Windrunner's Daughter (5 page)

“And us,” one of the younger boys shouted.

“Yeah, Bone, and us.” Raw tossed over his shoulder. “He won’t help you,” he murmured.

“I can describe the symptoms. He can give me medicine.” Wren bit the words out.

“Perhaps.” Raw nodded. “But the colony is running low. Do you think he’s likely to give our last analgesics or antivirals away on the word of a Runner girl?
I
wouldn’t.”

“
You’re
not a Doctor.” Wren gave a massive heave and ripped free of Raw’s grip. She stumbled backwards and looked at the airlock. He let her go.

“You’re wasting your time, Runner.”

A cloud of pollinators whirred overhead and automatically Wren tracked the sound, her eyes going upwards past the pale green, fan-shaped leaves of the gingko. The sun was climbing towards mid-morning. There would be another wind-storm later. She had to get moving.

“It’s my time to waste.” Frustration burned Wren’s eyes, but she wouldn’t let a tear fall, not in front of the boys.

Raw spat between the tree roots. Then he tossed her the bracelet back. “Here you are then, much good it’ll do you.”

The fragile chain tangled around Wren’s fingers. She closed her hand around it and backed along the path towards the Dome. When she was far enough from the laughing boys, she turned and ran once more.

Compared to the day before, it was as if the colony had repopulated. Men were up ladders removing bunting, or racing in and out of buildings, industrious, like insects in a mound. Elysium formed the lungs of Mars. Its botanists, or Green-Men, worked endlessly on the production of seedlings hardy enough to withstand mega storms. The Green-Men were clearly identified by their intense focus and specialised masks.

The women were less easily seen, but Wren knew they were there by the pools of judgemental silence that followed her progress. They gathered at the corners of buildings, or in front of tech houses, children at their ankles. They collected around the schoolhouse and grouped by the laundry. Their twittering laughter petered off at her approach and chirping gossip developed hard edges. Their eyes were granite.

Thankfully, the youngest women and in Wren’s experience, the cruellest, lived in the Women’s Sector on the other side of the Dome. Controlled, in case they used their wombs irresponsibly. Wren suppressed a shiver. To be locked in a dormitory until your approved Choosing, not even allowed to see the top of the Dome, let alone the vast delta or the rosy sky: hell.

The Surgery was near the food store. Long and low it had more original shuttle parts incorporated than any other building. It shone even in the low Dome light. She edged nearer. After yesterday’s quiet, today there would likely be a queue.

She was right. Three Grounders stood outside the door: a pregnant woman, swaying on her feet, a man with an obviously dislocated shoulder, his round face pale and a teenaged boy, his skin rash red.

Wren spoke without thinking. “I can help with that.” She gestured to the man’s arm. “We have bad landings sometimes. That’s basic first aid.”

The woman shrank back. “A Runner!” She gasped.

With an effort the man turned. “I’ll … wait … for the Doctor.”

“That must hurt.” Wren frowned. “Why wait longer than you have to? I can fix it here and now.”

“He doesn’t want you touching him,
Runner
.” The pregnant woman spat the word like it was an insult.

Wren narrowed her lips and the boy stared at her. “You can fix that? You’re a girl.”

“Like the woman said, I’m a
Runner
.” Wren folded her arms.

“What’re you doing here?” Curiosity provoked him. “You don’t look sick.”

Wren swallowed. “I’m here for my mother.”

“For Mia?” The woman’s eyes flickered. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know.” Wren felt suddenly very tired. “That’s why I need the Doctor.”

The woman licked her lips. “He won’t go up there, you know. Nobody would.”

“Some do. With messages.”

The woman shrugged.

“But I can pay.”

She caressed her belly. “He won’t give away medicine without seeing the patient.”

The man shook his head. “She’s right. It would be a waste of what we have. You said you do first aid - you fix her.”

“She needs
medicine
.” Wren ground out. “Whatever he gives me we’ll replace it next time Chayton Runs to Aaru.”

The woman shook her head. “He won’t help you, you should leave.”

“I’ll stay.” Wren folded her arms.

The woman grunted. The boy kept stealing glances at her, but Wren ignored him and the hour wore on. The man went in and came out again, relief in his eyes. The woman took her turn and a queue grew behind her: a technician with a burned hand, a Green-man with a hacking cough that sounded frighteningly like her mother’s.

Then the door slid open and the boy went in. It was Wren’s turn next.

After an eternity the door slid open again. She tried to step forward and the technician barged past as if she wasn’t there.

“Hey!” Wren leaped for the door. It closed in her face and the red ‘locked’ light flashed at eye level. “He can’t do that.” She appealed to the man behind. “Did you see?”

The Green-man ignored her.

“He can’t do that!” She was shrieking now.

“You’re a Runner.” The Green-man muttered. “Grounders go first.” He pushed her to one side and took her place.

“But -” Wren tried to push back in, but he turned his shoulder, a wall of muscle, against her.

Over the next hour more Grounders turned up to see the Doctor and each of them pushed in front of Wren. She tried running for the door whenever it slid open, she tried pleading. They kept pushing her to one side. “
Grounders first
.”

Raw stood two buildings away, watching, his green eyes frigid. Beside him the boys showed off their stolen belongings.

“Why won’t they help me?” She sobbed. She wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular, and the two families queuing with her ignored her completely. But Raw sauntered over.

“I told you-”

“Don’t say it.” She tore at her shirt with frustrated fingers.

“Do you know how many trades and messages get turned down by the Runners?” He asked. “How many of these people had things they thought were important, that your family decided weren’t?”

“I-”

Raw sneered. “They’re only doing to you what you do to us.”

“We can’t take
every
damned message.” Wren yelled. She turned towards the door, towards the Doctor behind it. “Runners risk their lives on every journey - you think we should risk our lives to get you something you don’t really need?” The door remained impassive.

“Who are you to judge what we need and what we don’t?” Raw said quietly.

“Someone has to.”

“Well,
they’ve
decided that
you
don’t need the Doctor.”

“But I
do
need him.” Wren’s voice was a wail. “She might die.” She doubled over. “I can pay,” she sobbed.

Raw shook his head. “This isn’t about what you can pay.”

Suddenly the door opened and a mother with a crying infant made to move into the gap.

Raw stepped into her path, blocking her almost as if by accident. Wren’s eyes widened but she took the opportunity and leaped between their bodies and into the open door. She didn’t know why, but Raw had given her a chance.

The Doctor sat at a desk. Greying brown hair, an elongated body, long arms, legs crossed at the ankle; he played a broken limbed doll splayed uncomfortably at a tea party. She could see the balding patch on the top of his head.

Behind him, an array of tools: air syringes, small hammers, sterile knives. Shelves displayed a few bottles of tablets or viscous liquids, but most were bare. Wren swallowed, Raw hadn’t been lying, the colony was almost out of medications. They would need a Runner to go to Aaru soon. But there were none.

She cleared her throat. The Doctor looked up. “A Runner?” His lips and tongue moved constantly, nervously as if he was chewing on the air. “Take off your mask.”

Wren shook her head. “I’m here about my mother. You need to come.”

“To Avalon?” He shifted in his chair. “I’m far too busy, she’ll have to come to me.”

“She can’t.” Wren leaned her fists on his desk. “I think she’s dying.”

“You’re a Doctor now, are you?” He smiled tightly.

“She’s had a fever for three days.”

“Then it’ll break soon,” he said dismissively.

“We need medicine.” She pressed forward. “She has this cough-”

The Doctor sighed. “I can give you analgesics.” He reached behind him and chose the smallest bottle. “This is all I can spare.”

“We’ll get more, as soon as Colm gets back in, I’ll send him out …”

“Well, when he gets back, return for another bottle – if you still need it - until then, there are Grounders who need these more: people who do
real
jobs, women who contribute to society.”

“My mother contributes-”

“How many babes has she sent for exchange?” he snapped. He masticated on nothing. “It’s all I can spare. Take it or leave it.”

Wren closed a hand around the bottle. It fit inside her palm. “These won’t be enough.” She pulled out the bracelet and thrust it at him. “I can pay.”

The Doctor snorted. “What do you think I am? I’ve given you all the help I can, now get out so I can see someone who’s actually sick.”

Wren staggered backwards. “What if she …?”

“Get your father to bring her here and I’ll examine her.”

Wren’s back hit the door. “He’s not here.” Automatically it slid open, tipping her onto hard packed dirt. The Grounder mother stepped over her, kicking dust into her mouth and the door shut in her face.

Wren scrambled to her feet. Raw was nowhere to be seen, but the boys remained by the tech house. She looked at the bottle clutched in one hand. Analgesics! She had tried them already, used the family’s whole supply in the first two days. Wren was tempted to throw the bottle, but she held herself back; some pain relief was better than nothing.

Raw had been right, the Grounders weren’t willing to help her. She was on her own.

Avalon was quiet when she returned. The skies were clear, the platform empty. She hadn’t expected anything else. She cycled through the airlock and stood, trembling, in the centre of the room, listening for her mother’s breathing. One day, soon, she’d open the curtain to find her dead body. Would it be today? Wren couldn’t bring herself to step closer to the alcove and find out. It was too quiet.

But the sphere didn’t have the feeling of abandonment, not yet, and her mother coughed in her sleep.

Wren placed the bottle of capsules on the kitchen counter. Her mother would struggle to swallow them and she didn’t want to wake her. It was a job for later on.

Jay’s old wings remained in the corner where she had left them. She drifted nearer. Dreamlike, she touched the straps. Wren was about the same size that Jay had been when he first started running. So if she tightened the straps like
this
and swung them behind her like
that
…

Wren slid the wings over her own shoulders, tightened the straps over her chest and clipped her wrists onto the struts.

Her breath caught. Sheer terror twisted her gut. This was blasphemy. She glanced at the doorway - if someone should come in now … but they wouldn’t. She was completely alone. Outside, Elysium’s alarms began to sound. It was mid-day in dust storm season. No-one could come to Avalon now, even if they wanted.

She did a half turn, like a Grounder with a new dress, and the wings swished around her ankles. They were lighter than she had expected them to be. She lifted her arms; they moved with her, as if they were part of her body.

She giggled and immediately clapped her hands over her mouth. If she was caught like this she’d be killed: dropped screaming from the Runner platform. Convocation’s rules were utterly unambiguous. Girls were forbidden from wearing wings. No room for argument, no loop hole. No Running for Runner women. She swished the wings again. Shimmering graphite glimmered in the soft light.

She had to remove the wings, but she couldn’t make herself undo the straps.

Wren pressed her teeth together so hard they ached. There had to be something more she could do for her mother. Was she really supposed to just watch her die?

She had seen her father and brothers Run a thousand times.

She touched the straps again; she had to take off the wings.

With shaking fingers she unclipped the straps and shrugged them carefully from her back. But she didn’t hang them back up. Moving with a new sense of urgency, Wren folded the struts, pulled the quilt off her bed, wrapped them with it and laid them down.

Now she couldn’t see them. She turned her back to the wings, started to get lunch ready; perhaps her mother would eat something today.

As she worked the dust storm raged outside the window. The back of her neck itched. She fought not to turn around.

Convocation could only kill her if they
found out
she had Run. She’d seen no other Runner for so long. She had only to find her brothers, send them to Aaru and return home. No-one else need ever know she had left Avalon. Colm would be livid, but would he turn her in? She thought not.

Silently, the wings called to her. The dust settled back to the ground, clearing the windows.

She gripped the knife tighter in her hand.

Walking as if in a trance, Wren left the kitchen and entered the airlock. If she was even going to consider doing this, there was something she would need to do first.

“Give me a sign,” she whispered and she looked one final time at the storm-cleared indigo skies above the delta. “Send a Runner in, send a storm. Anything.”

Nothing.

She nodded. Then she caught her long hair in one hand. Ignoring the tears that gathered in her eyes, she reached above her with the knife, placed it beneath her fist and started to saw.

The knife sliced easily through her thick mane and Wren was soon left with a handful of hair. Steeling herself, she held her fist out in front of her and opened it. Gleefully the wind scattered the gathered coils. With the strange sense of lightness on her head, Wren watched, unmoving, as her hair blew into the wind like charcoal smears.