Windrunner's Daughter (2 page)

For a moment she hesitated, getting her bearings: she had come in at the South entrance. Ahead, low buildings ran in long diagonal terraces; workshops on one side dwellings on the other. Generations old gingko trees clustered where gusts of wind would have collected on the lee side of each structure.

They had been built to be battered by winds but had never been exposed to them. Now bunting dangled between each building and colourful flags hung, breathless. Snatches of music twisted through the eaves and gathered in the Dome’s apex while shouts of laughter burst like seed pods. Wren stared, how had she forgotten what day it was?

A small boy ran from the nearest house squealing and waving a tiny space shuttle. “Happy Kiernan’s Day,” he shrieked when he saw her.

His mother loped after him, her face flushed, her arms spread wide. When she saw Wren she stopped as if she’d run into the Dome. Then she grabbed her son, all humour erased from her face as if it had never been. “Leave my son alone!”

Wren sighed. “Happy Kiernan’s Day,” she offered.

“Not for the likes of you.” She snapped. “Damned Runners.”

“Captain Kiernan sacrificed himself to save
everyone
on Mars,” Wren reminded her coldly. “Runners and Grounders alike.”

The woman snorted and pushed her son towards the house. “The Originals might have fought and died for all. But if they could see you now …” Her voice faded into disgust and her husband appeared in the doorway.

His eyes widened when he saw her. “Clear off, you.” He gripped the doorframe.

Wren didn’t stay to watch mother and son hasten back inside the house.

“Kiernan’s Day,” She whispered, rolling the words around her mouth, as if she’d never spoken them before. If the others had been at Avalon they would have been celebrating, but left to herself she had completely forgotten.

Soon the dust storm season would begin. She had less time than she had thought. “I can still get a Runner to fly, if I can use the Communicator,” she muttered.

There was only one man in the colony who might take her request seriously and even on Kiernan’s Day, he and the other Councillors would be in the Council building.

Unlike the Runners, who were governed by a single Convocation presided over by the High Patrions and centred around the votes of the Patriarchs, the Grounder colonies were all run by annually rotating Councils of six. It was easy to tell who was Councillor in a given year because each wore two weighty pendants: one white and one black.

Wren drew close to the squatting Council building and pulled her shoulders back. The entrance gaped before her; she merely had to walk in, but she froze. Now, in this moment, there was hope. Her heart fluttered. They had only to say yes: just one little word. She wasn’t asking for Phobos, just for five minutes on the communicator.

Yet words popped like bubbles in her gut:
clear off, you
.

With stiff legs Wren marched through the open door and into a short corridor made of slowly rusting shuttle panels. The waiting area was empty, but still a mechanised voice asked her to ‘take a number and a seat’. There were no seats. A tab with the number ‘001’ dropped into a waiting basket. She picked it up and rubbed the indented plastic with her thumb. Ahead of her a second door slid greasily open. She dropped the tab back into the basket, hid her shaking hands behind her back and stepped forward.

The Council building was low ceilinged. There was room enough inside for eighty or ninety colonists to gather, more if everyone stood, but the tallest would have to duck their heads. Wren had been inside only twice in her life. The room featured in her nightmares.

In the centre a raised dais; on it a table and six chairs. Five were occupied. The sixth sat askew, achingly empty, a missing tooth in an adult mouth.

“Where is he?” Wren blurted, unable to stop herself.

A thin man, his features twisted like twine, raised his eyes. Beside him his flat chinned companion gawped. “It’s one o them Runners,” he sputtered. “What’s he doin’ out of Avalon?” He lurched from his seat, slab feet slapping on the panelled floor. “It’s Kiernan’s Day,” he snapped. “Have some respect!”

“Are you blind Hawkins? That’s no
he
.” One of the Councillors was a woman. Wren blinked, surprised. “It’s one o their Sphere Mistresses.”

“No - too young,” Twine-face suggested. “A
nothing
then. Too female to be a Runner, too young to be a Sphere-Mistress.”

“What’re you here for?” The woman leaned forward and raised her voice to speak slow and loud, as though Wren were deaf, or stupid. Her pendulous breasts squashed against the table top. “Want to petition to get into the Women’s Sector?” Her chuckle shook the chair beneath her.

The men around her sniggered. “Would you let her in, Tee?”

“No–one would have her to wife, but we always need fertile wombs for the exchange programme.” The woman smiled. “Is that right, Runner-girl, are you sick of running errands for fly-boys, do you want to come and join Tee’s noble girls?”

“Shut up!” The words, flung into the air, seemed to float between them, shocking red. Wren’s eyes widened. “I mean,
please
, I do have a petition, but not that.”

“And why should we listen?” A third man spoke, his voice rasping, like tearing skin. “Send your Patriarch, or your Sphere-Mistress.” He turned his back on her, as if she’d already left.

“I need to use the communicator.” Wren called. “It’s-”

Laughter rolled through the hall; loud as cannon fire, it ricocheted from the low ceiling and surrounded Wren, mocking her trembling fingers and reddening ears.

“The
nothing
wants the use the communicator!” Hawkins thumped the table, making the water jug in the middle jump.

“What’s wrong? Got a boyfriend you want to talk to? Won’t the other fly-boys carry yer love notes?” Tee nudged the frowning man on her left and he barked in acknowledgement of her joke.

“Use the
communicator
!” The final man, whose beard covered half of his face shook his head as the laughter petered out. “Even if it wasn’t a fragile piece of equipment with irreplaceable components that are breaking down, even if we didn’t have to save it for essential use only, why on Mars, would we allow someone like
you
to use it? You’re just a girl. What possible reason could you have?”

Wren opened her mouth.

“That wasn’t an invitation to speak.” Tee sat straight. “You Godless Runners believe you’re more important than us. You think the rules of the colony don’t apply to you. If we let you play with the communicator and it breaks down, what happens when an adult actually needs to send an important message? What then?”

“This
is
important.” Wren lurched forwards, her fists clenched.

“I’m sure you think so.” The bearded man, who Wren now realised was the colony Smith, nodded indulgently. “Let a Runner take your message, girl. They might not charge you more than a kiss.”

“You have to vote.” Wren was horrified to find that tears made her voice almost unrecognisable. “That’s the rule, you have to vote in response to a petition.”

Hawkins sighed. “Let’s vote.”

“You can’t do it without Win. Where is he?”

They ignored her. First Tee, then Hawkins, then all five, closed their fists around their pendants and lifted them into the air.

Black, black, black, black …

The smith looked at her with something approaching sympathy and, for a moment, Wren’s heart rose. His hand closed around one of his pendants, the other remained in his shirt; she couldn’t see which he had chosen. He lifted the bulb slowly, his big hand obscuring the colour. Wren leaned forward, her breath solid in her lungs. Then his fingers opened. He held black.

“Five of six, a clear majority, we don’t need Win to tie-break.” Tee dropped her chain back onto her breast. “Vote’s against yer Runner girl. Now get out.”

“But -”

“The decision’s been made and recorded.” Hawkins was tapping on a sticky keyboard.

Wren clenched her fists. “At least tell me where he is.”

“Meeting people a lot more important than you.”

Wren backed out, her blood roaring like thunder in her ears. She wouldn’t turn her back on them. She flayed the Councillors with her eyes until the door slid closed on the chamber; then her shoulders sagged. What had she expected - that they’d just allow her to use the communicator?

Maybe this
was
better: she should have asked Win himself to make the request in the first place. She would wait at his door for as long as it took him to come home.

Wren ran past the trees and under the bunting, weaving through stinking shafts of recycled air. She saw hardly anyone. After first worship ended, Kiernan’s Day was a family occasion. Warily, she approached the gaping gateway of the large property at the far West edge of the Dome. There she made an effort to slow to a walk, but her knees shook and threatened to tip her forward. She grabbed the gatepost, which was almost as tall as she was, and caught sight of Win. The old man was standing in the garden, speaking earnestly with two Senior Technicians and a uniformed Green-man. The three were gesticulating widely, their voices angry.

“We haven’t had a Runner in for three weeks and Tir Na Nog haven’t yet replied to our hails-”

“Yet you can see that we are managing perfectly well. The seedlings have taken, we have samples of the last set of drugs being reproduced, so why do we need them? I say we cut ties-”

“Cut ties! What about the baby exchange? Genetic diversity is-”

“We can manage four more generations before inbreeding becomes any sort of problem.”

“And what then?”

“By then the Runners will be under our control.”

“It’s true that they have too much power over trade and distribution … great hells Win, what’s that supposed to be?” The youngest of the Technicians had spotted her.

Wren’s ears were ringing; she staggered into the garden where chunks of rocks and coloured dirt formed patterns around the pathway. “You can’t be serious?”

“How much did you hear?” Win flew forwards, his jacket billowing. Boney, like a wing-stand, he loomed over her, and long fingers on spidery hands grabbed her wrists.

“You can’t be considering cutting ties with the other Nine colonies!”

“This doesn’t concern you.”

“I’m a
Runner
.”

Win sneered. “Whatever you are, you’re not a Councillor, you’ve heard a tiny piece of a long discussion and drawn your own conclusions. More importantly, you’re derelict in your duty. Why are you here, instead of at the Runner-sphere waiting to service incoming Runners? No landings have been reported.” He cocked his head, silently demanding an explanation.

“I-” Wren drew herself up, but Win refused to release her, twisting her wrists painfully, so that she had to hunch to keep them straight. She stared as his scornful face, a weathered parody of her mother’s, curved into disdainful lines.

Then, as if bored, he shoved her to one side. “Go back to Avalon, Wren, and tell no-one what you heard.” He began to stride towards the house.

Wren chased after him. “But Grandfather, I need to talk to you.”

When he turned and she saw his face, she faltered.

“Don’t call me that. I’m no Runner relation.” The old man’s eyes flickered. “How could your mother let you come to the ‘sphere looking like that?” He marched towards her and pinched her elbow. “Wild. Uneducated. Useless to the colony. You’re an embarrassment.”

“I’m not uneducated. I can run the whole of Avalon and I'll be Sphere-Mistress one day-”

“Useless.” Win spat again. “Get out of here.” He drove her through the gateway and towards the nearest airlock.

“Wait.” Wren tried to pull free as his grip left marks on her skin. “I need you to get permission for me to use the communicator. I have to contact Father. He’s in Convocation at Lake Lyot.”

Win snorted. “Ridiculous. The whole point of having Runners is that we don’t need to overuse the communicators.”

“It’s essential that I get hold of him.”

He strode on, dragging her behind him. “I do nothing for any of your brood. Mia knows that.”

Wren heaved a breath. “She’s sick.”

Win hesitated for only one step. “So what?”

Wren closed her eyes and spoke the words she could barely make herself say out loud. “I think she’s dying.”

Win yanked Wren in front of him and her eyes flew open. “Are you lying to me?” His nose, with its network of tiny veins, almost brushed hers as he bent to look into her face.

“No,” Wren whispered. “She’s had a fever for three days.”

The old man straightened up. “Let your father deal with it.” He renewed his hold and marched on toward the edge of the settlement.

“Lyot’s the longest Run there is and who knows how long Convocation will be convened. He might not be back for a month. He’ll be too late.” Wren gasped. “I have to get word out. I need help.”

“Help yourself,” he spat. “I told Mia to get pregnant before the Choosing.” His eyes swum with nostalgia and Wren could almost see a picture of her young mother in the dark of them. Then he shook his head. “She could have been married to an honourable Grounder. She could have joined the exchange programme and increased the genetic diversity of the colony, but she disobeyed me. She accepted your father’s offer to become Sphere-Mistress when his sister died and now she’s paying the price.”

Wren blinked at him. “You’d rather she was in the Exchange programme than married to Father?” She tried to pull away, but her grandfather’s grip was pitiless.

“She allowed herself to be chosen by that Runner, so let him take care of her. Living in that Runner-sphere, exposed to the storms, our every conversation monitored in case ‘the ex-Grounder’ reveals the secrets of flight. She might as well be dead.”

Wren gasped. “But she might really die. She’s your daughter.”

“She disobeyed me; she’s no daughter of mine.”

And now, finally, their raised voices attracted attention. Loping around the corner like Creatures scenting blood, the boys. They took position around the airlock, lounging, bodies relaxed but eyes sharp, predatory. Seeking entertainment.