Free Desert World Allegiances by Lyn Gala Page B

felt the bike between his legs, the warm metal and plastic veering first right and then left as the engine powered down during the long fall, and all Shan concentrated on was holding his own weight directly above the machine. The sand cycle would go where it would go, and riding down a dune was an exercise in trusting the Lord to keep you from breaking your neck.
    The angle of the fall changed, and Shan opened his eyes enough to see the bottom of the dune rise up in front of him. The cycle bucked and wobbled from side to side as it slowed, and the engine finally sputtered to life again. For a half second, the fat wheels spun and threw the sand. Then Shan settled his weight back, and the extra traction allowed the back tire to finally push against the sand and send the cycle darting forward toward the giant gates to Spence Valley.
    This was the oldest and most terraformed of all the valleys, so Shan imagined the farmers were more than a little pleased to burn the weeds off Erqu Gazer’s land. Ben might even have Temar doing that, although if he was kind, he wouldn’t ask the boy to burn his father’s home. Then again, Ben might not want to do anything that might help George, considering what a small-minded and arrogant man that one could be. Ben might let the weeds choke the land.
    If someone didn’t clear the weeds out, eventually Chad Dura or Mara Kelligan or Tepah Starcharter or even Tom Sulli would complain. Their farms were farther from the old Gazer place, but seeds traveled, and not even walls and stone could keep the Livre wind out altogether. Ignoring the large vehicle gate that was still blocked with sand, Shan guided the bike through the narrow walkway. It was a tight fit, but the cycle was designed to make the narrow turns as the passage led a winding way through the rock into the valley.
    He finally reached the top of the passage, and the valley opened below. This route took him high into the cliffs behind the Gratu farm, which was why so few people used it, but Shan enjoyed the narrow paths, steep cliffs, and dangerous turns. He turned his cycle toward the valley floor and, for a time, concentrated on not falling to his death. No doubt, Ben would not appreciate a priest and his bike falling though the barn roof.
    The green fields were dotted with unskilled laborers. Naite would be working over at the Kelligan or Sulli farms, not that Shan had any desire to track him down. The cycle bounced over a low ridge and then onto the rock shelf where the Gratu house and barn sat. Sua Smith was sitting in front of a table in the sun, pipe fittings in front of her. No one could miss the wild tattoos scattered across her back.
    “Sua!” Shan called. The woman turned, a pipe torch in hand, and frowned.
    “Shan? Who’s dying, that we need the priest out here?” She pulled her weld mask off and set it and her torch on the table.
    “Hopefully, no one. I’ve just been missing a parishioner, so I thought I would see how Temar is doing.”
    Sua snorted. “That boy has his sister’s temper.”
    Shan blinked in shock. “Temar?”
    “Temar,” she said firmly. “Let someone say the wrong word around him, or let him be in the wrong mood, and the anger flies out of that boy.”
    “Temar?” Shan repeated, and even he could hear his voice go high. He felt a little like a man who had stepped off a ship into a new world, where all the rules of the universe changed. To claim that Temar had a temper was a little like expecting water to fall from Livre skies. It did not happen.
    Sua laughed, but it was an unhappy sound. “You wouldn’t think to look at him, but he has a mouth.” Sua straddled the sawhorse she had set up next to the table and pulled up the pipe she had just welded, holding it up against the sun and squinting at the joint. “Ben’s been patient to no end, but if he requests an extension on that boy’s contract, I’ll be testifying for him. Ben has less time to work his own fields, and Temar is not all that