The Backworlds

by M. Pax

  “I’ll never be so fooled again.” He pounded his fist on the bar. The ganya tree quivered with Craze’s latest assault, letting out an eerie whistle, protesting its continued mistreatment.

  “Sorry.” Craze rubbed over the spot he had smacked, smoothing over the insult. “None of this was your doin’. Was it mine?”

  He raked over recent events and his behavior toward his father and Yerness. The only thing he’d been guilty of was trying to please them. His father had wanted more patrons coming in from other worlds, so Craze had spent time down at the docks selling servings of malt, sending the eager to the tavern when they clamored for more. Yerness had wanted a new dress, so Craze had saved his chips and bought it for her.

  She should have said no. His father should have said thanks and shouldn’t have been so chintzy with the chips, behaving as if the business hung on dire threads. Obviously it didn’t if the council had raised his pa’s status. Craze couldn’t understand why Bast and the elders couldn’t think of another way to get him off Siegna. A leecher? He was hardly that. His efforts in tending the family business had been double Bast’s. Neither the measly startup fund, nor his lowered standing were fair rewards.

  “Shit.”

  A scratch at the window made him start. Three councilmen glowered, their noses and prodders pressed on the damp glass. Their lips mouthed, “Leecher.” The clubs sparked like fury, ready to chase Craze off as a village pariah. Worse than being torn to pieces, the humiliation of it burned, killing his dignity. If all Verkinns lost esteem for him, Craze might as well be dead.

  “Shit ‘n fifty times over.”

  He stood up and went over to the sad little canvas pack in the corner. Inside were a couple of shirts, the coveralls, and a photo of his family—Ma and Bast and his two sisters. He left the photo on the floor, letting his clothes fall on top of it as he stripped. His shirt and pants were rank and worn from a day’s labor that had procured him no benefit other than lost love, lost family, a lost home, and the vilest label a Verkinn could acquire.

  “That I didn’t earn,” Craze said.

  He shook the pangs of injustice from his bared shoulders knotted from years of hefting kegs and sacks. The grievances wouldn’t go. They fed on each other until a heat built, intense and scorching. He glared at the council outside. “I ain’t no leecher.”

  Taking a fresh white shirt from the pack, he buttoned it up and put on the special coveralls made from a thick tan material. The new garments rubbed stiff against his skin, threatening to chafe. If not for the other bothers poking at his peace, he’d curse about it until his father apologized, which wouldn’t happen. Bast never apologized.

  The skimpy bag contained mostly belongings that didn’t offer Craze much help at survival. Verkinn law stated his father could claim whatever Craze had earned while under his employ whether branded a leecher or not. Seemed Bast had done so and, judging from the sour-acting council, Craze couldn’t count on help from anyone in the village, who were the only people outside his family he knew well enough to ask. To start a new life, he needed more then the meager few things in the travel pack.

  He surveyed the tavern and the only home he’d ever known. Slipping behind the bar, he fingered the bottles and the curves of the ganya tree. Liquor held as much value as chips, so he put a few bottles in the canvas bag, and found some suspenders depicting a higher Verkinn rank. The council must have bestowed them to his pa.

  The insignia of status could help from time to time, if anyone knew anything about Verkinns and cared. Craze cared. He put on the pair of red suspenders and threw the two others in his pack.

  Rifling through a cupboard under the bar, he found a jar of ganya seeds. He took them, authorizing his rise into adulthood himself. No matter what the council and Bast said, he was owed this token of status. At twenty, he was past the time for it. His pa was right, it was time for Craze to make his way. He also grabbed some towels, tape, a spool of super-strong filament, and a lantern.

  From another cabinet behind the bar, he scooped ricklits out of their cage into a smaller takeout carton. They were much tastier than the dried fish flakes from Elstwhere, or the processed grass curdles from Elstwhere’s other inhabited moon. The bugs’ iridescent yellow and blue bodies cheered Craze. Their chirping did, too. Rickl’ttt. Rickl’ttt. At least he’d eat well for a few days.

  He still felt unprepared and intended to rummage about some more, but the council outside had lost patience. They bared their teeth against the window and smacked their electrified clubs against the sill. The chant of, “Leecher,” rose in volume. Soon the whole village would hear and Craze would lose his dignity along with everything else. If that happened, there’d be no chance of coming back to Siegna ever, as no Verkinn would want anything to do with him. Once a leecher, always a leecher. He had to go.

  Craze hoisted the sack over his shoulder and opened the door. The wet evening rushed in, slapping him full in the face with the feel and smell of Siegna, damp and mossy, earthy and mineral-sweet. He paused to savor a silent farewell with the tree and his home, until the council waved their weapons and advanced toward him.

  Sparks arced from puddle to puddle, flashing over Craze’s shoulder. He smelled the char.

  “Leecher! Leecher!” Their voices shook the ganya limbs, surging up to the tree tops.

  Shit.

  Having no other choice, he set out toward the edge of the village. Hissing clubs and growling voices on his heels, he hurried past houses and shops constructed from ganya trees and lanterns glowing warmly in the windows. He stepped over tree limbs and through them, pushing vines out of his way. Youngsters swung on ganya strands above, chasing each other with shrieks of laughter. It was what Craze would be doing if he weren’t being run off.

  The sway of the canopy roared softly in the breeze and summoned unbidden memories of Yerness in his arms so vivid he could taste her kiss. Hidden in a leafy nook, they’d basked in passion and lust, noses bumping, hands exploring, lost in the humid night panting and moaning, indulging in the feel of one another. She couldn’t have meant any of it, and it kicked at him until all his thoughts filled with her torment.

  The bite of fire rocketed up his spine. He spun about. A prodder had touched his ass and took aim again. Craze yelped. His pace must have slowed as he reminisced over the sweet moments of his now-tragic love. The pain of the electric shock swept Yerness from his mind and heart. He lurched, running, sprinting, racing until he left the village and entered the swamps.

  “Damn bitches of Bast,” he cursed the council between huffs. “Someday you’ll all be sorry.” He shook his fist and made several obscene gestures at the elders.

  The thick bogs burped and splashed, covering Siegna’s earth under millennia of muck. The coziness of the forest ended. The trees became fewer, spreading out with vast distances between them, giving way to grasses and sludge. Fish buzzed and gnawers swarmed without mercy while Croakmen harmonized with wild ricklits. The ricklit song spurred an interval of self-pity.

  “No tellin’ where I’ll end up,” Craze said. “Perhaps on a world without ricklits or anythin’ much.” The idea frightened him and he considered hiding out in the swamps. Who would know?

  “Leecher,” bellowed over the croaks and burps and buzzes. Brilliant fingers of electricity lit up the swamp. The council wouldn’t let him hide.

  Craze picked up the pace, following the trails through the wetlands. The elders persisted, wading through the muck, drawing nearer. Their electrified clubs whistled, sending out shocks in crackling arcs. Squishy things covered in hundreds of wiggly legs leapt screaming out of the bogs, their tentacles reaching to pass on their agony. Shit. Sting beasts.

  Chapter 3

  Craze pulled three sting beasts off his back and swatted away four more. He rushed on toward the city and the docks.

  At the outskirts of the urban limits of Siegna Landing, Craze slowed to a walking pace. He slipped between crowds of Backworlders and ground transports. The vehicle treads chewe
d up the earth and left soiled plumes in their wakes. Folks of a variety of Backworld races bustled down the noisy avenues, engineered canyons lined with businesses and homes.

  Verkinns unaware of Craze’s twist in circumstances waved cheerily. That warmed his heart some, until he detected councilmen in cloaks at every other corner brandishing prodders under the drape of their garments. They weren’t shy about exposing the weapon tips to Craze’s notice when he passed by.

  Hunted. He didn’t like it, needing no other urging than being made to feel like an abomination to move toward the docks. Hurrying along, he vowed to travel far away, far enough to forget this day. He hoped.

  He trotted onward, heading toward the center of the city. The darkening skies were blocked out by lights blaring into the evening like a billion little suns. Gleaming beacons stretched on as far as Craze could see, highlighting facades great and humble. Buildings forged from alloy and reinforced ceramics spiraled taller than the ganya trees grew. The buildings clustered nearest the docks towered the highest. The shipping berths rose higher still, piercing the sky, spreading out in welcome, lanterns calling in invitation to join the stars. The docking facility ascended like a teardrop, mushrooming out into a flattened sphere at the top where the spacecraft from Elstwhere landed and took off. Capsules rode up and down the sides of the facility as people came in and departed.

  Craze stared at the elevators, his knees shivering. Once he entered the docks, there’d be no going back. He might never see Siegna, Yerness, or a ganya tree again. He wondered if his mother and sisters would wail. He hadn’t been allowed to say good-bye. What would his father tell them? Craze hoped not that he’d been run off as a leecher or worse. Worse brought to mind several horrid races that dwelled out in the Backworlds, awful and despised. Craze didn’t want to run into any of those, but he had no idea how to avoid them.

  He’d never feel safe again. He knew that. His heart thudded and he glanced back toward the forest appearing so small from here. In the vast arm of the known galactic worlds, it was tinier than a speck. Specks were easily overlooked, and Craze was smaller than that. The village would lose its memory of him sooner than he’d forget them. The realization made him stumble.

  People knocked into him on the street, rushing to unknowable destinations. He took pains to study the travelers, who were easily picked out from the others by their demeanor and dress. Wayfarers wore clothes many seasons out of fashion, appearing to belong nowhere and not claiming to be from anywhere. Yet their eyes shone bright as they ogled everything around them. Would he become like them? He couldn’t imagine embracing other Backworlds with wonder. With him it’d be resentment, because the place wouldn’t be Siegna.

  He glanced down to compare his dress to the wayfarers. The shirt and coveralls seemed generic enough. His feet were wrong, however. Muck dried on his bare toes. Every traveler he could see wore boots. “I can’t go around the Backworlds like a Verkinn hick.”

  He took a detour among the shops of the trade district. Yellow and orange awnings set aglow by strings of lights snapped in the humid breeze. The aroma of roasting ricklits and the various spices used to flavor them filled the air. His stomach growled.

  A display showing off the finest pair of boots he ever saw caught his attention. He stopped to finger the thickly woven fibers rubbed and oiled to gleaming. Their inky surfaces reflected the street and Craze’s wide eyes. He stared at himself, seeing a face that matched his insides, harried and lost.

  “Let it go,” he whispered. “Get on with preparin’. Transport leaves soon.”

  He peered past his mirrored self to examine the goods more closely, searching for the price. He sucked in a breath. “You got rubies woven into these things?” he asked the shopkeeper.

  The Croakman belted out a few bass notes, clearing his throat. He stood soft and wide, his jowls wiggling with his every twitch. “My sisters weave the finest boot cloth on all the Backworlds. You’ll find no better. Not on Elstwhere. Not on anywhere. And they’ll cost you more out there, too. Best bargain there is. Right there in your hands.”

  The merchant’s jeweled fingers tapped on Craze’s red suspenders, on the insignia showing his father’s new rank. The Croakman’s eyebrows rose and he sidled closer to Craze. “Those look brand new. A rise in rank means a rise in fortunes.”

  Not in Craze’s case, but he didn’t correct the Croakman. Craze’s fortunes had been yanked out from under him, and he couldn’t figure out how Bast could be so cold to his only son. However, any Verkinn would squawk about a rise in rank. Craze had to figure out a way to explain his odd behavior, and quickly. “You scammin’ me?”

  “No, my good Sir. Certainly not. Merely business. On such an auspicious occasion as this, I’ll take twenty percent off. If we can come to an agreement?”

  Twenty percent off was still a lot of chips, chips Craze needed to buy a new life. Taverns cost plenty. He probably didn’t have enough to buy one. Positions in good bars weren’t cheap either, but that was probably his best option. To get such a situation, he needed the boots.

  “What kind of agreement, Croaker?”

  “You see I sell other goods.” The merchant waved his hand around at the shelves in his shop: neatly stacked bolts of cloth, trinkets crammed on tables and shelves, scarves fluttering on pegs from floor to ceiling, travel bags mounded into beckoning pyramids, luxurious clothing hung precisely on racks, and bling sparkling under glass. Things for folks with money. More money than Craze had.

  “All very, very fine,” the Croakman said.

  A cloaked Verkinn councilman slinked by the shop window, pausing to leer at Craze, fogging up the pane, and pissing Craze off. Craze wasn’t a sludge, wasn’t a leech. He’d show them and Bast. He’d show them just like Bast had taught him, taking advantage where he could.

  Craze tugged on his suspenders, raising his chin. “Yes, I see.”

  “Well, my Verkinn Sir, you buy from me for the next year ‘n that twenty percent off is yours.”

  Craze turned the boots, examining them from all angles. They weren’t glued together. Every stitch wove in and out the same as the next. With such exceptional workmanship, he’d never need another pair. He calculated the price versus the funds he’d been given to start over on another world. “Make it thirty-five percent off, ‘n I agree.”

  “Twenty-five.”

  More Verkinn councilmen gathered outside the window, peeling back their cloaks to shake their prodders at Craze. They mouthed, “Leecher.”

  Craze bristled, silently cursing, “Assholes.”

  It was time to take advantage of the swiped suspenders and take on the part the council should have granted him when raising his pa in status. “Thirty-three. I’m about to gain another wife.” He didn’t feel the least bit bad.

  “Thirty-three it is then, Sir.”

  An elder with a prodder stepped into the shop. Two more joined him. The electrified clubs thumped against their palms in a steady rhythm.

  Craze showed them his back and shook the Croakman’s hand. He gave over the tavern’s payment codes to the merchant for the agreement presented on the tab—a slim rectangular card—binding his father to the terms.

  He grinned. Revenge did go down the gullet like fine malt. His thirst for it grew. He imagined becoming hugely successful on another world, the ultimate vengeance. A dram he vowed to sip at, betting it would be more quenching than this small nip.

  Craze sat down and slid the boots on, lacing up the black chords strung through the thick black material that flexed like soft kid leather. He stood, admiring them in the mirrors around the shop. “They look good. Feel good, too.”

  The Croakman preened. “They look very fetching on you, Sir. A superb bit of business. What else you in need of?”

  Craze could use a coat. He moved toward the racks. “Some outer—”

  The councilmen grabbed him, shoving him out of the shop and into the streets. “Leecher, leecher.”

  Heat rose into Craze’s face. He gulped. Disg
raced enough for one day and not needing to be shamed in front of the whole of Siegna, he pulled away.

  “I’m no criminal.” He spat, jogging toward the docks. He would go on his own terms with his head held high, not be chased out. “I’m not Backworlder dregs.”

  He ran smack into two other councilmen with prodders. They pressed the weapons against Craze’s sides. He screeched, his knees buckling. Sizzles jumped from nerve to nerve, making his skin burn. His head lolled and he lost his balance.

  The elders took hold under Craze’s arms, dragging him toward the docks, screaming out his shame. “Leecher. Leecher.”

  Folks stared as Craze was hauled down the avenue. The Verkinns hadn’t ousted a leecher in two years. The spectacle had always attracted crowds of onlookers. This time proved no different. The day’s humiliations piled up. Craze wanted to disappear, wished he were no longer a Verkinn.

  “You don’t want to miss your transport, Son,” a councilman said.

  No, he didn’t.

  Chapter 4

  Dock workers strapped Craze into his seat as if he were some addled war veteran who never fully came home. Struggling to push them off and do for himself, he could only drool and grunt. He groaned loudly when an aviarman with spiky blue hair stepped on his foot.

  “Sorry, mate,” the aviarman said. His long sharp face came nose-to-nose with Craze’s. He spoke to the other aviarman, one with red cresting his head. “I think we want different seats, Lepsi. There’s something wrong with this guy.” Movements jerky and darting, he tapped Craze’s shoulder.

  Craze’s head lolled stupidly and he moaned.

  “What’s wrong with you?” the blue aviarman asked.

  The aviarmen put their heads together, chittering excitedly. Their height was impressive, jagged and gangly. Jolting and stuttering, they stood close together, their sharp snouts almost touching. Their mouths cut deeply into their faces, rigid dark gaps rapidly opening and closing, voices rising. The sleeves of their overcoats flapped, reminiscent of wings as their arms emphasized words with passion.