Brother to Dragons

by Charles Sheffield

  “Your colonel knew the party line. Science courses are seditious. Science is seditious. If you are a scientist, you have a choice: go into hiding, do something else for a living, study in secret, and hope you don’t get caught. Or be sent to the wilderness. That’s what happened to most of my colleagues. All that remains is the network. And even that…”

  As Singh spoke, Job was becoming steadily more uneasy. The man was rambling on and on, apparently talking to himself more than to Job.

  Job had known him for a couple of months, and in that time he had checked him out with the other street vendors. No one had anything bad to say, but when Job had agreed to come with him and try the tests he knew he had taken a risk, drawn by the strangeness of what Singh was proposing.

  But the process could be looked at the other way round. Job had never talked of his own background to the other street vendors, so Singh knew less about him than he knew about Singh. What risk had Singh taken, bringing Job here? For all the man knew Job could be an informer, paid by the government to collect information on the streets. If Job had not been jaded, he could have made money by revealing what Singh had just told him.

  For the man was talking freely—much too freely. Far older than Job, he was still hopelessly naive. And anyone who lacked the right survival instincts was too dangerous to be around. Unless Singh were himself working for the police, and testing job. In which case…

  Or if he were not working for the police, but somehow interested in recruiting Job. In which case…

  There were as many involutions as in one of Singh’s contorted test problems.

  Job cut through the logical twists with a single stroke. The Golden Rule: Don’t get caught again. Never, never, never. Even if nothing happened to him, this trip with Singh was violating the principle.

  “I have to get back home. My people will wonder where I am.”

  That was complete fabrication, and if Singh had done his homework he would know it. Job had no people. Sammy would miss his money if he didn’t come back, and she would wonder what had happened to him, but she would never dream of reporting the disappearance of a jaded person.

  Job’s words interrupted Singh in full flow. He frowned down at Job, then glanced around the room as though expecting to see rows of attentive faces staring up at him. His cigar was in his hand, but it had long since gone out.

  “Those were good times, the old days,” he said abruptly. He stared down at the dusty surface of the podium. “You know, sometimes I wish that I was in the wilderness, too. At least I would be with my friends.”

  After the trip to the university, Singh’s interest in Job faded. Job had failed the test. He knew it; he was not what Singh had thought he might be. That was fine with Job. He still corrected the man’s speech now and again, but he gradually and deliberately reduced the extent of their interaction. By the time that spring turned to summer and Job’s shaded doorway had become a coveted prize, he thought that he was safe.

  And doing well. The treasures from Sammy’s house were vanishing, but Job had learned other vendor tricks of the trade. If you were willing to push a bigger cart, or better still could barter for the use of a small truck for a day and went far south and east of the city, you would find country places where goods were still available for trading. The first trip brought back terrible memories of the incinerator and of burning bodies, but after that Job began to enjoy the startling green of plants, horizon to horizon, and a brighter, haze-free sun.

  In early July he made a trip many miles to the southeast, almost as far as the shore of the great bay, and returned late in the afternoon of the second day. The truck driver had no other business that night. He agreed to save Job the trouble of multiple cart trips to where the truck was garaged, by driving to the rear of Sammy’s house and allowing Job to unload directly from there.

  On the way they passed along the avenue where Job had his stand. Alan Singh’s stall was set up with goods, but there was no sign of the familiar black beard. Job saw the other vendors clustered around, talking and ignoring potential customers. Three strangers stood in Job’s own doorway.

  He hunched low in the truck. “I’ve changed my mind. Don’t go to my house. I’d rather unload at your place later tonight, and pick my stuff up tomorrow. Can you drop me round the next corner? I’ll come by to do the unloading in a couple of hours.”

  The driver stared at him. “Sure you want to do that?” He was a brawny thirty-year-old, and he had seen Job struggling to lift loads that he would have thrown into the truck one-handed.

  “I’m sure. I’ve got other things I need to do.”

  “All right.” The truck turned the corner and stopped. The driver leaned over as Job climbed down. “You don’t need to come and unload, I’ll do that for you. Pick up your stuff from the garage whenever you’re ready.”

  He waved his hand and pulled away. Job waited until he was out of sight. He had made the decision not to take the truck to Sammy’s garage on instinct. Now he was not sure what he ought to do. Check the stalls, and try to find out what was happening there? Or make a discreet trip to Sammy’s house, and see if it was still safe to go back? Both alternatives were risky.

  Job realized with dismay that he had been getting sloppy. He had told the truck driver how to get to his place. Singh knew it, too. And Singh talked too much. He could have told one of the other vendors.

  Or anyone.

  It was almost five o’clock. Job retreated to the shelter of a doorway. He waited.

  It was a little after six o’clock when a vendor appeared. She was Missie Chang, queen of the early risers. Usually in position before six o’clock in the morning, she was also first to leave at night. Now she pushed her iron-wheeled food cart along wearily.

  Job knew she had five children to feed and a second job that would keep her working until midnight. He watched to make sure that no one was trailing her, then fell into step alongside and began to push her cart.

  She turned to nod thanks. “You were not there today.” She spoke in Mandarin, knowing that Job was at home in it. “But I saw you drive by in the truck. I think it was as well that you did not stop.”

  “‘The cautious seldom err.’” Job waited for her smile at his use of the Confucian proverb that she had once quoted to him, then went on, “I saw the signs of excitement. What happened?”

  “Your friend the black-bearded one was taken.”

  Your friend. So much for the attempt to distance himself from Singh. “Who took him, and why?”

  “I do not know. No one knows, except that it was the government. But there was screaming and shouting and beating, and he did not go easily. They sought you also. No one knew where you were.”

  The decision to extend the foraging trip to a second day had been made on the spur of the moment. Job shivered when he thought how close he had come to being trapped in his doorway when they arrived for Alan Singh.

  “I said nothing when I saw you in the truck,” went on Missie Chang. “They made big speeches, and told us that it was our duty to the country to tell them anything we knew. But as our ancient friend also says ‘Fine words and an insinuating appearance are seldom associated with true virtue.’”

  They had reached the corner where Job normally turned off to go home.

  Except that tonight he dared not do it. And if he was being hunted, he should not be seen with Chang.

  He released his hold on the cart. “Thank you, Missie. I will not forget what you did for me.”

  She nodded quietly and trudged off west. He watched her out of sight, then eyed the setting sun. It would be light for less than one more hour. The dark streets of the city were dangerous, and usually he avoided them.

  But tonight was not usual. He walked to an old shelter for a long-gone bus route and sat down to wait.

  Dangerous or not, tonight he needed darkness.

  There were two ways to the garage of Sammy’s house: through the basement, or down the alley at the back and in through the old wooden do
ors. They both had dangers too big for Job to live with. He started towards the front of the house, hesitated, and turned back. Before he could reach the red door he would be completely exposed, on a street with no bolt holes. And anyone could be inside the house.

  He went along the side street that led to the alley, and halted before he was halfway there. This was even worse. The alley didn’t even have two entrances.

  But he had to go home.

  Didn’t he?

  Job sat on the curb in the darkness and rested his head on his folded arms. If “home” meant possible capture, and a return to Cloak House, did he have to go there?

  He stood up and set off through the streets for Bracewell Mansion. When he got there he did not go in. He lurked in the shadows and waited.

  The evening wore on. Job was tired and hungry, but he had no thought of leaving. When after three hours the familiar stooped figure of Professor Buckler came creaking down the steps, Job waited until he could move to place himself between the professor and Bracewell Mansion.

  He tiptoed forward until he was almost on Buckler’s heels.

  “Professor.”

  No one more than twenty feet away would hear that hiss. But Buckler certainly heard it.

  And knew who it was. He jerked forward as though Job were a cobra at his heels.

  “What do you want?” His back was rigid.

  “I want a favor.”

  “I can’t give you one. If Miss Magnolia finds out I’ve been talking to you, or even seen you—”

  “One small favor, with no risk to you. And then I swear I’ll never come here again, or try to reach you. Ever.”

  Buckler turned warily and stood looking down at Job’s skinny figure. “What do you want?”

  “When you brought me to Bracewell Mansion, you sent me on my first errand, to Sammy’s house. Remember?”

  “Naturally. As you well know, my memory is excellent.” The professor was recovering a little of his poise.

  “When I got back, you told Miss Magnolia that you had checked with Sammy, and that I had followed your instructions exactly. But I came back so quickly, you couldn’t have met with Sammy. So although I’ve never seen a telephone in her house, and I’ve never heard one ring, there must be one. And you must have a way of calling her when you want to, from Bracewell Mansion.”

  “What if we do?”

  “I want you to call Sammy for me. Ask if everything is normal there, and ask if it’s safe for me to go back to the garage.”

  Buckler was stooping, staring into Job’s face. “That’s all you want? Just the phone call, and that question?”

  “Just that, and I’ll go.”

  “Wait here.” The professor took a couple of paces towards the mansion, then turned back to Job. “If I’m not here in ten minutes, it means there’s a problem. Don’t come inside, whatever you do.”

  “I won’t. But I’ll stay all night long if I have to.”

  Buckler nodded. He went up the stairs, turning at the top to make sure that Job was not following. Job nodded to reassure him.

  In less than five minutes the stooped form was back, hurrying down the stone steps as fast as Job had ever seen him move. “Sammy’s there,” he said. “And she thought you were there, too. Someone has been banging around in the garage for the past hour. When I called she was thinking of going down there and telling you not to make so much noise. Now she’s going to lock off the basement access. Who is it, Job?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think—”

  “No.” Buckler held his hands out to ward off words. “Don’t tell me. The less I know about this, the happier I’ll be. Remember what you promised. I did what you asked me. Now go.”

  “I’m going.” Job turned and began to walk away into the darkness. When he had gone ten steps he spoke over his shoulder. “I won’t pester you any more, Professor, but I want you to know one thing. I appreciate what you did for me tonight, and I appreciate what you did when you first brought me to Bracewell Mansion. If there’s ever anything you want, and you know how to reach me, just ask.”

  He turned his head. It must have been the wrong thing to say. Professor Buckler was standing motionless, face turned sideways and down as though he had been struck. He muttered something under his breath and hurried away along the sidewalk.

  As soon as the professor was out of sight Job stopped walking.

  Where was he going? It could not be to Bracewell Mansion, or Sammy’s house, or to his old vending stall. In a few hours he had become a true street basura, part of the homeless human rubbish that shared the city with the wild dogs and cats and rats.

  And it was all his own fault. He had allowed himself to dabble in matters of no importance, just to satisfy his curiosity.

  If he could learn that one lesson from this experience, he would be ahead. And tomorrow he would be ready to start over. From scratch.

  Except that it didn’t have to be from scratch! Job remembered the goods waiting for him at the truck drop-off point. At least four cartloads, probably more. He didn’t have a cart—that was in Sammy’s garage—but he had taken most of his valuables with him for his trading trip to the country, and he had a fair amount left. More than enough for a new cart.

  But his new home must be far from here. In the city, surely, because that’s what he knew, yet far enough away that none of his old acquaintances was in a position to see him and point him out.

  Job strolled through the warm night, making his plans. Leaving Sammy’s house and the final meeting with Professor Buckler was like severing another umbilical. He had learned a lot in the past half year. He could survive on the streets. And he was determined to do so. As determined as Skip Tolson had been to make it all the way through Cloak House.

  But he must remember the rule, the Golden Rule, the only rule. He had forgotten it for a little while, and it had almost been his downfall.

  He chanted it to himself as he walked. Don’t get caught again. Never, never, never.

  • Chapter Ten

  Le coeur a ses raisons…

  Don’t get caught again.

  If Job could have remained at ten and a half forever, more than likely he would have followed his Golden Rule and lived uncaptured in the city for the rest of his life. But while weakness and malnutrition may delay puberty, they do not prevent it. Between fourteen and fifteen Job added five inches to his height and matured sexually. And with those physical changes came emotional ones.

  Their effects were not obvious at once. Job continued life according to the rigid procedures he had adopted after leaving Sammy’s house.

  Stay with what you know. He had to move from the area near Bracewell Mansion to a place where he was unknown, so some change was inevitable. But he should stay within the city, where he knew the geography and understood the languages and customs.

  First he made a deal with the truck driver. He could leave his country purchases there as long as he liked for a tiny storage fee. Then he started to wander. Finally he chose an area south of the Mall Compound, not far from the river. He had not been there since his shopping trips with Mister Bones, but unless things had changed a lot the mile-long forbidden rectangle of the Compound would serve as a barrier. People who lived to the north rarely went around to the south side.

  Don’t live anywhere with only one entrance. The place he picked out was on the ground floor of an old factory. There were four doors to the rambling building, each leading to a different street, and upstairs the sealed door that led to an outside fire escape could be broken open in an emergency. The Brazilian family who occupied the rest of the ground floor were the “owners,” who kept squatters out and would sell Job meals if he wanted them and oil for the stove. They extolled the virtues of the place and quoted a price. He pointed out that there was no heat and no running water, and made them a counteroffer.

  But the oil stove keeps the room warm, and there is a faucet in the alley, just outside the back entrance…

  Sure. But in the middle of win
ter, when the faucet freezes…

  After fifteen minutes of happy haggling in Portuguese, the owners produced a bottle of wine to seal the deal. Job tried a glass and nearly choked. Sammy was right, alcohol was worse than brain-burner.

  He bought a small cart and spent four days transferring his goods from storage to his new home. He took the long way round, heading far north and east before he came south again. Those journeys confirmed his first impression. His new home was in an area even more run down than the one he was used to. It sat at the edge of one of the city’s big red-light districts, but one that catered to the poor. There was nothing with the grandeur, good-looking girls, and upscale clientele of Bracewell Mansion. However, there was plenty of business. And it was needed. Any money that Job’s landlords and neighbors possessed came somehow spilling out from the bordellos, a by-product of prostitution.

  Don’t meet more people than you have to. A street vendor had to interact with strangers, it was the nature of the business. But Job could set up his stand right outside the factory where he lived. He no longer roamed the streets, by day or night. His monthly foraging expeditions to the country were a necessity, but the people there hated or despised the city and the government. He felt safer there than anywhere, and sometimes thought he should leave the city. But if he did, how would he survive? He lacked the skills and strength to be a farmer.

  Job settled in and settled down. Life was good. He had food, a place to live, a job that he understood. It produced more than enough money for his simple needs. For entertainment he had reading. Once a week he went to the area’s magazine vendor, bought a copy of each polyglot news-sheet on the stand, and pored over them when it was quiet at his stall. If that ever became boring he had the passing drama of the streets. He saw argument, murder, lovemaking, despair, greed, sickness and cruelty. He watched them all with interest, but always as a part of the audience, standing apart and never becoming involved in the action. As time went by he understood better the emotions and motives that drove the players. But they were not his emotions.