One

Solma’s heart sinks as she scans the withered trees. Orchard Six is almost dead, a disaster the village can little afford. The carefully cultivated rows of apple trees, which yielded meagre fruit last year, are now twisted and black with disease.

And on top of last year’s poor harvest …

“It’s worse than last time,” Piotr points out, wiping his hands on his uniform of blue overalls. He looks tired. He’s been orchard master in the village for nearly two decades and he’s fought disease and dwindling crops for most of it. It’s a wonder, Solma thinks, that he’s managed to keep going for so long. But the years clearly weigh on him. He wipes the back of his sleeve repeatedly across his watery eyes and Solma can’t tell if he’s despairing or getting sick. Either is possible. Or both. “Some sorta disease. It’s confined to this orchard for now, but …”

He wafts his hands in front of his face as if there’s something buzzing around it. But there are no buzzing things. Not anymore. The sky has been a silent, barren place for as long as anyone can remember. Longer. Poor man’s just slowly going crazy. It’ll only get worse as the heat reaches its summer peak.

Piotr shakes his head. “Some of them ain’t producing buds. Pollinating is gonna be tough this year.”

Solma frowns. “You sure?”

Piotr’s face darkens. “I’m an Oritch,” he growls, as if Solma might have forgotten. “Always was. I been tending these orchards all my life, like my parents and their parents. I’ve always been Piotr Chen Oritch. Never had no other name. I know these trees better than anyone.”

Solma can’t think of anything to say to that. No sense arguing with the orchard folk. They’re grumpier than the Fei Field Workers and easier to offend. Still, she’s not sure what Piotr expects her small squad to do about this. The Gatra—the village Gathering Guard—have one job, protect the territory from all outside threats. From redbears and wildwolves and the ever-present danger of raiders who plunder villages for what miserable supplies they might have. But they can’t fight this, they can’t put a bullet in a disease.

Still, he’s doing the right thing by reporting it, and his orchard is on their patrol route. It’s just not the news she’d hoped to get on her first day as Sergeant.

Looking up, Solma reaches towards the nearest tree and pinches a blackened twig. It disintegrates, coating her fingertips with powder. She grimaces and smears the dirt on her trousers, before trudging to the edge of the orchard and shielding her eyes to scan the horizon. There is nothing but tough, yellow grass and barren soil for miles. Spring is coming, with the usual promise of a furiously hot summer, but for now the morning air is full of winter chill. Solma leans on the rickety fence that marks the boundary between the orchards and the unmanaged wilderness. She squints at the horizon, past the line of watch towers in the distance, and tries to see the detail on the ragged line of distant trees. Is there death on those, too? Has this disease blown in on some wind, or has it been lurking in the soil all winter? She can’t tell. She marches back to where Piotr waits. The other Oritch have stopped to watch her, too, their reed hats pulled low over their eyes to keep out the sun. Solma can’t tell what they’re thinking.

The Orchard Master stares up at her expectantly. Solma reddens, hating how almost everyone in this village has to look up into her face. Just one of a host of daily things that remind her how different she is. She hunches her shoulders.

“When d’you notice?” she asks.

Piotr’s jaw twitches and his gaze hardens.

“Reported it as soon as I realized,” he says. “I know the law.”

Solma touches Piotr’s shoulder. “Meant no disrespect,” she says. “I know you follow rules.”

Piotr digs his bare toes into the dry soil. “There’s a few saplings on the border that’re still healthy.”

He wafts absent-mindedly at the air in front of him again and Solma looks away. Hunger does this to everyone eventually. She’s seen old women in the village do it, and mutter to themselves before succumbing to starvation.

But Piotr keeps glancing at her left leg, too, as if he’s never noticed that it’s prosthetic below the knee, though it has been for years. Solma shifts uncomfortably, the curved blade she uses as a foot churning up dirt. She’s losing patience.

“Right,” she says, making the old man jump. “Show me.” She turns to where the other four members of her squad linger at the edge of the orchard. They’re all dressed in Gatra-black and look bored. Warren, her little brother, squats between them. He’s Yuen-caste—a youngster, still—so he has no uniform, only whatever threadbare remains can be spared to clothe him, and these are almost worn through. He prods the dirt with a stick, clearly bored. Solma frowns but leaves him be. Instead, she addresses her squad.

“I’ll check the edges while one of you reports to Blaiz.” she says. “Maxen?”

The tallest boy, and Staff Sergeant of the squad, nods. He takes a wax tablet from his belt and begins scratching on it with a stylus. Solma bites her lip and looks away. She’s more than capable of writing her own report, but it’s not a skill she flaunts often. It’s not a skill many people in the village have. It’s different for Maxen though, because of who his father is.

Eventually, Maxen looks up, smiling. Solma beams back before she can stop herself and has to wrestle her face back under control. Behind him, a girl with a fiery red braid and freckles splashed across her pale face rolls her eyes and glares. Solma glares back.

“Problem, Olive?”

Olive’s jaw rotates around a wad of sugar cane. She holds Solma’s gaze. “No,” she sneers. “You?”

Maxen either doesn’t notice the tension or doesn’t care. He hands the wax tablet to another boy, who heads off towards the village and the grand house of Maxen’s father, the Steward. Solma watches him go and hopes the report will reach Blaiz Camber before any rumors do. Blaiz does not like to be kept waiting.

Solma stretches and feels the muscles strain under the weight of her rifle. She turns her back on Olive. Wretched girl’s just sore Solma made Sergeant and she didn’t. The thought of it makes her stand a little taller. Sergeant. How long has she fought for that privilege? Long enough for it to feel sweet, now, when she hears others address her by that title.

A sharp animal cry in the distance and the squad is on alert. Solma’s rifle is ready in her hands and she shoves Piotr behind her, scanning the horizon. Olive and Maxen are back-to-back, their pistols drawn. Solma squints against the low sun and swears with shock when a skinny deer clambers to its feet, its head only just visible above the long grass. It shudders, lets out the same, plaintive cry, then collapses.

Solma lowers her rifle and swallows the lump in her throat. The game is already starving ...

She turns back to Piotr. One thing at a time.

“This won’t take much longer, will it?” She asks. “Only, we ain’t finished setting the chemical barrier yet and we got the rest of our patrol to do by the start of planting—”

She lets the sentence hang, heavy with implication: the chemical barrier is what keeps redbears and wildwolves away: a ring of foul-smelling substances around the village, laid by the Gatra every day. if her squad miss their patrol, if the chemical barrier isn’t laid, it leaves the village vulnerable. Neither Solma nor Piotr want to be responsible for dangers slipping through.

Piotr shakes his head vigorously and wafts his hands again. “No, no!” he insists. “Not long! But I want you to see everything! I know the law. Wouldn’t want you to think I was keeping anything back …”

Solma forces what she hopes is a reassuring a smile. Piotr’s watery eyes shine with that fear she often sees in villagers making land reports: fear that Blaiz will accuse them of secrecy, that they will be considered traitors to the village and exiled. But Blaiz isn’t like that. Blaiz is fair, and a good Steward. As leaders go, Solma thinks he’s one of the strongest. He only demands candor because, without it, the village will die. Solma wishes so much that everybody could see this, instead of flinching whenever he walks by. He’s a protector, not a tyrant.

“Ok,” she sighs, turning back to her squad. “Back in a minute. Come on, Warren.”

Her little brother glances up from where he’s squatting in the dirt, drawing shapes in the dry earth. His eyes are huge and meadow-green, but sunken with starvation. He shouldn’t be on patrol with her, but it was either under her watchful eye or out tilling the fields with the other kids. He’s weak enough as it is and Solma doesn’t trust the other youngsters to be gentle with him. He blinks at her, his lower jaw hanging slack.

“I’m alright here,” he murmurs. Solma frowns.

“No, Warren, come with us, please.”

Warren doesn’t protest again, just sighs and wipes his tiny hands on the ragged remains of his shorts. He plods after his sister.

Piotr glances back to Warren, frowning. “You know,” he says quietly, “he’s not a kid anymore. He’s got to get used to guns some time.”

Solma hoists her own rifle higher onto her shoulder. “He’s seven,” she growls. “That’s still plenty kid enough for me. And I’ll be damned if he’s going into the Guard.”

Piotr raises an eyebrow.

“There are worse places than the Guard, Sol,” he says gently. “Your Ma was in the Guard, eh?”

Solma bites down on a host of retorts to that. “It’s Sergeant, now,” she snaps, and her heart twangs as Piotr’s head dips in deference. “Look, I know,” she says, softer now, “but—”

She trails off. How can she possibly explain it to him? She’s not sure she understands herself. She was so proud to be drafted into the Gathering Guard four years ago, just after her twelfth birthday. She left the caste-name of Yuen—youngster—behind and became a Gatra. Solma El Gatra. Soldier. Protector. Following in her Ma’s footsteps. But the truth is, she was just another kid with a rifle. Guards don’t have the greatest life expectancy. Their job is about stepping into the danger zone, defending the village from raiders, protecting planters and orchard workers while they get on with generating the year’s harvest. They also hunt the wild, powerful game in the managed forest to the south. Ma was in the Guard, and Solma remembers the pride on her face whenever she put on that uniform. But she also remembers Ma’s agony as she’d died, the way her eyes slid out of focus as the blood drained out of her. Ma had lived for the Guard and she’d died for it, too.

Solma bites her lip. “He’s not grown up enough for that, yet. I hope they’ll give him a few more years.”

…Or all his life. Solma doesn’t want Warren in the Guard.

Her little brother deserves better.

So many little brothers and sisters deserve better.

Piotr guides Solma to the northern edge of the orchard, where the trees are still young and supple with life.

“Right,” she says. “These should flower?”

Piotr shrugs. “We hope. But what good is it?” He leans closer. “Everyone’s heard about the damaged pollenbots.”

Solma’s heart tightens. Great. She throws a dark glance over her shoulder at the rest of her squad. Whoever let that one slip is in for serious hell. They’ve enough to worry about this year without extra panic.

The pollenbots are old tech from before, when humans still thought they were in charge; headsets controlling squads of miniscule drones that work like insects and pollinate the crop ready for harvest. The Fei-caste planters know how to use them, but the knowledge for fixing them disappeared from the village long ago. Their loss is another disaster. She places a hand on Piotr’s shoulder and tries to look reassuring. It’s ridiculous. She’s sixteen and he’s an old man, gazing up at her in the hopes she’ll tell him it’ll all be ok.

But she can’t. Because it won’t.

“We still got some left,” she says, which is true. “Enough to pollinate these trees if they flower,” Possibly true. “And we should manage to stock the storehouse at harvest.” Probably not true. “No reason to worry.” Outright lie.

But Piotr’s face relaxes. “Okay,” he says. “Thanks.” He laughs nervously and scratches the back of his head, lifting his eyes skyward as if in the vain hope that some little buzzing thing might come to his rescue.

But that hope died a long time ago. The sky remains silent.

“Any sign of disease here?” Solma asks, just so she doesn’t have to think about any of that.

Piotr shakes his head. “Not that I can see,” he admits. “We’ll cut back the damaged trees and test the soil, but it might not be something we can treat. Prob’ly it’s just dead earth, poor pollination, no rain …”

The worried furrow in his brow is back. Best to end this conversation now.

“Well, do your best, Piotr,” she says. “The Earth Whisperers’ll help when they arrive. Some have a way with the pollenbots. I reckon they’ll be here soon.” Another lie. The biggest she’s told today. Solma finds it worrying how easily the lies come nowadays. She ducks her head to hide her frown. Earth Whisperers. Like those layabouts will turn up any time before summer. They’re supposed to offer their growing gift to everyone but they’re a sneaky lot. Not to be trusted, Blaiz says, and Solma’s never had reason to doubt him on that. They’re a sanctimonious bunch of scammers and tricksters, who only get away with it because Alphor needs them. Solma so wishes this wasn’t the case, but there’s not a lot she can do about it.

“I’ll move you up the pollenbot schedule,” she suggests, wondering how she might swing that with Blaiz. “See if we can’t save some of this crop.”

She holds out her hand and Piotr shakes it.

“You’re a good kid, Sol,” he says. “Your Ma and Dja would be proud.”

Solma fights the kick of sadness in her gut and forces a smile.

“Yeah,” she says. “Thanks.”

“You know I worked with your Dja?”

Solma presses her lips together. Of course she does. It wasn’t a secret. And Piotr tells her every time her squad patrols his orchards. Piotr waits for her to speak, but she doesn’t.

“You look like him, you know.”

Solma can’t help it, she lifts a hand and runs it over her dark hair, touches the lids of her deep, brown eyes and hunches her shoulders to disguise her height, all of which screams foreigner amidst the freckled pallor, reddish hair and stocky stature of the locals. She looks like her father and he came from somewhere else.

It hadn’t mattered when Dja was alive because he was respected. Needed. It matters now.

“I know,” Solma whispers.

She hitches up her rifle again, eager to be gone. “Sorry, Piotr, we got a long patrol today. Come on Warren—”

But when she turns to cajole her brother along, he’s gone. There’s a patch of scuffed earth where he’d been standing, with nothing but an abandoned stick dropped in it.

All Rebecca L. Fearnley's ebooks are delivered by Bookfunnel. Once you have made your purchase, you will receive an email from Bookfunnel containing your unique links. You can either:

• download your book and transfer this onto your ereader or ereader app (for example, using the Send-To-Kindle service).
• Read your book on the Bookfunnel app.

 You can download the Bookfunnel app onto your tablet or phone by going to your store (either the Google Play store for android, or the iStore for iPhone.) Search Bookfunnel and download the app. The app icon looks like this:

Once downloaded, sign into your new Bookfunnel app using the same email address you used to buy Rebecca's book. Once logged in, you should see all the books you've purchased from Rebecca (along with any others you've purchased through Bookfunnel using this email address) in your library.

If you have any questions, Bookfunnel have an excellent customer service and can talk you through any of the above processes.

Ebooks and Digital Products

I do not offer returns on ebooks or digital products unless they are purchased in error (this is because they are delivered digitally and so cannot be returned.)

If you have trouble downloading your ebook, please check your email (including your spam or junk folder) for an email from Bookfunnel. Your unique links will be delivered through this program. If you are still having trouble getting hold of your ebook, please use the contact form to get in touch.

Paperbacks

I do offer returns or exchanges for paperback books if you change your mind about your purchase. You may return or exchange print books up to 21 days after purchase. I will offer full refunds within this period, but cannot pay for returns postage. Please use the contact form to get in touch if you require a return or an exchange.

Accessories

I offer returns or exchanges for physical accessories, such as prints or bookmarks. You may return or exchange physical accessories up to 21 days after purchase. I will offer a full refund within this period, but cannot pay for returns postage. Please use the contact form to get in touch if you require a return or an exchange.