Desert World Allegiances

303 Pages·2011·1.8 MB·English

by  Gala Lyn

Copyright
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
382 NE 191st Street #88329
Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

Desert World Allegiances
Copyright © 2011 by Lyn Gala

Cover Art by Justin James [email protected]
Cover Design by Mara McKennen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission
of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other
inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 382 NE 191st Street #88329, Miami, FL
33179-3899, USA
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-61372-156-8

Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
September 2011

eBook edition available
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-157-5
Thanks

Thank you to Donna, Kelly, Stella,
and everyone else in my beta group
who helped me with both this book
and the logic of this whole universe.

Chapter 1

“MAYBE we shouldn’t be doing this,” Temar suggested again. If
nothing else, they should not be doing this when both moons threw
pale light over the fields. Both he and Cyla were fair and blond, and
Temar felt like a white flag raised in the middle of a fire-blackened
field. The field wasn’t black, and the tiny green plants stood out in
line against the dry ground, but he still felt exposed.
“Maybe George Young shouldn’t steal water from us,” Cyla
answered sharply. She stopped, and Temar flattened himself to the
ground and wished that his sister would listen to him, just this once.
“He’ll be sorry when we get proof.” The bitterness in Cyla’s voice
made Temar’s heart ache. Since their father’s death, she had grown
harder. It scared him.
“We have proof. Sort of. We just need to wait for the council
meeting at season-end.”
“I’m not waiting. Not anymore.” Cyla’s voice was fierce, and
Temar was caught between wanting to go home and wanting to
keep his sister from doing anything unforgivably stupid. Maybe she
saw his indecision because she leaned closer, resting her hand on
his arm. “He will be sorry.”
“Or we’ll be sorry when we’re caught,” Temar warned. He
wished he had the right words to convince her that they were
making a mistake.
“Then we don’t get caught.” Cyla looked over her shoulder at
him and smiled. He hated it when she got that expression, the one
that never failed to get them in trouble. She winked, and then she
was dashing across the field. For the length of several breaths,
Temar lay on the warm ground, eye level with long rows of tiny
plants that swayed gently in the breeze. Their verdant leaves
unfurling from stems that were firm with water. Even before their
father died, their own farm had turned into a ragged collection of
pipe trap weeds and chokeweed. If Cyla was right, and George
Young had their water quota, that would explain why his fields
produced so much more than their own. If Cyla was wrong….
Temar cringed at the thought of working restitution days for Young,
on his farm.
“Wait,” Temar hissed, and then he ran after Cyla. They were
close to the Young farmhouse now. Like all farms on Livre, the
buildings were tall and narrow, pushed into the rock cliff wall to
avoid taking up any more land than required. Most of the planet
was a desert, ruled by shifting dunes and sandrats, and every inch of
the sheltered valleys was needed to create life.
“See anything?” Temar asked. He flattened himself on the
dusty path, next to Cyla.
“Nothing.” Her eyes swept the buildings where Young and his
workers lived. “We find the evidence and then we go to the
council.”
“Or we go to the council, show them my water readings, and
ask them to investigate and find real evidence for themselves.”
Temar’s stomach started to ache. He was no terraformer or soldier
who could live on adrenaline. No, give him a glassblowing shop, or
at this point, even a farm free from weeds, with a clear water
allotment, and he’d happily live his life being remarkably, blissfully
boring.
“They already refused, and this is not the place for a debate.”
“No, Naite Polli didn’t refuse. He only said we had to wait
until season-end, for the regular session.” Temar bit his tongue
before he started shouting in frustration. Even though they hadn’t
damaged anything, a landowner could demand at least one labor
day from any trespasser, so he really didn’t want to get caught. He
doubted Cyla had considered that, however. Sometimes she was a
little less than logical in how she approached life, and it drove him
insane. Maybe if she were younger or just less stubborn it wouldn’t
have annoyed him so much, but she had these ideas, and then he
couldn’t get her to see reason. She’d tell him that he was too young
to understand that adults had to do whatever it took to get the job
done, but since she was only three years older than he was, the
argument didn’t seem exactly fair. Twenty-one was old enough to
know they were both going to be in serious trouble if they were
caught on George Young’s land.
It was like her request for a special council meeting. If Cyla
had listened to him before she stormed off to talk to Naite Polli,
Temar would have told her that she was making a mistake. Naite
represented the unskilled workers of Livre, and he was a hard man
who had very little patience for bending the rules. Of course Naite
refused to hear them during season, but not all the council members
were that inflexible.
Temar would have gone to Dee’eta Sun. The woman
represented the artisans, and Temar had watched her work glass
with a skill and patience that he envied, catching the molten sands
on the end of her pole and then twirl them into incredible shapes.
Dee’eta would understand that sometimes circumstances required
you to move faster than you expected. After all, with glass, one
second too fast or too slow and the entire piece could warp
hopelessly out of shape or shatter into a million pieces. Cyla had
thought Naite Polli would side with them because he worked the
land, but Temar would have sought out Dee’eta Sun and explained
how one more season without water, without hope, and without
credit to hire workers, and their land would be as gone as a piece
of glass that shattered when the blower moved it to the punty rod.
Cyla studied him, the light of the blood moon making her hair
look pink. “We need evidence so significant that they can’t wait for
season-end.” With that, she took off running. The water tanks
squatted on tall stilts, the angle of their tilt making them look like
giant, white beasts, leaning down to touch the ground. Maybe they
were leaning down to eat Cyla. He knew it was a silly child’s
nightmare, but the tanks still waited to swallow her up as she threw
herself to the ground under the closest one. That one was
positioned a good six feet lower than the second one, so the valves
and meters should be easier to read.
“Luck of the stars,” Temar whispered before he went running
after her. She was an idiot, but she was his only family. If she was
going to be stupid and get sentenced to work days for George
Young, at least he could go down with her.
“So, let’s do the test,” Cyla said. He could hear the
excitement coloring her voice while she screwed a drip meter onto
the bottom of the release valve.
“We’re going to be sentenced to a week of workdays if the
council hears we tampered with someone’s equipment,” Temar
muttered, but he took out his flashlight and put it in his mouth while
he adjusted the tiny gears used to measure the water. If they pulled
a cup of water, and the measure on Young’s tank didn’t match their
draw, that should be enough to prove to the council that he was
stealing water from the common line that ran between their farms.
“Young is going to be sentenced to slavery for a decade when
we have our proof.”
Temar tightened the connector nut and pulled the flashlight out
of his mouth. “No one gets sentenced to that much slavery,” he
pointed out.
“Yeah, but no one has ever stolen this much water before.
Twenty years of water theft should mean at least a decade. I’ll have
him out digging up pipe traps in the midday sun.”
Temar looked at Cyla with some concern. There were days
that her anger settled under her skin, making her seem ugly. If
Young was stealing water, and Temar agreed with his sister on that
one, then the man deserved slavery or exile, but Cyla’s joy at the
thought made him a little uneasy. Instead of watching her start the
test, he wandered back toward the second tank. He’d expected a
second set of pipes, leading to the ground watering system, but
instead the taller tank led into the first one.
“Cyla, these are run in series,” Temar said.
She made an incoherent noise in response.
“Cyla,” Temar said, a little louder.
“Shhhh.”
“Then listen. These are set up different than Dad’s.”
This time she stopped and looked at him. “Dad’s tanks were
set up back when ships were still landing. Literally. I’d be surprised
if Young didn’t upgrade. After all, with all the water he stole from
us, he can afford the best.” She gestured toward the tall house with