Choe and Salyanna III

by James B. Mielke 

boneyardhound@hotmail.com

It was nearly dark when Marcus came in, Synoveh was waiting. “We should brew up some tea,” he said. “I think there’s gonna be a few guests—we’ll have to entertain out on the lawn.”

"Where’s Luvin?”

“Naomi agreed to keep all the kids at the Hospice tonight. She knew we would be busy. Let’s go to the kitchen.”

She rose and followed him outside, across the circle of cabins. The largest held the community kitchen and a stove still halfway hot from dinner.

They built up a fresh fire and started a huge kettle of water. While they worked Marcus reported on Leon’s hearing.

Synoveh responded: “Arrolon knew we wouldn’t get satisfaction. We should have killed Leon when we had him in our hands.”

“He’s gonna die—we’ll see to that. It’s what we’re gathering for. I think Jody has an idea for a plan. This will likely be an all-night meeting; let’s fix some snacks too. I’ll throw some sweetroot in the oven and get some crackers baking. We should go ‘round the pond and raise the neighbors—they ought to be here… ”

     
A bucket of warm tea, a heap of roasted sweetroot and a huge bowl of hot salty crackers waited on the picnic table. Peter sat on one side and Patricia on the other and they played guitars softly; Taralisa stood behind Peter with her hand on his shoulder and they sang.

The people assembled: the Village, down from the Hearth and Hall still desecrated by Leon’s crimes; Homesteaders in from their cabins and camps; a smattering of Firstown faces; even a few semi-sober drunks up from the Den. They filtered in, took snacks, milled and muttered until Jody decided they were ready. He stepped up on a tall stump used as lectern and yelled for attention.

Eyes and ears panned his way, people made themselves comfortable. Jody began: “Thanks for being here, you show me that this is still a strong community. I think we are all in agreement on one point. But, let me double-check: Is there anybody here who believes that it’s okay for Leon to keep living?”

There was a rumble of “No!” voices.

“Well, I suppose you all know by now that the Court—the Townie Court—says he gets to live with us for ‘the remainder of his natural life’. I think we need to help nature finish out that remainder. I expect you do too.”

This time the “Yes!”s rumbled.

Jody nodded and waved. “Good. We don’t have to waste time on arguments. Getting the details right will be time consuming enough. With your indulgence, I think I have a plan… ”



It took a while to find the cabin, it was small and concealed by brush, with only a faint path leading to the door. It was an unpainted box of a building with a shed roof at an uneven angle and tiny diamond shaped windows.

Jody ascended the three steps and knocked on the plank door.

Fumbling thumping furniture noise followed the sound and a second later the door opened.

"Hey Ruben." Jody greeted.

"Jody. How you be doing?"

"Fine, fine, fine. Nice cabin."

"Ahh, just a shack. Come in, can I get you anything?"

Jody crossed the threshold. "Glass of water?"

"Sure thing, seat yourself—I'll be right back."

It was just a shack indeed and an untidy one as well. Dirty dishes were on the table, papers drifted across the room, spilling from a loose stack on the wooden bench.

Looking for some seat space, Jody picked up the papers and arranged the stack on the floor, tucked away from traffic. He sat down and looked at one of the sheets. It was covered in lines of hand scrawled verse. It looked like a rough draft of a song and he tried to decipher it, but the penmanship was poor and there were many scratch-outs. He couldn't find a consistent rhyme or meter.

Jody heard a noise and looked up. Ruben was standing in the doorway, holding a glass of water. "Writing music?" Jody asked.

"Scribbling—not very good."

"If you say so. I'm always looking for new songs."

"Here's your water," Ruben said, extending his hand with the glass.

"Thanks." Jody put the paper aside and took the drink.

Ruben hovered, "So what's going on?"

"Recruiting for my choir—you're an excellent tenor."

"No thanks—I'm not a drunk."

Jody smiled, "Only ex-drinkers and sobers are welcome in my chorus, boss. I try to help some guys, but it's really about the music. I like your voice. Maybe we can help you with your songs."

Ruben was interested and sat down on a footstool. "You think so?"

"Sure. Bring some ideas to one of the practice sessions, we'll see what they sound like." Jody sipped his water.

"I don't get up to Homestead very much." He shook his head.

Nodding, smiling, reassuring: "I know, but I want to start a Firstown choir. It's why I'm in town. I'll be at the Hospice all week and holding auditions and practice sessions. Drop by—we start at second nine, or thereabouts."

Ruben looked sorry. "Oh no."

"What?"

"I'm guarding Leon—I'm on the overnight watch this week. I can't make it, I'm afraid."

"That's a shame—I was counting on you."

"You can't do it some other time?"

"Nah—everybody's too busy in town, can't get folks together except at night. Then we have to quit around midnight so the kids can sleep. It's too bad."

Ruben lit up with an idea: "Why not practice at the jail?"

"Can we?"

"Sure. Nobody to disturb except Leon. And there's lots of space in the warehouse—good acoustics, too."

"You don't think Kaila or Homer would mind?"

"They don't even have to know," he said smugly.

Jody shook his head. "Unless Leon tells them."

"Nobody listens to him."

Jody smiled. "Boss! That’s a great idea. I'll talk with the group—maybe we can start tomorrow."

"That’d be great—it's too quiet in there all night."

"I bet it is. You don't hang out with Leon?"

"I avoid him—he’s creepy. I keep the rounds; look in on him twice an hour and stay out in the warehouse."

"Does he do anything?"

"He's always exercising—jumping, push ups, sit ups—it's tiring to watch."

Jody looked down at the floor, thoughtful. "He was a nice guy when he first got here. Put on some funny juggling displays."

"Guess he had you fooled."

"Guess so.” Jody put aside his empty glass and picked up the stack of papers again. “Maybe there’s something here you want me to look at…”



Half the original buildings of Firstown were hollow shells; the empty warehouses and industrial sheds of future commerce. But the manufacturing sector blew away with the Prairie Schooner and the buildings were idle.

The jail was a conversion of a warehouse; three cells against the rear wall and a shower; across a corridor other spaces for storage and a guard room. Outside, in the rear, the foundations for an exercise yard wall; ditches and rebar columns.

Most of the interior was empty space; a large open room with a two-story high ceiling. Flat partition walls around the jail and smooth concrete floor reflected sound, unfinished exterior walls and truss-framed roof structure killed crazy echoes. The sound in the space was alive; it was a natural choice for music rehearsal.

Jody did approach Judge Kaila and Homer, they made no objections provided that Leon agreed; Leon said, “I like music, go ahead.” The officers of the Court hoped there might be a rehabilitative effect from the singing.

Firstown Choir got underway: Jody and Hildy faced a monumental task—most of the Townies wanted to be involved. One hundred thirty-two voices showed up for auditions and the choir masters were only cruel enough to reject nineteen, only because they came inebriated to sing.

The choir met every night for practice; organizing sub-choirs and recruiting musicians were the business of the first weeks; singing began around second ten and sometimes went halfway until dawn.

Each night as the singing began other work started outside of the jail:


The exterior wall was made of metal panels screwed to columns. It covered a layer of insulation foam and an inner surface of heavy wallboard. Working as quietly as possible the Homestead Actionists took out the screws and inserted temporary pins to keep the wall intact. They used hand tools and under the stealthy conditions the job stretched out for weeks.

Two nights after they started Leon heard the sound of the work: scraping and scratching, like mice. Except mice don’t make metallic ‘tink’s, hammers do. Curious, he went to the window and tried to look out. Up on tiptoes he strained to see outside at toe level; he could just make out the backside of somebody crouched at the wall and doing busywork.

"Who's out there?"

From the choir room a single female voice, alto, worked with a piano, repeating a complex phrase, and Jody’s voice cut through, shouting direction. The song was muffled by distance and insulated walls.

Peter’s face filled the window, he gripped the bars, grinning with a lurid light in his eyes. "It's yer death comin'."

Leon snorted with contempt. "About time."

"Y' can't wait, huh?"

"I'm already dead in this shit hole." He paced a tight step beneath the window, keeping a vicious stare on Peter’s eyes.

"Yeah, ain't it a shame? Maybe we can remind y'a little bit about bein' alive 'fore we do ya in. Make yer ending memorable fer ya. How'sat sound?"

"Come in here alone and find out."

Peter's look was rueful. "Wish I could. Ain't had a real fight since I got to this planet."

"What are you waiting for?"

"I ain't got th' key. Why do y' think I'm takin' th' wall apart?"

Leon was amused, and imagined an opportunity. "So how long then?"

"Lotta screws in this wall—gonna take time."

"Can I help?"

Peter laughed, "Y' could choke on yer food an' die! Save us lotsa trouble."

"Fuck you."

"Y' ain't fuckin' nobody no more. Yer th' fucked one, now." Peter decided there was no more fun in gloating, he returned to the work.

"Hey, asshole! Come back here!" Leon shouted.

Peter ignored him.

Leon kept shouting and started hitting the wall with his fists. There was a booming echo throughout the warehouse. His hands bruised and the noise was unsatisfying so he went into the bathroom space and wrenched the seat from the toilet, bringing it out to hammer the wall.

Now the noise rattled and clanged. He smashed the window glass and pounded as hard as he could. The background music silenced.

The peephole in the door opened, Ruben's eyes and nose appeared. "What's going on there?"

Leon ran to the door waving the toilet seat. "They're outside—they want to kill me!"

"Who's outside?"

"Peter—a bunch of assholes. They're taking the wall down."

"What are you trying to pull?"

"Go take a look."

"You are a pain!"

Leon slammed the seat against the door.

Ruben jumped. "All right—I'll look." He shut the peephole. Footsteps echoed away in the hallway outside and a door slammed. A few minutes later his face showed up in the window. "There's nobody out here."

"Of course there isn't. They ran off. Look at the wall—they were fucking with it."

"I don't see anything."

"Fucking moron." He threw the toilet seat at the window and it crashed off of the bars.

Ruben went away, the door slammed again, and soon the sound of choir practice resumed.


The next day Homer made his rounds on guard duty, looking through the peephole.

Leon was standing at the opening, waiting. "Hey, Homer."

"What do you want?"

"Did Ruben tell you about last night? They're gonna break me out and kill me."

"He told me you broke the window and the toilet."

"Look at the wall outside—they're taking it apart."

"If you insist."

Homer went around the outside of the building and spotted the tampering immediately. He stopped to think about what he saw, scratching his chin. Homer was devoted to nonviolence and during the Constitutional Meeting he was the most passionate advocate against capital punishment. But, like all colonists, his loathing for Leon surpassed all boundaries of reason and ethics. And the idea of keeping a human monster alive with Cardomon's resources sickened him.

All that was required was to say nothing and soon the Leon situation would end. Homer consulted his conscience and that voice was untroubled. He went back into the warehouse and opened the peephole. "There's nothing out there. Stop wasting my time."

Leon was divided in his mind, night after night, listening to the scratching and scraping sounds outside the wall. His strongest reasoning concluded that death would end a pointless existence; but it would also be a triumph for his enemies. If, however, in the moment that they broke through, he were able to overcome the vigilantes, he imagined there still was a chance to conquer. Alternately he cursed the workers outside or attempted to charm them—whichever, the Actionists mostly ignored him.

He was a smart man and held a rough idea of the wall's construction and how the job must proceed. The horizontal metal panels were eight feet by twelve, with a screw every two inches around the perimeter and along the columns. Hand turning the screws was time consuming and Leon learned the sounds: fourteen iterations of rhythmic scritching and scratching as a screw unturned, taking three and one half minutes—longer at the top of the panels, then two minutes of scabbling noises finishing with a sharp bang as the screw was extracted, the temporary pin inserted and set with a hammer tap. After three weeks of the sounds there was silence and Leon assumed that they were ready.

He had little in the way of weapons—even the toilet seat was gone and never replaced. He tried to dismantle the bed frame or the table and make something jagged and heavy to swing, but they defeated his efforts. When the moment arrived he would have only fists.


Choir practice always went past midnight and Jody stayed for individual sessions going for another hour or so. Ruben was a good tenor and his songs, after some thoughtful massage, turned into workable music. Jody and Ruben were both pleased with the results and indulged the songs late into the mornings.


The Actionists wriggled the metal panel loose with pry bars and stood back when it fell. The sound was 'FOOM!' when the heavy wall covering hit the ground, the warehouse shook like an earthquake. A cloud of dust swirled.

The sound woke Leon and he dashed to his feet, faced the wall.

Ruben opened the peephole. "What is it now?"

"They're coming for me."

Jody came up next to Ruben and put a hand on his shoulder. "You don't need to be here, boss. We're taking the prisoner."

Ruben spun around.

Four Actionists with sledge hammers knocked in the insulation and wallboard, showering the cell with debris. Leon ducked and sheltered his face with his arms. Two vigilantes rushed through the opening and when he straitened up Marcus took him by the right arm and Hildy grabbed his left one.

Leon twisted and pulled his right arm free, clawed at Hildy's face, kicked his shin. Marcus threw a leather bag over Leon's head and cinched the drawstring.

The blackout made Leon fall at Hildy's feet, and Marcus knelt on the prisoner’s spine. Hildy tied Leon's wrists and ankles and they lifted him to his feet.

Marcus removed the leather sack. "Let's go."

The prisoner spat. “Fuck you.”

“Let’s carry him.” Marcus waved more Actionists to come up and help. Hildy and Marcus took Leon’s shoulders; Peter and Ishkaharma came into the cell and lifted him at his knees. Leon thrashed and heaved, Hildy lost his grip and Leon crashed headfirst onto the floor.

"This is stupid," Ishkaharma said, dropping her side of his legs; Peter kept his grip. "We should just strangle him here."

"We don't want to leave the body," Marcus reminded her, still holding the prisoner’s left arm.

"Be easier to carry if he was dead! Make him stop kicking."

Marcus stooped over Leon and spoke gently to him; "You'll hurt less if you don't struggle."

"Fuck you."

Marcus sighed, "Oh well. Let's try again."

They lifted him a second time, Leon continued to twist and thrash but they held on. It was difficult, with wall debris underfoot; they handed the prisoner through the narrow gaps between columns and then over the footings of the back yard wall. Luenda came over and helped. There was a handcart waiting outside. They put their burden into its bed and trundled away with him.


Ruben turned around, slipping from under Jody’s hand on his shoulder; the sounds of the hammers breaking in the wall echoed forth. He was shocked and betrayed and showed it, swinging at Jody with his right fist.

Jody dodged aside and took a defensive crouch.

Ruben faced him, staring, ready to fight. "All this choir work, just bullshit?"

"No, man. You're good—we're all glad to sing with you. Choir’s organized now and I can’t be directing. I think they’ll follow you."

Ruben eased his posture, letting his arms drop to his side. "What now?"

Jody relaxed too. "Keep singing, boss. Without Leon to guard you've got the time."

"I didn't want to be guard, you know—Kaila and Homer forced me."

"So it's over."

"They'll think I helped you," he said glumly.

"I could tie you up, so it looks like we jumped you."

"Nah, that's all right."

"You want to come with us?"

A shake of his head; "I like it in town—I have a couple girlfriends. They're both pregnant," Ruben beamed, radiating pride.

Jody smiled back. "Cool, boss. I like kids."

"I can manage with Kaila and Homer, I think. I won't be in trouble."

"I will be."

"Like old times for you."

"No. These are new times."

"We all believed in those first years that you'd drink yourself to death. People made bets on when and how."

Jody shrugged bashfully. "What did you lose?"

"I won—I bet that you would turn sober."

"Thank you. Why?"

"Because of Mel—she believed in you. And thanks—I owe you; made a lot on those bets."



All of Old Firstown rattled when the wall panel hit the ground. Charlene woke and turned, giving her husband a shake on the shoulder. "Homer, what was that noise?"

Homer was already awake, but let her think otherwise. It was a noise he had been waiting up nights anticipating. "Something woke you?" he mumbled sleepily.

Charlene got up and went to the window. "There was a big noise outside—a boom." She opened the window and screens to lean out and look. "Somebody is over by the warehouse with the jail."

Homer joined her, leaning his chin on her left shoulder. He didn't know what to tell her.

Charlene turned from the window. "I'm going to see." She put on her robe and slippers; then went toward the door.

"Don't go, Charley."

She spun around. "What is it, Homer?"

"It's better if we don't know." He evaded her eyes.

"But you already know, don't you? Don't start lying to me."

"They're taking Leon away—to kill him."

"Homestead?"

"Yes."

"And you are letting them?"

"I won't waste my energy trying to stop them. Not for Leon."

Charlene sat on the bed and looked up at him. "There was a trial, and a sentence. You're part of the Court, you have a duty."

"Those are our friends taking him away."

"But it's killing!"

"I've only been guarding him for a couple of months and I've been disgusted with the idea the whole time. Keeping a lifelong prisoner is useless and wrong. Letting them kill Leon is good for the colony."

Charlene was in tears, quivering; her voice was slow, firm, and under careful control. "No, Homer. Think about it, we're throwing away the rule of Law."

"I won't go out there."

"Then I will." She got up and went for the door.

Homer followed as she ran toward the jail. Peter, Hildy and Marcus were starting to roll the cart away when Charlene approached. She screamed and waved; pleading to stop them.

Luenda and Ishkaharma put strong hands on Charlene’s arms. She struggled momentarily, then gave up in emotional exhaustion, going limp. "Don't do this!" she yelled one last time.

"Charley," Homer said. "Let them go."

Charlene screamed and sobbed. Luenda and Ishkaharma released her arms and she fell to her knees, crying.

Homer knelt beside her and tried to put his arm over her shoulder but she shrugged it off. Then she rose to her feet and walked silently back to the Biology Hut. She went to the bedroom and locked the door in Homer's face.



They drowned Leon in a scour hole on the bottom of the river, somewhere in the Vale. They covered his body with heavy rocks and never spoke of it again.



Before Branch House and its pond the largest body of water Salyanna ever saw was a love tub in a brothel, with cozy space for two. Even with all the kids out there—Mabutu, Rajin and Precious were having a splash fight in waist deep water, Luenda waved at her and Edzelian floated by his mother’s shoulders—she was terrified. Soupy green water, muddy bottom, tiny fish and skittering bugs, slimy and cold looking; the idea made her queasy. But everybody laughed and called her. She closed her eyes, held her breath and ran out into the water until she flopped forward and splashed up a huge bow wave. Coming up for air with her feet barely reaching the bottom, she bobbed and swayed—weightless—her enormous bosom floated off from her spine. It was exuberant, a new high, the best she could remember; she laughed and played in the water all afternoon.

From then on the pond was her warm weather headquarters. After morning chores and lessons she took her alphabet book down to the beach and studied until the sun came over the trees and it suddenly turned hot. Time to stand and throw off her clothes, run into the deep water and roll over; float and watch the sky. Salyanna studied the expert swimmers—Ishkaharma, Suthra, Marcus—and tried to imitate them; in just a few weeks she was able to lap across the pond.

It was her first high with no upper limit, the more she swam the stronger and easier she felt. Soft toned muscles firmed up and her back felt less burdened, hips and knees moved with a new fluidity.

When out of the water she studied; graduating from the alphabet to primers and rhyme books; numbers and puzzles. A fascinating window into different realities, reading was like another new drug—a stimulant and a hallucinogen—that transported her beyond every horizon she had ever known.

One of her books was a collection of tales by Taralisa Rhine, fables to back up the constellations and make icons for the horoscopes. It was a favorite of Salyanna’s; she read it over and over. She loved the story of a deceptive little animal:

    The feistiest critter in the forest just has to be the bigeron. You’ve seen them around the pirikill bushes when you gathered the seeds, bigerons eat them too—you’ve probably noticed. I like to shake the bushes with a heavy stick and drive them off before I go collect so they don’t scream in my ears! There is more voice than critter in a bigeron; they are louder than howling pirate birds on the attack! If you didn’t know how small a bigeron was that scream would be enough to scare anybody away.

        They have scary claws, too. Long curved pink needles; bloody looking and sharp. They wave them in challenge and show vicious yellow fangs in a big snarl; you won’t want to mess with that! But it’s funny, because they can’t hurt you. Ooh the claws leave a little scratch but they always break before they do anything more. And those fangs, well, the bigeron uses them the same way we use a nutcracker to break open the pirikill seeds, and to do that they have a special shape that makes it so they can’t bite anything that isn’t deep inside their mouth. You would have to put your finger way down a bigeron’s throat to be cut by those fangs!

    So the bigeron is a scary little thing that cannot fight and cannot bite but its enemies run away anyhow. That’s why you see them everywhere and if you camp near a pirikill bush expect to find one in your tent in the morning—they love the warm snuggly space between your toes. So watch out! They just might tickle you to death!

The story made her think of Mabutu and his conflict with Luvin—if only Bubu had scary claws!

When tired of swimming and reading the beach was still a favorite haunt; the sounds of happy kids and warm humid air were blanketing comforts; it was her place to nap.

She forgot how she used to need drugs to be high. These new experiences were different, empowering, not depressing and life was ‘high’. She understood about freedom; how a world without brothels was an expansive world, one she could move through and trade with and grow from, seemingly forever. Salyanna forgot to be scared.

And she loved children—all but one.



Luvin’s sense of persecution and betrayal was complete, never far from mind. The world hated him, his parents favored the new kids; and the weird looking girl wasn’t even a proper kid; too old, too developed, and too strong. Jody was away in town, singing; and a jealous Luvin tried to hate music, but it was everywhere; with all the songs that sounded like his dead NanaMel. People made his head noisy and confused, quiet places with birds and shady nooks abounded, calling him. They didn’t like him at school and he stopped going, slipping off between breakfast and the end of morning chores, sometimes not returning until sunset.

When he got tired of the woods he explored people’s cabins and camps while they were away. With a sophisticated eye for trouble he learned to be stealthy and leave no traces; instead of stealing trinkets he took inventory and studied the lives of grown-ups, reading diaries and private notes. Luvin pulled pranks, leaving basins to overflow and doors open to the elements, creepy bugs in closets and beds.

Sometimes he saw Mabutu, also snooping. After Salyanna’s warning Luvin was afraid to approach either new kid. She was scary.



Judge Kaila turned the back room of Community Hall into Spartan chambers with one table, no windows and as many chairs as an occasion required. Sometimes only two seats were needed:

"I'm not satisfied, Homer. Tell me about your involvement." Kaila said. She sat at the table’s head, her chair was larger, with armrests, padded, and it swiveled. Her bailiff sat on a plain dining chair.

"There was none."

"Charlene was cagey, but she told me you definitely knew what was happening."

"I figured it out. I know those people and how they think."

"That's not good enough. It looks as if Jody was the mastermind behind this crime. You and he have a long history. It's been clouded, but cordial of late."

"Am I charged?"

The judge shook her head, "No, not quite enough evidence. But I can no longer trust you as an officer of my Court."

"I never wanted the job."

"I am so tired of that attitude!” she snapped. “The whole colony demands a sense of order, but everybody resists its most basic application. They make me Judge and stand back to watch Justice appear like a magic act. Now they pull this vigilante stuff and undermine the Court. You have about the highest social ethic on the planet—support me, damn it!" There were tears forming in her eyes.

Homer looked down at the table in front of him, shamed to silence.

"I have to issue warrants for some of my best friends, capital murder warrants. It was a vast conspiracy. Do you think I enjoy that?"

"No, but..."

"But what, Homer? Will you rationalize this thing? We are not alone—the Galaxy is watching. Investors, our sponsors at the Planetary Foundation; they’re monitoring our progress—but you know all of this. They have a checklist of development goals and by all but one criterion—food security—we are a failed colony."

"We're making progress—all things considered."

"We're gaining a reputation for anarchy. Who would invest or immigrate?"

"Hermione Chockswindae has confidence."

"Technically, Hermione Chockswindae is a criminal, wanted on Hesperia. They could even demand extradition."

"That's for the Administrator—or the colony—to decide."

"Any decision on such a matter will certainly be challenged—in my Court."

Homer smiled ironically, "How does power feel?"

"I hate it."

"It's lonely."

"So, what about the colony, Homer? How will we demonstrate to the Galaxy that we are a civilization?"

"By surviving, and growing, and teaching."

"We have a long ways to go, and we're stumbling already."

"You sound like Lucy—or Sikar."

"Your friends in Homestead are more like Sikar. They've usurped the Law."

"A minute ago you called them your friends."

"I did, didn't I? I won't make that mistake again."

"You're only torturing yourself."

"Leave me, Homer. You're dismissed."

"Okay." He pushed his chair back, stood and walked from the room, out into the main space of Community Hall—still configured for the recent Constitutional Meeting.

Kaila wanted to run over the entire colony and scream into each face 'WhattheHelldoyouwantfromMe?' until she fell from exhaustion. She wanted to disappear; she wanted a hug. She wanted strength and stoicism, but found instead the mask of objectivity. It was rigid, and set lines in her face.



The south terrace view looked more westward, hemmed on the left by a massive face of dark lava rock, framed below by the vineyards, the distant windows on Firstown Ridge caught sunlight and sparkled. Kaila and Charlene sat at a table beside a rose arbor; a bubbling fountain talked to them.

Kaila said, “…and it gets so uncomfortable just being around them—I need a break!”

“Fall is a slow season for me, I can do without your help. Take Patty’s offer—have a vacation. It’s awful nice up here.”

“I’ll get too used to it.”

Patricia and Arrolon had the largest estate in the colony encompassing a south-facing valley on a side of the basaltic ridge between Firstown and the Vale. Sixty acres of rich mineral soil watered by a natural spring, planted with the finest vines. A split-level house on the terraced ridgetop with views of Firstown, the Vale and, at night, the distant lights of the spaceport. The gentrified life fit them well and they were gracious hosts, holding dinners and parties, and intimate get-togethers with only a few select friends—no face was a stranger’s at their house.

Some faces were more familiar, Patricia’s old classmates from Hesperia were the colony’s founders and made the estate their clubhouse; Charlene, Kaila and Synoveh were frequent guests, staying over many a night, over many a bottle of sweet red wine.

Charlene poured herself another round and topped Kaila’s glass. The bottle emptied. “You’ve got a lot of work, don’t you? Reading Law? Good place to study.”

“Arrolon said the same thing.”

“And Patty wants company, I’m sure.”

At the mention, their host emerged from the house, bearing a tray of crackers, cheese and fruit. Arrolon was with her, bringing two more bottles of wine.

“Yeah, I want company! Arrolon doesn’t drink enough, I need someone to get plastered with.”

“Who better than the Judge?” Judge Arrolon added.

Charlene had already finished her glass and took one of the fresh bottles, her fingers fumbled with the cap opener. She filled four tall glasses and lifted hers. “To Judgement.”

“Hear, hear,” Patty seconded, lifting hers.

Everybody lifted, clinked, and drained their glasses. Charlene poured again. “Let me explain how Homer sees it—I think he’s a good representation of Townies. Homer says that the trial was important to start the process of Law. And you did right, ruling like you did—you followed the Law we all agreed on. But then it was like looking at Leon pissing on us—we had to feed and clean and even entertain the guy—for life. How many years, Kaila? That’s what Homer asks.”

“Do you agree?”

“I don’t know. Killing is wrong, and laws are what we’re supposed to follow. But for Leon? I see his point, and everybody else, too. I can’t sleep when I think about it.”

“It’s not personal on you,” Patricia said. “They see it as beyond the rules. After what happened to Synoveh, and then at the Hearth—they had to restore control over their community.”

Charlene wondered, “Where is Synoveh?”

“I saw her this morning,” Patricia said. “When I dropped Precious off. She feels a little weird around Kaila—‘cause of Marcus. She thinks you want her to bring him in.”

“As a citizen, it’s her duty.”

“As a wife? Are you going to beat her up over him?”

“No—I love her!”

“Then what about Marcus?”

“What would happen if he surrendered?” Charlene asked.

“A trial…”

“For his life?”

“I didn’t write the Law.”

Patricia said, “What about a jury?”

“Who would vote to convict?” Arrolon wondered.

Kaila said, “I would.”

“I assert, your Honor, that the Bench is biased,” Arrolon said. “A real lawyer would force you from the case.”

Kaila smiled, “I’d happily leave it.” She drained her glass and put it down. “A real Judge would be a stranger, untouched by the dramas in her Courtroom. Barring a sudden apparition, we have no such person. I’m learning to wall myself off, learning to detach from my feelings. I can’t be afraid of hurting people.”

“I’m sorry for you,” Arrolon said. “I’ve faced evil choices—where nothing is right but you have to do something. It’s a cold feeling, like I can’t afford to care—if I look closely at what I do…”

“It hurts,” Kaila said. “Until I said I can’t hurt anymore. Came up here for the wine—thank you, Patty, Arrolon—came up here to stop hearing all the talk and seeing those eyes. Good wine, good friends—one good night, at least. I can’t hope for more.”

“Until we have a crime wave,” Patricia said.

“Then, I would be appreciated.”

“We had a crime wave,” Charlene said. “Luvin was in town during the Games—a lot of people say he took things.”

“Really,” Patricia said. “Like what?”

“Jewelry and knick-knacks. Homer can’t find an old brass dagger letter opener of his.”

“Who says it was Luvin?”

“Everyone saw him in town sneaking everywhere—like he does.”

“I didn’t see him,” Kaila put in. “I saw that new boy—what’s his name?”

Nobody remembered the name.

“That kid was lurking around,” Kaila continued. “Looking into everything, he could be the thief.”

“Luvin’s been caught stealing before,” Patricia reminded.

“That’s no sort of proof, and if the new boy’s the thief he’s gotta be held responsible. He’s much older.”

"Let’s have an investigation,” Patricia enthused.

“Call a Grand Jury,” Arrolon followed.

“These bottles are empty,” Charlene complained.



For the remainder of that year a touchy mood ruled the colony; the fear of division was high; Homesteader and Townie eyed each other with distrust. The new Administrator, Jolrae Dorn, trudged between the communities arguing for mutual understanding. The tradition of the summer Games assisted him—athletes on either side were eager to compete, there was a point to be made. Homestead’s top athletes were fugitives, with murder warrants against them, but the second string, captained by Suthra, stood in respectably. The Firstown team, under Lucy Haines, prevailed overall, winning fourteen of twenty-five contests.

Over the fall and winter, unseasonably mild and dry, a new sense of normality emerged. The fugitives remained at large in Homestead and mostly resumed their ordinary routines. Marcus was at Branch House, home with his family; Peter and Luenda, with Edzelian in tow, migrated between cabin, Hearth, Branch House, and Taralisa’s herb garden; Jody and Hildy kept a camp near Drunkard’s Den and worked on their dual mission of song and rehabilitation by recruiting and practicing with singers, working on arrangements, staging concerts, keeping a twenty-six hour workday sometimes; Ishkaharma went back to the woodlot she shared with her husband, Owen Sanchez—but not to his cabin.

Homer and Charlene gradually reconciled. He slept on the sofa for two months, but they lived many of their domestic routines as always. The familiarity, and the depth of their love, physical and otherwise, brought them back into communion.



The following spring the Almanor returned, bringing many new colonists—including a new physician. The reception rocked the Spaceport Canteen to the rafters. Hermione danced scandalously close with Jolrae, keeping a tight grip on his derriere and grinding like a miller; then she danced a slow number even more closely with Naomi and whispered a long and passionate story into the journalist’s ear. They retired to a dark corner for a private dinner.


     
Dr. Magda Tenaya wanted to learn the landscape and was glad for the walk to her new office. It was only two miles from the Hospice to the Biology Hut, an easy jaunt for the older woman; she was an avid hiker back on Farenger, leading a scouting troop when her children were young. She took her time, exploring the neighborhoods and greeting her new patients, seeing the sights and sizing up the town.

It was simple, and creative, she decided. Sculptures marked the junctions in the road, woodcarvings of animals she didn’t know. Cabins and modest houses clustered in circles or rows at vistas and in secluded nooks, with gardens that segued easily into the natural flora. Parks with benches and lawns, and sometimes fountains, popped up around almost every bend. Magda was happy, pleased with the choice she made after mandatory retirement.

The condition of the Biology Hut was the first unpromising note, showing its age. The finish was dull and chipped, rust streaks ran down from the eaves and screw heads made small rusty blisters, one window had cracked glass. The first door she opened, on the left, entered a long empty corridor, dim and depressing, she tried the second door and found the clinic office. The big swivel chair behind the desk was inviting so she sat down, put her feet up, and felt perfectly at home.

Two minutes was enough rest and she got up again to examine the clinic. Compared to the facilities she had worked with on Farenger it was only adequate but certainly sufficient for the frontier—better than she anticipated.

At the front of the wardroom was a door in the central dividing wall. She expected it to lead into a closet or lavatory and opened it without announcement.

Charlene was in the lab, with her back to the connecting door as she pored over data on her computer screen. It had been years since anybody opened that door and she was jolted by the intrusion, leaping up at the sound, pivoting goggle eyed. “Wow!” she said. Then, seeing a new face, barely familiar, she went on: “Dr. Tenaya! You scared the wits out of me!”

“I’m sorry—I didn’t know you were there.” She stepped forward, arms open and they hugged. “Call me Magda.”

"I have been expecting you,” Charlene said. “Let’s have some tea.” She took them to the lounge area and went to the stovetop to start a kettle. “What brings you to our colony?”

Magda stacked the huge floor pillows into a throne and sprawled on top. “Time to start a new career. The old one finished with me; a mandatory retirement policy. Tenure at the University of Farenger is exactly thirty years. I had enough time to go through three husbands and raise three kids—all married now, there’s eleven grandchildren and they’re all at the marrying age or beyond; and I outlived nine dogs. I didn’t want to become a fossil kicking around the museums. Decided to spend the next thirty years or so having adventures on the rugged frontier and I went looking for openings on the network. I corresponded with Naomi Mukourji and Patricia Garcia/Stemple; they recruited me.”

“I’m having chamomile. Or maybe you like dark tea? There’s some strong stuff the last doctor drank—might be stale. There’s the local brew, too—not to my taste, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll try the dark—make it strong, no sweetener, please.”

“You remind me of her—do you get into trouble a lot?” She set up two teapots.

Magda’s laughter, high pitched and boyish, delayed her answer. “In my youth I had a bad reputation for honesty—it’s why my first husband left me. And I’ve always been the worst at University politics—trouble is my native state.”

“I take it you’re free with under appreciated opinions. You’ll fit in well around here, nothing we like better than an argument.” She poured the boiling water then went to the pantry cupboard for cookies, putting them out on a dish. She brought the snack over; Magda took one and nibbled while Charlene continued. “You do sound like Mel—the old doctor—she was a good friend. You don’t happen to play the flute?”

“I haven’t a musical bone in my body. I love to listen, don’t ask me to dance—I’ll step on your feet.”

Charlene laughed, “Are you a botanist at all?”

“No—not enough time to take it up. Between teaching and advising and clinic and kids and committees, my time on Farenger was never under my command—too many masters!”

Charlene poured a deep mugfull for her guest and a tiny splash for herself, bringing the beverages to the seating area.

Magda took hers and sampled the aromatic steam. “Thank you—smells good and bracing. What is this I hear about a deadly fungus?”

Charlene sat on a couch, cradling her cup. “It’s a native organism we encountered in the first year. Looked kind of scary to begin with but there have been no major outbreaks. I think a dozen people have died from it—everybody carries it. It’s usually triggered by traumatic injury resulting in a state of shock.”

“People take a drug from it, right?”

“Yes, it has psychoactive properties. Some say it talks to you.”

“Have you tried it?”

“Not me—I like reality.”

“Do they get addicted?”

Charlene had to think, she put her empty cup on the table and knit her fingers together, her face went into a far away scowl. “Users get extremely fond of it—it interacts with their libidos and it’s kind of a love drug. I don’t think there’s a physical withdrawal, but psychologically? I don’t know—some people may require it to maintain relationships. Do you use drugs?”

Magda smiled, “Tried all the popular ones in my youth. These days I like to keep my balance—this marvelous tea is all the stimulant I need. I walk for relaxation.”

“My husband, Homer, and I hike a lot; you can join us.”

“Delightful—where do you go?”

“All over the place; there’s the road, thirty miles from spaceport to the Judge’s; and trails everywhere, especially to Homestead—we have friends there.”

“Outlaw country—I’m dying to see it.”

“Those so called outlaws have been my friends for years. I was really upset with them after they killed Leon, but I understand them.”

“Their crime isn’t so outrageous.”

Charlene shook her head. “No. But the example set by them is disturbing.”

Magda nodded while sipping tea. “They insulted the Law all right, but I think most of the community stands with them.”

“We do—mostly. Kaila and Lucy…”

“What about you?”

“The outlaws are my friends; we don’t talk about it.”



The olive trees were filling out, closing over the open lanes between rows and forming leafy green tunnels—living cloisters. Lucy Haines allowed some shaggy limbs to hang down, breaking the grove into separate spaces with paths that wound maze-like around six acres and the estate had a much larger feel. There was a bowling green, a dozen vines of her private vintage, a diving pool and a sunken tennis court/pistol range.

Lucy was a popular chef, trained by the masters Jody and Homer—separately. She enjoyed entertaining and good dinner conversation. Most of Firstown were regulars at her board; she didn’t shun Homesteaders, but there were none in her immediate circle, and they rarely called on her.

Pyteman and Chloe were her friends and spent a lot of time in her gardens, with other friends:

Chloe pushed her chair away from the patio table, “Good chicken—nice to have fresh.”

“Stupid contract. Pardon my saying it, but your employers are very petty,” Lucy said. “You should be able to enjoy our produce.”

“Not worth our jobs. No offense, but you can’t expect us to settle here. We have property on Brahe to pay for.”

“That sounds expensive—you’re not making much money here.”

“Not yet. Pyteman and I are working a side deal; it’s a long-term operation for Mr. Glatz personally. Decent commission coming from it.”

“Chloe,” Pyteman said. “That’s company business, not for colonists.”

“We can trust these guys…”

He gave her a stern look, “Maybe you’ve had too much wine, my dear.”

“Don’t you ‘my dear’ me! I’m not drunk!”

“Then let’s not bore these people with the minutia of our business arrangements.” He turned to the other three, “I’m sorry, even off-duty, company policy binds us. Mr. Glatz insists on complete confidentiality—I could have her fired for what she already said.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“No, only because you’re my wife. Please act like one.”

Chloe gave him a look of murder, but kept silent.

Lucy, Chilperic and Ruben exchanged awkward glances and uncomfortable shrugs; there is nothing like being ringside to domestic conflict.

Ruben offered a fresh topic: “How is trade going?”

Pyteman looked relieved and smiled. “Very nicely, you folks have good appetites. I had to call for new supplies, a ship is coming next winter.”

“Didn’t you lose customers to Hermione Chockswindae?”

“Only over a few exotic luxuries—she doesn’t have the market depth of Glatz Enterprises, can’t match our prices or the range of our catalog. Actually, I’m profiting from her.”

“Spaceport fees?”

“That too. No, all her new settlers want to rent industrial space. Some artists are signing a lease on an entire warehouse; another guy is starting a food export enterprise, wants freezers and irradiation machines installed and then serviced. That’s where I make money.”

“You’re leasing the spaceport from the colony, and then you rent space to colonists?” Lucy asked.

Pyteman nodded. “We lease undeveloped land, and we’re renting out complete facilities—with maintenance.”

“I bet that’s a decent mark-up.” Ruben said.

“It’s a living.”

Lucy rose and started bussing the table. “I owned a surface transport company on Dayron—a thousand trucks had my name on the side before the war. I miss the bustle of a real office, feel like I’m asleep here. Cardomon’s never going to have the commerce I crave.”

“Entirely the fault of those anarchists,” Pyteman said. “After all the disturbance last year, the major institutional investors won’t take a chance, and without the banks nothing big happens. Prove to them that Cardomon has law and order, that their investments are safe and this planet will grow so fast you’ll have ten-thousand trucks in a year.”

“How do we do that?” Lucy had filled a tray with dirty dishes. She took it to a service cart and fit a lid over it. She returned with a soft towel and started wiping the tabletop.

“Apprehend fugitives, including the ringleaders of the operations against the farm. Extend the rule of law to Homestead.”

“You need real cops here,” Chloe said. “An authoritarian hand.”

“I was a cop on Hesperia,” Chilperic said.

“Ever on riot duty?”

“Are you kidding? On Hesperia?”

“We don’t need riot police,” Lucy said, returning to the cart. “Nobody wants a martial society.” She took a drink tray from a lower shelf and set up five short glasses on it. “We do need a sheriff, maybe someone from outside, but it has to be someone we can trust. A colonist would be better.” A bottle of Manton single-malt joined the glasses, along with a small bucket of ice. She carried the drink tray back to the table.

Two drinks later they all felt hot from whiskey and heavy from dinner. Lucy turned on the orchard lamps, suggesting a walk to clear the head and everybody got up. As they wandered the grounds the group broke into two, Chloe and Chilperic strolled the rose beds while the others rambled the further side of the yard.

Chloe sat on a bench and waved to the space next to her. “Let’s sit for while and talk. I need to do something.” She drew an inhaler from her vest pocket and took a deep sniff of its vapors. She offered it to her companion. “Want some?”

Chilperic was puzzled. He took the seat, “What is it?”

She was suddenly more vibrant, a sparkle lit her eyes, the smile was looser, with more teeth. “They call it ‘Flush’—makes me feel alive.”

He took the inhaler and passed it under his nose for a tentative whiff. There was less than a second of flashing rainbow explosions behind his eyeballs and his skin felt like it was on fire, his heart stopped, and then took off at panic speed. “Wow! That’s got a kick!”

“You like it?”

He grinned widely. “I feel like dancing… but I’m too dizzy. Can I have more?”

“Go ahead—it’s safe.”

Chilperic hyperventilated a moment to expand his lungs and then he took a deeper breath of the drug. Ready for it this time, he clenched his fists and closed his eyes, shivering.

Chloe gave him a minute to spin up to high orbit, then said: “There’s been something you would like to hear about.”

He gasped for fresh air and opened his eyes. “Yeah? What’s up?”

She leaned in with smiling confidence. “A message came in for you. Your old wife, Christina Strachwits, joined the Glatz security force. She misses you.”

“Chris?” He shrugged. “Never thought I’d hear from her again. Is that all she says?”

“We didn’t talk to her, just got a message over the network. She misses you and she’s working to get passage back to Cardomon—could be home within another year.”

He made a bitter expression. “She can take her time.”

“Don’t you miss her?”

“She dumped me, it hurt like hell. That was last year, I couldn’t care less today.”

“Are you seeing somebody now?”

“No.”

“Anything you want to talk about?” She put a hand on his forearm resting on his knee.

"It’s ancient history, she’s old news.” He lifted his arm away and folded both across his chest.

Chloe sat up, staring into his eyes. “Doesn’t sound that old to me, you’re still bleeding.”

Chilperic made a derisive ‘hmph’.

“Tell Chloe, now. I make the pain go away—that’s my magic. But you have to share it all with me.”

“Nothing to tell.” Chilperic scoffed, “you don’t even know the people.”

“Then I can only sympathize with you, right?”

“You won’t give up, will you?”

“I’ll dog you all night.”

“I want another drink, let’s go back.”

“Start talking, we’ll start walking.”

“All right, you win. She dumped me.” He got up.

“Wait a minute. You said that part. Sit down, tell me.” Chloe grabbed his wrist and pulled him downward.

He sat again; her hand rested on his thigh. “Okay,” he said. “I thought she was carrying on with Grube; then he married Erin. They all three left together. Drove me nuts.”

“What made you suspect Chris and Grube?”

“A man knows these things. When I see my wife and her running coach at practice more often than she’s at home with me. Training… Trained his way right up her shorts! If I ever see Grube again it’ll be blood and ruin.”

“Let’s go for that drink,” Chloe said, rising and taking Chilperic’s hand, pulling him up. “Did you confront her?” They started walking, slowly.

“She called me crazy jealous. Then we were all protesting out on the road for weeks—they were all over each other—openly. Erin saw it too.”

“What did Erin say?”

“Nothing. She kept her cool, but I saw it in her eyes. I guess she won if Chris wants to come back.”

“What would you to say to Chris if she were here, sorry?”

“Nothing, she’s done.”

Chloe stopped walking and grabbed Chilperic’s arms, spinning him so they faced to face. “You are too stubborn and evasive to be any fun—talking to you is hard work. You plainly have a lot to say. Tell me. Pretend I’m her.”

“Chloe…”

“Chris! Shut your eyes and think of her face, she says ‘Hi!’”

“You have a lot of nerve…” But he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. A sad, lonely look crossed Chilperic’s face, then he became a beggar pleading desperately: “I love you, babe… Damn it!” His clenched eyes leaked tears, “Why, babe? Why? … You’re too damn sweet… ” Trancelike, he stepped forward, arms wide, reaching at Chloe for a hug, his lips were forming a kiss.

She stepped back, “Hold on, don’t get carried away!”

Chilperic opened his eyes. “Wow. What was I doing?”

“What I asked for. We need that drink.”

“I might have had too much already…” he was shaking. “Maybe it’s the flush getting to me.”

“Nonsense, you’re only starting to relax. Let’s go—they’re all there already, I bet. Drinking without us. Did you like that stuff?”

“A lot.”

“I have a few friends in town that I bring it for—I’ll put you on the list. You can keep that inhaler, it’s refillable.”

     

Meanwhile, across the garden the rest of the party strolled past the vineyard:

“Ruben, why don’t you become sheriff?” Lucy asked.

“You want me to run after Jody and the gang? That’s not my way.”

“I know what you mean, but how about just keeping an eye on Firstown? We can leave Homestead alone for the time being. My hunch is that over time those folks will find their way back to us—one after another. Some will tire of running, and surrender voluntarily, and the others are going to get careless eventually and fall into some kind of trap. The Law can afford to be patient.”

“What will I do in town? It’s not like there’s crime.”

“With a fine, honest sheriff on patrol we can feel confident it will stay that way.”

“Everyone trusts you,” Pyteman said. “Not like Chilperic, he’s too hostile.”

“I can talk with Kaila and Jolrae—I’m sure they’ll approve.” Lucy argued. “Then the Council… I don’t see any problem there.”

“You’re perfect for the job.”

Ruben said nothing, thinking, and they walked silently between the diving pool and the tennis court. Finally he said, “That would change my whole life! I have to run it by Sheila and Trish—my wives. If they say it’s okay. And if I can keep working with my choir.”

“You’re free time is free.” Lucy remarked.

He chuckled. “Maybe. It could be a way to get out of hard work.”

“Or the opposite,” Pyteman said with an echoing laugh. “Let’s go back for another drink before they finish the bottle. Chloe has a real thirst for Manton.”