Minefield Triptych
Three small figures huddle in a low archway. Dusty, broken pavement vents a choking, yellow cloud of dirt and debris down abandoned roads and walkways. Sparking neon signs invite hungry colonists into empty ruins of restaurants and shops blackened by explosions. Metal doorways once smooth and painted are now jagged, broken by looters and squatters both animal and human. The warring cadres have scarred the planet with their battle for power, leaving only twisted remnants of the green growing colony that Turkana IV once was. Though Earth colonists are known for their hardy spirit and thirst for adventure, this is no land to test the mettle of explorers. Where hope for a better life once put down tentative roots, a killing field has emerged.
Upon first glance, it is clear that the figures are children; their slight stature and high voices, though subdued, give their youth away. Upon closer examination, one would say that these children have old eyes – wizened, distrustful, darting eyes that take in their surroundings with the wariness of small animals. Two of the children are girls whose physical closeness and resemblance mark them as sisters. Wrapped and tied around small limbs against the dirt and wind, their baggy clothes are earth-colored and streaked with grime. The dirt can't hide two shocks of blond hair and two sets of piercing blue eyes. The third child is a boy, older than the two girls are, with an angular face whose pugnacious pointed chin juts at every rattle of rock in the distance. He talks rapidly, quietly, and the girls are intent on his words.
"You got all that? Tell it back to me." He darts a glance over his shoulder and levels his gaze once more on the taller girl.
Natasha Yar is good with directions. She repeats them precisely to the boy. "Down through the bombed out prefabs. Past the concrete sewer mouths. Turn left after the first hill. Right after the munitions dump, over the second hill, and straight on through the old farmland."
"You got it, kid." The boy has a shrewd face, but flesh on his cheeks, as if he has eaten often and well.
Tasha leans in and locks eyes with the wary boy. "Don't tell anybody else, okay? Give us a head start."
"Can't promise nothin'." He can't meet her gaze – hungry, desperate, like all the children he knows.
"Then we'd better move it. C'mon, Ishara." Tasha grabs her sister's hand and sets off at a run.
The smaller girl is five and a half, able to hold up her end of a conversation, able to keep up if she runs flat out. Tasha is nearly eleven. She'd been going through a growth spurt on the strength of regular food and care, until their erstwhile foster family became the latest victim of wrong place wrong time. It was practically an epidemic on Turkana IV.
"Move your rear. We only get one chance to be first," Tasha admonishes.
"Why'd he tell us, anyway? If it's food, why's he going to share?" Ishara's piping voice doesn't match her cynical words.
Tasha thinks about this and slows to a jog. "Out of the goodness of his heart?"
"Ha, ha, ha." Ishara rolls her eyes. "Slow down, already. Let's walk."
"I want to get there first." But Tasha slows down further and eases off on the sharp tugs to the little hand.
Ishara scowls. "If it's there, it's there. If it's not, it's not."
Tasha meets her sister's eyes until the expression softens. "True."
They reach the bombed-out settlement and slow from a run to measured steps, scanning the ground. It is eerily quiet. The Federation-issue dwellings still stand, but there are no people, no vehicles, nothing that moves.
"Should we go scavenging?" Ishara whispers. Her quiet voice rings out in the unnatural silence.
Tasha's face is grave. "Not here. They used cluster bombs. One unexploded canister could take out you and me and all the rats." She is half-joking, but the desolation is not lost on her. A sign of life would quell the rising fear in her body, the instinct to run away.
Ishara looks longingly at the empty houses. There might be a toy or some shoes…
"Watch where you step. Move it." Tasha yanks on her sister's hand and picks up speed again. She wants nothing more than to leave the ghost town and exhale her held breath.
With the shattered houses behind them, the yawning mouths of the sewers beckon. They are familiar to Tasha; they make good hiding places. They're filthy, and there's a chance of catching a fatal disease from the vermin in the muck, but generally the gang members won't follow you in there. Generally.
Ishara runs against Tasha's back. "I thought I saw something!" she cries.
"Where?"
"In the black gunk." She points a grubby finger at the rivulets of filth oozing down the cracks in the concrete.
"Probably bats. Or slugs. Don't worry. I got you."
Ishara sticks to her older sister like a baby monkey clinging to its mother. "You got me."
She stays on Tasha's heels until they reach the first hill. It is not natural – the colonists had resorted to the ancient, toxic practice of creating a landfill to store waste once the cadres had started confiscating replicators and reprocessors. Metal tubes vent acrid fumes.
"Mount Garbage," Tasha comments, her voice dry.
The ground is uneven and bulgy. Both girls squat low and hold their arms out for balance, to avoid touching the grey-green soil with their hands. At the top, the stench is at its strongest. They scramble to get down the other side.
More forbidding scenery awaits them west of the hill. Ishara doesn't complain about running now – the pockmarked, desolate landscape inspires fear. No one lives out this way. It had been one of the more densely populated outlying areas, thus the hardest hit by the gang wars. The cadres had fought for control until they'd bombed everything useful out of existence. All that was left were twisted, blackened ruins of houses, community buildings, ground vehicles, and sometimes, people.
"I hate this place!" Ishara screeches.
"Then run faster."
They reach the munitions dump, its razor wire fence two meters high. It is one of the last vestiges of the Federation's founding presence. They run past bunkers, grey and nondescript, but the girls know what hides within: aging weapons whose deadliness has been outpaced by newer models that will kill more people and raze more land. An electrified hum attests to the automated security system. They hurry past piles of obsolete ordinance: spent shell casings, empty power cells, husks of torpedoes, and mountains of empty canisters and antimatter containers, a giant monument to the ugly refuse of war.
Tasha narrows her eyes at the bunkers as they jog past. "I don't understand. Why protect us when those guns have already done their work? How much more harm could they possibly do?"
Ishara does not answer. While Tasha can remember a different, peaceful life in the colony, all Ishara knows is the cadres and their never-ending fighting.
Tasha begins to have doubts – if there's really a food lift past this junk, why is it there? Why wouldn't it be somewhere anyone can get to it? Are the governing forces really so incompetent? But knowing what she does of her world, she realizes anything is possible. She feels hopeful and hopeless at the same time.
"What if it's a trap?" Ishara asks, giving voice to Tasha's fears.
"Then we have to be ready. C'mon, brat. We're almost there."
The second hill is a natural one, complete with sliding rocks, thorny brush, snakes, and poisonous plants. The girls scale it like mountain goats, choosing handholds and footholds with care, Tasha pulling Ishara up behind her whenever the terrain becomes too rough or the incline too steep. They know the look of the leaves that will make their skin itch and swell, know the difference between a rock and a curled-up viper. They are survivors – they use all their senses to skirt danger.
They reach the top, a scrubby, rocky plateau. Tasha shades her eyes as she looks off in the distance. "I think I see something – could be ration packs."
"Come on!" Ishara tugs her hand now, rejuvenated with the promise of reward. "Do you see any people?"
"Not a soul."
"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!" A good food cache means a few days of easy living, maybe enough to trade for clothes or supplies, if they can keep it hidden from the big kids and grownups. Ishara isn't sure which the worse threat is.
They run down the hill, excitement carrying Ishara ahead of her swift-footed sister. The dirt of the old farmland is black and rutted, and now she can see the neon orange wrappers lying in the ruts ahead.
"Yes! We made it!" She runs faster.
"Wait, Shar." Something about the look of them niggles at Tasha's mind, sets off her suspicions.
"We're almost there!" Ishara runs faster.
"Wait!" Tasha picks up speed – she can outrun the smaller girl easily, but something tells her to be cautious.
The skinny little legs flash against the black soil. Ishara is reaching a small cluster of packages. Suddenly, the image clicks in Tasha's mind.
"Stop! Ishara, stop right where you are!"
The command in her sister's voice surmounts Ishara's instinct to keep going. "Why?"
"Back up." Tasha swallows, her breath coming fast and hard. "No!" Her shout freezes the little girl again. "Don't turn around. Step straight back."
Ishara's brows knit, but she obeys. "Why? What is it?"
Tasha is silent but for her panting until Ishara stumbles backwards into her. She clutches the younger girl in a fierce embrace and buries her face in the dirty yellow hair.
"What is it, Tasha? What is it?"
She puts her lips to Ishara's head. "That's not food, Shar. Those are cluster bombs."
Ishara gasps and shakes as if someone has poured ice water over her. "How do you know?"
"The shape. The color of the packaging is right, but the shape is all wrong. They're not ration packs. They're bombs made to look like them."
The reality of it hits them – orange cylinders dot the barren fields like poppies. "It's an improvised minefield. Look how far it stretches," Tasha says in awe.
Tears come to Ishara's blue eyes, hot and bitter. "Why would someone do that?"
"I don't know, but we have to get out of here now." Tasha turns her sister around and moves off quickly, eyes trained on the ground.
"What's the blast range?" Ishara is not yet six, but about some things she is savvy beyond her years.
"If they're the same bombs the Alliance used on that settlement last month, one can kill you at 100 meters. Maim you at 300."
"Run faster!"
Their tired legs and arms pump. "We have to warn the other children," Tasha pants.
Sweat streaks clean lines down the dust on Ishara's face. "I bet that boy was Alliance. I hate him. I hate the Alliance!"
"Don't kid yourself. The gangs are all bad. Doesn't matter what they call themselves." They reach the bottom of the hill and start to scuttle up the steep incline.
They've climbed halfway up when the sound of sliding rocks draws their eyes to the originator – a young boy climbing down.
"Go back!" Tasha shouts. "It's not food – it's a minefield!"
"You just want it all for yourself!" he shouts back. "Greedy liar!"
"No lie! Go back – you'll kill us all!"
Tasha's warnings are no use – the boy only speeds his descent.
The pure adrenaline of the survival instinct floods Tasha's body. She calculates quickly – he has the easier trip going down than they do going up. If he reaches the first mines before they're over the top, they will die.
"Faster, Shara, go, go, go!" Tasha drags her sister in front of her and pushes on her rump.
Their breath comes in ragged gasps. They're not careful now – poison ivy is nothing compared to flying shrapnel. They hear the scuffle of feet sliding to the ground. They dare not look back – they still can't see the top of the hill.
"Go, go, go," Tasha chants behind clenched teeth.
Ishara stumbles. Tasha grabs her and holds her under one arm like an unwieldy watermelon, half-carrying her along. More time, we need more time, she thinks.
The shriek in the distance is instantly cut off, simultaneous with an explosion that burns the ears. Tasha throws her sister down flat and covers her with her own body, gravel and stones digging into her flesh. She feels the air whoosh out of her lungs and the rapid heartbeat pounding out of her ribs. A metallic taste – blood. They have just made it over the plateau. Heat blasts over the prone girls. Tasha waits for the searing, flying metal to shred her skin, waits with the sound of their screams in her ears.
It never comes. Somehow, they are alive, unscathed. They made it out of range. It is a miracle, but she has no benefactor to thank. Quiet settles over them again, save for the sound of Ishara's sobbing.
"Shhh…" Tasha hugs the tiny body shaking beneath her. "Don't cry, Shar-shar. I got you. I got you."