Mayhem and Mutiny

by Charissa Dufour

  Blaine smiled at Nathyn’s attempt and patted the owner on the head. “Oh, he wouldn’t do that. He knows that if he lies to me, I’ll kill everyone he’s ever loved.”

  The man beneath Blaine’s hand shook with fresh fear.

  “I won’t let you touch that man,” Nathyn said with conviction.

  “You know you can’t beat me.”

  Nathyn did know it. Blaine saw it on his face. He had always bested Nathyn on the practice mats. Now he would do it for real.

  Blaine snatched the gun off the stool and fired at them. They were already ducking out of the way. Blaine’s shot went wide as something slammed into the back of his knees, sending him to the ground. As he rolled over, he realized the cantina owner had tipped his chair forward, right into his legs. Blaine flicked his foot out, catching the pudgy man in the jaw.

  He turned back, looking for Nathyn and the others, but they had all moved away from the door, ducking behind overturned tables and decorative barrels. Blaine fired at Forrest, his flechette rounds splattering into the flimsy barrel. They were designed to be safe on a spaceship meaning they wouldn’t puncture anything much harder than human flesh. All the same, they were still deadly.

  Blaine grimaced as his shots did nothing to break up Forrest’s cover. He quickly tossed the gun aside and scrambled to his feet. Just as he got up, Nathyn rammed into his back, sending them both to the floor through a chair or two. Blaine felt his chin collide with the flooring and the leg of a chair catch his side. It all hurt, but he ignored it as he squirmed within Nathyn’s arms.

  Nathyn released him enough to slam his fist into Blaine’s side, right where his tender kidneys waited. Blaine drove his elbow backward, hitting Nathyn in the face. They fell apart long enough for both to get to their feet. Nathyn wiped the blood from his face with the back of his fist.

  Blaine gave him the benefit of a moment, knowing he would win in the end.

  Nathyn jabbed at him, and Blaine blocked before he felt Nathyn’s other fist strike his gut. He hadn’t seen it coming, and the surprise angered him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Forrest crawling up to the owner and cutting his bindings. He needed to speed up his fight. Blaine gave Nathyn a few quick blows, half of them hitting home. He put his weight into the last swing and missed Nathyn’s shoulder by an inch. As he stepped forward to increase the power, Blaine felt a blow to the back of his head.

  The world went black.

  Nathyn’s eyes went wide as Blaine froze and toppled to the ground. It was almost comical. Jeremiah stood behind the huge guard, a metal baseball bat gripped in his hand.

  “Did I kill him?” the younger man asked, his dark lips quivering with fear.

  Nathyn bent beside Blaine’s body and pressed his fingers against his neck. A steady beat thrummed against his finger, but Blaine’s head was bleeding from the blow.

  “No, he’s alive. Help me hog-tie him. You okay, mister?”

  Forrest was helping the owner to his feet. A trickle of blood ran from the man’s gut, but it didn’t look life threatening. The man nodded as he slumped into a chair, shock still apparent on his face.

  Nathyn and Jeremiah quickly tied Blaine’s hands behind his back, attaching the bindings to the ones on his ankles until he was trussed up from head to foot. Just to be safe they added another one to his neck that would strangle him if he struggled too much.

  “He was gonna kill me?” the owner said as he took the drink Forrest retrieved for him.

  “Likely, yes. But you’re okay now.”

  “Did you call the police officers?”

  Nathyn cleared his throat. “No… and we’re hoping you’d be willing…”

  “Oh good,” interrupted the other man. “I don’t exactly have a liquor license.”

  Nathyn fought against the grin tugging on his lips.

  “We’ll take him away from here and deal with him,” said Nathyn, leaving it vague.

  “He really wants to find Bit.”

  Nathyn nodded. “We all do. But she’s looking for Douglas Zandrini.”

  The owner shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

  “Again, I’m sorry this all happened,” said Nathyn before he and Forrest grabbed Blaine’s limp body and began dragging him out.

  Wic passed the gold bill over to the police officer. “And you’re certain she was spotted?”

  “Yeah, they lost her over around Ferndale.”

  He tried not to smile. The officer obviously wasn’t thrilled with admitting his associates had failed. Wic didn’t care about their failure. He had learned himself how wily the tiny woman could be.

  “Good. Thank you.”

  Wic turned and weaved through the crowd. He considered calling a taxi, but with all the foot traffic flooding the streets, driving often took just as long as walking. Unless you could afford a ride in one of the expensive hover cars. Instead, he followed the flow of traffic to the nearest train station and joined the line waiting to board. Three trains later, he boarded and even got a seat. It was another thirty minutes before he squeezed off the train into the Ferndale suburb.

  Unlike his normal stomping ground, Ferndale was working to climb out of the slums. He even spotted the occasional new building. Despite the rising wealth, the crowds were just as bad as Soweto. Earth needed another pregnancy ban, but none of the top legislators wanted to enrage the masses. For most of those in the “masses”, a pregnancy ban meant a sex ban. None of the poor could afford any form of contraceptive.

  Wic rolled his eyes at the notion of the government enforcing anything. They could ban pregnancy all they wanted and refuse medical care to those giving birth, but the women of Earth were resilient. They would give birth at home or in an alleyway if need be. The desire to reproduce was just too great and, as a result, their children starved to death in the streets and fought to the death over a job.

  Shaking his head, Wic began to scan the crowds, looking for a blonde head among the masses. He wandered for a while, hoping dumb luck would lead him to the girl. He didn’t have much else to go off of.

  Finally, he spotted two police officers standing at the edge of the crowd, looking bored. Wic waved at them as he weaved through the masses.

  “Sir, I hear a runaway Indentured Servant was spotted around here.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  Wic gave them his best smile. “I’m a private investigator. I was hired to find her.”

  The two officers glared at him. “And you expect us to share information with a P.I.?”

  Sighing, Wic pulled out another gold bill out and presented it to the men. This little punk was costing him a “pretty penny” as the old saying went. Momentarily, Wic wondered what a penny was, exactly. Either way, he was beginning to wonder why he was still chasing after her.

  The silent officer snatched the bill out of his hand.

  “We lost her in that construction site over there,” their spokesman said.

  Wic nodded, gave them a sloppy salute, and headed toward the construction site. He wandered through the first floor, seeing nothing but a half-finished building. On the second floor, he found a tool case overturned, with half its contents spread across the floor. In the midst of the scattered tools, he spotted a small blood stain. It made a slightly swooshed shape, as though whatever was bleeding had been dragged for a few inches.

  A few feet away, he spotted another small splotch of blood and found a third near the edge of the building. Spread across the I-beam, he found a bloody hand print. Wic looked down at the ground—finally free of standing water except for in the deep potholes. It was a long drop, especially for an injured woman. Wic wondered what shape she would be in when he found her.

  He left the construction site, stopping at the base of the stained I-beam. There were no signs of footprints left. No doubt she had left the building when the waters were still high. Wic wandered around the corner onto a different street, prepared to go back to dumb luck as his strategy.

  As he wa
lked, he glanced into a large net café. He stumbled to a stop as he spotted the blonde woman sitting at a connection, happy as you please. Wic scurried to the edge of the large window as he examined her. Though her trousers were bloodstained, and he spotted a bandage on her leg through a tear, she looked to be in one piece.

  Wic leaned against the edge of the window trying to see what was on her screen. Finally, it came into focus. The screen read in big, red letters: I see you, Wic.

  He burst out laughing, wiping tears from his eyes. When he looked up again, she was gone.

  “Dammit!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bit leaned up against the wall of the back corridor and peeked back into the net café. She had been working to track where the frequency of Douglas’ transmission had come from—something she should have done on the ship—when Wic appeared outside the large window of the café. Out of the corner of her eye, she had spotted him walking past and the moment when he recognized her.

  She had waited for the right moment when Wic had seen her snarky message and was busy laughing. In that moment, she dropped to the ground and slipped around the row of outdated computers. The various customers were too busy with their screens to notice her army crawling behind their chairs.

  In the back corridor, Bit took a deep breath and peeked around the corner. Wic was nowhere to be seen. She grimaced. She had hoped he would come through the café, thereby revealing his location. Now, she had no idea where he might be lurking.

  Bit continued down the corridor. It was lined with a few doors, presumably leading into other shops on the first floor. She picked a door at random and slipped in. Hesitating, Bit eyed the rows upon rows of clothing stuffed into the small room. Without all the clothing, it would have been the size of a bedroom, but crowded with all the clothing, it felt to be the size of a small cabinet. Bit squeezed between the clothing, their metal hangers jabbing her in the neck and hips as she fought her way through. Beyond the clothing, Bit found another doorway leading into an open room lined with tables and sewing machines of varying ages.

  A plump black woman sat in an old rocking chair, stitching away at something. “Who the hell are you? And where’d you come from.”

  Bit jabbed at the backroom with her thumb. “Through the hallway.”

  “This is a private business, not a short cut, missy.”

  “Sorry, I…” Bit glanced back over her shoulder.

  “You getting away from someone?”

  Bit hesitated a moment. She didn’t think the woman would be very helpful unless she had a good reason for running.

  Bit grimaced. “An ex-boyfriend.”

  The woman pursed her lips. “Mmhmmm. You kids are always pickin’ the bad ones. Okay. Go in that room there.” She nodded toward the only other door. “And don’t touch nothin’. You can stay for a bit.”

  Bit heaved a sigh of relief and scurried into the room. It was a bedroom, with a twin bed—the mattress sporting a deep dip in the middle—and a wardrobe. Bit sat against the door, drawing her knife from her boot. If Wic pushed in, she was ready to end it. She didn’t want to take a life. Bit focused on the child, on the life she would be saving by taking Wic’s.

  A few minutes later, Bit heard a door open and Wic’s voice curse through the thin walls.

  “Who the hell are you and where’d you come from?” demanded the seamstress.

  “You seen a girl? White dreadlocks?” Wic demanded, ignoring her question.

  “Boy, do I look like I’ve been gallivanting off with some girl? I work for a living, unlike your generation. Now either make an order or get the hell out of my shop.”

  Bit could practically feel the heat of the seamstress’ glare through the door. A smile pulled at her lips. She wouldn’t need her knife today. That woman had no intentions of letting Wic through.

  “I need that girl. If you’ve seen her, you gotta tell me.”

  “I ain’t telling you shit unless it’s about the inseam of those trousers.”

  Bit fought against a giggle—more from exhaustion than any humor in the woman’s statement. She was getting to the point where everything was funny. Not a good sign, she told herself as she listened to heavy steps thumping across the main room. A second later, Bit heard the front door open and slam shut.

  “Stay put,” she heard the seamstress whisper.

  It felt like an eternity, but the woman finally spoke again. “Okay, it’s clear.”

  Bit tucked her knife back into her boot and covered it with the leg of her trousers. She doubted the seamstress would believe her “boyfriend” story if she came out armed. Bit slipped out and gave the other woman a big smile.

  “Thank you so much.”

  The woman grunted as she touched her colorful turban. “You look like he givin’ you a hard time of it.”

  Bit shrugged and winced. “Yeah, but he won’t lay another finger on me. I can promise you that.”

  She grunted again. “You can plan until you’re blue in the face, girl, it don’t mean it gonna happen.”

  “True. Thank you again for your help.”

  The seamstress picked up her work, not saying another word. Bit smiled to herself—liking the large, blunt woman more with each passing moment. She turned and cracked the door open, peeking up and down the crowded street. Even in the nicer neighborhoods, the streets were packed.

  She didn’t see any signs of Wic and ducked out of the seamstress’ shop and into the crowd. Bit tried to fight the flow of traffic, but the more she struggled, the more of a racket those around her made, drawing the attention of others in the crowd. If Wic heard it, he would come towards the noise.

  Bit turned back and joined the flow of traffic. She walked for a time before she noticed the traffic parting, like water working its way around a stone. Bit’s suspicions flared as she followed the flow. She began working her way to the far side of the street, but the other pedestrians kept her pace slow. She had made it halfway between whatever redirected the flow of traffic and the shops on the far side when she passed the obstruction.

  Just as she had expected, it was Wic. He stood with his feet apart and an arm outstretched, forcing people to go on either side of him while he scanned the crowd. Without giving herself to second guess her actions, Bit carefully pulled a handkerchief poking out from her neighbor’s back pocket. She slowed her steps, allowing others to fill the gap between her and her mark. She unfolded the large swath of fabric, glad to find it hadn’t been used yet, and tied it over her hair.

  “You really need to cut your hair,” she mumbled to herself as she moved forward again.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Wic’s eyes pass over her. He turned back to look in the other direction, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Bit kept her eyes trained forward until she reached the next intersection. She glanced over her shoulders and her heart skittered in her chest. Wic had stopped his efforts and was now walking with the traffic.

  Bit had intended to turn left, but with Wic to her left, she veered right instead. She walked on, positive Wic was still behind her. When she finally risked another glance over the masses behind her, she spotted Wic, still walking to the left of her. Once again, she turned right, hoping he wouldn’t follow her.

  He did, but when she looked for him again, he had shifted to her right side.

  He’s herding me, she belatedly realized.

  Bit kept on, going straight even when Wic began to press in on her through the crowd. Though she tried to keep a few people between them, she refused to turn again until she thought up a plan.

  Overhead, she spotted a sign, announcing her entrance into Alexandra—the suburb she had lived in when Calen found her.

  Bit felt a smile pull on her lips. Wic couldn’t know the area as well as she did. He lived in northern Soweto, miles away. Bit considered her internal map, trying to think of an escape plan, but her mind refused to cooperate. Suddenly her feet were turning on their own. As she headed down the next street, her surroundings started to jar memor
ies loose.

  Slowly, she remembered hiding from a mark after stealing his purse—based on orders from her owner. Bit frowned, trying to remember which owner had used her as a pickpocket. The years blurred and she gave up. She did, though, remember where the conduit started and, more importantly, where it ended.

  Bit walked down a secondary street, slowly approaching toward the southern edge of the street. Though Wic was still tailing her, she now had a plan to lose him.

  At the center of the block, Bit stopped, letting the other pedestrian’s flow past her. As she stopped, she dropped to her knees and pried open the old iron manhole. Bit didn’t hesitate, though she knew the risk she was taking. She dropped into the hole, landing on rusted conduit.

  As she pulled the cover back in place, she breathed a sigh of relief. The tunnel had been filled with unused electrical conduit the entire time she lived in Johannesburg, but she knew it was always possible for the city to replace the ancient, rusting wires with something new—something flowing with electricity.

  Bit dropped to her knees, still not electrocuted. She peeked down the long spans of cement tunneling. From where she hunched with nothing but the light through the finger holes in the cover to see by, Bit couldn’t tell if the tunnel had caved in over the years, or if she could even fit. Thankfully, she was still pretty small for her age, and Vance’s good cooking hadn’t rounded her out that much.

  She shimmied onto her stomach, grabbed the dead bundle of wires, and dragged herself into the rancid darkness. She repeated the action, hand over hand. Curses rose to lips as broken conduit chafed through her shirt and onto her stomach, but she bit her lip to keep from voicing her pain. The conduit was not deep, and she feared being heard by those above. She was probably being overly cautious, but she wasn’t about to get caught by Wic because she’d cursed.

  Bit continued down the piping, her panic building the longer it took. She didn’t remember the journey being this long as a child, but then again, she had been able to crawl on her hands and knees then. It wasn’t so spacious now.