supposed to hunt Beetle metal unless we tell Uncle Rhodri.”

“We’ll tell him
when
we find it so he can send the ’copter to collect it,” she replied.

“Do I get to ride in the ’copter again?” Larak began to be enthusiastic now. He’d been allowed to ride back in the big navy vehicle the last time they’d found some Beetle metal. He was going to learn how to fly a ’copter when he grew older.

“If we find metal, you might,” Damia replied, not specifically promising the treat but she saw the anticipatory shine of her brother’s eyes. “Okay, here’s what we do . . .”

It was, after all, easy to slip out of the Compound, even with backsacks carrying “provisions.” She’d got hand-lights as well as food and made Larak roll up a blanket, though he’d protested that it was too hot to need a blanket.

“Well, we might just need to stay the night,” Damia said in explanation. “I’ve food enough. And the forest’s always cooler.”

Larak agreed, though he demurred when she wanted him to bring a shirt, too.

“Against branch lash,” she said curtly. “Now, go get ready. And be quiet. You know what long ears Gran has and we don’t want her stopping us with more jobs to do. Meet me at the paddock.”

So Larak went “quietly” to gather the things his sister wanted him to get. Larak liked being with Damia. Which was more than he could say about the company of his older brother and sister. For all his efforts, Larak had never been able to establish a good rapport with his older brother. He had astutely identified Cera as the source of his older brother’s apathy. Since Damia was a lot of fun to be with, he’d given up on the other two. Anyway, Jeran was now on a probationary assignment to Deneb Tower, taking on-the-job training, and Cera, moping about the place without him, was no fun to be around at all.

They met at the paddock where the ponies drowsed in the heat of the afternoon.

“Now, we know there’s nothing to the east, south, or west of us because Uncle Rhodri says those directions are all clear of sting-pzzzt,” Damia said, “so we’ll go north, through the woods, which will be cooler. No one’s really done much that way. Not even Jeran when he organized his search party.” She was slightly contemptuous because Jeran had been so
sure
that he’d find tons of the stuff. “So, let’s be off!”

Taking Larak’s hand, she struck off across the paddock, and into the first of the trees.

They were panting from the heat, but the moment they got in the shade, they could feel an appreciable difference in the torrid heat of the day.

“Hey, it’s cooler,” he exclaimed, delighted.

“Told you it would be. Come on!”

Damia led on, weaving her way due north, with little variation despite the press of trees. She signaled their first break when they crossed one of the logging roads. Revived by the rest and drinks from their travel bottles, they continued.

Larak would have liked to stop longer and enjoy the coolth, but Damia insisted that they wouldn’t find any Beetle metal this close to the Compound. And no Beetle metal meant no ’copter ride. Larak got to his feet and trudged along behind her.

When they came to a brook, gushing down a rocky bed, Larak did insist that he had to cool himself down. So they shucked out of their clothes and splashed about in the pool. Damia shared out one of their sandwiches and ordered him to fill his canteen again.

Shortly after they resumed their march, they broke through the forest into a lovely mountain pasture. They quartered this because Damia thought it the very spot where Beetle metal might have dropped. Then she had to explain to Larak, once more, how their mother and father had destroyed the Beetle ships, breaking them open and scattering the pieces far and wide, thus saving the whole world, and beyond.

By then they had reached forest again and, of course,
had to sit to enjoy the coolth, have a cool drink, eat a few biscuits. The sun was lowering, but Damia knew they had a good few hours of daylight.

“We’ll find a cave, with a stream,” Damia told her brother as he gamely plodded on behind her. “We’ll have a great night out.”

“When’ll we find Beetle metal?” Larak asked plaintively.

“Why we could trip over it any time now.”

“I don’t want to
trip
over it.”

“Well, then, let’s just concentrate on locating some good sting-pzzzt’s, huh?”

Obediently Larak cast his mind about and that kept him occupied until the blister on his left heel began to do the stinging.

“I gotta stop, ’Mia. I gotta blister.”

“We’ll stop when I’ve found us a cave and a stream so you can stoop that blister cool,” Damia said, with a patient sigh over Larak’s blister.

She hoped he could hang on a while longer. She had no idea how far they had tramped, but it wasn’t far enough, for they hadn’t found Beetle metal yet. She was determined to find some. Meanwhile, raising her forearm, she rubbed her forehead dry of sweat and, shifting her backpack, went on.

Larak was a real trooper, she thought, when she saw him limping though he didn’t complain. He was the best brother. She was getting a bit anxious about a suitable camping site. Uncle Rhodri had taught all his young relatives basic woodsmanship when he’d organized his Beetle metal hunts.

They found the stream first, so Damia suggested that Larak take off his boots—the cold water would ease his blister—and they’d walk upstream until they found a campsite. Maybe not a cave, but a nice clearing.

By the time Larak had slipped and fallen into the stream four times, and bruised his toes, he was ready to quit just when they rounded a bend and found that an old rockslide had indeed formed a sort of cave.

“What if there’re animals?” Larak protested nervously, peering into the shadowed opening.

Damia had not considered that aspect and was miffed. Uncle Rhodri had shown them tapes of all the animals on Deneb, mainly small, but some had poisonous bites. Some nocturnal species could be most unpleasant, trying to creep into a camper’s sleepsac. But they only had blankets with them. Nevertheless, caution was advisable. She pulled the handlight from her belt and shone it into the cave. Carefully she looked in every corner. “See? Nothing there! Now, let’s get this camp organized. I’ll get us firewood, you can set out our supper.”

The first attempt at fire starting did not go well. They had built it in the cave which immediately filled with smoke. So, against Damia’s better judgment, they built another fire, in front of the cave. Soon they had a good roaring blaze going. And none too soon, for night had fallen and the woods closed in about them, with only the gap above the stream to let in starlight.

They happily munched on the rest of their sandwiches before Damia grandiosely extracted a half sack of marshmallows from her sack, scrupulously divvying them up. Larak limped over to a sapling to pull long enough branches to roast the marshmallows on.

“Now,” Damia said, dropping her voice into the creepiest tone she could affect, “all we need is a good ghoulie story!” Just then her marshmallow fell off her stick. “Rats!”