Behind us, a groan. Jag’s eyes opened.
“He live?” Swee sounded amazed.
“Yes. You both should see a doctor. Come on, let’s help him up.” Swee hesitated; I pulled his arm. He lurched after me. We helped Jag sit, and a moment later, assisted him to his feet.
“Maybe you know,” I said to Jag. “A boy ran out here two nights ago, and I’m looking for him.”
“Dunno.” Jag shuffled his feet, eyes fixed on the broken pavement. “Wanna go.”
Swee blurted, “Tellim boudit, maybe? Pookboy an’ joey-kit? Rememer, Uppie’s got our shivs!”
“Shivs? What are—”
Jag’s eyes widened in comprehension. “You afta an Uppiekit? Bigga ’n you, talk snot?”
That would be Jared. “Blond, about this high ...”
Swee exchanged a glance with Jag. “Can’ tellim ’bout lair. We promise Pook.”
Their jabber was driving me to distraction. “STOP THAT!” I bunched my fists.
“Okay, Uppie.” He edged toward the door.
“Where’s Jared?”
Swee mumbled, “Pook.”
“What’s a Pook?”
“Pookboy. Mid, was. Prolly wid old Changman, now. Gotchur Uppie Men’.”
“Pook is a Mid and has Jared?”
“Ya.”
Progress. My tension eased. “Where do I find him?”
They exchanged glances. “Nex’ block. Dunno where. Inna build, maybe. Dunno.”
“All right. Sorry I yelled.” I pulled out the second knife. “Can we call a truce, if I give these back?”
Swee blinked. “Whazzat?”
“Truce.” He didn’t seem to want the knife, so I laid it cautiously on the curb.
He darted toward it, hesitated. “Innifo?”
“No, I won’t give you any. If you don’t want the knife, I’ll keep it. Someone might get hurt.”
His face fell. “Swee don’ got none. Guess Uppie keep shiv.” He sighed.
These people were too much to understand. “Good-bye.” I started toward the far corner.
“Hey Uppie!” Swee.
I stopped. “What?”
“You gonna stay out inna nigh’?” He seemed awed.
“No, of course not. It’s too dangerous.” I went on my way.
Dusk was upon us. Unfortunately, I was too far from the Sheraton to be sure I’d make it back safely. But I’d planned for the eventuality. Jared could wait until morning.
From my skytel window I’d seen a number of abandoned electricars. Now, I spotted one, on a side street. Good.
I crouched in a doorway, waiting for the light to fade. When I judged it dark enough, I dashed to the car. Like most models, it was low-slung.
I hadn’t filled out yet, and was thin enough. I took off my jacket, slid underneath the car.
I lay on my back, my jacket a serviceable pillow. I munched on a candy bar, waiting for day.
Chapter 22
JARED
SAVE ME, LORD GOD. Please. I’m sorry. If you really exist—no, I didn’t mean that, honest. Help me.
Muddled bits of prayers flashed through my mind.
Behind my back, I twisted my hands in a desperate effort to free my swollen wrists. Pain lanced through my chest, making me dizzier.
The rope held.
I had to get loose before the savage trannie came back to kill me.
I tucked down my chin, trying to assess my damage. The blood had stopped oozing at last. Christ, it hurt.
Drops of sweat rolled down my temple. I licked my parched lips.
Why had he slashed me? It hurt so. Would he hear me, come punish me if I screamed again?
The only dim light was through the open trapdoor in the ceiling. Not much, but enough to show I was in a filthy elevator. If I could free my hands, I might be able to climb out the escape hatch, as he had.
On the other hand, my chest was cut to ribbons, and any acrobatics would reopen my wound.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Please, Lord God, have Dad shake me awake, tell me to get my butt out of bed for school.
I was scared.
Why had the trannie done it?
He’d looked like a civilized joey, at first. A year or so younger than me. Jumpsuit a bit dirty, but new. His hair cut not too long in back. Only when I got closer did I see the grime on his hands, smell his fetid breath.
I tugged furiously at the cord. What had I done to him? I’d only asked for directions. Was that reason to beat me, kick me in the head? To knife me?
Didn’t trannies have any decency?
Why had he taken my jacket, my shirt? Why had he left me overnight in a broken elevator, then slashed me and disappeared? Would he leave me to die of thirst and infection?
Why was I here?
I whimpered. My frantic activity had reopened a gouge, and fresh blood oozed. I curled in the corner, let myself cry.
A noise.
Oh, Christ. I huddled in the corner, staring at the ceiling.
A thud. Steps. A rescuer? I didn’t dare call out.
A face peered. The trannie was back.
He crouched over the hatch, stared down.
I hunched in the corner, very still.
He jumped down; the elevator shook on its cable. I drew my knees up closer to protect my mutilated chest.
“Gotcha fix.” The boy held out a dirty rag, a bottle.
I tore at my ropes, desperate. “Get away!”
“Naw. Fix.” Without warning he bent, yanked my ankles. On my back, I slid across the floor. He dropped lightly onto my waist, pinning me defenseless.
“Oh God, not again! Please!”
“Stop ya yell.” He opened the bottle, poured liquid onto the rag.
I struggled, without effect. “What are—don’t!”
He laid the sopping rag on my mangled chest. It blazed like the fires of hell. Screaming, I tried to heave off his weight.
Please, God, don’t let this be happening.
“Shut, Uppie!” With one hand he tried to cover my mouth. The other pressed the foul rag onto my smarting cuts.
“Oh, God, stop! Stop! I’ll do anything! Please!”
“Shut, Uppie! Ya worse’n joeykit!” He splashed from the bottle onto the cloth.
I howled; I couldn’t help it.
The trannie capped the bottle. “Shut, when Pook say!” He grabbed a handful of my hair, pulled my head up. With measured strokes he began to slap my face, each time harder. “Don’ yell or I whop ya! Shut!”
I squealed, kicked, wept. If only my hands weren’t lashed behind my back—
Desperate, I managed to stifle my cries. I squirmed under his cruel ministrations.
The streeter soaked my chest in dirty stinging liquid. I cringed every time he pawed me. God knew what diseases he carried.
Eventually, from exhaustion, I quieted.
He pulled away the rag with care. I peered to see what harm he’d done.
“Alcol,” he said. “Fix.”
“Huh?”
“Like upbringin’.” He grinned. “Ya Pooktribe, now.” He waved the bottle in my face. “Alcol.”
“Lord God. You poured alcohol into my cuts?” I rolled my eyes, trying to see below my chin.
“Fo’ fix.” He got to his feet. “An’ I brung ya drink.”
“Let me go. Please, I—”
A leap, a kick, and he was gone.
I hauled myself up to a sitting position, leaned wearily against the side of the car. Slowly, the sting in my chest subsided to a dull ache.
Scurrying feet. The boy landed a foot away, and my body flew off the floor in recoil. I cried out in pain.
“Water.” He held out a jug. “Wan’ drink?”
“Let me go!”
“Naw.” He squatted by my side. “I be ya capture. Gon’ keep ya ’til I trayfo.”
Gibberish.
He shoved the jug at my mouth. I twisted my face away. “Let me hold it.”
“Think Pook be stupe?” H
e grasped my hair, poured warm water over my mouth. I gagged.
“Drink!”
I had to remember he was a lunatic and had a knife. To humor him, I put my lips to the jug, swallowed rancid water. In a moment, ashamed, I greedily sought more, amazed at how I relished it.
The boy let me have my fill.
At last, satiated, I leaned back. “Thank you.” My voice was small.
He crouched. “I Pook. Watcha call, Uppie?”
I watched his hands, afraid he’d pull out the knife. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you want.” I inched away.
His fist lashed out, slammed into my temple. I shrieked with new agony. I tried to roll away, could not. “Please! Don’t!”
“Tell!” His fist reared again.
“Get your frazzin’ hands off me!” I aimed a kick that caught his shin; he winced. “Touch me again and I’ll kill you!” Ludicrous to say that, trussed as I was, but I was too mad to care.
His fists uncoiled. “Gon’ diss Pookboy, hah?” He let loose a slap that rocked my head. “Don’ yell at Pook. I be ya capture.”
“Don’t. Touch. Me.” My voice was low, hard. I memorized his features, so I could pick them out anywhere when I had the chance to kill him.
He nodded, as if with respect. “Uppie ain’ scare now?” he settled down on his haunches. “Why? Ya scare when I cut Mid mark.” He pointed to my chest.
I flinched. “I couldn’t help it.”
“Cut ya ’gain. If I wan’.” He pulled out the knife.
Oh God. I scrunched shut my eyes, waited, determined not to give him the satisfaction of my tears.
A sharp prick, in my shoulder. I jerked away; my eyes flew open. He grinned.
My voice quavered. “So what? I could do that to you, trannieboy. The only difference is who has the knife.”
“Who you callin’ trannie?” His mouth turned ugly.
“Isn’t that what you are?”
He considered it. “I be Mid,” he said at last.
I had to keep him talking, lest he hurt me again. He seemed to respect my standing up to him, so I said, “What’s your name, Mid?”
“Pook, tolya. Watcha call your name?”
“I’m Jared.”
“Jared.” He mouthed the unfamiliar word. “Tribe?”
“I don’t know what you’re—I’m from Washington.”
“I been!” He jabbed excitedly, with his finger. “Changman took!”
“Whatever you say.” I shifted. “My arms hurt. Untie me.”
“Naw.” He looked up through the hatch, gauging the daylight. “Gotta get trayfo.”
I couldn’t let him leave, if at last he was rational. “Pook, my father will give you a reward, if you let me go.”
“What’s rewar’?”
“Money.”
“Already took.” He scrounged in his pocket, pulled out a few wrinkled bills. He patted my pants. “From here.”
“Frazzing thief!” Again I tried to twist loose.
“Mine now.” He stood.
I controlled myself. “Think of all the money you could have when I’m free!”
“Naw. Gonna sell ya.”
I shuddered; only Lord God knew what that entailed.
He fingered my socks, as if wondering what they were worth. For the first time, I realized my boots were gone. “Back lata, Uppie.” He jumped to the hatch and was gone.
Again I huddled in the corner. Who was this creature? Why did he torment me? He’d taken half my clothes. Would he steal the rest too? Then what? A nameless dread, and thoughts I did my best to banish. Perspiration ran down my spine.
I crossed my legs, quelling a pressing need to urinate. I hoped the trannie would be back soon. Surely he’d have to let me go for that.
Hours passed. I tried to hold still, for the sake of both my chest and my raw wrists. I wondered what kind of building my jail had once been. The elevator was trimmed with brass, and the rotten carpeting had once been plush.
Restless, I called out for help, shouting ever louder until my throat was raw. No one responded.
I squeezed my legs together, hoping to see Pook before I wet my pants. That humiliation would be unbearable.
The light was fading; I’d heard streets were dangerous after dark. What if he never came back? I shivered, despite the miserable heat. Helpless, my hands lashed behind me, I’d starve without Pook, or die of thirst. The elevator would become my coffin; Dad would never learn what happened to me. I yearned for my familiar room in our cottage.
A creak.
“Pook?” It was growing too dark to see. “Mid?”
No reply.
I grew restless, then frantic. If I spent the night tied alone in an abandoned elevator, I would not be sane when morning came.
“POOK!” The scream tore at my throat.
At first, nothing. Then another creak.
I waited for the boy to appear, strained to hear any faint sound. Was it wind, or voices I imagined?
I recalled the ugly, leering savages who’d chased me.
What if it weren’t Pook above, but others? Visions of torture flashed through my mind.
Very quiet now, I curled in the corner.
I waited.
Something woke me from a doze. I blinked, could see nothing.
A sound, then a light, swinging eerily. I whispered, “Pook?”
“Yo!” He jumped down at my feet. I squawked, trembling from fear.
“Scare ya, Uppie?”
I nodded, too shaken to pretend.
He giggled. “Brung ya cansa.” He hauled two dented cans out of a sack. “Lotsa trayfo. No one skin Pook dis time.” He set down a Valdez permabattery, with a light attached.
He unzipped a can, dug something out with a grimy spoon. “Open ya mouth, I feed.”
“Please.” I wiggled my hands. “Untie me.”
“Naw.” He shoved food at my face.
“I can’t eat like this!”
“Gotta.”
“Anyway, I have to go to the bathroom.” I reddened.
“Wha?” His stare was vacant.
“Toilet,” I said. “Soon, Pook.”
He shrugged. “Dunno.” Again he proffered the spoon, laden with pungent stew.
Though my mouth watered, I shook my head. “Please, Pook. Take me somewhere I can go.” My need was urgent.
A long stare, then comprehension. “Piss?”
I nodded.
He helped me up. “Inna corna.”
I recoiled. “That’s disgusting.”
“Gotta stay heah. Can’ let you get ’way.”
“My chest is cut up so bad I can hardly walk! You took my boots and you’ve got a knife. How could I get away?”
He sighed, put down the can. “Uppie be too trouble,” he grumbled. “Waitasec.” He grabbed the light, reached for the hatch.
“Don’t leave me in the dark!”
He paid no attention.
By now night had fallen; the elevator was pitch-black. My breath came loud, from fear. I waited for the sound of his return step.
“Pook?” I gritted my teeth. I’d always hated the dark.
The building creaked.
“Is that you?”
Silence. I squeezed my legs tight, trying to control my sphincter. I had to have light. I’d ask him—
The elevator bounced. A crash, a fierce roar, inches from my face. A cold groping hand.
Screeching, I cannoned back to the wall, tugging at the rope eating my wrists. “Oh God oh God no please someone no! I hardly recognized my voice.
A cackle. The light sprang to life.
Pook sagged against the wall, weak with laughter. “Gotcha, Uppie!” He pointed at my crotch, roared with delight.
I looked down at my soaked pants and wished I were dead. A whimper, that I realized must be my own.
“Brung stool ta help ya climb out, but now ya don’ need.” Grinning, he groped above the hatch, brought down an old bucket.
I began to cry.
<
br /> He giggled. “Uppie nino.” He turned over the bucket, sat. “Teach ya holler at Pook.”
I hunched in the corner, tears and mucus running unchecked down my cheeks. Please, Lord, let me die.
“Awri, Uppie. Weren’t so bad. Jus’ scare.” His voice softened. “Sit.” He brought me the stool.
“No, I—” He made me sit. My legs chafed. The acrid smell rising from my pants made me gag.
“Eat. Feel betta.” He picked up the can. “Jus’ funnin’.”
I tried to control my sobs. “Untie me for a minute. Please!”
“Naw.” He patted my shoulder. “Brung cansa special fa you. Eat.” He filled the spoon.
I took a bite of cold stew. Spicy, but I was starved. I sat on the stool, utterly humiliated, and let him feed me like a baby. I wolfed it down as fast as he could spoon it.
“Could I have water?”
He held the jug.
“Thank you.” My tone was humble. I squirmed. “I’ve got to change my pants.”
He snickered. “Where ya think ya be, Chang shop?”
“I don’t—”
“Ain’ no pant. Anyway, Swee an’ I gon’ take yours, ’morra. Trayfo.”
“You what?” I was indignant.
“Won’ need, in elevate.”
Suddenly it didn’t seem important to get out of my wet pants. I sighed, leaned back against the wall. “When will you let me go, Pook?”
“Gotta figga how ta sellya. Maybe ask Karlo, if he quit pissoff.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “Sell?”
“Sho. Think I gonna feed ya all winta?”
It was all beyond understanding. “Sell me to my father. It’s what I’ve been trying to—”
Pook spat. “Why he pay fo’ Uppie kit so glitch he run in trannie streets?”
I flushed. “Our families care about each other. We’re not like you filth—” I swallowed the rest; it was the wrong tack. “Besides, I’m smart and he knows it.”
“Hah. What c’n ya do worth a shit?”
I’d have sat stiffly, but for my bound hands and the ache of my chest. “Lots of things. I can—” I groped for examples. “—program puters better than anyone. How do you think I got the money to fly here? I can schuss through any system, no matter how hard the ice.” Well, a slight exaggeration, but not by much. And when I got out of here, I’d prove it. After this, I owed it to myself, and Rolf would help. Together, we had access enough to—
Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5) Page 20
