by Mark Eller
"Been two weeks since we had meat." Joline returned from her self-appointed task.
She was the nervous one, the natural lookout. Knowing that was part of Makky's skill. He decided what parts the tribe needed, then went out and found people to fill those parts. Joline's natural suspicion had saved them a number of times while Boder's affability, intelligence, and good nature had brought in more fresh food than all their other schemes combined. Boder's main weakness was that he did not have a courageous bone in his body. If he were on his own, or in anyone else's tribe, he would have been beaten at least twice a week because he was such easy meat. Fortunately for him, Makky knew exactly how important Boder was, so Pater and Fran and surly Harlace had the job of making sure nothing untoward happened to him. They were glad of the chance because they liked to eat. Makky prided himself that he never chose stupid people.
So yes, times were definitely good. In fact, they were better now than Makky could remember them ever being during the previous twelve years of his life. Most of the amateurs were gone, whisked off the street and put away into one place or another. Many of those places were filled with despair, but a few offered sanctuary and hope. Makky sometimes wondered if he should take his people to one of those--but which one? A dozen options came to mind, but he had no idea which were legit and which were too dangerous to contemplate. For now, he would hang loose, remain free, and keep his options open.
Makky watched while Joline took a bite from her chunk of meat. It was more fat than meat since these were the trimmings from a butcher shop, but that was just fine by his crew. Fat contained flavor and energy and was easier to chew. Not everyone had solid teeth. Harlace was one of those. Her pushed-in face bragged of a fist-flattened nose, and her mouth held only half its ivory. That evidence of past abuse explained why Harlace owned a mean temper. It also explained why she was such a good enforcer.
Joline's chewing slowed and then stopped. She sniffed the air and raised her head suspiciously. Without a word being said, the enforcers caught onto her vigilance. They set their food down in order to give her strict attention. Watching, Makky approved of their actions. Joline was wrong more often than not, but she was right often enough for care to pay off. The crew universally believed she operated on a residue of Talent because her ability to sense others approaching was uncanny.
"Somebody comin'," Joline finally said. "Headin' this way." Her eyes grew big with knowledge. Her nostrils quivered.
"Okay, people," Makky snapped. "Ya know the drill. Gather up the food, form lines, and let's see if we need ta protect our territory or if we're better off lookin' for new ground. Remember, it's likely we're dealin' with nothin' more than citizens, so don't panic."
His orders were followed with an alacrity that spoke of long practice and numerous blind drills. Makky was proud of his people, proud of the way the stronger and tougher ones gathered around the weaker and more timid members of the pack. His people were not vicious animals. They were a family who took care of their own.
Footsteps approached. The steps were not firm and steady. Instead, they were the shuffling steps of derelicts. Makky released a relieved sigh. Most likely the crisis would prove to be small.
"I hear 'em," Boder whispered.
"Shhh." Pater threw a comforting arm around his waist. "Don't worry. We'll take care o' ya. Nothing's gunna happen." She held a length of pipe in her other hand. Its end was filed to a ragged point.
"Almost here, people." Makky lofted his own weapon, but doubted he would have a chance to use it. He wasn't the oldest or the strongest or even the fastest in his band. He was only the most cunning. That attribute had gained him his position as leader. Those of the crew who were brawn recognized that cunning did not equal tough. Even though he did not ask it of them, they hemmed him in when there was trouble.
Clank
Makky stiffened, then relaxed. The secret to ruling was control, not panic.
"Hello? Hello, is there anybody here? Makky?"
He knew the voice. It was The Girl, Celine, sometimes called Mother.
"What ya doin' on my turf?" he demanded, meaning, why have you brought others here? "This area's been ours the last year an' more." He took care to keep his voice civil. No abandoned child ever spoke harshly to Celine because she protected all the crews. In turn, they cared for her.
"I know. That's why I came here."
With those words, Celine moved slowly into view. Others shuffled into the open behind her. Makky fought back an impulse to leap forward and push Celine aside so he could attack the interlopers. Just as well that he won that battle. He doubted any of his tribe would have followed him because the children facing them made up one of the sorriest sights Makky had ever seen. They were pitiful. The children had swollen hands, black nails, and eyes so huge with hunger that he felt pulled into their orbs. These were desperate and hopeless people.
"They got me," Celine said wearily. "They got me. I picked some locks after a few days and escaped, bringing these six with me. We need help." Her voice was low and weak. In all the years Makky had known her, he had never seen her like this. Celine, the unchanging child, was a force that challenged life. She was mother and grandmother to all the crews, the one they went to when they could not make it on their own. Celine helped others; she never asked for help. Never.
There was shuffling around Makky, and then Boder moved forward, holding hard-won food in his hands.
"I had too much, anyway. Ya can have mine."
"Mine, too." Joline held out her barely touched rations. "I ate just yesterday so I'm full up."
Before long, every member of his band gave up all or most of their food. Makky felt proud. They proved what he had said all along. Those in his crew were not wolves. They were a family who took care of each other. Sometimes, when there was need, they expanded their definition of family. Sometimes. When Celine was involved.
Celine was an outsider, but she was more family than if she had lived with them for the last ten years. Once, when times were harder, she took Makky and his crew beneath her maternal wing. She showed them scams and taught the tricks of pocketing. Celine, the Mother, viewed all the street crews as her children. Always the caretaker, it was now her turn to be cared for.
Tearing loose small chunks of fat and shreds of meat, Makky fed Celine from his own hand.
"Hey, child. Hey, child," Harlace, the broken-faced enforcer, murmured. She spat already-chewed food into her palm and offered it to one of the walking skeletons. "Try this, baby. Hey, baby. Try this." Her scared and twisted features were filled with concern. Her normally hard eyes were soft and weeping. "Hey, child. Hey, child. Try this."
"I don't know how much good it will do," Celine said. "I barely ate what they gave us, but these had no choice if they weren't to starve. Haven't been able to keep anyth--."
She was interrupted by the girl Harlace fed. The young child stopped chewing. Her face screwed into a tight grimace, and then she leaned forward to spew small bits of meat and fat onto the ground.
She was not alone. Within half a minute all the other foundlings followed her example.
"--down," Celine finished sadly.
"Oh, baby," Harlace wept. She wrapped her arms around the heaving child. "Hey, baby. Hey, baby."
Chapter 4
"PaPers! Get your PaPers. Morning Gazette. Get your PaPers!"
Uninterested, Aaron walked past the young lass hawking the press. As a rule, the Gazette spun a constant tale of political cronyism and corruption. The child gave him a hopeful look as he passed.
"PaPers," she shouted. "Hurricane hits the South Islands. Mondola at war with the Chins. Read all about it in the Gazette."
Aaron spun on his heels. "I'll take one."
He tossed her a copper and grabbed a paper. Ignoring his change, he left the sidewalk traffic to find himself a small niche in a thin alleyway. Resting his shoulder against the red brick of a building's corner, he flipped the paper around to get a look at the headlines.
Page
one was a bust. Crime was up, again, and apparently child slave labor had become a greater problem now that budgetary crunches had cut back on the number of factory inspectors. The assembly wanted to pass a law that levied taxes against gambling establishments. School violence was in a decline since the instigation of corporal punishment. Mister Alexander Harst called for the formation of an international wartime relief organization. He insisted on a charter demanding complete neutrality in any conflict, insisting his people must be free to tend to the wounded on both sides of any battle. A citizen's committee demanded that officials curb youth crime. Many citizens advocated another attempt to clear the lost children from the more broken sections of the city.
Good luck, Aaron silently mouthed to Harst and the committee. He doubted Harst would ever reach his goals. Shortsighted human nature foundered dreams. As for the committee, those kids knew the ins and outs and the passageways of their warrens better than the authorities. The same attempt had been made twice in the last year. In all, the authorities had netted three kids.
Ah yes, there was the article he had looked for. The nomads of the Chin plains, presently coming together in an attempt to form one nation, had just declared economic war with the small country of Mondola.
Economic war?
Aaron read the entire article through before folding the paper with disgust. The article, empty of any real content, was nothing but speculation and rumor. It didn't mention that the Chins were still a race divided against itself. The story never mentioned Helmet Klein and his bloody role in shaping a disparate group of individualistic tribes into the beginnings of an empire.
Aaron frowned. Helmet had kept a low profile lately. His name had come up only once in all the articles about Chin Aaron had read in the last year, and that one mention had been based on news more than six months old. Helmet had almost dropped completely out of world affairs, and that struck Aaron as just a bit strange for a would-be emperor who utilized other-world technology to conquer backward peoples. Something was going on in Chin, but Aaron had no clue what that something was. Had Helmet changed his plans, or had he somehow lost his ability to teleport and thus become trapped in his and Aaron's birth world?
He folded the paper and handed it to a child who stared hopefully at him. The kid had probably been sent after the family's paper. Now she would have enough pocket money to buy a stick or two of candy.
Continuing his walk, Aaron pondered what to do about the assembly's move against him. The anti-Turner sentiment in the assembly was not unanimous, but it was strong and growing stronger. The Isabellan Federation was frightened. The power represented by his books could turn any backwater country into a superpower. If news of what they contained became common knowledge, Isabella would become the center of a vast political and physical conflict. Most likely, one of Isabella's neighbors would declare war before Isabella had an opportunity to fully utilize the new knowledge, and that would be bad. Although Isabella had a strong popular government and a respected military, it was not perceived as a military powerhouse. Because of the recent annexation of the Clan lands, Isabella had become larger than most other New World countries. Even so, the new lands were inaccessible, undeveloped, and housed a great number of resentful people. A war with any nation, even a weaker one, would only encourage the Clan to rebel during a time when Isabella could least afford it.
Aaron's books had given the politicians opportunities and problems. They wanted to handle both by grabbing everything and keeping it hidden. It appeared that another problem they wanted to get rid of was a certain person named Aaron Turner.
Aaron did not blame them.
A hand gently touched his elbow. "Shine your shoes, mister? Quarter copper for a shoeshine."
The girl could not have been more than eight. Her face appeared pinched, anxious, and her arms hugged a small wooden footstool that had the paraphernalia of her trade sticking out of a slot in the stool's side.
"I can use a shine," he told her.
Smiling nervously, she plopped her box down on the sidewalk and gestured for him to put his foot on it. Within moments she daubed black polish on his shoe with an oft-used rag.
"What name do you go by?" Aaron asked in an attempt to get her talking. Maybe she was homeless. If so, he could take her to the nearest Turner House.
She glanced at him but did not answer.
"My name is Aaron Turner."
Her hands stilled. Giving him a stiff, hurried look, she rushed back to her task. She rubbed and brushed the polish into his shoe before it had enough time to set, Far too soon she gestured that she was done with his right foot. When Aaron looked down at her work, he saw splotchy globs of polish. Within moments she had changed from meticulous to sloppy, but he did not find that surprising. She was, after all, only eight or so.
The small girl pushed against his leg with shaking hands, an indication that she was finished. Aaron shook his head no.
"Uh-uh. I'm sorry, hon, but that shoe needs a lot more work. I'll show you how to do it right if you want me to."
On his last word, she released a thin cry and took off. The crowd split apart for her passage and then flowed back together. A few curious eyes followed her path. Other, harder stares turned in Aaron's direction.
Unbelieving, Aaron looked down at his shoe. Polish still clung to its toe and next to the laces on the left side. The shoe gleamed bright except where it held dingy lumps. A jar of new polish lay on its side, the lid only inches away.
Picking up the discarded rag, Aaron absently wiped away the excess polish. Finished, he gathered up the jar and cover, put them back inside the slot in the stool, and carried the stool to the edge of the walkway where he placed it against the side of a building. Maybe the girl would come back for it later. He hoped so. The stool and its supplies represented her ability to eat on a regular basis.
A body shoved up against him. "You going to get moving or you going to block the sidewalk all day?"
"I'm moving," Aaron told the surly owner of the voice--but that person was gone.
He released a silent bark of laughter and headed on his way, one shoe bright and fresh, the other still awaiting its shine, wondering just why the child had fled after hearing his name.
* * *
"They really want to disappear the books," Amanda said from behind her desk. "Current law doesn't allow them that privilege since we have a very long document signed by highly placed officials who held power at the time. I'm guessing that a faction in the assembly doesn't like us making more money than their families."
"I'm still small potatoes when compared to most of the influential families," Aaron said.
"True, for now. Presently, your money arrives in trickles and leaves in torrents. We've spent a lot on court costs and land purchases and construction and factory renovation. Products are being developed, but few have been produced. There are also legal challenges to our demands for compensation. Some people claim they gained their ideas independently of any help the university gave them. They make these claims even when it's easily proven that the university gave them specific information that almost exactly resembles their developed products. Frankly, you're being attacked from every direction. I'll soon have to hire several associates just to keep up with the suits piling up."
"So what am I supposed to do?"
"Do?" Amanda laughed bitterly. "You're supposed to do nothing except keep your nose clean. This is entirely a matter of legal maneuvering, and you're totally unprepared to deal in those circles. We've reached heights that are even beyond me. That's why we need to take on more people. I need specialists with connections. This battle is going to be tough, but the government will eventually lose. It could pass legislation to get what it wants out of you, but that would blow up in its face if the source of the new prosperity becomes public knowledge. Besides, it doesn't have the power to seize your belongings without legal charges being pressed against you. Since an act of seizure without cause is unconstitutional, it would eventually be brought up bef
ore the high court unless the constitution had about three new amendments added. That's not likely to happen. Mister Turner, we have a hard battle on our hands, but it's nothing for us to run from."
Amanda did not look like the possibility of a battle frightened her. In fact, she appeared ready for war. The woman was a piranha, anxious to rip opponents apart one small chunk at a time.
"I don't like sitting on the sidelines," he admitted.
Amanda shook her head. She looked slightly alarmed at the idea of Aaron becoming actively involved. "You'll ruin everything if you do anything but sit on your behind. No, I suggest you find something to amuse yourself. Read a few books or take up a hobby. Don't worry. I'll handle everything on this end."
Aaron frowned. "Maybe I want to worry. Maybe I want to get involved in my own defense. Maybe I want to find something to do with my time besides waking up in the morning and pretending there's a reason I'm alive."
She returned his frown. "Maybe you don't know what you want, because I see you avoiding responsibility when it leans your way. Being bored is of your own making. A person with your resources and potential should have no problem coming up with a fulfilling routine. I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do to help you there. I handle the business and the lawyering part of this arrangement. You need to run your own life. Now, I have a lot of work to do so I need you to leave."
