Turning Point Read online

  There was no real food in this area. What might live there in the warmer seasons had either burrowed deep into the ground for winter or moved down to the gentler lowlands. Kusac was faced with a choice. He needed food, water, and treatment. To get those, he had to reach a settlement in the foothills. If he left the comparative safety of the hut, he would have to run the risk of being caught in a blizzard. The alternative was to stay there and pray that he could cope with his septic leg and imminent fever. In his weakened condition, neither option offered a high rate of survival.

  When none of the choices open to you offers more than extinction, choose the one that prolongs life the most. Always allow the unexpected time to intervene.

  Well, nothing could happen here, so, trusting his telepathic link with the girl, he headed east. Perhaps he might come across some animal out for a short airing, or dig for some unappetizing but nourishing grubs.

  He loped off across the moors, eyes and ears alert for any sign of danger or food, however unlikely the prospect. The heather was not an easy surface on which to walk; at one moment stiff, the next yielding, so that despite his cautious tread, he was often sent reeling as his feet caught in the hidden webs of branches. Every now and then he would glance at the sky, checking to see how much of it had been obscured by dark clouds.

  Gradually the terrain began to change. Instead of being completely flat, the ground now had the remains of runnels cut into it, running in the opposite direction to the one Kusac was taking. The sharp branches of heather began claiming their toll; his legs were oozing small drops of blood from many minor cuts and scratches, and he had limped the last few hundred meters on only three legs.

  Staggering to a halt, he squatted on his haunches and peered at the sky. It was now completely overcast and he could feel snow in the air. Things were not going well. At this rate, all his energy would be spent just trying to reach the settlement, and he could not be sure that he would make it.

  Suddenly he heard a distant roaring coming rapidly in his direction. He flung himself into a ditch, crouching low until the groundcar had gone, its cushion of air buffeting him. Kusac crawled out, his breathing ragged as he sat panting for several moments before forcing himself to continue.

  If you wish to remain free, be circumspect in all you do. Knowledge gives you power: let none have knowledge of you and what you can do, his father’s voice reminded him.

  We were circumspect, thought Kusac, but our maneuverability and speed were just not enough. If we had been given a battleship instead of a light patrol craft, I would not be making this journey, and our people would now know we had found the Others.

  After your life, your freedom and pride are your most precious possessions, the voice continued, as Kusac wearily lifted one foot after the other. What other wise tenets will he have to impart? he wondered miserably as the first light flakes of snow began to fall.

  I must keep on, he thought. There is no shelter here. If I am caught in a snowstorm now, I shall die.

  This knowledge urged him on, making him force the injured leg to keep moving. Around him the snowflakes fluttered faster, landing on his nose and eyelashes. He darted his tongue out briefly to capture the moisture, but his mouth still felt thick and swollen with thirst.

  “One snowflake won’t do much good,” he muttered to himself. “Soon there will be enough to drink.”

  The snow was heavier now, being puffed into his face as a wind sprang up. Within a few minutes he was in the midst of a blizzard, slipping and slithering on the mushy ground and blinded by the driving snow. His foot caught on a heather root, felling him with unexpected force and making him yowl with pain as he landed on his wounded side.

  He lay there for several minutes, too weak to get up, until he realized that enough snow had collected for him to quench his thirst. Scrabbling frantically with his hands, he began to lap up clumps of snow from where he lay.

  The warning voice spoke again. Too much cold water when you are suffering from thirst, can kill as easily as the thirst itself.

  Kusac stopped and picked himself up. Though still thirsty, he knew he could take no more at present, and he had revived himself enough to press on. He lurched to his feet. Pain was a thing of the past, he was only aware of feeling curiously disembodied. Though he was thoroughly soaked by this time, his wet fur clinging sleekly to his skin, he was totally unaware of it and the fact that he was shivering violently.

  Time and time again, the force of the wind flattened him to the ground. Each time it was that bit harder to get up.

  Survival depends on the will to survive, he heard his father say.

  “I’ve plenty of will, just not enough strength,” growled Kusac, doggedly dragging one foot after the other through the deepening snow.

  A shape loomed grayly up ahead of him, but his eyes were on the ground and he failed to see it. Blindly, he walked straight into the object, giving himself such a crack on the head that he was almost knocked unconscious. Lying there with his senses spinning, it was some time before he understood that it was a tree he had struck. Furthermore, that some recent storm had uprooted it, leaving a cavity deep enough for him to curl up in, sheltered from the snow. He squirmed and wriggled, forcing himself into the opening. It was cramped, but at least it was dry. Clawing and scratching, he deepened the hole slightly, using the loose earth to block up the opening until there was only enough space left for an adequate supply of air to enter. The exercise in the close confines of his lair had warmed him up sufficiently to stop the worst of his shivering. The pain in his leg had returned, but exhaustion was too great for that to keep him from a sleep which was nearer a coma.

  He awoke many hours later, stiff, cold, and with a head pounded by a thousand angry demons. His limbs ached in every joint as he tried to pull himself toward the entrance. Through the tiny gap he had left, he could see that although it had stopped snowing, the sky remained an ominous slate color.

  Shivering, he pushed back his blockade and crawled out into the snow. The light was fading and he judged it to be close to night. Tentatively he probed the depth of the icy white mass with his good leg: it was not going to be easy, the drifts were almost up to his knees. Sighing, he crouched carefully down onto the ground. Perhaps the snow would numb the wound’s fire. He was reluctant to look at it for fear of what he might see.

  Your Talent will be useful to you in many different ways, so start experimenting with it. No one knows the range of another’s Talent, its limits may only be the ones set by you. Always keep testing your capabilities.

  Father? thought Kusac incredulously. No. It can’t be him, he’s too far away to reach me. I’m just imagining things. “Still,” he said aloud, “it isn’t a bad idea. I have never tried using my Talent to control pain.”

  He shuffled his feet in the snow, trying to balance comfortably on all fours. Taking a few deep breaths and stilling his mind, he reached, trying to locate the pain centers in his brain. Several odd sensations coursed through him as he searched, but when all the myriad aches began to slowly fade, he knew he had found the right area. How blessed was that release! Until that moment, he had not realized how much he had been suffering. He opened his eyes and staggered slightly before regaining his balance.

  “I might just make the settlement now,” he murmured, starting to plod onward, his legs dragging furrows behind him.

  Try to avoid extremes in all things. Extreme eating or drinking can kill you just as effectively as extreme weather. Snow will cling to your body, increasing its weight, making you sweat. Then you will lose body heat. Desiring to rest, your body will force you to continue. Either way, you will soon die unless someone aids you, his father’s voice droned pedantically.

  Great, thought Kusac wryly. So what do I do about it? Why can’t you give me some more sensible advice? I haven’t got the time to chat!

  He was suddenly jarred back to reality as his feet scrabbled for a hold before sliding from under him. He was catapulted downhill, tumbling faster and faster, t
he sky and snow whizzing about him until he was brought to an abrupt and sickening halt by a large concrete slab projecting upright out of the snow.

  Kusac groaned and lay slumped where he had come to rest. He was losing control; pain waves began to swamp him. Grimly, he reached out again, strengthening his hold until the pain receded once more. Something wet and sticky was running into his eyes. Putting his hand up, he brought it down covered with blood.

  Ice will stop a wound from bleeding, came the cool reminder, and Kusac obediently laid his head on the freezing ground that was at once his enemy and his friend.

  Despite the nausea that rippled through him, he had to rise eventually. Although he could not feel it, he knew that the snow was draining him of all warmth. The ground beside the concrete slab felt harder and firmer than that over which he had been traveling. His vision still blurred, he .peered at it. There was writing.

  Lifting his head, he saw that this flatter ground wove downhill to a cluster of faint lights in the valley below. He was on the road to the settlement.

  Vartra be praised, he thought, lurching away from the stone and onto the roadway. Great was the danger of being seen, but greater still was a repetition of his fall.

  Now the going was easier. Instead of having to pick his way across unseen and uneven ground, he knew that he had a continuous flat surface beneath him. The downhill slope, though fairly steep, was actually an advantage. He could intermix sliding cautiously with walking, thus making better headway.

  Use the terrain to your advantage. Make it work for you, not against you. When walking on sand, your feet will not sink into the surface if you are on the damp area near the water’s edge. Rocky ground? Then jump from rock to rock. Water? Then look for stones above the surface or just under it. Don’t give yourself extra trouble. Accept the land’s conditions.

  “Yes, Father,” said Kusac dryly. He knew all about these things, had since early childhood. Why did his father keep lecturing him on the obvious?

  Behind him he heard the mechanical screeching and whining of another groundcar. Instantly he bunched his muscles and leapt for the cover of the bushes growing at the roadside, trying to stifle his cry of pain at the sudden movement. The car passed and he emerged again to continue his painful slithering walk.

  The settlement was a collection of some twenty or so houses facing one another across a broad roadway. Behind each was a fairly large area of cultivated ground. As yet he had no idea which house he wanted: the girl’s mind had been in too much turmoil for him to find the information he required. It had been difficult maintaining contact with her at all throughout his journey. The link was strong enough for him to trace her to the settlement, but not for him to pinpoint her home. He had to call her to him.

  Pushing his way into one of the gardens, he spotted a small wooden hut far enough away from the house for him to investigate without being seen. He limped over and, leaning against the door, pulled himself upright. With fingers so numb he could hardly move them, he pulled at the restraining bolt. It slid back with a bang. Quickly he slipped inside, pulling the door closed and securing the latch. It was a toolshed, smelling of dried onions, rows of them hung from hooks set into the wall. In the far corner he could see a pile of rags and a large wooden box. Gratefully he limped across and sat down. On closer inspection the rags turned out to be sacks woven from thick vegetable fibers.

  He could feel the pain beginning to steal back into his body. Already his head was aching with the effort of trying to maintain his control. Time was running out quickly now.

  Rolling a couple of sacks into a wad, he placed it under his injured leg, propping it up slightly. Pulling some more free, he wrapped them round his shoulders to cushion his back against the crate. He also figured out that the tantalizingly familiar odor he had been smelling for the last few minutes originated from the box. Easing himself up slightly, he thrust his hand inside, grasping hold of one of the round, hard objects it contained. An apple! Ravenously he bit into it, aware as he did so how dry his mouth had become.

  His eyes refused to stay open any longer and reluctantly he decided not to have a fourth apple. This was the part he was dreading. To be sure of reaching the girl, he had to utilize all his Talent, relinquishing his control over the pain. He was exhausted beyond endurance and knew he could not have made it this far without the control. Whether or not he could remain conscious long enough to make contact he had no idea, but he had to try now. That he’d managed to make it this far was a miracle. He’d come within a whisker of being found by those Alien soldiers. Why they hadn’t seen him, he’d never know.

  Shutting his eyes, he lay down, making sure that he was well covered. Cautiously, he allowed his mind to relax, trying not to shock himself into unconsciousness with the influx of pain. He was pleasantly surprised: it was not as awful as he had imagined. Oh, there were aches in every limb and joint and he could hardly move his pounding head, but there was no pain at all from his leg. That was bad.

  My leg must be worse than I thought. He pressed a hand to his face, feeling how hot he was. Almost immediately he started to shudder again.

  The fever, he thought. No wonder I was so thirsty! I must reach the girl. Hurriedly he strengthened the link between them, making it narrower until he knew that he had penetrated her mind. Her thoughts were flooded with confused images slowly meandering through her subconscious and he had almost begun to panic when he realized she was deeply asleep. A drug induced sleep, if her slow alpha rhythms were anything to go by. There was no way of reaching her until she awoke. Too utterly spent to even curse fate, he withdrew, leaving her to sleep on in peace.

  Chapter 2

  A drink, she needed a drink. She reached out and began to grope along her bedside table for the glass, but before she could reach it her hand was taken and held.

  “What is it, Carrie? What do you want, love?” Meg asked, her voice so quiet Carrie almost had to strain to hear it.

  She tried to speak and found she couldn’t. Confused, she attempted to pull her hand free. A small, faraway portion of her mind was trying to panic, but it was too much effort. With a struggle, she managed to open her eyes and Meg’s familiar face swam into view, the image losing its blurred edges after a few seconds.

  Antiseptic. Why did her room smell of antiseptic? Frowning slightly, she slowly turned her head to look around. Everything seemed the same, was in the same place, so what was different?

  She looked back at Meg and wondered why the woman was holding someone’s hand, a hand that was heavily bandaged.

  “Wa ...” was all she was able to croak as her thirst reasserted itself.

  “Water? Of course, my dear,” said Meg, reaching over to pick up the glass. “No, let me,” she said, holding it up to Carrie’s mouth as the hand in hers twitched slightly.

  A mouthful and her thirst was quenched.

  “Now you just lie down and go back to sleep again,” said Meg soothingly. “There’s nothing to worry about, you’re absolutely safe.”

  Safe? thought Carrie. Of course I’m safe. Why shouldn’t I be?

  Meg leaned forward to replace the glass.

  Carrie croaked a negative and reached out to stop her.

  “More? Here you are,” Meg said, holding it toward her again.

  Carrie turned her face aside and reached for it herself. Her hand! It was her hand that was bandaged. She turned frightened eyes to Meg, knocking the glass aside as she jerked back in panic.

  “Oh, Carrie,” said Meg, reaching both hands forward to gently cradle her face, “it’s all right, love. You’re safe. The worst is over. Believe me, it’s all right.”

  No, it’s not, her mind said as she tried to push through the mist that was fogging her thoughts. It’s all wrong.

  “Jack Reynolds has given you a sedative; just rest, love. Sleep a little longer and when you wake again, everything will be fine.”

  “Elise? What happened?” she croaked, wincing at the pain in her hands as she clutched Meg’s arm.r />
  Meg hesitated.

  “She was caught, Carrie. The Valtegans caught her trying to steal something for the guerrillas.”

  Fear and loss began surging in again, threatening to overpower her as she started to retreat from what Meg said. Then she felt her mind grasped firmly and held.

  “The link between you and Elise was so strong this time, love, that you’ve suffered some of her hurts. Jack’ll come and explain it to you when you’ve rested, but you’re fine, you’re in no danger, believe me. I’ll stay here with you and watch while you sleep,” said Meg, releasing her.

  Despite the hold on her mind, terror still fluttered on harshly beating wings; the blackness again threatened to engulf her. Elise! She had to find her twin. She couldn’t be dead. If only she looked....

  No. Stay here. You must live. If you die, you kill me, too.

  The voice inside her head shocked her into immobility. Whose mind was touching hers? Who was able to talk to her?

  Live for me. I need you, don’t leave me. Sleep for now and regain your strength. It wasn’t a suggestion, Carrie discovered as the same lassitude as before spread through her aching body and, against her will, her eyes began to close.

  This time the room was empty. Carrie tried to lever herself into a sitting position, wincing anew at the agony in her hands. Once she’d sat up, she began to explore her body to find the sources of the pain.

  Everything seemed to take an age, so muzzy was her brain.

  Jack’s sedative must still be working, she thought.

  Without undoing the bandages—which was beyond her because of the state of her hands—she couldn’t tell the extent of her injuries. She was, however, able to ascertain that she probably had a broken rib, plus multiple bruising and lacerations on her arms and around her face. Wryly, she decided not to bother checking in the mirror for the present. She knew from her past experiences what bruising of Elise’s face looked like on hers.