“Military base,” Rafe said, saving the other part for later, if ever. “Could I have another mug please? My throat’s dry.”
“Be a wonder if you don’t catch your death,” the older woman said. She poured from a pot on the stove and handed him the mug. “Hungry?”
“I could eat—” He stopped himself from saying a cow and finished with “just about anything.” He had been smelling the food since he came to, and his stomach wanted it immediately.
She laughed. “That’s good because this stew has got just about anything in it. If you’re warm enough you ought to change into real clothes; eatin’ in a blanket isn’t handy.” She left the room and returned with a knitted pullover that looked like nothing Rafe had ever seen, a pair of rough trousers, and a pair of thick gray socks.
“That’s my—” the boy started, and got another flick to the head.
“Strangers in need,” the tall man said. “He sure can’t wear mine or Harley’s.”
“Thank you,” Rafe said.
“Come, Saneel,” the woman said. “And you, too, lad, while he changes.”
The men showed no signs of moving. Rafe stood up, let the blanket fall, stepped into the trousers, and yanked them up; they were only a little big. The shirt had only two buttons; he put that on, and then the pullover, then sat down and put the socks on.
“M’wife, she knitted that sweater,” the taller man said. “Wool from our sheep. Socks, too.”
“It’s beautiful,” Rafe said, taking a closer look at the pattern of light and dark wool. “And I’m already warmer. My feet, too.”
The taller man nodded, then glanced at the shorter one. He tipped his mug up, emptying it. “Well… the dogs didn’t eat you, and you have a story I’ve never heard, so I guess you can stay the night until your clothes dry and then we’ll figure what to do.”
“I need to find Ky—Admiral Vatta—and find out what’s happened. I’m supposed to help—”
The shorter man tipped his head to one side. “What you should want most is not to be found by whoever was chasing you.”
Rafe nodded. His head still hurt.
“And you got run over by at least one critter and hit your head on that rock. So you don’t need to be running around in the dark getting worse hurt, and if we go down the market road on a night like this, people will talk. Some of the people who will listen may be the ones you ran from.”
“You don’t have any way to call anyone?”
“Not until they put in more towers, and those so-called reps we got don’t want to spend money on us way out here. An’ yeah, there’s the ISC ansible, but that costs too much per call.”
“You still haven’t given us a name,” the taller man said just as the two women and the boy came back into the kitchen. “You’ve heard some of ours. Let’s hear yours.”
“Rafe,” he said. “Rafe Dunbarger, of Nexus Two.”
“Anselmo.” The tall man pointed to himself, then to the shorter man. “Enver.” He pointed at the boy. “Gill. Enver’s oldest.”
The boy gaped at Rafe, ignoring the introductions. “You’re—you run ISC!”
“Not anymore,” Rafe said. “My sister Penny’s the head of it now.”
The tall man—Anselmo—had scowled at the boy, and turned back to Rafe, all the friendliness gone again. “So you’re one of those rich city boys, never did a lick of real work—bring in more money a day sittin’ at a desk than everyone in this sector together makes in a year.”
“Not quite,” Rafe said, keeping his own tone friendly. “I was thrown out on my own—family wouldn’t have me. Never worked on a farm, true, but had to make my way.”
“What’d you do to get shunned?”
“Killed two men who wanted to kill me and my sister, one night when my parents weren’t home.” He didn’t want to tell the whole story again. His head hurt worse now.
“They kicked you out for that? How old were you?”
“Eleven. First they sent me for therapy, then the therapist said I needed a special school for violent offenders. A prison, essentially.”
“At eleven?” The older woman set a large bowl of some steamed grain on the table, then another of stew. The younger woman went around the table, passing out plates, and put one in front of Rafe. The tall man shook his head. “If a son of mine managed that at eleven, I’d have been proud of him. Saved your sis’s life, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Rafe’s mouth was dry again, his throat tight. “It’s—it’s different there. None of their friends’ sons would do something like that.”
“Huh. Better get some of that food down you. You still don’t look too good.”
He waited until everyone was seated, despite the invitation, and the older woman had handed him a spoon. “Grooly first, then the stew,” she said. “That’s how we do it here.” Then she piled a spoonful of the grooly—whatever it was—on her plate, and used the same spoon for the stew, before passing it to the tall man. Rafe did the same, passing the spoon to the younger woman, who now sat on his left.
Memory and headache had cut off his appetite, so he took small bites until his stomach agreed he could keep going. No one talked. The grooly tasted bland; the stew was spicy, tingling in his mouth. He put his utensils down before he finished. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s delicious; it’s just my head—” He felt nausea knot his stomach; his vision wavered.
The tall man looked across at him and pushed back from the table. “You’re green. Luisa, help me.”
Rafe locked his teeth, hoping not to spew at the table. Every movement hurt, and the first sour-salty taste came into his mouth. He felt them grab his arms, lift him up; someone pulled the chair away and they were half dragging him down the kitchen to a door. He tried to walk but his legs weren’t cooperating. They made it to the next room before he couldn’t help spewing. Someone wiped his mouth after.
“It’s his head,” the woman’s voice said. “I shouldn’t have let him eat so much.”
“We can’t call the doc; he doesn’t want to be found.”
“Sorry,” Rafe said. It came out weak. He could scarcely stand, even with support.
“We’ll bed him down in Chan’s room. With a bucket. Think he’s done?”
Rafe felt himself falling, then caught. Muttered curses, grunts of effort; he passed out then, and woke hours later to darkness and silence. His head didn’t hurt until he turned it, when his neck seized, then half the muscles in his back. He lay still, teeth gritted, until the cramps let go. He didn’t feel nauseated anymore, but he certainly wasn’t completely well. When the neck spasm eased, his head was pounding, though less than before.
The next he knew, dim daylight, cold and gray, came through a gap in the curtains onto his face. He could hear noises in the distance, and the ticking of more sleet on the window. He was inside, dry and warm. A good start to any day, he told himself. His implant informed him of time, date, “no location,” and “no contact” when he accessed his skullphone. The room was square, the walls painted cream. The curtains at the window were white with a pattern of red and yellow flowers at the top. A table and chair were in the left corner across from him, and a chest with a small square mirror on top in the right corner.
A few exploratory moves in the bed made it clear he was stiff, sore, but able to move without immediate cramping. He still had on the clothes he’d been given the night before. When he tried sitting up, his head swam for a few moments, and the ache intensified, but he was sitting, socked feet on a rug made of some animal skin on the floor.
A knock came at the door to his right, and it opened before he could answer, his voice being stuck somewhere in his throat.
“Good,” the gray-haired woman said. “You were too sick last night to notice, most like. My name’s Luisa. How’s your head?”