With considerable effort, they pushed the bike far enough up the creek to be out of sight of the road. The road wasn’t frequently traveled but that didn’t mean it was wise for Court to linger there with the bodies while Walker ran to fetch Marsh.
It would take the better part of an hour for Walker to return. Court sat on the ground and rested against a maple tree with his mag gun in his lap. It was a beautiful day. Late summer or early fall, depending on one’s point of view. A day too beautiful for death and dying.
Eventually, Court heard the crunch-crunch-tap of Marsh with his walking stick and stood to meet the village council leader.
“Where are they?” Marsh said, forgoing the normal pleasantries of conversation that he’d drilled into Court for years.
“There.”
Marsh stopped several feet away and brought his free hand to his chest. “Clint.” He knelt and put his hand on the man’s face. “I don’t understand.”
“You know him?”
“Knew him, yes. A long time ago. Clint Donovan. He was a researcher. Became a collaborator to avoid exile.”
Walker asked, “What about the woman?”
“Impossible to say with that helmet on.”
“We couldn’t find any obvious way to take it off,” Court said. “I didn’t dare take a knife to the suit.”
Marsh felt around the woman’s wrist and elbow. “Wise choice. It might be booby trapped.” He studied the suit and helmet for another minute. “Try pressing Clint’s hand against the front of the helmet.”
Walker looked like he might be sick again as they rolled the body and lined up the dead man’s hand over the helmet and pressed it down. The helmet clicked and air hissed as a seam appeared. The woman’s hand twitched and Walker yelped. Her arm knocked him off balance as her hands flew to the helmet. She pushed it open, two curved panels sliding to the sides as if on invisible tracks.
CHAPTER 2: COURT
The woman in black rolled and leaped to her feet. Marsh and Court stepped back while Walker slipped in the pine needles and dirt, struggling to create some distance. Her eyes didn’t stop moving as she took in her surroundings. When she saw Clint Donovan on the ground with a hole in his chest, she dropped to her knees and cradled his head in her hands. “No, no, no…” Her words trailed off into sobs.
“You’re safe now,” Court said.
Marsh put a hand on his shoulder. “Let her be for now. And don’t promise what you don’t know to be true. She may not be safe at all.”
When the intensity of her crying softened, Marsh knelt beside the woman. “I knew him a long time ago. He was a friend. I’d like to take him to our village before animals come around, if that’s alright with you. It’s not far.”
The woman didn’t speak but nodded as she set the dead man’s head back on the dirt. Her face was wet from tears, and she wiped mucus from her nose. Marsh pulled a square of fabric from a pocket and offered it to her.
“What’s your name?” he asked, but she didn’t acknowledge the question.
While she cleaned her face, Court and Walker placed Donovan’s body back on the motorcycle and resumed the arduous task of pushing it up the creek bed.
They emerged from the forest into the clearing that surrounded their village, an area where nothing was allowed to grow and the children were forbidden to play. A no man’s land between humanity and the wilderness.
“Walker, get Vaidehi and help her move Clint to the hospital. I need to gather the council. Court, why don’t you take our visitor to sit with Pica by the fire?” Marsh gestured with his head to a ring of benches hewn from tree trunks where an old woman was tending a pot over a campfire. Marsh leaned in and whispered, “Keep a close eye on her. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
Walker returned with the doctor and they moved Donovan’s body to a simple stretcher of moose hide stitched around two poles. The woman in black made a noise that wasn’t quite a word when they took away the body.
“It’s alright,” Court said. “They’re taking him to the hospital. We can wait over here.”
He led her to the campfire circle where the old woman bowed her head to greet them but said nothing, as if motorcycles and women dressed in black bodysuits materialized from the woods every day.
The woman used her index finger to draw an invisible pattern on the left forearm of her suit, and the material went slack so that it hung off her like a child wearing a parent’s clothes. With a slight movement, the suit fell to the ground. Underneath, she wore a sleeveless shirt and pants that looked cleaner than Court’s clothes ever had. Her skin was paler than any Court had ever seen. When she removed the helmet, her hair was equally pale, a yellow so light that it was nearly white.
“Those are lovely braids. I haven’t seen hair that blonde in a very long time.” Pica moved as if to touch the woman’s hair and the pale woman jumped back. Pica looked confused and a little insulted.
“She’s had a rough day. Do you have any needle tea? That might relax her.”
Pica nodded and rummaged through the satchel hanging over her shoulder.
The pale woman laid the suit on the bench farthest from the fire and swiped her finger along the sleeve. It beeped and steam began to rise from it. Court felt the heat coming from it.
“What’s it doing?”
When it had become obvious that the woman wasn’t going to answer him, he turned to watch Pica preparing the tea.
When it was ready, the woman accepted her cup and sat. As she sipped, her tears fell in fat drops. Pica resumed her cooking, oblivious to the grief of the younger woman.
When Marsh returned from the village council’s cabin, he beckoned Court away from the fire.
“The girl is in shock. Whoever she is, she obviously cared about Clint. We need to give her time to mourn. Grief doesn’t like to be rushed, but I suppose you understand that better than most.”
Court pursed his lips and rolled a small stone under the toe of his boot. He gave a small nod without looking up.
“Now then, judging by her appearance, where do you suppose she comes from?”
“A city?”
“Perhaps. But she has no signs of markings, no tattoos, no brands. And her hair is long. Uncommon in the cities.”
“If she isn’t from the city, then where? She’s too clean to be from a squatter town.”
“Clint was a researcher. She could be from one of the state-sponsored facilities. There’s a rumor of one at the old tidal power station. That’s not so far from here. Regardless, the council will have no shortage of questions for her when she’s ready to talk. You can listen in if you want to. You found her and likely saved her life. I think you’ve earned the right to hear her story directly from her.”
“Thank you. I’m curious about her suit. It’s strange. It was stone cold before. Now it’s giving off heat.”
Marsh went to the bench holding the suit and held out his hand. “Incredible.”
“Why is it doing that?”
“I suspect it’s a heat capture suit. We were working on the concept years ago when I left, although our prototypes were a lot bulkier. The suit traps the body heat of the wearer so you can control how much thermal energy is given off. The Qyntarak don’t see light the way we do. They see temperature. They have a kind of thermal equivalent to our nonverbal body language.”
“What’s that mean? Thermal equivalent?”
“Parts of their bodies change temperature when they communicate. It helps them express emphasis and emotion. To them, humans always seem to be shouting because our bodies are naturally warmer. The suits were supposed to give us some control for better communication.”