A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds) (9 page)

“Yes, he was.” Wilson rubbed his eyes. “The bastards ambushed his hunting party. Mother said he wasn’t a good hunter, but for some reason Reed needed extra men. It was an off-map hunt.”

“What was he good at?”

“Making things. He was the chief metalworker.”

Badger was quiet again, and still watched the valley. Wilson slid next to her. He unplugged the water-skin and took a long drink.

“I thought this place was my own little secret,” he said. “Turns out you’ve been coming here for a long time.”

Badger nodded. “Soon after I came to Station. You looked so happy and relaxed––completely different from the goofy, big-brained genius that I’d seen before. I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Thank you. I would’ve shared it, though. Especially with you.”

Badger let out a sharp laugh. “Are you kidding? It’s hard for anyone to get close to me, Will. I don’t have a good temper, even on my best days.”

“You’re probably right. But like my mother says, the prickly pear has the sweetest insides.”

She punched him in the shoulder. “I’ll show my knife your insides.”

Wilson held out his hand. “Truce?”

“Only if you promise never to keep anything from me again.”

“I promise.”

“Okay, then.” Badger shook his hand and dropped it quickly. “Now tell me you found something useful.”

The feel of her warm fingers lingered in Wilson’s mind. He pushed it away like a dog shaking his coat.

“Is something wrong?”

“Sorry. I looked through the library and database and couldn’t find anything, except for the fact that seizures used to be treated with medicines. Even if we had any of these old medicines or could make more of them, your condition doesn’t have the same cause.”

“So what should I do? Just wait for the end?”

“Let me explain. I found out from Reed that a kind of old machine is implanted––put inside us––during the name-giving ceremony. For some reason your sickness and that machine are related. Now, on the north side of Station is a building from the old days–”

“It’s empty. And anyways, off-limits,” said Badger.

“True, but there are tunnels leading underground. Only a few of us know about it. Weeks ago Robb and I went down there to fix the hot water. I found this pistol and that old set of implants. If we’re looking for something from before the war the tunnels are a good place to start.”

“Reed won’t let you.”

“Not if I don’t tell him.”

Badger rubbed her eyes. “Machines, tunnels, blah, blah––I need sleep.”

“No problem. I’ll put together supplies and we’ll meet at daybreak near the ruins.”

“Got it.”

He tried to put his arm around her waist but she pushed him away.

“No. Get some rest.”

They left by different paths.

WILSON WALKED TO THE tannery but his mother wasn’t there. He took a few pieces of buckskin from the wall. He set his pistol on the largest piece, wrapped it, and marked the outline with a knife. After cutting the leather and folding it to repel water he sewed the edges with a needle and leather thong. At the top he made a large flap and secured it with a leather strap around the middle. A rectangle of leather at the back would secure the holster to a belt. Wilson held it up and thought it looked nothing like the pictures.

The door squealed and his mother stepped inside.

“Oh, hi there, Cubbie. Come and give your mother a hug.”

“Morning.”

She held him tight. “Why haven’t you come to see me?”

Wilson shrugged. “Been busy.”

“I said I was sorry. I just thought ... you know ...”

“Yes mother––I know, and you were right.”

His mother saw the pistol on the table.

“What’s that doing here?”

“I made a pouch for it.”

“Why are you fooling with that junk? It’s dangerous!”

“Any weapon is dangerous if never cleaned, and that’s one thing never on the mind of some filthy, half-drunk savage. But this one didn’t come from the outside.”

“Why is it here and not in Armory?”

“I was just taking it there.”

His mother watched his face. “Cubbie, what’s going on inside your head?”

“I’m Reed’s apprentice, mother. I know how to handle these things.”

She touched his arm and he pulled away.

“You look just like your father,” she said. “And sound like him. He always said things like that. I can handle it, Mary. You don’t know what’s going on, Mary. You don’t understand this or that. He was right. I didn’t care about anything but him and my little baby.”

“I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

“Don’t say that. The last thing he said to me was ‘I’m sorry’. I walked with everyone to the pass and––I’ll never forget––he said, ‘If anything happens to me, I’m sorry, Mary. If anything happens it’s my fault. Promise me you’ll be happy.’” She covered her face with her hands.

“Let’s take a walk,” said Wilson. “Come on.”

She wiped her eyes. “No, I’m fine. I know you’re on some secret project and it’s none of my business. Make the choices you have to make, Cubbie. Just be sure that’s what you want.”

MAST WAS IN THE very back of the workshop casting tips for crossbow bolts. Robb sat on a narrow saddle near the wall, spinning pedals with his legs to work the ventilator. The smell of sulfur and carbon floated on the thick, heated air.

“Give me a minute,” said Mast. He finished pouring red-hot metal into fingernail-sized molds. “Time for a break. Robb, get me something to drink.”

“Where’s your shadow?” asked Wilson.

“Hausen? His wife needed him for something. Told me to keep working.”

“Not your ‘boss’ boss. Mina.”

“Oh, her. She doesn’t like it around here when the furnace is fired up. Probably wandering the corridors like a lost lamb.”

“Everything still okay with you two?”

“All the hand-holding and manners are wearing thin like month-old underpants. But let me tell you–” Mast leaned close, “–get this girl alone and she’s an animal.”

“That makes two of you then.”

“Ha, ha. You’re so smart, Wilson, so smart you’re stupid. She’s amazing and you don’t know what you’re missing.”

“And you’re welcome.”

Mast sighed. “Wilson, Wilson. Your heart is in the right place. Not like your brain. How you got chosen to be Reed’s apprentice, God knows.”

“I can write without using my own feces, that’s one over you.”

“Keep it up.”

“I have a favor to ask,” said Wilson.

“Yes? Another savage female wandered through the pass?”

“No. I need some rounds for a firearm.”

“What? I know your life is tough and all but–”

“Listen! This is just between you and me.”

Mast shook his head. “Asking for gunpowder rounds is a tall order my friend,” he said.

“But all the confiscated weapons are here,” said Wilson. “You’ve got to have something that will work.”

“Wilson, ‘got to’ is strong talk and you should know better. Let me see the weapon.”

Wilson laid the old pistol on the counter.

“Nice,” said Mast. He held the weapon with the tips of his fingers. “This is one fine weapon. Looks like it needs maintenance, though.”

“Maintenance?”

“It needs to be oiled and cleaned. There’s some sticking and corrosion in places. Or, don’t clean it. Not having a face is all the rage, I hear.”

“Can you oil it for me?”

“Wilson, if I get caught with this–”

“You haven’t forgotten the beautiful blue-eyed favor you still owe me?”

“Geez, fine. I’ll clean it now. Bad news on the rounds, though. I’ve never seen any like that.”

“Thanks, Mast.”

FIVE

W
ilson waited in a sleepy, pre-dawn mist near the old building. The white haze obscured the village from sight but not sound.

He listened to villagers starting the day. From the way the boys shouted the old chants it was definitely Hausen at the front of the morning run.

Wilson drummed his fingers on the handle of a sledgehammer. He wore his normal hemp clothing and a white bandana around his neck. Over one shoulder was a coil of rope and on the other a rucksack.

He opened the cylinder of the freshly oiled pistol. Mast had advised him to keep only five chambers loaded. The pistol’s hammer rested on the empty one.

He heard quick footsteps and Badger ran out of the mist. She held a two-meter sharpened stick and wore three knives in her belt.

Wilson pointed at the stick. “Why’d you bring that?”

“I have to teach you everything? This is for your little pets. If you move slowly they can’t see it coming, then SQUISH. No more spider.”

“As long as I don’t have to look.”

She giggled. “You’re just like a girl!”

Badger rummaged through the rucksack of Wilson’s supplies. For her part, Badger had brought a pack holding a water skin of spruce tea, bread, a blanket roll, a lantern, and five candles.

“Wait,” said Wilson. “Is anyone going to miss you?”

She shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. They’re all used to my disappearing act.”

Wilson opened the door to the empty building and walked with Badger to the dark corner at the back.

“Here’s how we get to the tunnels,” he said.

The wooden panel was the same as he’d left it weeks ago. Wilson kicked it to the side and pulled up on the squealing metal hatch. His sledgehammer and Badger’s stick tumbled down the shaft and cracked on the concrete darkness.

Wilson lowered his lantern. He climbed down the ladder and caught the packs Badger dropped to him.

She jumped the last few rungs and picked up her spear. “Having fun yet?”

“Keep that away from my face, please––I’m very attached to it. My face, that is. I’ll carry the lantern and sledge, just watch my back.”

“There’s another ladder. Do we keep going down?”

“We’ll try this floor first. Let me check the air.” Wilson took a small metal box from his pack and spun a crank.

“Does that thing even work?”

“Don’t know, but it can’t hurt. It doesn’t show any warnings. That could be good or bad.”

A floor plan on the wall next to the ladder showed a grid of corridors and rooms.

“This doesn’t help,” said Wilson. “There’s no description of anything.”

“Lead on, then.”

The pair walked through the corridor, Wilson with the sledge over his right shoulder and Badger with her spear. The lantern illuminated the floating motes of dust kicked up by their feet.

A door on the right was marked “Lab A108.” Wilson put down his lantern and lifted the sledgehammer.

“Cover your ears!”

“Try the handle first, Samson.”

Wilson twisted the lever and the door swung inside. Low counters and cabinets lined the walls of the room. Broken glass and strange metal shapes littered the floor and surfaces. A sharpness burned at the back of Wilson’s throat.

“I’m not getting glass in my feet,” he said.

They found similar rooms, all full with shattered glass containers. Among these were a few smaller closets with shelves of brown and clear jars, cracked dishes, and brooms.

The corridor turned right and continued fifty meters to another door. It was orange and sturdy and painted with a symbol: a black cluster of thorns on a yellow triangle.

“Wait,” said Badger. “I’ve seen that before. Those three animals that tortured Mina had it on their faces.”

Wilson nodded. “It does look the same. I’m sure they just copied it from a pile of junk or showed it to the local gibbering idiot of a medicine man.”

Below the circle of thorns was a line of black letters––“Biohazard Level 4 HAZMAT Suit Required.” In the wall next to the door handle was a keypad.

Badger pulled at the handle. “How can we get in?”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“Tell me why, genius.”

Wilson sighed. “Biohazard means harmful to life.”

“But it’s been three hundred years!”

“So the room might be safe now. But they locked things in there for a reason and we can’t risk it.”

Farther down the corridor, Wilson found a metal door and smashed the lock with a deafening clang. Inside were metal cabinets and clear, cracked containers. On racks inside the cabinets lay narrow cylinders and strange green masks. He opened another cabinet and scattered clouds of dust. Inside were yellow suits, boots, and helmets with visors.

“Look at that!”

Badger sneezed and looked back at the door. “Just stupid priest clothing.”

“No, they used it for something else.”

“Petting spiders?”

They continued down the corridor and passed a pair of rooms with dank odors. Badger opened the next door marked “Lockers”. Something small and black skittered from the light.

“Wait! Hold the lantern.”

Legs spread as wide as a dinner plate, the spider froze in a corner. Badger moved the spear slowly at first, then jerked her arm forward. She waved the spider’s long-legged body at Wilson and flung it across the room.

He stared at the red smear on the wall. “What on God’s green earth is there to eat down here?”

“There’s always something crawling in the dark. I bet they eat other spiders. Or they heard you were coming and wanted to throw a party.”

“Let’s not talk about it.”

Most of the narrow beige cabinets in the room were shut. Dusty white clothing and papers covered the floor. As Wilson looked closer he noticed a nameplate on the face of each cabinet.

The first held a pair of women’s shoes, a long white coat, and dark, folded clothing. A box and a framed photo were on a shelf sticky with cobwebs. The subjects in the photo had completely faded to gray blobs. Inside the box were tarnished earrings and a necklace made of tiny white spheres. A yellowed card slipped into view from under the necklace.

“What’s wrong, Will?”

“It’s my mother’s name––Mary Abrikosov. This belonged to her name-giver.”

Wilson put the small box in his pack. He lifted up the clothing and sneezed at the dust. A few crumpled sheets of paper and a book lay underneath. Only a hand-written note was legible.

Mary,

Please come and talk with me about the situation. Many of us have been affected by the fighting and I can try to help. In case you haven’t heard, my new office is B102.