Turning Point (3 page)

He awoke many hours later, stiff, cold, and with a head pounded by a thousand angry demons. His limbs ached in every joint as he tried to pull himself toward the entrance. Through the tiny gap he had left, he could see that although it had stopped snowing, the sky remained an ominous slate color.

Shivering, he pushed back his blockade and crawled out into the snow. The light was fading and he judged it to be close to night. Tentatively he probed the depth of the icy white mass with his good leg: it was not going to be easy, the drifts were almost up to his knees. Sighing, he crouched carefully down onto the ground. Perhaps the snow would numb the wound's fire. He was reluctant to look at it for fear of what he might see.

Father? thought Kusac incredulously. No. It can't be him, he's too far away to reach me. I'm just imagining things. “Still,” he said aloud, “it isn't a bad idea. I have never tried using my Talent to control pain.”

He shuffled his feet in the snow, trying to balance comfortably on all fours. Taking a few deep breaths and stilling his mind, he reached, trying to locate the pain centers in his brain. Several odd sensations coursed through him as he searched, but when all the myriad aches began to slowly fade, he knew he had found the right area. How blessed was that release! Until that moment, he had not realized how much he had been suffering. He opened his eyes and staggered slightly before regaining his balance.

“I might just make the settlement now,” he murmured, starting to plod onward, his legs dragging furrows behind him.

Try to avoid extremes in all things. Extreme eating or drinking can kill you just as effectively as extreme weather. Snow will cling to your body, increasing its weight, making you sweat. Then you will lose body heat. Desiring to rest, your body will force you to continue. Either way, you will soon die unless someone aids you,
his father's voice droned pedantically.

Great,
thought Kusac wryly.
So what do I do about it? Why can't you give me some more sensible advice? I haven't got the time to chat!

He was suddenly jarred back to reality as his feet scrabbled for a hold before sliding from under him. He was catapulted downhill, tumbling faster and faster, the sky and snow whizzing about him until he was brought to an abrupt and sickening halt by a large concrete slab projecting upright out of the snow.

Kusac groaned and lay slumped where he had come to rest. He was losing control; pain waves began to swamp him. Grimly, he reached out again, strengthening his hold until the pain receded once more. Something wet and sticky was running into his eyes. Putting his hand up, he brought it down covered with blood.

Ice will stop a wound from bleeding,
came the cool reminder, and Kusac obediently laid his head on the freezing ground that was at once his enemy and his friend.

Despite the nausea that rippled through him, he had to rise eventually. Although he could not feel it, he knew that the snow was draining him of all warmth. The ground beside the concrete slab felt harder and firmer than that over which he had been traveling. His vision still blurred, he .peered at it. There was writing.

Lifting his head, he saw that this flatter ground wove downhill to a cluster of faint lights in the valley below. He was on the road to the settlement.

Vartra be praised,
he thought, lurching away from the stone and onto the roadway. Great was the danger of being seen, but greater still was a repetition of his fall.

Now the going was easier. Instead of having to pick his way across unseen and uneven ground, he knew that he had a continuous flat surface beneath him. The downhill slope, though fairly steep, was actually an advantage. He could intermix sliding cautiously with walking, thus making better headway.

“Yes, Father,” said Kusac dryly. He knew all about these things, had since early childhood. Why did his father keep lecturing him on the obvious?

Behind him he heard the mechanical screeching and whining of another groundcar. Instantly he bunched his muscles and leapt for the cover of the bushes growing at the roadside, trying to stifle his cry of pain at the sudden movement. The car passed and he emerged again to continue his painful slithering walk.

The settlement was a collection of some twenty or so houses facing one another across a broad roadway. Behind each was a fairly large area of cultivated ground. As yet he had no idea which house he wanted: the girl's mind had been in too much turmoil for him to find the information he required. It had been difficult maintaining contact with her at all throughout his journey. The link was strong enough for him to trace her to the settlement, but not for him to pinpoint her home. He had to call her to him.

Pushing his way into one of the gardens, he spotted a small wooden hut far enough away from the house for him to investigate without being seen. He limped over and, leaning against the door, pulled himself upright. With fingers so numb he could hardly move them, he pulled at the restraining bolt. It slid back with a bang. Quickly he slipped inside, pulling the door closed and securing the latch. It was a toolshed, smelling of dried onions, rows of them hung from hooks set into the wall. In the far corner he could see a pile of rags and a large wooden box. Gratefully he limped across and sat down. On closer inspection the rags turned out to be sacks woven from thick vegetable fibers.

He could feel the pain beginning to steal back into his body. Already his head was aching with the effort of trying to maintain his control. Time was running out quickly now.

Rolling a couple of sacks into a wad, he placed it under his injured leg, propping it up slightly. Pulling some more free, he wrapped them round his shoulders to cushion his back against the crate. He also figured out that the tantalizingly familiar odor he had been smelling for the last few minutes originated from the box. Easing himself up slightly, he thrust his hand inside, grasping hold of one of the round, hard objects it contained. An apple! Ravenously he bit into it, aware as he did so how dry his mouth had become.

His eyes refused to stay open any longer and reluctantly he decided not to have a fourth apple. This was the part he was dreading. To be sure of reaching the girl, he had to utilize all his Talent, relinquishing his control over the pain. He was exhausted beyond endurance and knew he could not have made it this far without the control. Whether or not he could remain conscious long enough to make contact he had no idea, but he had to try now. That he'd managed to make it this far was a miracle. He'd come within a whisker of being found by those Alien soldiers. Why they hadn't seen him, he'd never know.

Shutting his eyes, he lay down, making sure that he was well covered. Cautiously, he allowed his mind to relax, trying not to shock himself into unconsciousness with the influx of pain. He was pleasantly surprised: it was not as awful as he had imagined. Oh, there were aches in every limb and joint and he could hardly move his pounding head, but there was no pain at all from his leg. That was bad.

My leg must be worse than I thought.
He pressed a hand to his face, feeling how hot he was. Almost immediately he started to shudder again.

The fever,
he thought.
No wonder I was so thirsty! I must reach the girl.
Hurriedly he strengthened the link between them, making it narrower until he knew that he had penetrated her mind. Her thoughts were flooded with confused images slowly meandering through her subconscious and he had almost begun to panic when he realized she was deeply asleep. A drug induced sleep, if her slow alpha rhythms were anything to go by. There was no way of reaching her until she awoke. Too utterly spent to even curse fate, he withdrew, leaving her to sleep on in peace.

A drink, she needed a drink. She reached out and began to grope along her bedside table for the glass, but before she could reach it her hand was taken and held.

“What is it, Carrie? What do you want, love?” Meg asked, her voice so quiet Carrie almost had to strain to hear it.

She tried to speak and found she couldn't. Confused, she attempted to pull her hand free. A small, faraway portion of her mind was trying to panic, but it was too much effort. With a struggle, she managed to open her eyes and Meg's familiar face swam into view, the image losing its blurred edges after a few seconds.

Antiseptic. Why did her room smell of antiseptic? Frowning slightly, she slowly turned her head to look around. Everything seemed the same, was in the same place, so what was different?

She looked back at Meg and wondered why the woman was holding someone's hand, a hand that was heavily bandaged.

“Wa ...” was all she was able to croak as her thirst reasserted itself.

“Water? Of course, my dear,” said Meg, reaching over to pick up the glass. “No, let me,” she said, holding it up to Carrie's mouth as the hand in hers twitched slightly.

A mouthful and her thirst was quenched.

“Now you just lie down and go back to sleep again,” said Meg soothingly. “There's nothing to worry about, you're absolutely safe.”

Safe?
thought Carrie.
Of course I'm safe. Why shouldn't I be?

Meg leaned forward to replace the glass.

Carrie croaked a negative and reached out to stop her.

“More? Here you are,” Meg said, holding it toward her again.

Carrie turned her face aside and reached for it herself. Her hand! It was
her
hand that was bandaged. She turned frightened eyes to Meg, knocking the glass aside as she jerked back in panic.

“Oh, Carrie,” said Meg, reaching both hands forward to gently cradle her face, “it's all right, love. You're safe. The worst is over. Believe me, it's all right.”

No, it's not,
her mind said as she tried to push through the mist that was fogging her thoughts.
It's all wrong.

“Jack Reynolds has given you a sedative; just rest, love. Sleep a little longer and when you wake again, everything will be fine.”

“Elise? What happened?” she croaked, wincing at the pain in her hands as she clutched Meg's arm.

Meg hesitated.

“She was caught, Carrie. The Valtegans caught her trying to steal something for the guerrillas.”

Fear and loss began surging in again, threatening to overpower her as she started to retreat from what Meg said. Then she felt her mind grasped firmly and held.

“The link between you and Elise was so strong this time, love, that you've suffered some of her hurts. Jack'll come and explain it to you when you've rested, but you're fine, you're in no danger, believe me. I'll stay here with you and watch while you sleep,” said Meg, releasing her.

Despite the hold on her mind, terror still fluttered on harshly beating wings; the blackness again threatened to engulf her. Elise! She had to find her twin. She couldn't be dead. If only she looked....

The voice inside her head shocked her into immobility. Whose mind was touching hers? Who was able to talk to her?

Live for me. I need you, don't leave me. Sleep for now and regain your strength.
It wasn't a suggestion, Carrie discovered as the same lassitude as before spread through her aching body and, against her will, her eyes began to close.

 

This time the room was empty. Carrie tried to lever herself into a sitting position, wincing anew at the agony in her hands. Once she'd sat up, she began to explore her body to find the sources of the pain.

Everything seemed to take an age, so muzzy was her brain.

Jack's sedative must still be working,
she thought.

Without undoing the bandages—which was beyond her because of the state of her hands—she couldn't tell the extent of her injuries. She was, however, able to ascertain that she probably had a broken rib, plus multiple bruising and lacerations on her arms and around her face. Wryly, she decided not to bother checking in the mirror for the present. She knew from her past experiences what bruising of Elise's face looked like on hers.

Elise. Funny, thinking of her twin didn't trigger off the waves of panic like last time. In a detached way she searched inside her mind in that place where Elise had been, and found ... something. What, she wasn't sure, but something, or someone, was there.

A noise from outside diverted her, and she turned her head toward the window.

She had to get up. There was something she had to do if only she could remember what it was: if only the drug wasn't clouding her thinking. The drug. She had to fight it and force herself to get up.

With an effort, she pushed back the bedclothes and struggled to swing her legs round and over the bed. Thank God she was wearing her pajamas! All she needed to do was pull on her coat, then she could go outside.

She struggled to her feet, forcing her mind to push back the woolly confusion caused by the remnants of the sedative still in her system.

Her slippers were under the bed. They weren't suitable for wearing outside, but at least they covered her bare feet. With each step she took, she found herself able to think more clearly and movement became a fraction easier. From her wardrobe she pulled out the first coat that came to hand and wrestled into it, the effort and pain causing her to swear profusely. Several times she thought of giving up and going back to bed, but the compulsion to go outside was getting stronger and her curiosity, if nothing else, would not let her give in.