Robinson Crusoe 2246: (Book 3)

by E. J. Robinson

  Chapter Four

  Troyus

  “Quantos años tem voce?” one of the red figures asked.

  “Por quao?” Friday replied, the edge to her voice unmistakable.

  Robinson tried to stand, but his legs rebelled. Instead, he stared at the fire. The flames swayed languidly as sparks danced and rose into the ether.

  The shadows surged closer. Robinson felt hands pull him to his feet, Friday’s among them. He struggled to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

  Several of the figures broke off to collect their weapons and gear. Others moved between the snake cadavers, using blades to cut through the jaw to strip away what he assumed was the venom glands.

  Robinson tried to make out how many of them there were, but his vision grew distorted, and the light from their torches stung his eyes. His head bobbed as they waited for the others to return. Friday whispered something into his ear, but it was lost in the wind. A moment later, someone took his other arm, and they were off.

  They moved in a cluster at a quick pace. The torches were held low, presumably to ward off more snakes. He listened to the flicker of flames and the shuffling of feet. He smelled the fraying fabric of the figures next to him. A few carried glass bottles hanging on cords around their necks, clinking as they ran. He heard liquid sloshing inside. Kerosene. Fire bombs.

  A light voice behind him spoke. It sounded like a girl. The question felt familiar, as if it’d already been asked. He thought it was meant for Friday, but she didn’t answer.

  As they scaled a rise, Robinson leaned over and asked what she said.

  “They want to know our age,” Friday answered.

  The question seemed impractical. Then Robinson noticed something.

  “They have our weapons,” he said.

  Friday’s mouth grew taut. “Not all of them,” she whispered in English.

  The trek continued for an unbearable time. When he heard Friday’s labored breathing, Robinson begged them to stop, but his words came out unintelligible. He felt spittle running down his chin and knew he had vomited. His rapid heartbeat and thick tongue warned him of the end.

  Before long, they were standing in a circle as Robinson was lowered onto a contraption with four wheels and a slight frame. He felt webbing beneath him. He looked for horses but saw none.

  “What’s your method of propulsion?” He managed to ask. The question surprised the figures in red. Or flummoxed them. He wondered if he’d asked it in English.

  “How does it move?” he asked, this time in the common tongue.

  One of them responded, “By night’s breath.”

  He didn’t understand. Friday and the rest of the group boarded, and a sail unfurled. The wind caught it, and the vessel stirred into motion.

  Robinson knew something was off about these people, but in his state, he couldn’t pinpoint what. Instead, he laid his head back and stared at the stars as they spread across the desert at a terrifying clip. The rush of air and snap of the sails filled his ears. He felt Friday’s hand on his head, wiping sweat away despite the cold air that wracked him with chills. Is it possible to feel like you’re freezing and on fire at the same time?

  Oddly, one of the strangers began to hum. He thought it might be the girl again—the voice was so light—but the melody soon took sway. There was a familiarity to it. For a moment, he thought it might have been one of the songs Vareen had sung when he was a child, but the words were different.

  Peeking, seeking, brother star,

  Sister wonders where you are,

  Hold the world, on high, on nigh,

  Until her fire lights our eyes.

  When the fulls are come again,

  And tree of gifts done swallow sin,

  Save us this, your fiery light,

  Peeking, seeking, in the night…

  The other joined in. The lyrics were dark; they felt prophetic, but the form gave way to purpose as Robinson settled in and rode the lullaby into a deep slumber.

  He wasn’t sure which roused him, the sound of scraping or the tug of skin, but when Robinson saw the razor hovering at his neck, he reached out and seized the wrist holding it.

  The boy stared. He was young, eight or nine, with brown, matted locks and pallid skin, but it was his eyes that stood out. They were the green of spring foliage and held no fear.

  “We need be finishing,” the boy said, “for the Fives return.”

  “Fives,” Robinson repeated, his voice as graveled as his head. “What’s that? Your parents? Your elders?”

  The boy paused, as if detangling the words.

  “We call ‘em Halfers in Troyus.”

  “Troyus,” Robinson repeated, his breath returning slowly. “Is that where we are?”

  “Ye’uh,” the boy said. “Some Halfers name it O City, but I’m a short, so it’s forbid.”

  Robinson eyed the razor. It was coated with soap and peppered with stubble. Steam rose from a milky bowl near his foot. Robinson reached up and touched his skin. His finger came away wet with a spot of blood.

  “Where’s Friday?” Robinson asked.

  The boy craned his head. “Dunno. Naming days are past. Least ’ere. Tomorrow counts some. Today’s the more. After that, all’s done and dust, ye’uh?”

  “I meant,” Robinson said, clearing his throat, “where is my wife?”

  “The fem? Ah, she’s vert enough. Up in the nest with the other swoles. You’ll see her soon. Crosses.”

  “Crosses?”

  “My word it means. Truth.” The boy tugged gently at his hand. “Can I finish? Swears, it’s for the best. The Full’s groom no good way to step to the roots or the Fives.”

  Robinson sat up gingerly, gently peeling the razor from the boy’s hand.

  “I can do my own grooming, if you please. Maybe you could make yourself useful and find me something reflective.”

  The boy headed off, giving Robinson a chance to survey the room. It was an old lavatory, lit by a single, narrow window near the rooftop. The stalls were gone, the toilets broken, yet the odor of decay and waste still permeated the place.

  Am I a prisoner here? If so, the boy is a poor figure for a guard.

  The boy returned with a shard of mirror, its edges flaked and peeling. Robinson took it slowly. Now, if he needed a weapon, he had one.

  “What’s your name?” Robinson asked as he commenced shaving.

  “Underfoot, I’m called. You?”

  “Crusoe.”

  “Crusoe,” the boy repeated. “Funny name. The fem says she’d dirt us if you wasn’t vert today. All of us. Think she meant it too.”

  “She does,” Robinson said, fighting back a grin. “And she would.”

  “I see she’s crosses, but we got numbers. And it’s bad play—leaping on the feet wrong at the start.”

  Robinson eyed the boy. “I think what you mean is we’d be getting off on the wrong foot. It’s an old saying.”

  The boy thought about it and shrugged. “Most is. But I preesh the learnin’. My sis used to say: Words be like trails. Even the ones lead home are lined with dirt. Ya ’stand?”

  It took a second, but Robinson thought he meant words could be both trouble and a boon, which he supposed was true enough.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Came in two nights past, rackled bad with fever, you was. But you got the luck. Most don’t survive the seprente kiss.”

  Robinson looked down at the bandage on his foot and wiggled his toes. Pain streaked through his body, though movement was a good sign.

  “Your handiwork?”

  “Me?” the boy chuckled. “Nah. I’m but a short Green.”

  “A what?”

  “In Troyus, we’s lotted by colors. The four, we calls ’em. Greens see to the edi’s on the Up ’N Up. Yellows are the takers, caring for the likes of meals, cleaning, physikin and such. Don’t grudge ’em, yellows. Muck work, mostly. Reds, they be the hunters and war makers when nece’ry. That’d be your color—you and t
he fem if rumors are crosses.”

  “And the last?”

  Underfoot hesitated. “Blues. They see to the Tree.”

  “The Tree?”

  Before Underfoot could expound, a heavy bell tolled beyond. The boy tensed before quickly gathering his things.

  “Sand’s running, and Fang’ll be sending for you soon. He don’t like Lopers—few of the Fives do—but least of all him. If you be wanting to stay vert, you’ll ’member this for when you step to the roots: tell ’em you was sent to snuff the mother’s flames. Can you ‘member?”

  Robinson nodded, but his head felt heavy. He could only watch as the boy sprinted for the door.

  “I be forgettin’ the most glory part!” the boy said, turning back to him. “They’ll be asking your years. When they do,” the boy tapped his forearm where several dappled marks glistened in the light, “say three and one and no more. You’ll thank me laters. Swears.”

  Robinson nodded, and the boy opened the door. Outside, two slim figures in red stood holding wooden spears. Underfoot slipped them both something before the door closed.

  He must have dozed off again because the room was dimmer when the door opened again. Only this time, a lithe girl in red entered, followed by four armed guards wearing identical red outfits that covered everything save their hands and eyes.

  “Up,” she said.

  Robinson didn’t see the benefit in arguing, so he stood. The girl looked at his freshly-shaved face and frowned before turning for the door. Robinson limped after her, a dull throb in his swollen leg.

  The cement corridor was lit by small lamps hanging from rusty pipes overhead. Even in such sparse light, Robinson saw he was taller than his guards. If necessary, he thought he could take them. And yet, he still didn’t fully understand his circumstances. Am I a prisoner? A guest? He’d been in similar circumstances before, both when he entered Cowboytown and after the Aserra pulled him from the river. Neither had worked out well for him in the short term, but eventually those enemies had turned into allies. Maybe that would be the case again.

  As for Friday, he had no idea of her whereabouts. Underfoot had said she was safe and that Robinson would see her again soon. But the boy was just that. Until he met the adults, he refused to speculate on things.

  As they approached the end of the hall, many voices pooled from the other side. Robinson felt his chest tighten before he asked the lithe girl where they were going. She scowled at him and nodded to the guards to open the doors instead.

  A blinding light stayed Robinson’s feet until a small hand shoved him from behind. When his eyes adjusted, his mouth dropped open; he instantly forgot his pain. For the first time in a long time, Robinson Crusoe was speechless.

  He’d read about malls back in D.C. They were gathering areas where merchants peddled their wares to the masses. But it wasn’t the size of the place that stayed his breath or the massive structural tree that someone had crafted from thousands of tons of scavenged material in the central atrium, though it rising hundreds of feet into the air and stretching across the expanse was impressive enough.

  No, what left him dumbstruck was the assembly of hundreds gathered in the room and the fact that all of them were children.

  Chapter Five

  The Tree of Gifts

  Children. A thousand in number. They were packed tightly on the floor. They lined the atrium’s borders. Some were perched on the walkways above, legs dangling over the edge. Others sat astride the branches of that monstrous metal tree that rose to a ceiling of opaque glass. They were dressed in roughshod fabric colored red, green, blue, and yellow. And every one of them had their eyes pinned on him, this new stranger.

  Robinson exhaled.

  A second shove propelled him forward, toward the steps that descended to the atrium and the tree. Robinson meant to pause at the top of the steps in a subtle act of defiance, but then he saw Friday and ran into her arms.

  “What happened?” Robinson asked, oblivious to the tittering children around him.

  “You were bitten by one of the snakes,” Friday said, “and they claimed to have medicine. I had to choose between bringing you here or watching you die.”

  “You did the right thing. Did they harm you?”

  “No,” she said. “There is a nursery on the second level. I was taken there to wait with others like me.” She rubbed her belly as she said it. “What about you?”

  “Woke on a floor hungry, sore, and tired. Not that it matters. We have to find the adults and speak with whoever’s in charge.”

  “I have seen no adults. Crusoe, I think these children are on their own.”

  Impossible, Crusoe thought. Children couldn’t survive in the wasteland alone, certainly not in these numbers. Unless some recent calamity had befallen the place, they had to have parents or older siblings somewhere nearby. And yet when he looked around, he saw no signs of battle or sickness. None of the puerile faces bore the fathomless look that followed tragedy, only curiosity and a fierce poise that vexed him. That’s when he noticed, hanging from the limbs of the mechanical tree, several cages, each with a child inside. Some appeared bloodied and bruised while others looked untouched. Everyone stared through vacant eyes. Robinson thought one of them might have been dead.

  An uneasy dread began to burrow inside him. Then, a sinewy shadow stepped from the tree and extended a staff into the air. It was made up of three long, slender pieces of wood with curved ends that splayed out like the flukes of a grappling hook. They reminded Robinson of tools used for a sport played on ice, though the name of the sport eluded him. These had a knitted bag of white rocks atop them that rattled like bones.

  The staff bearer was lean and muscled and wore the scowl of one that takes pleasure in lording over others. His cruel scowl was accentuated by two circular scars on his right cheek. This must be the one the boy called Fang.

  “See them,” Fang said, pointing to the strangers as he addressed the crowd. “They ’proach the roots but kneel not. They stand ‘fore the Tree of Gifts with pockets turned out. In their rucks, weapons of the far and back. How should we mark ’em, Orphans of O?”

  “As Lopers!” one of the boys in blue shouted.

  “As Fulls,” the girl in red growled behind him.

  “Ye-uh,” Fang agreed. His baritone voice felt forced, as if he was pushing it several octaves deep to sound older. “Lopers true. But Fulls, my red sis? It be border-close. What say you, strangers? What numbs do you bear?”

  Robinson and Friday looked confused. At the very least, he’d figured out what roots meant. The ground beneath his feet bore brown paint running from the tree. It was a far cry from a revelation, but what had Underfoot said about them? He couldn’t remember.

  “Numbs?” Robinson said. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Fang smiled, but it came off as a sneer.

  “Years,” Fang said. “What be your years?” He patted his forearm as he said it, and there Robinson saw the same dappled scars that Underfoot bore. Bars and dots.

  What had the boy said? ‘Say three and one and no more. You’ll thank me for it later.’

  Three bars and one dot. The same as Fang.

  “We’re both sixteen,” Robinson said.

  Fang’s smile faded as a murmur ran through the room. He shook the bone staff until the room fell silent.

  “Sixteen. Three and one, you says? Halfers?” Fang sneered. “Skept, I am. Think you be lyin’ at the roots. Lyin’ in front of the Tree. That’s bad play.”

  “Bad play,” the other boy in blue mimicked.

  “Bad play in Troyus earns you the coop,” Fang said as he slapped one of the cages holding a child. “Or ‘haps the dirt-dirt. Think on its again, I says.”

  Robinson shook his head. “That’s not necessary. I know my age.”

  Fang eyed him, then turned to the girl in red. “Snapfinger says you had a full’s groom this very dewday. Does you deny it?”

  “A full’s groom?” Robinson repeated. “Do you me
an a beard? I’ve never grown a beard in my life.”

  “He lies!” the girl named Snapfinger shouted. She gripped a blade sheathed at her waist. “At the roots, he lies. First they cross the patch, which is known ours. Then they ‘ttak the urtmovers on overmoon. They’re foul and full. Let me dirt him, Fang. We should dirt ’em both.”

  Robinson smiled wearily. He was tired and sore. These kids had plucked them out of the desert without the slightest provocation. Yes, they’d probably saved their lives, but to now hold them in judgement over it seemed ludicrous. And yet the more Robinson watched Fang marshal across the floor, the more danger he suspected they were in.

  “We don’t dirt swoles, sis, no matter their numbs,” Fang said at last. “You know it be bad play that leads to the game over.”

  “Game over,” the crowd repeated.

  Robinson looked among their ranks, observing only the ones in red had weapons. The others—greens and yellows—were not only unlikely to fight but also unlikely to run. The ones in blue appeared to hold the positions of power. He decided to sock that observation away.

  “We can keep the fem ’til she spurts and milk the whelp in the nest after she’s dirt and dust. The full? I see no reason him stayin’ vert.”

  Sensing things were going badly, Robinson stepped forward.

  “Dirt and dust, you say? If that was what we were meant to be, why did your friends rescue us from the desert? Why bring us here and give us food and medicine if you only meant to kill us after?”

  Another murmur ran through the crowd.

  “We got rules in Troyus,” Fang said when the noise died down. “Rules handed from the far and back by the Brothers Ark and Ton-Bra the Great.”

  “Ton-Bra,” the assembly repeated.

  “Rules say each gets a fair turn. You’ve stood the roots ’fore the Tree of Gifts. You’ve had your turn—”

  “Have we?” Robinson asked. He scanned the faces in the crowd, gauging them to be between five and sixteen. They watched with interest but exhibited no anger or fear. Even the poor abused ones hanging in the cages watched curiously. Robinson’s eyes found Underfoot in the balcony overhead.