A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds) Read online

  “I do.”

  “What?”

  “Trust you.” She stared at him. Wilson turned red and dropped the packet. He bent over to pick it up.

  “Now watch.”

  Wilson poured white powder into the left basin. He dipped his fingers in soap and washed his hands on the right side. After drying his hands he soaked them in the cloudy water on the left.

  “Make way!” Reed washed in the right basin and sterilized his hands in the left.

  “Okay, your turn,” said Wilson.

  He unwrapped the bloody cloth around Badger’s hand. The wound through her hand was an inch wide.

  “This is going to hurt,” he said.

  Wilson dunked her hand in the soapy water. Badger didn’t make a sound, but Wilson felt the hand twitch slightly. He washed and dried Badger’s hand then bandaged it with white cloth.

  “Don’t use it for a week and keep it clean and dry. I have some tea that will make it feel better.”

  She nodded and watched his face. Wilson still held the soft fingers of her hand and she didn’t pull away.

  “There’s something I have to tell you,” he said.

  Badger twisted her mouth, trying not to smile. It didn’t work, and she burst into giggles.

  “You should see your face!”

  Metal tools clinked from across the room.

  “Wilson! I need help over here,” said Reed.

  He let go of Badger’s hand and darted to the black table. Mina’s eyes were closed. The priest held her arm in one hand and a scalpel in the other.

  “The point isn’t deep. I used some local sedation,” said Reed. He leaned over the arm with the tiny blade. “Pour that compound here when I tell you.”

  A clank came from the entrance tunnel. Wilson turned and Badger had gone.

  THREE

  Wilson overslept. After breakfast, he asked around for Badger but for some stupid reason Simpson had taken her on patrol, even with an injured hand.

  “Won’t be back for days,” said Mast. He pumped his foot on the grinding wheel and sharpened a hatchet. “Or weeks. Or months.”

  “What?!!”

  Mast laughed. “You should see your face. Oh wow.”

  “That’s the second time I’ve heard that.”

  “Get a new face then.”

  Wilson sighed and turned the hilt of a snapped blade that lay on the table. “So when are they really coming back?”

  “Probably within a week.”

  “Why that long?”

  “Why? Why’s it raining when you priests said we’d have sun? Why did thirty tribals show up in the foothills last night? Why am I telling you when it should be the other way around?”

  “Thirty? There were only five.”

  “No. More came later, a big group. Luckily a couple of hunters pulled them to the east with lanterns. That’s why Simpson took Badger with him––to track the big group. And don’t ask me how water got into the forge. I’m not even thinking about fixing it until the rain stops.”

  “I’m going to find out what’s going on,” said Wilson.

  “You do that.”

  FATHER REED LEANED BACK in his chair and waved at the large display on the wall. “This is what’s going on,” he said. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing in that section of the map last night.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No activity, human or animal.”

  “But–”

  “It was a fluke, an anomaly, or a power fluctuation. I can’t tell.”

  “A fluke?!!”

  “Watch your tone, apprentice.”

  “The map is one thing. But you knew about Badg– I mean, Airman Chen’s hand and still let her go?”

  “I didn’t want to but she’s still the best tracker. The others will watch out for her.”

  Wilson’s face heated up and pressure built behind his eyes.

  “It could get infected and they won’t be back for weeks!”

  “Do we need to talk about your attitude, Wilson?”

  “No, sir … I’m sorry, sir. What about the forecast problem?”

  The priest smiled. “Things happen sometimes. Sensors break and rainstorms roll in. I can’t control the weather.”

  Wilson didn’t know how to respond. Reed wouldn’t have said this in front of anyone else. To the rest of the village the priests and their machinery were infallible.

  “And the girl?”

  “Mina? She’s nearby.”

  He led Wilson through the hallway to a door with a small display at the side. “There’s her cardiac rhythm and breathing rate, both at low levels because she’s sleeping.”

  “Have you talked to her?”

  “I haven’t had the chance to ask many questions. She says very little. It could be the medicine I’ve given her, but she’s also been under physical and mental stress. Those tribal animals treated her poorly.”

  “Where’s she from?”

  “I’d say not from any known tribes, but it’s difficult to tell. The few phrases she’s spoken are strangely mixed with English. Her dress is also a pattern I haven’t seen before. The men likely bought her at a slave market and lost their bearings while traveling.”

  “If she was their slave, why the beatings? Why the bruises?”

  Reed smiled. “The innocence of youth––I wish I had it again. Man is born to trouble. Sometimes, that trouble is our fault and sometimes it’s brought by other men.”

  “And the thirty who followed them?”

  “Followed, or simple coincidence?”

  Wilson stared at Reed. “At night, away from known tribes, in strange territory?”

  “Founder’s boots, these are sharp questions,” said the priest. “When she wakes up ask her yourself.”

  WILSON’S QUESTIONS WOULD HAVE to wait. Reed dispatched him an hour later to fix a mechanical problem in the Office living quarters. The hot water was coming out cold. A gaggle of old graybeards flocked around Wilson and gleefully argued over the number of decades since the last plumbing fault. It was a rare event and Wilson didn’t need to be reminded of that. He worried less about the problem and more about where he’d have to go to fix it.

  Under a drizzle of rain, Robb walked with him through the village. Both wore sturdy hemp overalls, caps, and leather gloves.

  In the midst of corn fields lay a long concrete rectangle from the old times with cracked walls the same color as the dripping sky. Most of the roof had collapsed or blown away, along with whatever had filled in the windows. Wilson hated the tall, empty holes in the walls, the gaping black mouths that swallowed naughty children. Sometimes he walked alone at night and heard the wind moan across the empty windows like a ghost for her children.

  Wilson lifted a wooden bar across the entrance and pushed on a weather-beaten door. The inside was much the same as outside––bare, cold, and open to the sky. He walked with Robb to the back of the ruin and stopped at a large wooden panel on the floor. When he lifted it grit showered over a rusted hatch in the concrete.

  “This is it.”

  Robb shuffled back. “I don’t want to do it. We can’t go down there!”

  “Listen,” said Wilson. “I got you out of weed chopping. This is only going to take a minute and then you can do whatever you want all day. Think of it––you can play with a stick, or if you’re feeling brave, a rock.”

  “I changed my mind. I want to chop weeds.”

  Wilson leaned the wood panel against a wall. “Okay. I’ll tell all your friends you were scared. Especially that girl–”

  “No! I’ll go with you.”

  Wilson reached down to the hatch and pulled a handle. It didn’t budge. He turned a lever with his thumb, lifted again, and the hatch squealed open.

  Dirt showered into the darkness under the hatch and fizzed somewhere far below. Wilson took a hand sparker and lit the candle in his lantern. He knotted a rope to the lantern’s handle and lowered it down the shaft. The gentle swings of candlelight glowed on the rungs
of a metal ladder and the sides of a narrow shaft. The base clinked on a hard surface eight meters below.

  “Here goes nothing,” said Wilson.

  He knelt at the opening and used his foot to touch the top rung of the ladder. His arms and back scraped the sides of the maintenance shaft as he climbed down.

  “Good thing you’re not afraid of tight spaces,” said Robb.

  Wilson stopped in the middle and scowled as he looked up. “You’re not making this easier.”

  He grabbed the lantern and rope at the bottom. A rucksack fell through the shaft and smacked the floor next to Wilson.

  “Watch out below!” yelled Robb.

  Wilson shook his head. “I’m going to murder this kid.”

  “What?”

  “Just get down here.”

  “What?”

  Robb’s feet scraped on the rungs and he hopped a short distance to the floor.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  “I said your hair looks nice today.”

  “That’s not what you said.”

  Floating particles of dust glowed in the lantern-light. To Wilson’s left the corridor disappeared into darkness. The metal bubble of another hatch stuck from the floor on the right side. Someone had stenciled “Maintenance” in block letters on the wall, and near the access ladder, “Level One” in faded white paint.

  Across the corridor a metal floor plan had been fastened to the wall with screws. The title read “Altmann Research Station Administration Level One” and below that, “Emergency Exits In Red.” There were more rooms than Wilson had expected from Father Reed’s instructions.

  Robb peered at the sign, his nose almost touching the metal. “What’s adm … admister … ation?”

  “I’d happily tell you Robb, but it wouldn’t be safe for the tiny mouse brain rattling around in your skull. You’d probably have a stroke.”

  “I’m not a mouse brain––you are.”

  “Exactly.”

  Wilson bent over the metal bubble in the floor and pulled with both hands. The round hatch squealed open and air boiled out that smelled of dust and dry metal. Wilson lit Robb’s lantern and placed it next to the hatch, then used the rope to lower his own lantern down the new shaft. It guttered as it hit the floor and Wilson climbed down. His moccasins left prints and kicked up soft dust on the ground.

  Wilson looked at the floor plan for the level and waited for Robb. The corridor looked identical to the one above. To his right was a concrete wall and another access hatch in the floor.

  At last Robb stepped from the ladder with a rattle of gear and the reluctance of a bored teenager.

  “Ekeeru!” said Wilson.

  “What?”

  “It means ‘let’s go’ in the dialect.”

  “Loser. Hey, I know another word for moron. It’s ‘Wilson.’”

  “Ha ha. Look for anything that says ‘Maintenance’ or ‘Water.’”

  They passed doors with yellowed title plates such as “Personnel,” “Planning,” and “Logistics.” The corridor split to the left and right. Wilson saw doors and pulled Robb to the left. The second door they passed was marked “HPWP Maintenance––Restricted Personnel Only.” Wilson felt a faint vibration through his feet.

  “This one,” he said, and pushed the door lever.

  Dim red lights snapped on. A pair of dusty metal consoles filled the small room. The left machine was labeled “HP Manage” and the right “WP Manage.” Both were covered in labeled dials and knobs and connected to the rear wall by a quartet of dull black pipes.

  Robb pointed at a red book. “What’s that?”

  A cable secured it to a small shelf between the two machines. The thin volume was oddly heavy. The cover felt like leather and was embossed with a large question mark. Heat Pump and Water Pump Maintenance was at the bottom in small type.

  “Work some of that magic,” said Robb. “I’m hungry.”

  “Hang on.”

  Inside the book were large, simple symbols with English text and a few other languages Wilson didn’t recognize. He stopped trying to guess and read the English as he flipped each page. At last he found “No Heat in Water ReCirc.” A diagram on the facing page illustrated how to open a panel and change two switches. Wilson followed the arrows and the floor vibrated intensely for a few seconds. He compared an illustration of a meter in the book with the one on the panel.

  “I think I fixed it.”

  “Finally!”

  Wilson closed the door and they walked back through the corridor.

  “What’s that?” said Robb.

  “What’s what?”

  Robb ran for the ladder. “Goddamn spider, I saw it!”

  Wilson swung his lantern and peered into the dusty shadows while Robb climbed the rungs as fast as he could.

  “You’re going to fall and hurt yourself, moron,” yelled Wilson.

  A scream came from above then a deafening clang.

  Wilson set down his lantern. “Dog spit!”

  He climbed the ladder rapidly and felt the underside of the hatch for the release lever. He twisted and pulled with all his strength but nothing happened. From the other side of the hatch came mumbled sounds.

  “Robb!”

  The narrow shaft made “an application of force problematic,” as Father Reed would have put it. Wilson hooked one foot through a rung and strained with both hands on the lever. It turned but when he pushed up the hatch didn’t open.

  “Robb! Get some help!”

  A sound filtered through that could have been a response. Wilson hoped it was instead the sound of Robb meeting a family of very sociable, man-eating spiders.

  “It’s just my luck someone else is scared of those things.”

  He descended the ladder and wiped sweat and dust from his eyes. The thought of wandering alone through the dark tunnels made him shiver. He tried to distract himself by taking inventory of what was left.

  His gear included a lantern with maybe an hour of light, a three-inch knife, a writing stylus with a small bottle of ink, a scrap of paper, and a small pouch with healing powder for Mina. Robb had the rucksack with the extra candles and water.

  He picked his lantern from the floor and sighed.

  “Like a lamb to the slaughter …”

  He checked behind for anything skittering along the floor then walked down the corridor. A few door handles rattled at his touch but were locked. At Personnel A218 the handle rattled but turned easily. Wilson took a deep breath and pushed.

  The room was separated into small areas, each with one chair and desk. Under a dusty mess of ceiling tiles and fallen rock lay signs of desperate flight. White papers were scattered on the floor below empty filing cabinets. The air smelled of old shoes and earth.

  Wilson’s hands began to sweat and he rubbed them on his trousers. Faded papers rustled under his feet. He tried not to imagine what could be hiding under every desk by thinking about the people who’d lived here in the past. He touched a light brown bottle with a red top and it shattered into delicate fragments.

  A black cube with a keypad and removable handle lay on each desk. Wilson picked up the nearest handle and noticed square meshes on either end. It sounded hollow when he tapped it on the desk. From the keypad he guessed it was a computational device.

  Underneath the chair lay a picture of a baby cat with a numbered grid. Wilson realized it was an old-style calendar and squinted at the date: October 2053. He snorted at the waste of valuable paper and put the calendar inside his jacket.

  Black, official text marked a smoky glass door: “Captain David Martinez, Personnel.” Of course Wilson knew Martinez––he worked for Simpson as a hunter. This had to be the office of the “first” David Martinez and one of the founders.

  Wilson opened the door. He cursed and immediately stumbled backwards, kicking up dust as he fell.

  On a desk stared a human skull, yellow and on its side like a dropped toy. Other bones were scattered on the desk and around the small
office.

  Wilson closed his eyes and exhaled. He imagined a sudden plunge into a freezing lake and whispered four phrases:

  Breath made of ice

  Breath made of water

  Breath made of fog

  Calm my heart

  It was something Father Reed had taught him to calm his heart and focus his energy. The priest had called it a “trick”, because your mind was learning to “trick” the body’s normal reactions.

  Wilson’s left arm was as cold as ice––a side-effect. He flexed his fingers and stood up with the flickering lantern.

  “Thank founder you didn’t go out.”

  On the desk, assorted bones of the arm surrounded the skull: radius, ulna, humerus. A pelvic bone, vertebrae, and ribs had tumbled into a chair behind the desk. Mixed in with papers on the floor were the remaining bones, scraps of dirty fabric, and an old handgun.

  Wilson picked up the weapon carefully, like he would a dead rat. The firearm was a deep blue-black color with a rotating cylinder in the middle, and with barrel the length of his hand. Wilson had seen a couple of tribal firearms up close and in books but nothing like this. He stuck it in a pocket of his jacket.

  In the midst of the bones on the desk were several tiny objects mottled yellow and white in color. One was an irregular cylinder less than eight inches long, slightly flattened in the middle, with thread-like wires connected to a small sphere several feet away. Several miniature tubes with threads were also scattered near the skull.

  Wilson noticed a hole in the temporal bone of the skull and a larger hole in the parietal bone at the back. The yellowed grid of paper on the desk was stained black and gray and matched a spray of dots on the wall. Under the skull lay a thin journal. Wilson pushed the skull away with his knife and handled the book with the tips of his fingers. Someone had written “Mike Wong” in block letters on the stained cover. Most of the pages were blank and the rest too faint to read. Wilson put the journal in his pocket along with the white objects.

  A thump came from across the room. He turned to see a pair of fist-sized spiders meander out of the shadows.

  “Time to go!”

  Wilson grabbed his lantern and sprinted from the office. He kicked at a spider lounging on a desk and another next to the door. At the access ladder he put his back to the wall and tried to calm his beating heart with the trick. He was supposed to keep his mind blank but couldn’t shake the beady eyes and hairy black legs of those ungodly monstrosities. He gave up and simply watched the corridor.