Walking to the Stars (9 page)

Josh chewed his fish slowly, brow gradually creasing into a frown. “Wait on,” he said. “Samuel can't go to Perth, no one can. And why would you want to go with him?"

The whiskey mugs were still on the table from the night before, and Nick drank what was left of his. “There's a piece of equipment there that the World Government needs him to collect, and it's important enough to be worth the risk of going."

Josh ate another mouthful of fish, obviously considering, and Nick wondered if Josh would call him on not having answered the second question.

"Why should you give a damn?” Josh asked, and Nick knew he'd been caught out. Josh's eyes were skeptical, and he shook his head slowly. “You're nuts,” Josh said. “You should go to Albany, retire there, not go wandering through the bad lands with a stranger who's fucking insane. I mean, you didn't want to leave until Samuel turned up here with his crazy stories, did you?"

Whiskey on top of fish was not a good mix, not first thing in the morning anyway, and Nick felt just plain queasy. More fish would compound the problem, so he pushed his plate across to Josh.

"Josh, I want to be with Samuel,” Nick said, and the words sounded so strange with the spreading gray of dawn coming through the windows.

Not even Josh could keep eating through a statement like that, and he stopped chewing, the process of mastication plainly visible.

"Oh,” Josh finally said. “We're not talking about being best mates and hanging out together here, are we?"

Nick shook his head minutely. “I don't think so."

Josh went back to eating steadily, pausing only to say, “Can I have some time on this one? This is too weird."

"You've got four weeks,” Nick said.

Boots by the back door, raincoat on a hook, some things didn't change, and Nick put them on and wandered out into his devastated garden. The hail and the frost had wiped everything out, but the warmth would be back in eight weeks, and he'd be able to set seed under glass before then.

Harold wandered along behind Nick, nose hopeful against his hand, and Nick patted his head fondly.

He slid between the strands of the wire fence, and started out across the top paddock, down toward the creek.

The race ran alongside the paddock, and he clambered through another set of strands into it. Halfway down, in a fenced off section of the race, was where Fineen was buried, and he sat down on a small boulder close to the eucalypt they'd planted over her grave.

In a different world, he might still be grieving for her, all these years later, but he'd seen death after death after death. He'd caused a few of them himself, firstly in the army, then later when he euthanized people. He understood better than most people how tenuous life was. Babies came and went, old people and youngsters, everyone.

What mattered was the continuation of genetic material, both at a personal level, and as a species. He and Fineen had done what they could for Josh, and Josh was an adult now. The farm had passed directly from Fineen to Josh, it wasn't Nick's at all.

That was his responsibility to his own genetic code discharged, it was up to Josh to hand it on from there.

Did he believe Samuel's story? And if he did, would helping Samuel discharge his responsibility to humanity? Was getting genetic code off the earth a good long term survival strategy?

"Well, Fineen?” Nick asked the tree. “What do you think, my love?"

A fine rain fell, just enough to wet Nick's face, and the sun lurched its way up behind the cloud cover. Kookaburras were cacking at themselves down at the creek, a raven cawed, too, across the paddock, and he could smell the pollen from the acacias along the fence line.

Harold flopped himself down at Nick's feet, lifting his head expectantly when Nick spoke, letting his chin drop back onto his paws when it was obvious the words weren't a command.

The scars on Nick's chest ached, a not so subtle a reminder, and he let out a breath. Fineen was gone, melted away to nothingness, having fulfilled her duties to the best of her abilities.

Nick needed a cup of tea, to wash the whiskey and fish taste down.

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The house was empty when Samuel woke, Josh, Nick and Harold all gone, and the van wasn't parked beside the shed either.

A slab of fish waited on a plate on the draining board, and a frying pan that had obviously been used earlier, so Samuel lifted the pan across into the heat of the stovetop.

It took some effort, balancing on one crutch, to get the fish into the fat, but he was getting good at coping.

The map was still spread across the table, smoothed out, and Samuel sat down at the table, fried fish on a plate, and peered closely at the map. It was a long way to travel, he doubted that Guyana was that width across, but it was hard to make his mind work that morning.

He'd thought, last night in the dark, that Nick was going to offer to come with him, but he'd been mistaken. There had been no offer, and the house was empty, but at least the map had been left out.

He was mostly asleep in front of the fire, listening to rain crash against the roof, after washing the dishes and then some of his clothes, and he jerked awake when van rattled into the yard.

"Josh here?” Nick asked as he walked into the kitchen.

Samuel shook his head. “I haven't seen him at all."

Nick stood at the sink and peered out of the window, and shrugged, then turned to face Samuel. “Ready to have your cast replaced?” he asked.

The clinic was empty, apart from a diminutive woman called Jo, who chortled at Samuel, and bustled off importantly, and Nick said, “C'mon through."

Samuel rested his crutches against the wall and hauled himself up onto a high table.

Jo said, “I've got the fire going good and hot, to dry the new cast out. Take your trousers off, dear."

It took some squirming but Samuel got his borrowed trousers down and off, and Jo folded them up neatly and put them on a chair. Another table was piled with bandages, with white powder in a bowl, and a steaming kettle waiting. Less happy were the shears that Nick picked up, and Samuel jumped when Nick started hacking away at the cast immediately, chomping through the layers of plaster steadily.

Somehow, it seemed like it should happen with due care and caution, not with the feel of the cold metal working its way up his thigh.

Nick cut crookedly, starting at the inside the knee, tracking across the thigh and finishing up on the outside of the leg.

Samuel could find nothing personal about the feel of Nick's hands on his thigh, especially when Nick grabbed the cut edges of the plaster and yanked at them, breaking the plaster open.

The thigh underneath was mottled green and yellow and purple, with a row of sutures up the outside, big black clumps of thread like some kind of caterpillar was climbing up the skin. Nick's hands were cool and smooth when he ran them over Samuel's thigh, pressing gently.

"There's no bleeding underneath,” he said. “Can't feel any masses. Is there any pain?” Nick asked.

"It aches inside,” Samuel said. “But there's no sharp pain, and the grinding feelings have gone away over the past week, too."

"That's good,” Nick said, and he smiled at Samuel. “Ready for the next bit?"

"Let's do it,” Samuel said.

Jo held out a bottle of alcohol and poured it over Nick's hands, over the sink, and the stink filled the air, then Nick soaked a cloth in alcohol, too and carefully cleaned the line of sutures. The alcohol was cold and painful, trickling down Samuel's leg.

Nick dunked a pair of tweezers in alcohol, and a scalpel, and Samuel said, “Don't you have an autoclave?"

"There's one in the back room here,” Nick said distractedly as he picked up the threads of the first suture and tugged on it, making Samuel jump a little. “Hold still."

"What's wrong with it?” Samuel asked, and the metal of the scalpel was cold against his skin, then there was a tearing feeling, and Nick dropped the stitch into a bowl that Jo held out.

"No power, no water pressure,” Nick said, and he moved on to the next suture.

"Want me to fix it?” Samuel asked.

Jo said, “I love you, Samuel, I think it's only fair that you should know,” and Nick paused, clump of stitch in his tweezers.

"You can do that? Even though there's no water pressure since the town pump died, only gravity feed?” Nick asked.

Samuel shrugged, moving his leg accidentally, and making Nick mutter, “Stay still."

"Two options,” Samuel said. “Get the town water pump back online, or rig you up a separate one here. I've got no idea what's wrong with the town pump, and it might not be fixable, but I could certainly use one of the pumps from the farm, hook it up to a photovoltaic cell. You'd only have water pressure on sunny days, but it would be better than nothing."

"Dear Mike, I love you dearly, but have decided to leave you for a man who can give me water pressure, yours sincerely, your wife, Jo,” Jo recited. “Samuel, m'dear, name your price. Fancy any of the local girls? I can set you up with them. Those trousers of yours are a bit shabby, let me run you up a new pair. How do you feel about cake? I'm a good cook."

Samuel couldn't stop himself from laughing, and Nick growled, “Stop it, Jo, or we're going to have some kind of incident here. Do you want me to tell Mike you're leaving him for someone who can light up your life and make you wet?"

Jo howled with laughter, going bright red and clutching at her sides, and Samuel gave up any attempt to stay still, he was shaking too much.

Nick shook his head, holding the tweezers and scalpel away from Samuel's leg and pursing his lips.

"Oh God,” Jo gasped. “You do that, Nick, just so I can see his face."

"Jo, shut up and stop trying to tempt Samuel away. Samuel, stay still!"

Once the sutures were out, and Jo had subsided down to an occasional chortle, Nick said, “Want to have a good scratch, Samuel, before I put the new plaster on? Just avoid where I've taken the sutures out."

Scratching was bliss, and Samuel closed his eyes and dragged his fingertips over the skin, gritting his teeth to keep himself quiet. It felt unbelievably good, ecstatic even, and if he'd been alone, he might have taken the feeling and run with it, but he could hear Jo clattering around the room, running water and still giggling occasionally, and he made himself stop.

When he opened his eyes, Nick was standing beside the table of equipment, and his face was unreadable, but his hands were curled tightly around the edge of the table, knuckles white, bare forearms ridges of muscle.

Nick stayed unreadable, even when he began wrapping Samuel's leg in fabric, a soft tube of gauze first, then a thicker layer of padding, but when he began wrapping the plaster soaked bandages around Samuel's leg, his breath was warm against Samuel's arm, and his hands were gentle.

The plaster smelled unpleasant, and was hot going on Samuel's leg, and it got hotter with time. Layer after layer of the soggy bandages went on, until he was plastered again, then Nick pressed his hands firmly over the bandage above Samuel's knee, indenting it, and repeated that at the top of his thigh.

"That'll stop it sliding around,” Nick said. “Plaster may take ages to dry, but it shapes better than any of the fiberglass alternatives that were around when I trained."

"Ages?” Samuel said. “How long am I stuck here in soggy plaster?"

The plaster was cooling fast, so it was clammy and heavy on Samuel's leg, and Jo wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.

"Six hours,” Nick said. “I'm afraid you're here for the rest of the day. I have to make some house calls, but Jo will stay with you when I can't be here."

Samuel must have looked dismayed, because Jo chuckled and patted his arm reassuringly. “I'll feed you and bring you books, I promise,” she said.

"Will you?” Samuel said, and he sounded pathetic even to himself.

When she bustled out of the room, clearing up, Nick took Samuel's hand in his own and held it gently. “I talked to Josh,” Nick said. “About going with you to Perth."

"What did he say?” Samuel asked, trying to ignore the banging of his heart from the adrenalin surge.

"He wasn't happy,” Nick said. “And he asked for some time to think about it.” His fingers pushed up Samuel's wrist a little, and he shook his head slightly. “We'll talk about this later, all right?"

Samuel nodded, and Nick leaned forward and kissed his lips quickly, then pulled back and began to clear away some of the casting mess.

The air was thick with smoke when the van creaked to a halt beside the shed, and Nick turned the motor and lights off and said, “That can mean one of two things; there's a fire somewhere, and we're all going to die, or alternatively, Josh is smoking the fish he caught last night. I'm betting on the fish option."

"Sounds like a much better choice to me,” Samuel said, and Nick leaned across in the dark and kissed him, just a brush of lips together.

"Today,” he whispered against Samuel's mouth. “Watching you scratch your leg..."

Samuel's breathing was loud against the tick of the van's motor cooling, then a frog called nearby, loud and piercing, and Samuel jumped. “What was that?” he asked, and Nick slid his hand up Samuel's leg, the unplastered one, just for the opportunity of touching him.

"Frog,” he said. “Down at the creek, probably."

It was cold out there, cold enough their breath was misting, but Samuel was beautifully warm under Nick's hand, making tiny sounds that Nick suspected he wasn't aware of, as though each breath was an effort.

"Come to my room?” Samuel whispered, running his hand up Nick's arm, touching his cheek.

The right answer was ‘no', at least until Josh had gotten his head around the idea that his father wanted Samuel, but the right answer was the wrong answer, and Nick said, “Yes, even if it's just for a little while."

Samuel was lying on his side, facing the wall, when Nick pushed his door open quietly, candle in his hand. The slump of Samuel's shoulder under the blankets indicated he was asleep, and Nick thought about not disturbing him, but only for a moment.