Reaping (10 page)

The girl shrugs. “The storm that will blow in by late afternoon. I help people, all kinds of people, get from place to place in the Wilds without getting hurt. So long as they’re on the right side, that is.” Her expression turns dark. “Sometimes those that call for help don’t have the best of intentions. Vale here,” she nods at me, “called for my help last night, so I came.”

Kenzie shoots me a look that says clearly, 
We’ll talk about this later.
 To the girl: “What do you mean, ‘called for you’?”

“He’s got a beacon,” she says, pointing at my chest. I make no move to pull out the pendant. “When you activate it, it’ll summon the nearest wayfarer in the area. In this case,” she grins cheekily, revealing a large dimple on her left cheek, “me.”

“Why should we trust you?” Kenzie demands. “We don’t even know who you are.”

The girl sighs. Her facial expressions seem to change as rapidly as the weather in April.

“Look, you can either try to get to Normandy on your own, following your dumb Sector maps, and get caught out in one of the biggest winter storms of the season—I’m personally betting on twenty centimeters or more—or I can get you there in half the time. I know all the best shortcuts,” the girl says with a laugh.

“We’ll come with you,” I say abruptly, glancing over at Kenzie.

“Oh, and you’re suddenly in charge here, is that it?” There’s an edge to Kenzie’s voice. Judging by the look in her eyes, the trust I’d built with her over the course of our trip is dying fast. The strange girl rolls her eyes and pulls her hood over her head, turning her back to us.

“You two can bicker alone. I’m starving. But remember, that storm won’t wait for you to fight it out.”

She bends down next to the tree behind her, and starts rummaging through a pile of dead leaves under which she’s hidden a well-camouflaged backpack, and pulls out a slab of salted meat. Sliced. She pulls one off and takes a bite. I instantly start salivating.

“Kenzie,” I turn and grab her arm before she disappears into her tent. “We can trust her.”

“How do you know that?” Kenzie rounds on me, her voice a loud whisper. “How do you know she’s not from the Sector? If you called to her, why didn’t you consult the rest of us beforehand?”

“She’s not from the Sector,” I insist, ignoring the issue of the beacon for now. “I think she’s an Outsider.”

“Oh, great.” Kenzie crosses her arms across her chest. “She’s an Outsider. Because 
that
 makes her trustworthy.”

So Kenzie, too, is a party to the stigma against the Outsiders. They’re not looked upon kindly in the Sector, and never have been. They’re seen as foreigners, strangers, dangerous men and women who live in a lawless, disorganized society. And that was 
before
 my mother pinned the “terrorist attack” against a classroom full of students on them. After that, many in the Sector called for us to hunt them down and kill them all.

I remember with a slight shock of surprise that it was General Aulion who argued against that.

“Remember when Remy and Soren told you about the man who helped them escape? He was an Outsider. He’d been my aide for a long time.” Her brows are furrowed so deeply it’s giving 
me
 a headache, but at least she’s listening. “He was a member of my mother’s Black Ops, but he was really an Outsider. He risked everything to get them out. And this girl is a friend of his.” I hesitate. “I think.”

“Your uncertainty isn’t exactly reassuring, Vale.” She glares at me. “Show me this beacon thing.”

I touch the pendant through my shirt but don’t pull it out. I won’t show it to Kenzie just to prove a point. “You’ll either believe me or you won’t. The Outsiders aren’t evil terrorists, Kenzie. That’s just what the Sector wants everyone to think.”

“I know that. But she’s so 
strange
,” Kenzie says. “And I don’t like how much she knows about us. It’s unnerving.” She looks sideways at the girl sitting on her fallen log. She looks as if she’s paying no attention to us, but I’d bet my life she’s listening to every word.

“Let’s ask Firestone and Jahnu,” I offer.

Five minutes later, Jahnu and Firestone are up, though it took Firestone at least a dozen swear words to get him there. Jahnu’s watching the girl with a cocked eyebrow and crossed arms, and I admit I’m not surprised he’s fascinated with her. The girl, however, looks totally disinterested in us. She’s got a little v-scroll out in front of her, and is reading it intently while Kenzie changes the bandage on Firestone’s burnt shoulder.

“So, you got an airship around here, then?” Firestone asks hopefully.

“No airship this time,” she says, once again changing her attitude as quickly as I can blink. In a half second she’s on her feet, gathering her cloak around her, a wild smile on her face. “Still have to walk. I tried to bring horses, but there weren’t enough to spare in the area. You gonna come with me, then?”

“What’s your name?” Firestone asks.

“I can’t tell you. Wayfarers work anonymously, to protect us from the Sector—and who knows what else in the Wilds.”

“What the hell’re we supposed to call you—hey you, wayfarer person?” Firestone says.

“Since this Valerian here has a beacon, someone must have trusted 
him
 enough to give it to him.” Her voice is lighthearted, but her eyes narrow and look almost treacherous. She could definitely be dangerous. “So I guess I can show you my symbol and you can figure out my name, or not, from there.” She pulls her cloak up over her back to show the wire-thin black tattoo on her shoulder. It’s a bird of some sort, with majestic wings bent into a W shape. There are some wavy lines below it—water, perhaps?

I notice she’s keeping her forearms close to her sides, so we can’t see the lines crisscrossing up her skin.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Hmmm.” She pauses, puts a thin finger on her cheek as if considering something of great import, and then grins impishly. “Can’t tell ya.”

“Is that a wayfarer’s symbol or are you the only one with that particular tattoo?” She shakes her head at me.

“Can’t tell ya that, either. Time to stop asking silly questions.”

“How’d you get that scar?” Firestone asks, gesturing to her cheek. Though I would never have asked her such a personal question, Firestone’s never been one to adhere to propriety.

“Ah.” Her voice is suddenly heavy. “That is 
not
 a silly question. But I won’t tell you now. You may learn, one day. But with any luck, today won’t be the day.”

Firestone stares at her in bewilderment, and I can’t keep the surprise off my face, either. But the strange girl seems not to notice. She shoulders her small rucksack and eyes us expectantly.

“Follow me if you dare!”

“Wait,” I say. “We have to pack up.”

Firestone looks around at us. “Do we trust her?”

“Yes,” Jahnu says decisively. He stands and takes Kenzie’s hand. “I don’t know why, but I do.” Kenzie sighs and shrugs in response.

“Vale?” Firestone asks.

“She’s our best option. Not that I know what option that is, precisely.”

The wayfarer, as she calls herself, after refusing to give up her name, watches us imperiously as we quickly break camp, as if we’re the slowest, dullest creatures she’s ever come across, and then, when we’re finally ready to go, she turns without a word and leads us through the growing dawn.

As the morning stretches on, I’m struck by how well she knows these woods. We’re moving fast because she knows where all the deer paths are, well-worn trails that make walking about ten times quicker than picking our way around or hacking our way through the underbrush. Still she takes the time to point out where to find water, what sorts of plants grow nearby, and which are edible, poisonous, and medicinal. At one point, she peeks into a cave she claims is the lair of a two-meter long adder.

“I didn’t know we had adders this far north,” Kenzie challenges.

“This one’s a rarity,” the girl says, giving Kenzie a mischievous smile. “But I started tossing mice to him and now he’s my biggest fan.” I don’t know whether she’s being facetious or telling the truth, but somehow the idea of her throwing wriggling mice to an enormous snake doesn’t seem far-fetched.

Every now and then, I see the silvery flash of light from her astrolabe, but she’s stealthy about it. It’s always tucked out of sight by the time she turns around. Even though she’s constantly checking our route, it’s hard to keep up with her. Firestone especially is having a hard time. I know he must be in constant pain from his shoulder burns, but the girl doesn’t seem to care, pressing on with the intensity of a hungry animal on the trail of a fleeing dinner. She perks up at the sound of a gurgling stream long before any of us notice it, and lets us break for lunch at the water’s edge. We refill our skins, treat the water with our filters, and enjoy a good long drink. While we rest, she darts around picking herbs from the bank of the stream and crushes them into Firestone’s canteen.

“Lavender, feverfew, skullcap.” She hands the skin back to Firestone, looking proud of herself. “It’ll help you with the pain and ease any headache or dizziness you might have.”

“How do you know all that?” Firestone asks, eyes widened.

The girl touches her shoulder, mirroring the wound on Firestone’s body, pushing her jagged honey hair from her face.

“Severe burn, Bolt wound, dehydration. Doesn’t take a genius, now, does it?”

She reminds me of my virtual assistant, my C-Link, Demeter. They share a cheekiness and a fondness for showing off. Though Demeter was really nothing but a sophisticated computer program, she was, for a few months, one of my best friends.

The girl is careful to keep her arms tucked out of sight and under her cloak. I imagine she’s not keen to have everyone asking about the scarred lines weaving their way across her skin.

By nightfall, she estimates we’ve walked about thirty kilometers, and says we should be at Normandy by midmorning the day after tomorrow. The temperature has dropped sharply and we’re all keeping our eyes on the wind, hoping we won’t get the storm she mentioned earlier. “It’s just taking its time,” the wayfarer says, sniffing the wind like a dog. Before we pitch our tents, she insists we all set traps, and even asks Firestone to show her how he sets his. They begin chatting about trapping like they’re long lost friends, and she seems impressed.

I’m the last to return from setting my trap—my fingers were so cold I wasn’t able to wrap the twine properly—and when I get back, there’s a small fire going and our wayfarer guide has laid everyone else’s socks to dry on a nearby stone.

I peel off my boots with a groan and shake them out.

“Gross,” Firestone says. “Those smell worse than a dead skunk.”

The wayfarer wrinkles up her nose. “Nothing smells worse than a dead skunk.”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m thinking we’re all getting pretty damn close to dead skunk territory.

“Speak for yourself. I’m fresh as a spring rose,” she says with a grin.

Once we’d set up the tents the night before, we’d agreed to take turns on watch and I’d taken first shift, and she’d taken second. I heard her and Jahnu trading places sometime in the night, and felt her open the tent flap and crawl in, squeezing her small frame in between Firestone and I and immediately falling asleep. Now, she’s up, rustling around outside and building a small morning fire.

When I step out from the tent, she holds up two skinned possums with a wide smile.

“Got them from the traps,” she says, and with no further ado she begins preparing the meat for roasting.

We press on as soon as our breakfast is over, but the lightness in the morning sky turned out to be a false hope. By noon, it’s clear there’s a storm bearing down on us. The wind picks up, the temperature continues to drop, and a light flurry swirls around us. We stop to pull out extra layers from our packs and then keep going, battling against the stinging wind as the wayfarer pushes us forward.

“No choice but to push through the night now!” she shouts as evening closes in on us. “We’re less than five kilometers from the base. You can do it!” she howls at Firestone, who looks murderous. Jahnu and I had taken turns with his pack earlier, but Firestone insisted he do his part and had taken it back. Now, it’s clear he needs to give it up again.

“Here,” I say. “My turn to carry your pack.” Firestone doesn’t argue this time, but instead of me taking the full load, Kenzie suggests we split up the weight. She empties Firestone’s stuff, divides it into three piles, and then jams the contents in our packs. “We can leave your pack here, hide it in the leaves.”

“This is as good a place as any to rest a bit,” our guide says. “Might as well finish off our rations.” Huddled together and shivering, we polish off what’s left of the possum. Then she takes Firestone’s empty pack and disappears into the darkness. It’s no time at all before she returns with a set of little lamps, five warming packs, and a packet of dried fruit and nuts that, for all I know, she could have teleported from an Outsider camp. She hands each of us a warming pack and we crack them, releasing the energy, and tuck them under our clothes.

“There’re only three lamps, so you’ll have to share,” she says. “But they’ll help guide us as we walk. We have emergency drop points for supplies in case one of our wayfarers ends up in a bad spot, like this one. I left the extra pack there. It’ll come in handy sometime.” She creases her brows at Firestone, who’s in so much pain at this point he’s stopped swearing. “There’re no good shelters in the area, or I’d say we could tuck in and get out of the weather. We could use your heating tents again, but if the temperature keeps dropping they won’t do much good, and if it snows like I think it’s going to, it will be harder going tomorrow anyway. So we have no choice but to go on.”

Firestone nods through bleary eyes and wipes his forehead with his good arm.

“I'm not dead yet.”

We trudge on.

6 - REMY

Winter 35, Sector Annum 106, 03h44

Gregorian Calendar: January 24