Torchwood: Exodus Code

chamber the sunlight was muted, its beams filtering through the slits in the stone and diffusing across lush red fabric that dressed the walls and draped the ceiling. The ground was carpeted in alpaca skins, softened and dyed to match the colour of the walls. The colour red tasted like sweet paprika to Gaia and, in her solitude, when she willed it, the colour brought her contentment and a deep sensual pleasure .
    A fire was burning in a centre pit, its basin-shaped lid filled with water, a myriad of holes funnelling the smoke up through the opening in the stepped roof. Under the netting, almost every brick was covered with brilliantly coloured glyphs, describing the story of the Cuari and the history of the mountain.
    A thick cushioned mat piled with embroidered blankets stood against the far corner while a second mat of yellow reeds had been unrolled next to the fire, a single row of decorated clay pots set at its head. The air in the hut was dense, humid, but cool and scented with eucalyptus and balsam, the only oils for which Gaia’s senses had developed a tolerance.
    Gaia stood at the other side of the chamber, naked, staring at the Priestess, a look of such agony on her face it brought tears to the old woman’s eyes. Gaia’s skin was the colour of cinnamon, her eyes shining like black polished stones, her hair cascading over her shoulders like soft velvet. She was tall and slender, her breasts and her hips already full and round, and every few seconds she bobbed up on her toes, inhaling and exhaling in sharp short breaths, the intensity of the Priestess’s presence an assault on Gaia’s senses no matter how well the old woman had scrubbed.
    When the pain eased and Gaia had managed the cacophony of sounds in her head, she waived the Priestess further into the chamber, where she stopped and dipped her hands into a pot warming on the fire. She cleansed her hands one more time, a ritual the Priestess had been carrying out every day for over seventeen seasons, since Gaia had moved from her wet nurse to the temple. After a few more minutes, Gaia would be able to tolerate the Priestess standing almost at her side.
    ‘You will need to climb the mountain,’ the Priestess whispered, her quiet voice filling Gaia’s mouth with the taste of lemons. ‘In sunlight.’
    ‘I know,’ said Gaia. She had never ventured outside in daylight – her body had no capacity to filter the light and the noises of the village. Some day, she had prayed. And some day had come.
    ‘I’m prepared,’ she whispered. ‘I have been for ever.’
    The Priestess nodded, glancing at a garment draped across a mahogany trunk that resembled chainmail in its design and its weave, the kind of protective garment the Conquistadors may have worn beneath their suits of armour. With the help of three Cuari weavers, Gaia had fashioned her suit from the softest cotton, layering the outside with black suede from animal pelts, the stitching glimmering with silver threads.
    The priestess picked up the garment and helped Gaia dress, carefully slipping the suit over her head, lifting the young woman’s sleek hair over her cowl, fastening the delicate silver claps on the breastplate, lacing the supple leather skins to her feet and legs. When the Priestess finished dressing Gaia, she stepped back.
    ‘You are your night self,’ said the Priestess.
    And she was. Gaia looked like a sleek black puma.

Isela

6
    Southern Coast of Peru, minibus from Lima, present day
    JUAN CORTEZ WAS a man of diverse talents, but only a few passions. Unfortunately, he had fallen victim to one of his passions for the last time. Cards, cockfights, football games, weather patterns, anything where he could wager what little money his talents as a driver earned him, which wasn’t much. That was why for the past three months he had been driving the route from Lima to the Hacienda del Castenado four times a day.
    Juan owed money to his bookie and that meant he owed money to Asiro Castenado. He had no choice as to how his debts were to be paid off. Juan was a quick study and he had learned the routine necessary for these special runs, and so far he had not encountered any glitches. He was glad of the work, especially since his wife was expecting their third child. And this trip would be his last one. He’d been promised his debts would be paid, his freedom bought.
    Juan glanced in his mirror, checking out the passengers behind him. This group was smaller than most of these usual