Seven Threads

by Jason Fischer

  “Never muffed a fetch, not gonna start to,” he panted, rolling on. It was the best time he’d ever made, scraping his arms on brick when he took those tight turns too fast, knocking over bins and such, and he rolled into his drop-off, right on the knocker.

  He was panting like a racehorse, covered in scratches and sweat, knowing that the pol would be watching for him all day. He stepped into that office, locking his wheels and clumping awkwardly across the carpet floor, jerking the plans out of his pack. Tossed them onto the counter and made as to leave.

  The young lass behind the desk cleared her throat. Whip thought she might be about to tell him off for leaving wheel marks on the carpet, or to accuse him of being late with the drop.

  “Come here, skeg,” she ordered him, a sneaky little smile on her dial. He was a handsome lad and got his fair share of attention, figured her as another fool girl love-mad for skegs. She was Vietnamese, a pretty girl dressed plain, with a laddish bob-cut and wary eyes.

  “You’re a fair lass,” Whip said, leaning on her counter and giving her the once-over. “But you’ve no wheels, and I’ll only break your heart.”

  “You forgot your docket,” she said, stamping it “DELIVERED” and sliding it across the counter. “Well, don’t let me keep you.”

  #

  Early next morning, Whip left his mob, went off on his own business. He went to the munici offices, lurked around by the fruit sellers and water-haulers, waiting for the morning rush. The horse-trolleys and bicycles began to arrive from the burba, spilling walkin-folk into the metro for another day of coin chasing.

  He saw her, the girl from yesterday. She stepped from the back of a horse-lugged bus, looking a little bit lost in all the chaos. She couldn’t spot a street-sweep and made to cross the street anyway, pulling up the hem of her dress, eyeing the growing sea of horse dung with disgust.

  Whip saw his chance, and in a flash he cut across the traffic, sweeping the lass into his arms and depositing her safely on the far side of the street. It was all over in a moment and she barely had time to blink.

  “Get lost, skeg,” she growled, glaring up at him from somewhere near his navel. He stood there on the sidewalk, motivators quietly humming as he watched her walk into the building.

  He was out the front of her office the next morning, and swept a path across the street for her, him who’d never lifted a broom in his life. He fixed to deliver all the fetch to that building, and would only do those runs, smiling at her as she drove her “DELIVERED” stamp into the dockets with great force.

  Day after day he bothered that poor girl, and weathered her scorn, noting that she still did not send for the pol. He learnt that her name was Anh. One day, she gave him the dried leftovers of her bánh mì and a hello. Some weeks later they were standing at her front doorstep and she still hadn’t told him to nick off.

  “Well, goodnight I guess,” Anh said with some surprise, and shut the door in his face. But she didn’t slam it, and Whip counted this as progress.

  “Will you bring me a sandwich tomorrow?” he shouted through the keyhole.

  “Maybe,” came her muffled reply.

  #

  They began a deliciously slow courtship, and it was the same old story, told with different parts. Once it was skin or religion, but the modern scandal was a modified daring to step out with a “classic” human. The mixed couple of the day, greeted with finger-waggling and disgusted whispers in the salons.

  He brought Anh to meet his mob, the most important thing in his life meeting the previous most important thing. Some of the lads were a little bit sore, and while no-one gave her grief, you could see their disgust. The great Whip, brought low by some piece of walkin-folk fluff.

  “This is ridiculous,” Rabbit whispered to Whip. They were rolling slow through a quiet part of the burba, letting Anh keep up with them. She was in one of those feet-strapping rigs, legs all awobble and many a time upended on her arse. The skeg only laughed the once, until Whip unpacked his fists and got a beating out.

  Some folks take to wheels, some never get the knack, but Whip knew she’d never fall in love with her wheels. She’d never get the chop, not even for him.

  #

  They were meandering, following the canals. It was a Sunday, and with the barge-masters in church and the usual tangle of horses a-stabled he could get a good run along the banksides, the slow rhythm of the metro streets stilled during God’s hour. Anh didn’t care much for church and skeg never went, nor were expected to.

  Anh clutched to Whip’s back as they drifted down the street, her legs wrapped around his waist. She’d given up the feet-rig as a bruise-maker and a bad idea.

  “I love you Anh,” he blurted out, fooled by the romance of the setting. He couldn’t see her face, but felt her arms tighten around him. He instantly regretted saying it, but went on. “I can’t hold it in any longer, I love you and I want to be with you.”

  “Whip,” she said. “Whip, you’re a good boy. But it won’t work. We should end this.”

  He slowed, let the wheels spin, the gears work down, and then finally he rolled to a stop. He felt her arms relax, and she slid off his back.

  “So that’s it then,” he said, not asking. “We’re different, so you just give up. I’m not a thug on wheels, you know that.”

  “No, Whip. It’s not about that.” But her voice gave, and they both heard the lie.

  “It is. I don’t care that you’re walkin-folk, that the lads give me a ribbing over you. I don’t see feet, I only see you.”

  “I won’t go through with it,” Anh said suddenly. “I won’t—my feet—”

  “I don’t want you to get a rig,” Whip said. “You don’t belong in that world.”

  “But that’s it!” she said. “You don’t belong in mine! Do you think I want to show my skeg boyfriend to my neighbours, people from work? I’ll probably get fired.”

  “For seeing a skeg?” he snorted. “Right.”

  “It happens. They sacked some girl in accounts, she wore his gangdanna as if it didn’t matter. She had her hand in the till, supporting his mob.”

  “Who cares what people think? We can make it work.”

  “We can’t! You—you’re not normal,” Anh cried.

  She ran, and he let her go. He’d run out of words anyway. Whip rolled alone for a long while, just looking at the filthy muck floating along the canal.

  He rolled here and there, gave his rig an absolute flogging. It began to sink in that this was a goodbye of sorts. He’d never move this fast again.

  Whip was going to need a lot of money.

  #

  Next day Whip pulled Rabbit aside, asked if he would go as his second. Death-run, high stakes.

  “No Whip, oh no,” he said. “Whatever trouble you’re in, it can’t be that bad. Let your mob help you out, we’re your brothers. Don’t do this.”

  “I want you as my second. I’ll go alone if I have to.”

  Loyalty was its own currency in skeg circles, and so they rolled. This death-run was being held in a warehouse, spotters on the roof to watch for polizei. Whip’s mob didn’t usually hold much truck with this, figuring it was a sport for washed-up skegs in need of fast cash.

  All for the rich folk in need of excitement, those willing to pay skegs to strap on blades and have at one another. An underclass of an underclass, these warrior skeg were often seen on the roll, all hacked up with scars and that mad gleam in their eyes.

  “She’s not worth it,” Rabbit said. They were sized up for blades, great sharp cutters strapped to their forearms. They had a handle in the middle, like the hated baton of the pol. Whip and Rabbit were to race around the pallets and barrels and other junk they’d arranged into an obstacle course. Another pair of skeg would come for them, legs pumping and sharp blades swinging.

  “We should roll on,” Rabbit said. “Who cares what these mongrels think?”

  “Well, we’re here now,” Whip said.

  “I’m so scared I’m
about to piss my cullottes.”

  Whip ran his blades against each other, the sharp edges going snikt! “Look at yonder skegs. We can take them.”

  They’d been matched up against a pair of menacing shapes, just beyond the circle of flickering torches. The odds slated onto the bookies” chalkboards put them at very long odds to even come out alive. Their opponents were sparring against each other, blades flashing and clanging.

  “Please Whip,” Rabbit begged. “We don’t need to do this. They’re gonna kill us.”

  “I need the money!” Whip snarled.

  “Why? You don’t need lodgings, and your rig looks fine to me. All you need is food and go-powder, and we can spot you if you’re short.”

  “I need an operation,” Whip said, and would say no more.

  Someone blew a whistle, and they were herded into the makeshift arena, prepped for the death-run. The crowd were right up to the torch-line, howling and waving their betting slips in the air.

  “Money’s no good if you’re dead,” Rabbit said.

  “Go then, you pink puss. I’ll do this without you.” Not unknown for a seconder to pass on a death-run, but solo fights were fine. He’d go toe-to-toe with their chief cutter for half the purse.

  “She’s not worth dying for,” Rabbit said, and threw his blades down against the cement floor. The mob booed and laughed and threw their empties at the lone skeg.

  “I need you now Whip, brother’s got to watch a brother’s back,” Rabbit yelled, a half-empty bottle nearly hitting him in the head.

  After a moment of indecision, Whip closed his eyes with a grimace, pulling off his blades. The pair traded punches and abuse with the crowd the whole way to the door, and barely made it out of that place. A trio of skegs tried to jump them in a back-street over their voided wager, but Whip took a beating to them with a fury Rabbit had never seen.

  The next day, Whip vanished.

  #

  Rabbit had been as far as Anh’s front door once, and knew the way. She answered the door when he knocked, had it sitting on its chain.

  “Oh. What do you want?” she asked. Her face was lined with worry, eyes reddened from crying.

  “I’m worried about Whip. Have you seen my brother?” A moment’s pause, a heavy sigh. She unchained the door.

  “Come in,” she said. He locked his wheels, moving clumsily over her wooden floorboards, trying not to knock the knick-knacks and ornaments over.

  “Through here,” she said, ushering him into her living room. He could see Whip sitting down in an arm-chair, facing the window. The curtains were parted and he must have been looking out at the stars or the moon or something. A kerosene lamp flickered on the sideboard, giving a weak light to the room.

  Rabbit clambered awkwardly across the tatty old rug, and when he saw Whip he gasped. His rig was gone. Completely gone. They’d pulled the boxes and gadgets and gears out of him, separated the steel struts from his shin-bones. Where his legs had ended in stumps were a pair of feet, pale and held on with thick black stitches. His new feet were marble white, except for the ends of his toes, which were a worrisome dark colour.

  “The doctors grew these in a tube, took a bit of my hip bone. First time it’s ever been done,” Whip said, looking at Rabbit from the chair where he rested. Anh fetched him a thin blanket, which she put across his lap to hold off the winter chill. He looked weak, worn out. Rabbit stood there, towering over him in his rig, and Whip seemed less than a man, something broken and wasted.

  “Why did you do it?” Rabbit whispered.

  “We disgust them,” Whip said. “We fetch and scurry for those walkin-folk, and they admire us but there’s envy too. How a skeg can roll so very quick, while they must toddle down the road on their feet.”

  He waggled the pale flesh, as if making some sort of point. The lamp ticked and hissed, and Whip was quiet, contemplating the lumps of meat tacked onto his legs.

  “Did it work? Can you wriggle your toes?” Rabbit asked, and Whip bit his lip. Finally he shook his head no.

  “Spend all of my coin on the feet, but didn’t have enough to pay the bills. The doc did a rush job. Reckons they’re gangrenous now.” He sounded calm but something in his face spoke of panic and worry.

  Rabbit offered to pony up enough coin to get him back into a rig, knowing that he’d decline the offer. He wasn’t skeg now, could not accept charity from those he’d cut out of his life.

  “Well, goodbye then,” Rabbit said, and the last he saw of Whip was a broken figure hunched in a chair, keeping a silent vigil as his feet slowly killed him.

  #

  Some years later, Rabbit caught a bus, quietly nodding off, lulled by the hum of the hydrogen engine warbling underneath him. It still took some time to traverse the old metro, but it was market day, the streets choked with nags hauling ancient carts. Mostly a show for the tourists nowadays.

  A courier sped past on a sleek little scooter, its exhaust puffing water vapour, and climbed up onto the footpath when the horses proved too slow.

  He did not see any skeg rolling today.

  “Nostalgia is a thing of the past,” he told the nun seated opposite, who did not even look up from her romance novel. Snorting, he waved his hand above, fumbling for the stop-cord, and reaching for his cane he stood.

  Rabbit left the lonely bus-stop and walked into the cemetery, limping and leaning heavily on the stick, but walking. The stone he was looking for was modest, with a tiny plaque. With some difficulty he knelt before Whip’s resting place, his new feet throbbing.

  “Roll on, my brother,” he said, and finally laid his gangdanna down.

  Defy The Grey Kings

  There are many ways to kill an elephant. When that mountain bears down on you, shaking the earth and screaming for your blood, show no fear.

  Only without fear will you see the truth. They are quick, even draped in chain and iron, but you are quicker by a whisker. They fight like devils, but it only takes three people who know what they are doing to bring an elephant down.

  They are afraid of you.

  All elephants can die.

  #

  I bring you two things today. Iron, sharp and true, and a story. If you don’t gain the truth of things from this, you would best drive these blades into your own hearts.

  I have slain many enemies, both grey and pale. I’ve learnt things in that awful quiet, the moments of pain and sorrow after the fury, where men like me pass over the dead and dying. The road that brought me here is slick with blood, and if you do not listen to me carefully, your own deadly road will wash you away.

  #

  I was born a slave, like all of you. My master was a hoary old bull known as Ascaro, one of the Bull-King’s champions. Twenty feet high at the shoulders, and even past his prime he was a quick devil, though old muscles were turning into fat.

  Where other elephants cover themselves in tattoos and silk and let the scriveners carve boasts upon their tusks, Ascaro only ever wore his scars. The end of his right tusk was shattered from an enemy axe, and a lucky blow had taken his left eye long before I ever drew breath.

  I spent many hours scouring his hide with brushes and bronze scrapers, and I knew that grey map of his battles well. He drank melon wine during his mud baths, and when his one eye turned red and crazed, he played his favourite game with the house slaves. Without warning, his trunk would flick backwards, and those of us cleaning his back would have to dodge his drunken fumblings and try not to slip and fall. The first slave to fall into the mud bath was the one that he would kill that day. He would pin them down with his foot, exerting just enough pressure to hold them under the mud.

  I would stand on that heaving back with perfect balance, and not once did I cease my endless scrubbing, staring only at my broom as someone else drowned in the mud.

  His lieutenants and lackeys would cheer him on while he murdered a human being for no reason. Even the house poet would stop plucking the bouzouki with his trunk and join in the laughte
r. Just before the bubbles finally stopped, Ascaro would step down hard, crunching bones. He would pluck each corpse out of the mud, tossing it across his great hall. Each body fell with a meaty smack, arms and legs a muddy broken tangle. The elephants would roar and laugh at the sight, each of them screeching that horrible deep-throated rasp that every man loathes.

  I survived the bath game longer than any of the other slaves in the house of Ascaro, and only then did my master look upon me with value. He took the broom from my hands and gave me to a man named Mouse.

  “This one dances well,” Ascaro told Mouse. “Teach him to dance with a knife.”

  #

  Mouse was a hulk of a man, almost as scarred and grizzled as our master. He took me away from that miserable house, from all I’d ever known.

  He led me across the streets of Tusk, through the plazas and across the causeways. It is a city built to the scale of our masters, already old when the elephants learned script and set their histories down. I felt like an ant, just another attendant below the notice of our grey kings. Here the wealthy promenaded, draped in silk and gold-dust, and each elephant carried a dozen slaves armed with fly-switches and scratch-sticks.

  “You will be dead within a week,” was all that Mouse said to me during that long journey. “I will call you Ghost, just to save time.” It was as good a name as any I’d been called.

  We passed through the deep throat of a gate, dwarfed by the walls no siege engine could level. I saw a field of sawdust below, bordered by the city wall and the dark murk of the Indus River. Hundreds of slaves worked the field, scattering fresh sawdust like they were sowing seeds. Longhouses ran level with the edge of the field, mud brick daubed with red ochre. One of these was marked with the sigil of House Ascaro.

  “Welcome to Blood Meadow,” Mouse said.

  #

  The longhouse of Ascaro was rude but functional. In the gloom lay a hundred empty slave pallets, bare slabs of wood. A handful of people huddled around a firepit.

  “What is this you’ve brought us, Mouse?” one of them called out.