Destiny's Road

21 Suspicions

Of course the strongest men should have been carrying Shimon; but the ones who did were the ~first names Jemmy could remember. Dennis and Denis, Henry and Amnon.

Jemmy draped Shimon's nearly empty pack to keep some of the rain off Shimon's torn torso. The Parole Board might want a coroner to examine those wounds.

He walked alongside while four men carried the fifth. He'd told off two more to carry one of the spectre birds, for dinner and a chance to examine the wounds. And so the funeral procession straggled up the Road.

“Willametta?”

“Trusty.”

“There was a joke 'Andrew' wouldn't have missed. 'It's the law'?” Willametta guffawed. “Well, Iwasn't here yet, but you can picture it. Nobody gets a bird gun except the probe. But there hadn't been any birds so they'd been eating nothing but rice and veggies for weeks. One day a crooner popped up in the field. It's as big as an ostrich. Well, the probes and the trusty were a little slow for Gordon Weiss. He didn't wait. He ran the bird down and jumped on it and tried to crush it in a scissor lock.”

Jemmy thought it over. “Ouch.”

“Of course those aren't really feathers. There's a reason the windbird predators all have needle beaks. They've got to stab through the Destiny feathers to get at the meat. Because the feathers are nothing but needles.

“So picture it,” she said. “Gordon's legs and arms are full of needles, and he rolls away screaming, and the bird is crooning and the trusty has finally started shooting, and somebody shouts,” \i(Tillametta drew breath and bellowed, “'No birdfucking allowed!' And someone else yells-“

Her timing was perfect. Six people behind them shouted, “'It's the law!'”

“And ever since then-“

Light grew behind them, like a sudden dawn.

Drenched, exhausted, frightened: Jemmy could only wonder at the glare behind him that threw blurred shadows along the Road. He turned, expecting to see sunglare through split clouds. That would not be such a strange thing- Whirling storm was still there, but the clouds flared too bright to book at. Lightning was only a faint sputter against that. Jemmy shouted, “Willya! What is that?”

“They're lighting the field. Looking for more birds.”

“Lighting it with what?”

The other pallbearers laughed. Willametta said, “Quicksilver.”

“Quicksilver how?”

“The power comes from Quicksilver.”

And the long Road stretched away, and after a time the light behind went out.

It seemed to take forever. A white flicker became an intermittent white glow, and the rain blew it away, and there it was again... until a blazing yellow-white banner bed them on, and on... At the end Jemmy stood in the rain before the massive door and its massive lock, and couldn't remember what to do next.

Like the barracks, the toolhouse was built for giants. Generations of gatherers labored to move masses of rock, their lives as nothing to their Parole Board masters... Nah.

Jemmy had come to understand Cavorite's intent.

Find potassium! Get it back to the landing site before everyone on Destiny dies!

They must have come prepared to refine the ore, here or at Spiral Town. Speckles must have been a surprise: a plant that poisoned herbivores by secreting potassium and other trace elements that Earthlife needed.

So Cavorite brought the Road here, and Cavorite's crew farmed speck- les. They came with interstellar technology and desperate intent, and they built massive forts of fused rock.

If the first settlers tried to stop them from leaving, and later remembered Cavorite as a ship of deserters, perhaps it was because they were already speckles-shy.

Today's gatherers lived in housing that settler wizards had built for themselves. Prisoners swaddled in luxury! Twerdahl's crew hadn't barred this door against themselves; the bock must have been added years later, or centuries.

And he didn't have a key. Oh, that was it. Jemmy couldn't get in, so four men were standing behind him still hoisting the dead weight of Shimon. Jemmy turned toward the barracks.

Wibbametta blocked his way.

“You've got to give over the packs and gloves first,” she said urgently, “and your gun. They'll shoot you! Have some sense!”

“We can't just Two hours' walk through rain with lightningblasted vision and thunder-shattered hearing and that damned ghostly banner ahead must have turned off his mind. Of course they could wait out in the storm for the probes' convenience. Yes, but they couldn't set Shimon down in the mud. Jemmy booked around him.

Two gatherers were half-reclined on an exposed ridge of bare white rock. Jemmy told them, “Move.”

They stood, not hurrying: Rita and Dolores Nogabes.

“Here,” he beckoned the pallbearers, and they set the body down. Shimon was still dripping wet, and his pack no longer covered him. Jemmy looked around and found packs piled on another bare tufa ridge, and the dead spectre bird next to them.

He felt queasy, looking at the spectre. Its torso was chopped half through, raggedly, as if a big dull ripsaw had been used on it while it wiggled.

Warm breath in both ears: he jumped. Voices whispered:

“Trusty?”

“Could be a long wait.”

The twins had him bracketed. Jemmy said, “Sorry. If I had a key we could wait in the toolhouse, but then I'd be a probe, so maybe I wouldn't give a shit.”

“What we sometimes do-”

“-We go around the other side of the barracks.”

“The corner? For shelter?”

The women brushed gently against him on both sides. Even through the poncho that felt nice, and practiced. One said, “Not everyone, just us. The rest, they know not to bother us because you're a trusty. And it's a corner-”

“Of course it's still wet, but it's not so cold.”

“You could think of it as slz~pery.” That twin had to be Dolores.

It was tempting. Jemmy's arms had reflexively moved around their waists; at worst they warded off some rain. Dolores meant it, he thought, but anger still smoldered in Rita's eyes. So what was going on?

He said, “You know they'll do a count.”

He felt Rita go rigid. Dolores said quickly, “They'll want to know what spectres were doing there in the fields where there's no prey. So they won't be right behind us.”

“But we might want to hurry, or just fool around now and then stay in tomorrow.” Rita.

Dolores:"Have you seen the big baths?”

“There's the packs and there's us,” Jemmy said firmly. “Three of us in the barracks, that hasn't changed. Andrew's gone but I'm here. I count eighteen of us out here including Shimon. But that should be nineteen.”

Rita snapped, “He'll be back!”

Who?Jemmy asked, “And the pack? Piling them up is good, but he took a pack. I counted those too.”

Rita touched Dolores's hand and they both faded back. Amnon Kaczinski asked, “You got a problem, Trusty?”

Willametta was standing beside the looming giant, and Jemmy spoke to both. “You tell me. A missing man, a missing pack, and a pair of probes coming closer every second. Those guns are like hoses. Then again, I don't have a problem, Amnon. 'Sure I know we're one gatherer short, man, and he stole a pack of speckles too, but I can't chase him because there's just me to watch all of these other gatherers, including that big dangerous-looking one-'”

Willametta spoke. “Yes~ all right, Rafik took Shimon's pack and he'll take a handful of speckles for the stash!”

Amnon said, “Willametta-”

“-And the Parole Board won't notice that little, all right? And you should have stopped him, Amnon! He's crazy-“

“We need the speckles, Wilbya!”

“We've got two man-years' weight of speckles stashed and what did we ever do with it? But now we've got something to wear, finally we've got clothes! What if Rafik gets caught now?”

Jemmy suggested, “Send someone for him?”

“We can't have two missing! He'll be back,” Willametta assured herself.

“Good. I've got a few questions.”

“Talk to Andrew-”

“The probes are going to ask me questions. We didn't know there'd be a dead man, so I wasn't told any answers. Why did the birds attack Shimon?”

“How would I know that?”

''Amnon?”

“Birds.” Amnon shrugged massively. “You never know.”

“But am I supposed to know?-No? Good. Will they ask me to guess? Willametta? Amnon?”

“Shut up, you!” The big man was going into a rage.

Willametta said, “Go away, Amnon.”

“But, Willya-“

“Amnon, what do they do to you when you hurt a trusty? Go away! Go wait for Rafik.”

“He's not- Oh.” The big man went.

“Wilbametta? Just give me a guess that doesn't sound totally stupid.” She was silent.

“Mating season makes them twitchy?”

“What? Windbirds don't have a mating season.”

“He cut himself? No, that's-“

“Human blood? It'd drive birds away!” She was laughing at him. “Try this then.” Jemmy hesitated. The bird struck, then Shimon turned the probe was sure it couldn't happen that way... so Jemmy knew that Shimon had been murdered. But how?

Did he dare to guess right? But Willametta was looking at him, waiting. “Suppose one poncho out of all our ponchos wasn't the right color.

Not quite the color of a firebird. There must be animals or plants that don't secrete potassium but that show colors, maybe a little off.”

She was shaking her head. He persisted. “Is there a paint source? In the toolhouse?”

“That thing in the toolhouse used to make survival biscuits out of Earthbife garbage. Trusty, any trusty would know that.”

“Well, that's why I'm asking, Willametta!”

She nodded.

“Let's see, you brought a bird home for dinner last night. Now, suppose Shimon was cold so he kept his poncho on, and he still had it this morning-“

Her hands gripped his arms hard. “Don't say that!”

“-with the blood of a windbird all over it. If some of those horrors whiffed Destiny blood-“

'Don't tell them that!”

“Was he a spy?”

Willametta's mouth stayed open.

Jemmy said, “The probes have to know what's going on in the barracks. They need a spy. They can tell a spy they'll make him the next trusty. Barda and Andrew, they're trusties now, but were they spies before?”

“Andrew was.”

“So he knows how a spy gets picked. Did Shimon know you've stashed some speckles?”

She pulled him close and whispered in his ear. She was scared right through. “They haven't touched it. Yes, he knew, but he didn't know where. How could you know all this, Jemmy?”

“I guess I was waiting for someone to die. Barda and Andrew have to know who the spy is, or they can't hide anything. When the birds tore into Shimon, it all just fit, except the paint, I guess. Who gave him his poncho this morning? Barda?”

They were hood to hood, arms bracing each other against the wind. An approaching probe would see only lovers. Jemmy said, “Willametta, I need a story to tell the probes. They know something. They waited for us in the rain. This morning they stayed to search for something else before they caught up with us.”

She said, “They'll search the barracks. Did Andrew tell you-“ She looked into his eyes. “Damn him. When the probes search, you open every door and drawer. Don't close any of it. They do that. You go around the room-“

“Clockwise?”

“Idon't know. Sure! Or watch their hands. If one points to something, you open it or move it or lift it. Try not to talk too much.” The rain slacked and she looked around; they all seemed to do that. She said, “Rafik's back-” Her breath caught oddly.

Jemmy could see past huddled gatherers, far down the Road to where two rainbow birds walked bike men. Two.

Willametta's hands closed like claws and she pushed her cheek against his and keened in terror. He whispered, “Not Rafik?”

“They're too soon! Where did they come from?”

“Isn't the Parole Board in that direction? No way could a runner get to them. Settler magic?” He remembered an old word from the lessons. “Phones?”

“Quick, around the side!” Willametta ducked and lifted the hem of Jemmy's poncho nearly to his chin. He guessed what she had in mind. The rain was back, a waterfall now, and he had to shout into her ear.

“We can't do that.”

“It's a distraction!” Her hand found the waistband of his shorts and dipped in to cup his genitals, and squeezed gently.

He stopped her, hand on wrist. “Nowlisten. There's a man dead and proles coming to look into it. 'Andrew Dowd' is alert and scared and waiting. He can't be around to the side rubbing up against a lovely woman when he could be having her all day tomorrow in dry comfort! It'd be suspicious as hell.”

Her hand stopped moving. He had her attention. He had an erection too, so he'd best talk fast. “Rafik went that way? Then the probes passed him, right? He's behind them!”

“Yes. Yes.”

“We have to give him a chance to join us. Okay. You get- Let go now.”

She did.

“You get Amnon and the twins. Send them around that side while the rain holds.” The Parole Board direction. “The gatherers stay huddled so they'll be harder to count. I'm at the Road, ready to serve my prole masters but looking in the wrong direction. I don't know anything about prole phones, right?”

She gaped.

“Willametta!”

“I never heard the word!”

“Good, then Andrew didn't either. You, behind me, ready to spot anything weird and tell me. And let's drape a pack or two over Shimon.”

The next break in the rain showed two pairs of proles converging. The pair from the Board direction was nearest, and Jemmy let them see him suddenly discover them. They plodded up to him and one said, “Trusty, some of your gatherers are missing.”

Jemmy looked around wildly. “Oh, man, they must be around to the side. Can I check that out? I had to stay here, man. One of my people got killed.”

“Go get them. Where are the packs?”

“We piled-”

“You're missing some of those too!”

The other prole had drawn his weapon. Jemmy shrank back, raised his arms. “No, man, we spread some packs over Shimon, over the body. I thought you'd want to look him over, I didn't want the rain to wash anything away. I still can't figure why birds would tear him up like that.” Walking backward, Jemmy led them to Shimon laid out on white rock. There: two packs covering torso and face, and when

Jemmy lifted them, there were the terrible holes in Shimon's poncho and Shimon's corpse.

For an instant Jemmy glimpsed a bird-shape with a pack in his hand, behind the probes. A moment later he'd merged with the other birdshapes. The second pair of probes, the ones who had been in the field, were bird-shadows seen through slackening rain, and Jemmy could only hope that they hadn't seen Rafik. Rita and Amnon and Dolores were coming around the toolhouse, obtrusively straightening each other's clothing, and Jemmy shouted and went to yell at them. When he looked around again the piled packs booked to be the right height.

The four probes closed on Jemmy. “Tell us how this man died, now. Don't leave anything out.”

“I swear, man. The spectre bird jabbed him before he moved,” Jemmy said, belligerent and tired.

Two probes shrugged and one had gone to open the toobhouse, but one, Redbeard, cursed. “What I saw was a bird getting curious and a gatherer losing his nerve!”

“Maybe you're right, man, but I saw what I saw.” Jemmy had considered changing his story, but he judged this better.Just stubborn, that's all.

“Turn in your gear and then we're going to search the barracks.”

The packs of speckles went in the cart. The gatherers returned their gloves to the toolhouse. Jemmy left his bird gun and bullets in there too. He watched the little smooth-shelled machine pull the cart away.

The three who remained directed their passage through the stormlock. They were too edgy for anyone's comfort. Jemmy and the redbearded probe went in with Willametta and Amnon.

Jemmy smelled stir-fry cooking. Barda Winslow looked around, and jumped.

“Go easy, Barda,” Jemmy said. “It's a search.” He pulled off his poncho and dropped it.

A woman moaned on one of the beds. Jemmy reflexively turned toward the sound.

Redbeard said, “You go nowhere, Dowd. Stay with the cooking, Winslow. Who's that?”

Barda Winslow answered defensively. “Miledy Waithe is pregnant and overdue. My assistant, Ansel Tarr, is standing by as midwife.”

Ansel Tarn was a good-booking sixteen-year-old boy, white skin, straight black hair, just a touch of sullen. He was plausible enough as Barda Winslow's love slave.

Redbeard grimaced. “When the rest of the Parole Board gets in we'll do our search. I believe we'll start by searching under Miledy Waithe.” He was watching Barda's eyes, and he wasn't pleased when she laughed out loud.

The stormlock door opened and he said, “All right, here come- Hell.”

Here came two gatherers and a dead bird. Jemmy commanded them, “Take the bird to Barda and help her cook.”

Miledy Waithe screamed again. Ansel Tarr murmured in her ear. Otherwise the storm-free silence was heavenly.

“You don't give orders when we're here, Dowd,” the red-bearded probe said quietly.

Jemmy said, “We're all going to run late tonight, man. Last chance to search the bird?”

“Did.”

“What are you looking for? Something you can talk about?”

“Hidden tools. Hidden speckles. Dyes. Any kind of cloth that isn't,” the probe's fingers rubbed the cloth of Jemmy's shorts, “this kind.”

Three gatherers and a second probe entered. Redbeard said, “Dowd, stay! Marta, when Horace gets in we'll search the bathrooms. Cover me, will you?”

“Go for it,” the second probe said.

Redbeard pulled his wet poncho over his head and was bare to the waist. He ran fingers through his hair and flung the water away. “Ah! Better.”

“My turn.”

“Go.

Marta stripped off her poncho. She was, in Jemmy's judgment, exquisite. Males gaped at her, and she hoisted the gun and grinned.

Redbeard caught Jemmy's smile, and glared. “Men's room,” he snapped. They began their search there.

The men's bath was bare of anything suspicious.

The women's bath was very like the men's.

When they emerged, the gatherers were all inside along with a third probe. He was a stocky, muscular man, and he stood guard while the probe Marta and the gatherer Ansel examined Miledy. Mibedy certainly seemed about to give birth.

Jemmy ignored that. Moving clockwise around the room, he opened every door and drawer he could find.

He missed two that the probes knew were there. They took that seriously. The probe he'd nicknamed Muscles held him at gunpoint, Marta took position in a corner and covered the whole room, while Redbeard emptied a cabinet in the medical stores and tapped it for secret corn- partments, all in the sullen communal glare of wet and uncomfortable gatherers. They did the same later with a kitchen storage bin.

They watched carefully while Barda and Jemmy poured the elements of dinner slowly from one container to another. Nothing hidden.

Then Redbeard gestured toward Miledy, and wet and uncomfortable gatherers began to murmur.

Do this fast, Jemmy thought. He summoned Amnon with a gesture. They lifted the bed next to Miledy and invited the probes to examine that. Then, together, Amnon and Jemmy and Muscles lifted Mibedy Waithe. They set her on the other bed before she could begin to protest.

For Miledy that was the last straw. Redbeard and Muscles examined Mibedy's bed, ignoring the sounds behind them; but Miledy was giving birth. Ansel Tarr and Marta helped them tend to that. At the end they were holding a squirming red infant girl, and Miledy had gone from screaming into monotonous cursing.

Marta said, “So, there's your free ride out.”

Miledy wasn't listening. She moved the baby a little, said, “Girl,” in tones of wonder, and went to sleep.

The search was over.

But while the rest of the gatherers served themselves and ate, the probes questioned Barda and “Andrew” about housekeeping details. That was hellish. Jemmy didn't know most of the answers. He and Barda found a routine: he'd start to answer, then Barda would interrupt.

It seemed forever before the proles trooped into the stormlock and were gone.

Then jemmy sagged and sighed, and Barda called, “Get your showers now. The Parole Board can check our water flow. Did anyone save us anything?”

There was still food. Jemmy was ravenous.

Most of the gatherers were showering. Miledy was asleep with the tiny new baby in her arms. Jemmy and Barth ate in silence for a time, in a silent hall.

Barda said, “Good routine, domineering bitch, wimpy male.”

“Worked. We should practice.”

“Yeah. It'd work better with a guy who wasn't so, mmm. Impressive. Rafik? This could have gone on all night, you know. Cooking smells helped. Probes get hungry too.”

“Redbeard found something in the men's,” Jemmy said. “He hid it.”

“Paper?”

“Not sure.”

“Message from Shimon. That's all right, Jemmy. I found it and took out the part about you.”

“What now?”

Barda took her bowl to the sink. She hadn't actually eaten much. Nerves, maybe. “We wait for Andrew,” she said. “Then maybe we run. I want to talk to Rafik, but let's get our showers first.”