Paul Collins - Earthborn The

It had been here that Franciscan friars had built their fortified winery against an increasingly violent populace round about 2110. They hadn't stopped the virus that had attacked the vines and withered the grapes before they ripened. Later, they turned their hand tobuilding a self-contained society, but they had deserted the castle when their vineyards were laid waste. It had then become a rural retreat, so the hand-me-down stories said. In the early twenty-second century the castle had been laid siege to by various roaming gangs shortly after the Great Whiteout.

Assisi, as it was then known, had fallen into disrepair. It had been pillaged and its precious artifacts removed. But now, as Gillian's eyes took in the towering turrets and the bleak shingle roofing, she thought Bruick had restored it to its former glory. She pondered that thought. No, he'd probably taken it away from those who had done the restoration.

"It's the festive week with much partying going on," Patrick said beside her. "They'll be nay looking too closely at the likes of us."

As Patrick and Mira started to move on, Gillian reminded them to disarm, as no one was allowed inside the castle walls carrying arms.

"Aye," Patrick said uncomfortably. He unslung his bow and quiver and disappeared into the foliage.

Mira followed him.

Now was as good a time as any for Gillian to slip into the Stockade. But something held her back.

Perhaps it was best to stay together.

Gillian waited awhile. It was evening and the air was fragrant with the scent of eucalyptus. There was a distant rise and fall of the sound of voices and musical instruments. It seemed the jabbers were reveling in the festivities.

Gillian suddenly became alarmed. She had been daydreaming. "Patrick?" she called. "Mira?" She cursed herself when she realized that rather than deserting her, they had simply left her behind!

She moved quickly then. If Patrick and Mira had been spies for Bruick, she would have little hope of eluding the gate guards, but there still might be time.

She slowed as she came within sight of the portcullis guards. They looked exactly as Sarah had described them. A rough lot: dreadlocks, pieces of metal hanging from every conceivable piece of skin, gross tattoos etched across their faces. The two guards at the gate seemed particularly loathsome, wearing rank leather jackets that could at any moment have climbed off their backs and walked away.

One guard stuck out his tongue provocatively at Gillian, whopretended to ignore him. One jump sideways, left knee raised just so, a straight jab, and her foot would wind up five inches into his stomach.

She itched to do it but kept walking.

On the surface the garrison seemed happy enough. The mall resounded with laughter and the cries of vendors advertising their produce. Gillian paused before entering the melee. She noted the western wall where she figured Bruick might reside. It seemed the most imposing of the Stockade's dwellings: a two-tiered affair of bluestone slabs, narrow leaded windows, and solid double doors that were reached

by climbing flagstoned steps.

There were no guards on the towering, crenellated wall girthing the Stockade; the battlements themselves seemed insurmountable. Gillian noted the single exit—there was no back door to this place.

But there was a certain complacency in the air that could prove to be the Stockade's undoing.

Dusk had arrived. Thick, scudding clouds had darkened the sky, and already the generators were being fueled for the coming night. Lights flickered on uncertainly, and a cheer went up.

Gillian scowled enviously at the opulence Bruick enjoyed. Not for Sarah's people the extravagance of electric lights and immunity from Colony attack. In her at that moment burned an all-consuming rage that propelled her forward with a determination that would later frighten her.

She was jostled the moment she entered the throng. Every available space was used by vendors selling everything from earthenware jars to precious foodstuffs, trinkets, and bolts of fabric. The sight kept Gillian's rage at boiling point. Sarah had tried so hard and these people had simply opted for Bruick because he wasn't troubled by Colony constantly attacking him. Bruick enjoyed immunity because he had betrayed the Earthborn. And these people here with him were no better.

Surprised at her own vehemence, she strove to put on a cheerful face. A sad girl amid so much merriment might cause suspicion. She was only too well aware that she might be recognized. Sarah's sister would be a great prize.

Her first port of call was obviously the tavern. It had a most un-savory reputation and was unsafe for any girl to enter unaccompanied by a man; that much she had heard. But she needed to get the feel of the place before she carried out her plan.

She stood on tiptoes to see above the crowd but soon gave up trying. She'd been pushed into the mud twice already and nearly trampled to death by people either too unfeeling to care or sadistic enough to kick someone when she was down.

Either way, she used her elbows more than once to force her way to the edge of the square. With her back against the rough-hewn walls she finally circumnavigated the marketplace and almost fell into the doorway of an alehouse. She ducked back as a potbellied taverner waddled past with a wine barrel slung precariously across his shoulder.

The tavern was like nothing she had ever imagined. The clientele was bawdy, with men shoving one another while others staggered around with flushed faces, leering at the skimpily dressed girls. Several girls about Gillian's age flounced about, seemingly oblivious to the jeers and taunts of the male patrons.

The people here were everything Gillian had been brought up to despise in humans. The fumes of acrid smoke and the reek of stale sweat assailed her; the urge to gag was strong.

" "Ere," someone said, and Gillian was wrenched around and pulled roughly into the barrel chest of a leering bearded man. His foul breath made her pull back as far as his grip would allow.

Gillian smiled uncertainly. He was as likely a provider of information as any in this foul place, although she knew an urgent desire to knee him in the groin.

"What's a lovely like you doin' 'ere, then?" He smiled a toothless, rancid smile. His fingers twirled her matted hair and drew her forward so they were nose to nose.

Lifted slightly off her feet, Gillian strained to maintain her balance. "Bruick," she said brusquely. "I've been bonded to Bruick."

The man flung her from him as though she were a snake. He looked around hastily to ensure no one had seen their brief exchange. "You're in the wrong place, girl. He not be seen in the likes of this "ole."

He nodded to the great oak door that was slightly ajar. " 'Cross the square. Joint called the Maiden Flower." He laughed and lookedher up and down appreciatively. "Foxy thing, aintcha?"

Gillian gave him a wisp of a smile and backed out of the room, but not before suffering several insults from foul-mouthed youths.

"Sweet meat!"

"Giz a bit!"

"New talent I bet!"

Gillian gasped and fled the tavern to roars of laughter.

Flushed and enraged, she staggered against a railing. Even out here the square was filled with thick

smoke from the myriad cooking fires. Pigs were being turned on spits over giant forty-gallon drums; musicians were banging on any tin they could scavenge. The music bore no resemblance to anything she had ever heard, a sporadic banging of rock on metal, or blocks of wood being bashed together in some parody of a percussion band.

Gillian hated these people at that moment. The desire to lash out almost overcame her reason. She blundered through the press of bodies until she came to the nearest wall and crouched down in its shadow, forcing herself to breathe slowly. As a semblance of calm returned, she felt the inside of her buskin. The blade was still there, hidden inside the leather lining. She stroked it for reassurance.