Last Train to Clarkesville
Sharon Lee & Steve Miller
Now
He was big, and strong, and peaceable. Nobody was expecting a fight.
Nobody expected him to knock down one deputy, much less two, or take off running, and if they’d ever even thought about his pony, they sure hadn’t expected the bolt of hoofed lightning that answered his whistle, nor the ease with which a big man could swing into a saddle from a dead run.
Meld and Questa were gone before the second deputy lumbered to his feet.
Out of town.
And on the wrong side of the law.
* * *
“Meld Ketchaskin, perilous man, and dangerous outlaw? What the hell, Hammer?”
Daol was often sarcastic, but rarely baffled. That was he was baffled now wasn’t helping Meld’s feelings any.
“Wasn’t my doing,” Meld muttered, which Daol heard, the hat’s pickup being just that good.
“Resisting arrest. Reward for information. Wait. . . ”
Rustling sounds. Meld touched the button in his left ear, turning down the noise from the weather station so he could listen to the land. They’d left town in the middle of the afternoon, it was just now past dawn. Questa’s all-night tölt had gotten them well into the outback. This time of year, the wohdum herds were free-range, and it was his intention to find himself a pod and ride with them a while, confusing his trail.
He figured to work around to his hideout. His ma had taught him to plan for the worst contingency, and if that hideout wasn’t never needed again, he could die happy.
“Hammer”—Daol sounded grim—“there’s a posse on the next train outta Clarkesville, and a general yell gone out for the Co-opers. Kitcity Spaceport’s locked down.”
Meld was inclined to be insulted. The new sheriff didn’t have any better idea than Meld would break for the spaceport, where he had known kin and connections?
“Gotta cover the obvious, I guess,” he said. Daol snorted.
“So, what the hell, Hammer?”
“Rustling,” Meld said flatly.
There was a longer silence than the lag counted for.
“Who swore it?”
“Who you think swore it?” Meld snarled. “Dorlamun!”
“Right,” Daol said. “Got an update to set loose. Weather comin’. Stay safe, Hammer.”
* * *
Posse behind him, out of Dernwall—that was a worry. Range-folk, who lived on their ekwins, they’d be moving fast. On the other hand, they weren’t riding Questa, descendant of one of the thirty-seven survivors of the so-called “failed” Rangemaster Project. Questa would have to rest, eventually, though not for long. The Cheston-derived range ekwins the posse rode would have to rest sooner, and longer. Not too worried about the back posse, was Meld.
No, the real worry was the train out from Clarkesville. He had to get over the tracks and up into the High Dust before that train came through, with a fresher posse ready to go.
Meld shifted in the wohdum-hide saddle—so Questa knew for sure that he meant to do this—and headed them into the shortcut.
Dangerous damn shortcut—Windpipe Alley—a gulch that became a gully that got real thin before opening out into sere prairie where the train tracks were the big news. Make the kind of time they were making, cross the tracks there before the posse’s train came through—that was the plan.
The shortcut—you didn’t want to get caught by weather in the shortcut. Bad wind came up and you and your ekwin were skeletons drifted over with dust.
Meld cast an eye skyward, not especially liking what he was seeing, and leaned forward in the saddle, giving Questa her head while he tapped the button in his ear.
“Derecho warning Sennapee range and Dernwall.” Daol’s official weatherman recorded voice was flat and firm. “Seek shelter.”
Meld look up at the sky again, as the walls rose higher, and the way got thinner. They were in the gully already.
Could be they’d beat the storm.
Two Weeks Ago
Fel Din kor’Entec Clan Savio looked up from his screen and out the window. Not senior enough to command a view of the garden; still, looking at the city stretching away to the horizon gave some relief from the risk analysis that was his current labor. Let it be known that Qe’andra Fel Din kor’Entec found risk analysis. . . boring.
Well. He was nearly through, and once he was done, there was that lovely bit of technical research to—
“Fel Din.”
He hastily moved his attention from the window to his office door, rising as he did so.
“Master dea’Varge.” He bowed to the firm’s senior qe’andra, trained on Liad by the dea’Gauss himself, who was standing in his doorway, case folder in hand.
Why she had chosen to leave the homeworld and establish a firm on Wraithbone in the Relpek System remained a mystery to her juniors, though Fel Din had heard her say that qe’andra, like Healers, went where they were needed.
“Please,” Fel Din said, straightening, and indicating the chair next to his desk, “sit. May I bring you a cup of tea?”
“No need, no need,” said the master with an inclination of her white head. “My part is merely to deliver you a new assignment, which touches upon your specialty.”
Fel Din did not frown—to openly show puzzlement would be disrespectful—even as he thought, My specialty? And then, My specialty!
Unlike Master dea’Varge, Fel Din had been born on Wraithbone, and served his apprenticeship at dea’Varge and McGill Law Accounting. At the end of that apprenticeship, he had been required to produce an Independent Complete Case Assessment. He had chosen to find whether the spaceleather industry could not be made more efficient from the supply side. This work had taken him to Medway, a primitive situation even from Wraithbone’s modest height. He had, perforce, become an expert in wohdum herding, ekwin breeding, on-site treatment of raw drops, and the costs—financial, environmental, human—associated.
dea’Varge and McGill had accepted his ICCA, and hired him as a qe’andra with a specialty in Medway Ecological Finance.
It was not, truth told, a specialty much sought after. If Master dea’Varge had a project in hand that required his specialty, it would be the first time in his nearly twelve years with the firm.
“I am,” he said to Master dea’Varge, “surprised.”
“Yes,” she said. “Suzan and I were surprised, as well.”
She extended the folder, and he went ’round the desk to receive it.
“Thank you,” he said, bowing again.
Master dea’Varge inclined her head and left him.
* * *
An hour later, the risk analysis at last completed, Fel Din was surprised again.
He made a cup of tea and opened the folder. Clan Ayrlee was a client of long standing. Their interest was real property, their sources. . . varied, and their melant’i firm. They looked toward an honest advantage, rather than outright piracy, and always forwarded those items they found interesting to dea’Varge and McGill, for vetting. Fel Din had worked on several such vettings over the years, and immediately saw why this particular offering had caught Ayrlee’s attention.
He sipped tea and read the prospectus, which was suspect on its face.
Two parcels for sale on Medway, where land was never for sale. The largest percentage of land was held in common under the terms of a ninety-nine-year covenant, reserved for the needs of the wohdums. A slightly smaller percentage was held by the breeders of ekwins—necessary to the herding of wohdums and cattle. The human population lived on the scraps left over after those two vital industries were served.
So, land for sale on Medway was—not likely. Fel Din flipped to the next page, and choked on his tea.
He knew the properties in question. He had learned the fine points of raising Cheston ekwins, and how to ride one, also, on what was noted as Parcel One.
Parcel Two. . .
Fel Din reached for his comm, and tapped the button for his supervisor. She answered at once.
“I must travel to Medway on the Ayrlee prospectus,” he said, already making a mental list of what to take with him. “There is some urgency.”
“Go,” said his supervisor. “dea’Varge left word that you have full authority on the Ayrlee prospectus.”
Fel Din pressed his lips together.
Surprised, indeed.
He went.
Now
The air was thick with dust, even down in the gully. Meld pulled his wohdum-hide hat down closer over his face. The weather station was on the ear button—recorded derecho warning every seven minutes.
Meld thought about getting out his handheld and taking a look at a map, and then thought better of it. They’d beat the storm or they wouldn’t.
Questa’s withers twitched, a warning that something wasn’t quite right ahead. Meld squinted into the flying dust.
Could be they were close enough to the end of the gully that Questa was catching the vibration of the automated engines that ran fresh ore from the Hampstead chrome beds to the forges at Sennapee?
Now, though—now he heard something odd. Not wheels on track, not the warning bell. Something high and irregular. Meld moved his shoulders in his wohdum-hide duster. Probably just the wind whistling through the rocks, or turning dried gulch flower canes into flutes.
Questa shivered, and leaned into a gallop, bursting out of the gully and into the flatlands.
It was hard to see with so much grit and dust in the seesawing wind. The train track ought to be—
But there was another reason he couldn’t see the track, Meld realized, even as Questa pranced beneath him.
The prairie between them and the track was full of wohdums. He could smell them now, as the wind whipped in the right direction for half a heartbeat before changing again.
He’d been looking for wohdums, that was part of his plan. It was Wander Season, after all, and the wohdums did just that, in subherds of family units, the young learning the land, and building up the strength to survive their first molt. After Wander was when the riders went to work, gathering the small herds together, and driving them up to High Heaven for the Big Molt.
But now, the wohdums were on the move—running from the approaching storm.
Questa pranced again, making herself look taller. Taking his cue, Meld sat higher, too, and looked out over the herd.
He hadn’t expected to find a herd this soon—too soon. He still needed to get over the tracks, up high, where the paths were thinner, and the winds had carved caves out of the stone.
The posse was behind him, the storm rising.
Meld settled his hat, and took stock. Hat, duster, saddle, panniers, chaps were all good drop-side, worked locally. Hell, he’d made the panniers himself, the Wander he’d worked at Shobbs Tannery.
Any case, he was kitted out fine to push through a herd of wohdums. They weren’t savage; just big and placid. They’d move along just to avoid Questa’s glare.
Meld got firm in the saddle, and pressed his leg against Questa’s side, signaling her to get on.
The nearest wohdums shifted, and let them by.
* * *
It was a bigger herd than he’d thought, going in, many of them overdue for shedding, the bulky hide-plates making it harder for the primos—the first-timers—to get around. They waddled more than walked at this point, while the older animals knew how to synchronize plate movement and motion at several speeds, including full gallop.
A wohdum at speed was a sight to behold, in motion on two different axes. Those not familiar assumed that their shedable hide-plates would interfere with the animal’s gait, but the truth was that they hung from secondary spines, away from the supple main spine, the plates and the thin membranes beneath pleated and, except for a very brief period at molt, very little of the wohdum understructure was visible, or vulnerable to injury.
It was rare for a major molt to happen during Wander, but not unheard of. Daol would see it with his weather-eyes or one of the sky-riders would, and send the location to the Chief Co-oper—
There was that noise again—high and irregular—and now he recognized it. Wheels sliding against rail, like the brakes were locked, but something was still being rotated uselessly along the rails. It made Meld’s ears shiver—and Questa’s too—all screech and no motion.
If one of the trains was making a noise like that, it was trouble, sure.
Meld stood up in the stirrups, pulled the far-glasses down from inside his hat brim, and over his eyes.
With all the sand in the air, he couldn’t see—and then the wind shifted, and he could see.
A speeder—one of the light-duty, four-person rail conveyances ranchers used in lieu of ekwins for traveling back and forth to such civilization as town, stations, and other ranches might afford—was coupled incongruously into the head end of the automated consist; tiny overhead running lights flashing red, wheels screeching against the rails as it tried to move the heedless engine and loads of ore behind it.
The wind, whimsical, dropped entirely, and in that instant, Meld saw the speeder with absolute clarity. The little blue-and-white speeder—Cheston blue, and the Cheston logo on the side—an ekwin head imposed on a galaxy.
The wind whipped, and Meld was blind again.
But he’d seen enough. The speeder’s position at the head of the train made it protrude into the crossing diamond—where rail crossed rail—with multiple trains on the way.
He settled back into the saddle, and urged Questa into a run.
Two Weeks Ago
He found another instructor to cover his menfri’at class—one of his past students, now proficient in the Liaden martial art.
That duty settled, he had looked for his gear, finding it in the back of the closet.
There had been no reason to suspect that he would ever need gear again, and yet—he had kept it. Who knew, he remembered thinking, what Balance might demand of one, in future? And after all, it had been fitted to him alone, so no one else should wear it, should they? Too, there were memories of people attached to the gear.
Fel Din sighed.
“So wise,” he murmured, opening the box. Vest and chaps of wohdum hide, a range-cloth duster in the particular shade known as “Cheston blue.” The duster had been a gift from one of the pair who had taught him to ride the high-mannered creatures used in herding cattle, the other profit animal suited to Medway’s climate.
When Troianna and her cousin, Aida Pickerell Cheston, decided his report would be incomplete without doing “real wohdum herd riding,” Troianna had taken off this very duster and pressed it upon him, insisting that such a garment was necessary to his safety while riding herd.
The duster had fit him, Troianna being petite as Terrans decided such things, and Fel Din tall as Liadens measured. And, indeed, it had been useful during his time among the wohdums. He had tried to return the garment at the end of his study.
Troianna had laughed.
“Anybody can see that’s a rangecoat, worn by a proper range rider. I’d say you earned it, fair and square.”
So, the duster had come home with him, though he had no right to the color. The Chestons were High House of their kind, premium breeders and trainers of the fabled Cheston ekwins, one of the two breeds of ekwin in use on Medway.
Chestons were intelligent, nervy, and fast in short bursts. Despite being faster and taller than wohdums, Chestons were not used for that work.
There, you had the range-ekwins—small, tough, practical mounts, who could move for hours at an effortless, ground-eating pace, of whom Aida had said, “Smartest things on this planet, the rangemasters. When you’re out there with the wohdums, you listen to your mount.”
That had been good advice, too.
The timer went off, and Fel Din sealed the box, picked it up, with the other hand his briefcase, and headed for the door and his ride to the spaceport.
One week ago
Gar Don Ayrlee had written to say that his clan was interested in the offering of land, at the named price. That was good news, but unsurprising. Blake had done his research. You didn’t make an offer like he was making, with the stakes as high as they were, without being sure of your target.
“As you have surmised,” the letter went, “Ayrlee’s foundations are in the acquisition and development of diverse lands. Your offer interests us. We have therefore arranged for a qe’andra from the respected firm of dea’Varge and McGill on Wraithbone to visit you and discuss particulars. Qe’andra kor’Entec will be arriving at your location in a matter of days. We will write again, after we have the analysis in hand.”
Sending a lawyer, were they? That news was less good. Sent from Wraithbone and arriving in a couple of days—the lawyer was on a ship already, that meant. He couldn’t back out.
He caught that thought.
Backing out was never an option. He’d had his plans in place for years, just waiting for the right lineup of events. It was now. Now, or he’d be stuck on this gods-forsaken dust ball for the rest of his life.
There was more to life than ekwins, cattle, wohdums, and dust. And Blake was going to have it.
The only thing he needed to do—quick now, with the lawyer on the way—was clear the final pieces off the board.
Now
The speeder’s auxiliary tow was coupled to the slug, the speeder’s doors wrapped shut with the kind of tough, wide straps used to bundle hides together for shipping. Tough straps that never frayed, and were almost impossible to cut.
Worryingly familiar straps, now that Meld got a good look at them: black with embedded red fibers, the maker’s mark clearly visible, and, every five hand widths, his mark—the meld-hammer.
The very same straps, he was willing to bet, that had been looted out from one of his range-pods last year.
The straps made it hard to see through the speeder’s windscreen. He made out two arms of slightly different shades of brown, a head with two faces, one of the arms rising to slam against the instrument panel.
“Stand,” Meld said to Questa and swung out of the saddle, moving closer to the speeder, peering into the cockpit through the thin space between the straps, piecing together an understanding of two people, strapped together with the last of his straps.
A flash of face and, from inside, a yell!
“There’s somebody out there! Look!”
“Hammer!” yelled a second voice, that he recognized right where he lived.
“Hammer!” yelled Picky, “get us out!”
* * *
He’d never got out of the habit of doing a little hide-work during the quiet times on the ride. Which is why he had a crystal-edged flat-blade in his kit. Tough enough to cut wohdum hide, it was tough enough to cut the straps.
But it wasn’t easy, with the wind skirling, and the grit flying, and the wohdums—a pair of elders by the size of them—overlooking his progress like trail bosses.
Now he had the screen clear, he could see Picky and Troda, tied together tight with the last of his marked straps.
He was halfway through the last outer strap when the rails began to vibrate.
Hammer swore. That would be the chrome train. He had to get the speeder off the track now!
The last strap parted.
“Picky!” Meld roared. “Hit the release!”
The release he wanted was the ingenious hydraulic lift that raised the lightweight car body and let it turn end to end on the rails at trip end. It would uncouple the car, let them push it off the tracks.
Strapped tight together, they both lurched at the blue lever.
Up-track, the trestle lights started flashing red. The automatics picked up the obstruction and started shouting, “Clear the track! Clear the track! Clear—”
The speeder rose uncertainly as the hydraulics engaged.
Meld slammed his shoulder into the speeder’s side, meaning to knock it off the track. The tumble would be rough on the girls, but not nearly as rough as the chrome train would be.
The speeder rocked, but didn’t tumble.
“Questa! Push!”
But even with the two of them—and then the speeder began to rock.
Looking through the windscreen, he could see Picky and Troda throwing themselves to the left—again, and again—trying to help.
‘Way too close, a whistle screamed.
Cursing, Meld threw himself against the speeder; it tipped, but not enough.
“Questa, back!”
One more time, he threw himself against the little vehicle, which shuddered, and tipped, and—
And suddenly he was flat against the speeder, crushed under a weight that just kept pressing. His chest constricted, he saw dots in front of his eyes, the pressure continuing until—
The speeder went over.
Meld went over.
The wohdum pair wandered away from the track, to the right.
Questa stuck her nose in Meld’s face.
And the chrome train roared through, slammed past the slug and kept on going.
Hours Ago
The weather on Medway was tumultuous, and thus of great interest to everyone who lived there, and the wise visitor, too.
There was therefore a weather screen at each hallway intersection inside the Kitcity Spaceport, as well as periodic audio broadcasts.
At the moment, Kitcity rejoiced in a Wind Watch, while the Big Dust was under a much more serious Derecho Warning.
Wearing his gear, Fel Din collected his luggage, and paused before a live weather map.
Local conditions at the moment were listed as Wind Borne Grit—not unusual.
The Cheston holding was outside of Kitcity, but not properly in the Big Dust. The weather could go either way.
He was—or had been—perfectly competent to drive a car during a Medway Wind Warning. He might even, with luck, manage a Big Wind.
The only way to survive a derecho was to take cover and wait.
Well.
Fel Din sighed, settled his hat, tightened the stampede string—and headed for the exit and his waiting car.
Perhaps he could beat the storm.
Now
They—Picky, Troda, Meld, and Questa—crowded into the weather shelter on the other side of the track, took stock, and got cleaned up using the kit from Meld’s panniers.
“This happened—why?” Meld asked finally.
They were a mess in more ways than one. Troda was cleaning the blood off Picky’s face; Picky was wiping a scrape on Troda’s arm with an antiseptic pad. Meld had cleaned the blood off his own face, made sure of the contents of his pockets, and was briefly, but intensely thankful that none of them had worse than bad bruises and scrapes. If there’d been even one broken bone. . .
“This happened because Blake’s selling the land,” Troda said.
Meld looked around from repacking the panniers. “Blake’s selling Cheston Hold? What’s Matt say to that?”
“Matt’s gone,” Picky said, pulling Troda’s sleeve down over the scrape. “Figured it was now or never on that tour he’d been promising himself since Momma Nan died.”
“Ship barely cleared Kitcity before Blake was trying to get us to vote our shares with him, to sell.” That was Troda.
“And you didn’t want to sell,” Meld said, which was just common sense. Ask Aida Pickerell Cheston or her boon-chum and partner in everything, Troianna Daphnia Paeds, to sell out of Cheston? Blake must’ve taken leave of what few wits he had.
“We wouldn’t sell,” Picky said grimly.
“Six times, we wouldn’t sell,” said Troda.
Picky waved her hand in the direction of the track.
“So this morning—this. Can’t vote our shares if we’re dead. Blake doesn’t even have to hold ours. He’s got his own, and Matt’s proxy.”
“What’s he figure to do? No land, no ekwins? Going to put out his shingle as a bookkeeper?”
“He figured to go off-world,” Troda said succinctly.
“Cheston’s worth a lot of money, is what he told us,” Picky said. “Blake fancies himself as a merchant prince of the spaceways.”
Meld snorted, recognizing a line from one of the serials they’d all listened to growing up. Then he sobered.
“So, even if you had sold him your shares, something like this was going to happen?”
Troda looked at Picky. Picky looked at Troda. They both looked at Meld.
“Yeah, we figure this was always in the plan.”
“Though we didn’t tumble to it ’til just before you happened by.”
“Blake did this himself?”
They laughed.
“Got help from Kendal’s crew.”
“Know that for sure?”
Troda shook her head.
“No. There were six of ’em, wearing grit masks, saw three rifles and a bunch of small arms. I don’t even have ID, ’cept the name on my shirt. . . ”
She glanced down at herself, and wrinkled her nose at what the blood and mud had done to that item of clothing.
“Well, anyway. . . ”
She turned to Picky, who shook her head.
“Cleaned me out, too—took my knives, and my range-stopper. I had my whole bag with me.”
The wind boomed outside. The shelter shuddered.
Meld’s hat buzzed.
“What the hell now, Hammer?” Daol’s voice was loud enough for Picky and Troda to hear.
“You got the upload?”
“I did. Miz Cheston, Miz Paeds—can you hear me?”
“Yes,” said Picky.
“Loud and clear,” said Troda.
“I got the upload from Meld’s hat regarding your brush with getting smashed to flinders. You wanna make a complaint?”
“No?” said Picky, and glanced at Troda, eyebrows up.
“Agree. Better he thinks it worked. Also, there’s Hammer’s little problem.”
“Hammer’s problems are getting more interesting by the hour,” Daol said. “Co-op Chief refused to join the hunt, hollered up the lawyers at Fryhaven, and there’s a plea to call off the posse. Meanwhile, county board’s looking into the rustling angle, which is being tough on them, on account of Mister Dorlamun’s gone missing.”
“What about the new sheriff’s hunt?” Meld asked.
“Still on—and getting closer the longer you stand like a rock.”
“We’re not staying.”
“Right. Be careful, Hammer. Weather—”
“Got it,” Meld said, and, “out.”
He turned back to Picky and Troda.
“You’re going into the High Dust,” Picky said, not asking a question.
“We’re going,” he corrected. “Got a snug hideout—sweet well, deep rooms.”
“Sounds perfect,” Troda said.
* * *
They walked across the scrub surrounded by wohdums. Troda’s bruises being worse, according to Picky, she was riding Questa with Picky walking beside and Meld a little to the fore.
The wind had decided on a direction and was at their backs as they crested a rise that overlooked the plain. The horizon was a hazy dark line stitched with lightning along the whole front. Thunder rolled in the distance.
“Mean one,” Troda observed.
“Think we can beat the storm to your snuggery?” asked Picky.
Meld was beginning to doubt that, honestly. He shrugged and gave her a grin.
“Won’t know ’til we try.”
He raised an arm and pointed.
“We’re heading across those arroyos to the top of that next ridge.”
Picky sighed.
“Best get moving, then.”
* * *
“Hey, Hammer!” Troda called from Questa’s back. “Are all these yours?”
She waved a hand at the large company surrounding them.
“Some are,” Meld said, looking around. They were more or less in the center of the herd, like the wohdums were trying to make them less visible, treating them as young’uns.
“We’ve been selecting for the blues and blacks,” he told Troda. There’s a couple grays out on the edge I’m not sure about. Could be youngsters who haven’t had their first drop. Could be from over Ed Meskys’ side. He’s partial to the grays and tans.”
Meld’s hat buzzed.
“Gonna need to push it, Chawnzy,” Daol said. “Air pressure’s dropping, other pressure not so much. Expect the storm rollover soon. I’d be under cover in eight minutes, tops.”
Eight minutes.
Meld looked at the ridge. Just him on Questa, and they could make it with minutes to spare. All of them mounted, even on cattle-ekwins, they’d make it.
As they were. . .
Meld looked around.
“There,” he said, pointing. “Let’s try for that.”
* * *
The sky turned uglier, and the wohdums’ pace picked up. The thunder was nearer now—definite booms punctuated with sharp cracks almost drowned out the low moaning of the herd.
Their herd had grown, Meld saw. They’d picked up half-a-dozen maverick beef steer, and an ungroomed, riderless ekwin, too.
Groundward from the storm’s green-blue was the dust, with still enough light in it to show the threat: from horizon to horizon a roller of sand and water, a veritable wave of weather upon the surface of the world, with a distant looming constant thrumming that was the sound of thunder echoing between the firmament and the dust below.
“How far?” Troda yelled, and Meld squinted at the rocky mound he had thought maybe—and admitted to himself that it was too far. They wouldn’t beat the storm.
Years Ago
“If you’re going to ride herd with wohdums,” Aida said, as they three walked down to the stables where working stock was housed, “you’ll want a rangemaster ekwin. Some people call them ‘ponies,’ but they’re none of that. Full-grown ekwins, designed and bred for Medway range riding. They’re fast when they have to be, but their best gait is the tölt—keep it up from now ’til the middle of next week.”
Fel Din had speedily been matched with Verry, and with Troianna and Aida mounted on their personal Chestons, they had ridden across Dust Country to Ketchaskin Station to meet, as he was told, the best range rider on Medway.
The range rider’s name was Meld Ketchaskin. He was very large, looking half asleep as they were made known to each other, and the plan explained to him by Aida.
“Complete study, is it?” the big man had said. Fel Din, who had thought that the man had already been asked and agreed, felt it necessary to put himself forward at that point.
“Indeed, if it is not convenient, I may complete my work by speaking with those experienced with wohdums—people such as yourself, Edward Meskys, Javin Dorlamun—”
“Javin Dorlamun don’t know a wohdum from a milky cow,” Meld Ketchaskin interrupted. “I’m not against showing you the range work, if you think you’re up for it. Need to be able to ride—”
“He’s a good rider, Hammer,” Troianna said, which was pleasant to hear. Aida added, “A natural. Rode all the Chestons. Even Poppa.”
The sleepy look abated somewhat.
“You rode Poppa? Where to?”
Fel Din bowed slightly.
“To Branch Spring over the meadow, returning by the covered trail.”
“Picky, you devil.” The big man looked wide awake now. “Poppa try to throw you?”
“Yes,” Fel Din admitted. “He did not succeed.”
“He’s a good rider, Hammer,” Troianna said again.
Meld Ketchaskin raised his big hands, palms out.
“I believe you.” He turned his newly wakeful gaze on Fel Din.
“Leathers, duster, saddle bags. Verry’s a good goer, no worries there. Where’s your hat?”
Fel Din sighed. He disliked wearing hats and wore his as little as possible. Still, he pulled it out of his pocket and put it on his head.
Meld Ketchaskin shook his head.
“That ain’t a hat—that’s a cap. You’re riding range, you want a hat. Come inside.”
They followed him into the house carved from rock, down a hall and into a small room at the back.
“Workshop,” he said. “Never mind the mess.”
The lights came up, revealing a leatherworking table like Fel Din had seen at Shobbs Tannery when he had toured.
On a top shelf, well over Fel Din’s head, was a row of—hats. Wide-brimmed hats such as he had, yes, seen some riders wear.
“Range gear,” Meld said, glancing at him over one shoulder.
He reached, took a hat down, and turned, dropping the thing on Fel Din’s head, where it promptly slid down to his nose.
“Gotta size it,” Meld said, pulling the hat up and turning toward the bench. “Won’t take a sec.”
Another glance over the shoulder.
“Whyn’t you three go down the kitchen and put together a snack? I’ll be along in a shake.”
* * *
“Here you are.”
This time, the hat remained firmly around his head. Instinctively, he reached up to adjust the brim.
“Good instincts,” Meld said, pulling the hat off again. “Just another couple technical things to take care of. What’s your name again?”
“Fel Din kor’Entec Clan Savio.”
Meld shook his head. “You need a nick that’ll fit the channel.” A long, appraising look. “Not much bigger’n a twig. How ’bout we call you Twig?”
“Don’t be mean, Hammer,” Troianna said sharply. She gave Fel Din a warm smile. “He’s just—slim.”
A corner of Meld’s mouth quirked, and he looked to Fel Din.
“All right then, Slim, let’s get you signed up with the satellite service and introduce you to the weatherman. That’s done, we can get riding.”
Fel Din stared at him.
“We are leaving now?”
“Well—hour maybe. You got anything pressing?”
“Not as such. However, I neglected to supply—”
Meld raised a hand.
“No worries. We leave in an hour, we make it to Pod Three by first dark. Got supplies cached there. Pretty place to overnight. Get you used to the Dust. All right, Slim?”
Fel Din squared his shoulders, and looked up to meet Meld Ketchaskin’s surprisingly deep blue eyes.
“All right, Hammer,” he said.
Now
The three lead wohdums paused, staring ahead and overhead, before issuing a simultaneous trumpeting moan. The largest wheeled and dropped to its knees so that its hide looked like a solid stone. It moaned again, louder, leaned—and fell over, back to the storm.
The other two went to the right and left, their moans briefly sharper, as if they were issuing orders, before, they, too, fell over, backs to the oncoming calamity.
The next largest wohdums quickly filled in beside, forming a wall that curved around the humans and their ekwin. Smaller wohdums formed a second and third line, leaving the center of the wall to Meld’s party, and the wohdums too young to have proper armor.
The free-range ekwin went to the youngsters and circled, displaying something that was almost a proper range-horse prance. After a moment, Questa moved over, and the two of them got the youngsters down into a tight circle, heads together.
Meld looked around in awe. He’d heard of such things in range stories, but to actually be present, to be protected by this living wall of wohdums—and not just them. They shared the sheltered center with cattle, a mixed flock of birds, a fluffle, two jackalopes, and other normally unsocial—even antisocial—creatures.
Lightning struck, and thunder roared, reminding Meld that they were safer but by no means safe.
He went to Questa, pulling the stitched hide tarp from his pannier.
“Down!”
Questa shivered, and dropped to her knees. After a second, the other ekwin did the same.
Meld waved Picky and Troda forward. They knelt, too, and he got the tarp over as much of all of them as he could.
Lightning struck too close, making them all jump, the thunderclap barely audible over the sudden racket of wind, rain and ice.
The storm had arrived.
It fell on them, slamming them into each other.
They scrabbled at the edges of the tarp, wrapping the ties around hands as tightly as they could, while the rain and wind pounded the hide down and around them.
There was no keeping dry, there was only holding themselves in place, leaning into each other as close as possible, body heat welcome as the water sliced away, no real chance to recall better times of holding each other, grabbing what comfort they could in each moment.
Momentarily, the wind dropped, the rain stopped.
Meld raised the tarp higher, and looked around the area they occupied. The rain had fallen so fast and hard, it hadn’t run off. They were crouched in inches of water and mud. Small creatures were huddled by their feet and against the sides of the ekwins, soaked and miserable.
Cautiously, he raised the tarp some more, so that they could see out.
The ring of wohdums sighed and moaned.
Picky pointed to two small predators leaning against a wohdum, their usual smaller prey hand widths away and ignored. One of the cattle was flat, its face under the standing water. Looking up, almost too late, she pointed at the anvil of green over their heads.
The wind rushed down again, and they grabbed the tarp, pulling it down close as the rain poured down. Shivering, they huddled close, free hands stubbornly together; off hands gripping the tarp.
No one knew the time; the storm went on relentlessly for what felt like forever. Gradually, though, the flashing of lightning grew less, the thunder less constant, the water about them managing to flow down and away from whatever small hill they’d managed to mount. This time when the rain suddenly stopped there was only a light breeze, the odd sounds of water trickling and gurgling.
Meld felt Questa twitch, sighed, and rallied himself.
“I think it’s over.”
Hours Ago
“I know you.”
The office was decorated in quasi-frontier style, paneled walls festooned with paired tools of the ekwin trade, leather straps, antique long arms, multiple iterations of the ekwin head on a galaxy that was the Cheston crest.
Blake Cheston rose from behind the desk that had been his father’s during Fel Din’s previous visit. Matt Cheston had been intelligent, urbane, and thoughtful; Fel Din had found the heir to be none of these.
Nonetheless, he bowed in the Terran mode, holding his hat in his off hand, and then replacing it, according to local custom.
“I am Fel Din kor’Entec Clan Savio, licensed qe’andra, affiliated with dea’Varge and McGill Law Accounting on Wraithbone,” he said. “I am here to investigate the proposition that you have land for sale. Delm Ayrlee was to have written you that I was coming.”
“He wrote.” Blake’s jaw tightened. “But you—you’ve been here before.”
He had come around the desk, and paused next to the decorated wall, eyes narrowed.
“I was here twelve years ago,” Fel Din said, “doing a supply-and-efficiency study. I was chosen for this case because I have particular knowledge of both the principals and the governing laws.”
Blake Cheston, Fel Din thought dispassionately, did not look well. Best to get the thing done, then.
“If you would ask shareholders Cheston and Paeds to join us, we may complete this very quickly.”
“They’re dead,” Blake Cheston snarled, and Fel Din felt something go quite cold in his chest.
“And so are you!”
Blake Cheston jumped for the long arm on the wall.
Fel Din stepped forward into a menfri’at strike.
Now
Throwing the tarp back, they leaned and held and helped each other to their feet. They could see the storm fleeing toward the city, breaks in the front. They’d taken the brunt of it, and now it would become separate cells instead of one incredible wall.
Around them the other creatures were stirring, shaking water out of fur and feathers. Questa tested her legs and stood, sneezed, and whinnied, as Meld and company gave way, still unsteady on the washboard rivulets.
“Hammer!”
That was Troda, pointing at a wohdum struggling in the mud—a primo, already unsteady in its balance, finding no purchase in the ooze, stumbling.
“Questa!” Meld called and moved forward—and realized what he was seeing.
“That’s a drop!” Picky cried.
And so it was. The struggling creature was a gangling gray not much bigger than Questa, lightly patterned skin slick with more than rain, that skin showing an under-pelt of plated armor slowly rearranging itself around the creature’s form, darkening. With an effort, it held steady, and stood, shivering. No longer a primo, this wohdum’s first drop-hide could come with a story.
He reached into the pannier for a tag, so the sky-riders could find it, later. Touched the button in his ear—
—and got a flat buzz.
He froze.
“Meld?” That was Picky. “What’s wrong?”
“Hat’s out,” he mumbled, then louder, “Lucky the hat’s the only thing that’s out. Let’s tag the drop. You two up for moving again?”
“Where to?” asked Troda.
Meld used his chin to point in the more-or-less direction of his hideout.
“First target,” he said. “There’s supplies, clothes, water, and it’s defensible.”
“Defensible?” Troda said. “Why?”
“That’s why,” said Picky, and they both turned to look.
Behind them, maybe a dozen small shiny things in the still dark sky.
“Posse’s got search drones,” Meld said. “Go!”
Hours Ago
Fel Din touched his hat brim.
“Slim?” Daol’s voice carried an interesting mix of shock and hope. “You back?”
“I am,” he said grimly. “Daol, where is Hammer? I have just been with Blake Cheston. Troianna and Aida are—” No, he couldn’t say it.
But, he didn’t have to.
“Troda and Picky are fine—were fine, no thanks to Blake, but I guess you’re up to speed on that part. Trouble is, they’re with Hammer, with posse problems. They went into the Dust, and the derecho went over their last position. Storm’s gone past, but I can’t find him.”
Slim drew a tight breath.
“Can’t find him?” he repeated. The derecho! Gods. People died in derechos, much more commonly than they survived.
“Don’t panic,” Daol said, sounding only slightly less than that himself. “Could just be the hat took a hit—blown off, water damage, stampeded on by wohdums—it happens. Problem is, he’s out of touch, heading for safe ground, he told me that, but he didn’t tell me where.”
Slim finished with the girth and swung up onto Verry’s back. Memory stirred. It had only been a Big Wind, but they had taken shelter together, in what Meld had told him was derecho proof—and posse proof.
“I know the place,” he said to Daol. “I’m going now. Tell me about the posse problem.”
“Sure will, but first you tell me—you kill that bastid?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” said Daol.
Now
The notch the stair led to opened into the dimness of a stone overhang with a slightly bubbling pool at the bottom of it, a pool that formed a small stream.
Meld pushed a handlight at Troda to show her how the interior rose above the pool, a stone shelf large enough for a dozen humans. He was grabbing at Questa’s panniers and handing them up to Picky within moments, while Questa turned, making noises of demand.
The notch was close, but in fact there was enough space inside for the ekwin, while there was clearly not room for all of the wohdums trailing behind. The oldest, the one Meld had started calling Bluestuff, glanced at the notch and mumbled some wohdum comment about skinny creatures and turned, muttering louder until the herd crowded round into a crescent, between them and the oncoming posse.
Meld climbed higher in the twisty rock, which was like a natural tower with multiple viewports. He scanned the path back to the wye, and saw intermittent movement there—several desert range-buggies were on their way.
“Trouble’s getting closer,” he said. “There’s a range finder and a carbine back there in stores—” He nodded toward the back of the formation, where several archways were visible in the light from Troda’s torch.
“Get dressed, get armed, bring some rations when you come back, and we’ll talk about what to do.”
* * *
His hat was still out, which put them in a much more precarious position. They didn’t have the big picture—if Co-op Chief Graystar’s Fryhaven lawyers had managed to get the stay, if Javin Dorlamun had turned up, sober for a change, and wanting to rescind his latest accusations—they knew none of that.
“We’re going to have to talk to them,” Picky said.
Meld sighed.
“Bear with me,” he said, “but I been thinking.”
He paused, expecting a groan, from Troda at least, but they nodded at him to go on.
“So, I been thinking—Blake had this planned out long. Those straps went missing a year ago. Even if he didn’t know exactly what he was going to do, he knew he was going to try to pin it on me. Too, I’m thinking Blake might’ve bought himself a sheriff. Man was a lot too eager to be putting me in chains. His own deputy told him Dorlamun yells rustling three times a year, on rotation, but it didn’t—”
Questa whinnied.
Out and down, another ekwin whinnied back.
Meld got to his feet.
“You two stay back, and stay peaceful. We don’t want a war.”
“No wars,” Picky agreed, rising with him, and Troda, too. Meld looked at them, and threw up his hands.
“Your call,” he said.
Which was how it was that the three of them came out onto the lip of his hideout, and looked down over the Dust.
There was a line of range-buggies and ekwins holding at a respectful distance.
Closer were two figures on ekwins—one tall, one small. The small one was waving his hat over his head, in a deliberate pattern.
Troda grabbed Picky’s arm.
“Is that—wait, Hammer, it’s Slim!”
“So it is,” Meld said, reading the pattern he’d taught Slim, those weeks they rode herd together.
All good, that was the pattern, and come.
Meld pulled the far-glasses over his eyes.
No question it was Verry standing neat and calm under her small rider. Meld touched the side of the glasses, zooming in on the rider’s smooth, sharp face. Yeah, it was Slim. Older, but who wasn’t? Question being, what else had the years done? Blake aspiring to merchant prince of the spaceways, he’d pitch a Cheston sale to money. Nobody had more money than Liadens, and Slim was a Liaden lawyer. If he was working for Blake. . .
“Hammer?” Troda said softly.
Slim swung out of the saddle, spoke a word to his mount, and walked forward, hat on head, hands raised shoulder high, empty.
“What’s he doing?” asked Troda.
“He’s getting in range,” Picky said grimly.
Meld shoved the glasses back into his hat.
“Gimme the rifle,” he said.
He figured to hear an argument, but the only sound was a soft gasp from Troda, as Picky handed over the rifle.
Meld felt the weight of it settle in his hands, and looked down. Slim had stopped well within range, and looked to be willing to stand there ’til night.
Nerves o’steel, that was the Slim he’d come to know.
Meld glanced down at the rifle: full charge, full magazine.
Picky drew a breath.
Meld cracked the rifle, took out the magazine, and dropped it into a leg pocket.
Troda jumped, got his hat in a snatch, and rushed forward, waving it enthusiastically.
Coming now.
Later
They were all four sitting on the back porch of Cheston House, Troda next to Slim, and Picky nestled under Meld’s arm.
“I have news,” Slim said.
Troda drew a careful breath, and folded her hands in her lap.
“Speak,” Picky told him. “Troda can’t hold her breath forever.”
Slim smiled.
“My news is that Seniors dea’Varge and McGill have given their support to establishing a branch office on Medway.” Another smile, and a side glance at Troda. “For the moment, that means me.” He extended his hand, palm up. “This office will be my permanent assignment.”
Troda whooped, and threw her arms around his neck.
Picky laughed, and looked up into Meld’s face.
“They’re good together,” she said.
“As good as us?”
She laughed. “Nothing’s as good as us, Hammer,” she chided, and raised her voice.
“If you two kids can back off a sec, I got news, too.”
Troda untangled and sat back in her chair. Meld saw with approval that Slim kept a good hold on her hand.
“Right,” said Picky. “I heard back from Matt. Blake’s shares come half to me, half to Troda, to dispose as we see fit.”
“And how we see fit,” Troda said, smiling into Slim’s face, “is to settle those shares on our hold-husbands.”
“That is,” said Picky, looking up at Meld, “if you can tolerate having anything to do with cattle ekwins.”
“Imagine I’ll become acclimated,” Meld said, feeling comfortable and—at peace. “Slim? You OK with this?”
“A qe’andra goes where he’s needed,” Slim said. “Also, I made an error, in leaving Troianna before. I will gladly spend the rest of my life balancing that error.”
Troda threw her arms around him again, and Meld looked down at Picky.
“Looks like fun,” he said, “wanna try?”
Picky laughed, and wriggled and wrapped her arms around him, her mouth seeking his.
In the distance, a whistle rode the busy wind, as the last train to Clarkesville flew down the night.