“Puters.” The trannie spat again. “Ain’ got none.”
Exhausted, I closed my eyes.
“Don’ sleep yet. Gotta alcol ya.”
I blanched.
“Fo’ heal, Uppie.” He tapped his chest. “What Karlo do, in upbringin’.”
“Please!”
“Fo’ heal. Won’ hurt as much, sec time.” He got out the cloth and bottle. “Hol’ still.”
I clenched my teeth as he came near. It was useless to argue.
When he was done with his torture I lay against the wall, only an occasional moan escaping my lips. Pook snorted with contempt, patted his chest. “Bad as Jag. Oooh! Ow! Wah!”
I snarled, “Let me do it to you, trannie!”
His eyebrows raised, as if he was considering it. “Naw. Karlo gotta, or it ain’ righ’.” He sighed. “I beta bed. Feedya in mora.” He took the light.
My tone was urgent. “I can’t stay in the dark. Leave the light.”
He shook his head. “Ain’ give ligh’ to no Uppie snot. Cos’ too damn much.”
“DON’T LEAVE ME TIED IN THE DARK!”
Surely he sensed my panic. But he said, “Wan’ me fall downstair cause I lef’ ligh’ wid Jared Washinton Uppie?” His voice was indignant.
“Pook, for God’s sake!”
He sighed. “Awri’, awri’, I stay wid ya.”
It wasn’t what I’d had in mind. I watched with consternation, but he settled on his back, fully dressed. He dialed the light low. “Sleep, Uppie.”
I lay on my side, my body aching. My pants were soggy; I tried not to remember why. I licked my lips, wishing he’d given me more stew. Had I seen him bring two cans?
“What was that we ate, Pook?”
“Cansa.”
“It was good.” I hoped he’d take the hint.
Silence.
“Where’d you get it?”
“Trayfo. Got whole buncha, now.”
“Can I have more?”
Again, he sighed. “You be pain inna ass, Uppieboy.” After a moment he sat. “Awri’.” He took another can from the bag he’d brought. “Here.” He zipped it open.
My eyes widened. “Hold still!”
“Wha?”
“Hold it where I can read it!” I squinted. “Oh, Christ!” I gagged. “You frazzing bastard!”
“Whassamatta!”
“Prong yourself!” I twisted, managed to aim my feet at his stomach, kicked hard. He oofed and fell.
I gagged again, tried to vomit.
“Stop dat!” He scrambled across the car, shook me. “Whassamatta?”
“You fed me dog food!”
His brow wrinkled. “Whas’ wrong wid? Eat allatime!”
I gave my ropes a desperate tug. “Ow!” I recoiled from the pain, felt something part in my chest. I looked down; blood oozed. “Oh, no!” I collapsed in helpless tears.
Pook watched, crouching alongside. His expression slowly turned to concern. “Din’ mean nothin’,” he mumbled. “Food, is all. Wha’ diff, eat dog food, or eat dog?”
I wailed.
Pook’s eyes glistened. “Don’, Uppie,” he pled. “Din’ mean hurt.” He tried to stroke my head. I pulled free.
He sat next to me, hauled me down so I lay on my back, his lap a pillow. He dialed low the light. I struggled to free myself, to no avail.
Forlorn, I lay sobbing. A long while passed before my breathing calmed.
After a time I slept, his hand gentle on my head.
Chapter 23
POOK
WHEN CHANGMAN TELL ME ’bout ol’ cassel an’ knigh’s it soun’ zarky; burn cassel, diss enemy sojers. But Pook learn bein’ a capture is harder ’n he figga.
Chang’s book don’ say capture can’ go onna street widout he worry his booty gonna ’scape. Don’ mention haulin’ jugs a water upstair, feedin’ Uppie every bite, lissen’ him complain ’bout food an’ cry hisself ta sleep.
Fah. I ready ta diss ’im, sell resta his threads.
Inna morn, I catch Chang an’ trayfo Uppie’s boots fo’ so many cansa Pook don’ worry ’bout eat all winta. Bes’ boots Pook ever got; not a single hole. Think Uppie ’preciate trayfo? Naw. Bitchanmoan cause cansa say dog instead a people.
Uppiekit be some kinda stupe. Can’ unnerstan’ simplest stuff Pook say, even when talk loud. Allatime he whine rope too tigh’, please, Pook, loosen jus’ a little, I be good. Please Pook, I gotta go bathroom, not in here for God’s sake don’ ya unnerstan’, I don’ jus’ mean piss, PLEASE.
I wave shiv in face, show ’im how I cut ’im good if he run, untie hans, help ’im outa elevate. His wrists swole; maybe rope too tigh’ afta all. He walk along hall clutchin’ ches’ like he ’fraid it gonna flop open from tiny. Mid cuts. Den, more whine. Oh God not in here what is this place, doncha have a real bathroom? I can’t do it here. I say, aw ri’, don’, but he go sniffle. I ’xplain we wen’ allaway otha side a buildin’, not near elevate, in room hardly eva be use for shithouse.
He whine, can’t while ya watchin’, Pook. Ya gotta wait outside.
No way. I ain’ glitch. If I leave him, he go rabbit. I fol’ arms, shake head, tap foot, say coupla min I take ya back, letcha do it in elevate. So he crouch in corna, cryin’ while.
Uppieboy could neva make it onna street. Too weak. Anyway, what kinda name be ‘Jared’? He keep addin’ ’ten air’, but I ain’ stupe enough ta lissen. Air be free, an be only one. Not two, or nine, or ten.
I gotta figga how sell him ’fore he drive me craze. Maybe I ask Chang, but firs’ he’ll wanna know all boudit. Hard enough trayfo Uppie boots widout Changman skin me like las’ time. Where ya get, why dey so good, whatcha been up to, Pookboy?
Fah.
An’ somethin’ glitch with Jag an’ Swee. Dey look at me funny, turn away fas’. I figga dey tell Karlo ’bout my booty and Midboss gonna take. Dat be end of Pook, or Karlo. I won’ give up my Jared Uppie.
Nex’ time I take Jared ta shithouse, he go on knees beggin’ an’ cryin’, please Pook no more rope, it hurts so bad, I do watcha say. I knock him down, sit on him ta tie him, fin’ his wrists all swole an’ oozin’. Can’t sell no booty if he cripple. ’Sides, I like what he tell me; makes me rememba Changman. I make him say ova an’ ova, please, Pook, I do watcha say.
Fo’ safe, I put Uppie back in elevate, close trap, pile lotsa bricks on top. Inside, he cry an’ carry on, but I don’ pay no ’tention; I gotta get away from his yellin’. Ain’ my fault he scare widout light. Anyway, I be back in a while, or morra.
I go lookin’ fo’ Swee an’ Jag ta see why dey fadeout so fas’ with funny look. Can’t fin’ em. Maybe Bigsis could tell, but can’ ask ’less I see her on street. I wander, careful ta stay clear of lair. Ain’ fair, Karlo won’ give me upbringin’. I more ready ’n Swee or Jag, who promise Pook ta not say a word, but run some kinda swind. I know ’em both since joeykits; somethin’ dey don’ wanna tell me. It gotta be ’bout Jared frazzin’ Uppie.
Plenny a food fo’ give my booty, but not lotta water. Pipes in my private lair fulla rust an’ junk. Outside, puddles so buggy I can’ stan’ ’em. Could walk ta riva, but what good dat? Riva stink; trannies who drink it soonerlata die. Don’ know what ta do.
Hate it, but gotta ask Changman. I knock on door. No ansa. I curse some, kick door hard, only hurt my foot. Cross street, Mid joeykit name Sail laugh. I grab rock, throw at his head. I miss; only smack his shoulda, but it enough ta yelp ’im. I catch ’im in doorway a dead store.
“Fadeout, Pook, fadeout!” Younga ’n me, he go cringy.
“Ya laugh now, shitface?” I finga my shiv.
Sall wait ta cry or get diss. “Din’ mean nothin’, Pook!”
Be fun ta dissim, specially now Karlo say I can’ have upbringin’. But if otha Mids see, Karlo call out his milisha afta me. I sigh. “Innifo?”
He turn out pockets. “Ain’ got, Pook.”
I din’ expect none. “Ya fin’ Swee ’n Jag, be my innifo. Bring ’em ’mediate fas’.
” Sail run off, surprise I lettim go.
I sit in doorway, waitin’. I suspec’ Swee won’ hide, if he know I look fo’. He know I be good wid shiv.
Twenny min lata, who come slouchin’ by but Jag, peerin’ otha side a street like some Uppie touris.
“Ova heah, Jagboy.” I beck him inta doorway. “Whatcha upta, hah?”
“Nothin, Pook.” Innocent, like joeykit.
I get between him an’ street. Whatta stupe, ta let me. An’ ta think Karlo gave him upbringin’, steada me. “Try ta swind ol’ Pook, hah? Ya tell Karlo ’bout my Uppie.”
“Din’!”
“Gonna cuttem off, makeya a squeaker!” I work on pissoff. Need a real mad, ta hurt Jag.
“He din’ tell nothin!” Voice behin’ me.
I whirl roun’. Swee, but no shiv. Cloth wrap roun’ his wris’.
I consida. “’Kay. What ain’ ya tellin’?”
Swee look away, say nothin’.
I point at wris’, scorny. “Whazzat, new kinda thread, go wid ya Uppie shirt?”
He go blush. Now I real inerest. I finga shiv, say quiet, “Thought Jag and Swee be Pook’s frens. Don’ I trus’ ya wid my Uppie lair? Whas so bad ya can’ tell Pook?”
Look at each otha. Jag shrug, say ta Swee, “He c’n help us dissim.”
“Stoppit! Diss who? Don’ make me confuse!” Now I don’ have ta work up a pissoff; gettin’ good one.
Swee wriggle like embarrass. Slow, he take off cloth from wris’. I mira scab. “Rumb? So?”
He look down. “Uppie done it.”
“Frazzin’ Uppies, swoopin’ down in helis. Think they own worl’! Ain’ your faul’ coupla Uppies shiv ya.”
“Jus’ one.”
“Jerry?” Hadda be, if Jag ’n Swee lettim cut.
Swee shake head.
I figga, mus’ be one helluva Uppie. “Ya chase him offa turf?”
“Well ...”
Jag blurt, “He stay all nigh’.”
Now they actin’ goof. “How?”
“Hide.” Jag look roun’, drop voice. “We follow ’im. he sleep unner car.”
“Why din’ ya dissim nighttime?”
Dey don’ say. Won’ look my eye, neitha.
Couldn’ be real Uppie. I deman’, “Where he be?”
Swee point ta roof. I look suspicious. “Swind?”
“Naw. Been onna roof all day, hidin’.”
I go proud. “I dissim fo’ ya.” I hesitate. “But afta, gimme innifo.”
“What kine? How much?”
I think. “Water. From Mid pipes. Lotsa.”
“We ain’ got lotsa, Pook. Real bad.”
I go chill. Water gone all ova. Somethin’ wrong. Gotta ask ol’ Changman, when he back. “Some, den. Much as ya can.”
Dey agree fas’.
I climb up through ol’ store, skippin’ bad places in stair. Mids know alla roofs in Mid turf, in case a rumb. Where we walkin’ be fulla hole, so gotta go careful. I look roun’. No Uppie.
“Not here, Pook. ’Cross.” Swee, nervous.
Sighin’, I slide cross board ova edge, skip ta otha side. “C’mon.”
“Shh!” They peer roun’ like ’xpectin’ Broads or Subs.
I go quiet ta corna, look roun’.
Joey sit at edge a roof, lookin’ ova. At his side, bag fulla stuff. Shiny red caller in joey’s back pocket. Once I saw Karlo wid caller he snatch from Uppie touris in bus. Karlo pushed numbas ova an ova. Wheneva someone ansa, he scream ’n curse. Lotsa fun for coupla days. Then stopped workin’. Nothin’ but voice sayin’ “disconnec’.”
“Him?” I point.
Jag nod.
I pull out shiv, put behin’ my back, walk proud. “Hey, Uppieshit!”
He whirl.
“Gonna dissya fo’ cut Jag!” I come close.
“Hello.” He stan’.
I gawk. Dis be Uppie cut Jag? Smalla ’n me, or even Sail. My nervous be gone. He only joeykit. I go guffaw.
“Glad to meet you. Hello, Mr. Jag.”
I turn ta Swee, scorny, “Needs ten of us, take dis babykit. Poor ol’ Swee—” Forgot I had shiv behin’ back, where Uppie could see.
Joey’s breath hiss. He back up, too close ta edge a roof. Stupe. Don’ he know nothin’ ’bout rumb?
I leave off Swee, hoi’ shiv low like Karlo showed. “Whatcha doin’, Uppie?”
“Looking for a friend. Please put away the knife. Someone might get hurt.”
I snicker. “Damnri’.” I wunner: bes’ if I shiv’ im, or push him off an’ watch him splat?
His eyes slide past me ta Swee, and go narrow. “Where’d you get that shirt?”
Swee say, “Mine. Innifo.”
“You weren’t wearing it yesterday.”
“Savin’.”
Uppie face red wid anger. “It’s not yours!” He think I made a stone, ta ignore?
Swee back away, like Uppie gonna steal his green shirt. “Lemme be!”
Uppie follow. I step between, lunge wid shiv. “Gonna dissya, Uppie. Eat ya guts—”
Sky go lurch, roof come at me hard. I throw han’ in fronna face as I slam down. My arm fulla gravel. “Oww!”
For min, I can’ breathe good. When I scramb to knees, shiv gone. Swee runnin’ fa his life ’cross otha roof, Uppie joeykit close behin’. Jag hidin’ roun’ corna.
Swee an Uppie disappear inta build.
I stagga ta feet. “Frazzin’ Uppie!” Whole body hurt; I hol’ arm where scrapes startin’ta bleed. Jag duck away. I go rage. “Hide when I wantcha, hah?” I go afta him, kick ’im tween legs. “Soma kine fren!” I whomp ’im harda an’ harda. He wail please no, Pook, and cower ’gainst wall. I don’ lissen.
Frazzin’ Uppies.
When I done wid Jag, can’ fin’ Swee or craze Uppiekit. My arm scrape, so I don’ wan’ Jared Washinton Uppie ta see, ’less he laugh an’ I gotta dissim. Can’ go near Mid lair in case a Karlo, and Chang shop be close.
Grody day.
Afta while, I notice odd feelin’ ’bout street. Broads ain’ standin’ at edge a turf waitin fo’ innifo. Mids neitha. I wonnerin’ why everyone so lazy, when I ’member ol’ Changman’s meet.
I think aboud it. Wunner what faraway tribes look like, if dey dress all glitch like Subs.
Sheet, why not? Jared ain’ goin’ nowhere, an’ Pook got nothin’ betta ta do. I run back to lair an bringalong buncha cansa, in case someone sudden ask fo’ innifo. Start nor’, towar’ stair at Four Two.
Still, Pook ain’ no stupe; he don’ march through Broad turf like he own. Dat askin’ fo’ troub. Stead, go careful, watchin’ both sides. Afta Broad turf, come to Mid Four Two. In doorway, sharp whistle. I freeze, thinkin’ run fo’ ya life, Pookboy.
“Whatchadoon, joeykit?” Big Midboy, one who push Pook down when walkin’ wid Chang.
Instant, I go swell. So what I don’ got upbringin’? I got my capture, my Pooklair, enough cansa fo’ winta; I ain’ no joeykit. “Goin’ ta meet.” My voice fulla defy.
He scowl. “Innifo?”
“Don’ need none. Special day.” So Changman say. Hope ol’ glitch Neut know what he talkinabout.
“Meet is fo’ bosses.”
“Fa anyone who want!” Ain’ sure, but I hide anxious.
He wave like he anger. “Well, g’wan, joey. Meet be ova fo’ ya get ta!”
Wanna run, but I walk fo’ proud.
Outside Sub lair, Four Two Square ain’ empty like usual. Buncha joes stand roun’ broke stores lookin’ nervous. All diff tribes.
A Three Five Mid like me don’ see much trannies ’xcept nearby Mids ’n Broads, maybe Rocks. But when ya live wid ol’ Chang, lotsa tribe come ta door. And sometime ya go out wid’, wait while he grumble an’ pay innifo ta otha tribe dat usual ya never meet.
So Pook not too surprise at threads an’ tribe marks. Easters, Washhites, Unies, Harls, more. But I notice each be standin’ wid his own, tense like storm ’fore light go bang.
What I see is rumb waitin’ ta roll. I d
rift from nearest bunch, fin’ self near Sub stair.
“Whatcha wan’, joey?”
I whirl. Scrawny Subboy look up from halfway.
“Here fo’ meet.”
“You jus’ a kit. G’wan home.”
I go bristle. “Fo’ alla trannies wanna come!”
“Dunno ’bout joeykits. Hey, Kard! We spose ta let kits inta meet?”
From unner, a voice. “No one say ta, Chaco.”
I ask, “Where be meet?”
“Big hall, downunner.” He point. “Whas’ in bag?”
“Min’ ya bidness!”
“Cmon down, I teach ya ta mouth Subs like—”
Sudden, Pook tire bein’ treat like kit. I swing bag ova shoulda, stalk downstair, maybe ta get diss, but don’ care. History be make, Chang say; I gonna watch. “Where ol’ Changman?”
“What diff—”
“I got bag he ask me bring.” Subgirl look suspicious, so I add, “Got his meds, jus’ in case.”
“I dunno, joey.” He scratch. “He busy wid—”
“Pook!”
I look roun’, see Allie. “Yo!”
“Watchadoon?”
“Tell dis stupe I come fa Changman, like—hey!” I duck jus’ in time. “Tell ’im!” I hold bag ’tween me an’ enrage Subboy.
“Lastime Pookboy came wid Chang,” Allie admit. “Lettim go, Chaco. I’ll take ’im ta meet.”
“Halber said we gotta lettim in,” Subboy growl. “Don’ mean I gonna take sheet from a—”
“I bring ’im.” Allie grab my hand, yank me downstair.
’Fore I know, I be in long dark tunnel, nothin’ but Allie hand ta hang onta. “Hey, whereya—”
“Cool jets. We turn off lights so tribes won’ see parts a Sub we don’ wan’. Almos’ dere.”
Please, Mista Chang, gemme outa dis. I do whatcha say. How I know Alliegirl ain’ gonna diss me here in dark? My skin prickle as I think sharp shiv in rib.
In min, see light ahead. Big room, low ceil but real long. Lotsa joeys mill roun’ in every tribe threads ya c’n ’magine.
Voices fulla anger.
“Stupid Neut, who care if Washhites go thirst? Easters tryin’ ta pushout—”
“Lettim talk!”
“Rocks don’ take boolsheet from no frazzin’ Harl—”
Allie nudge me. “Been like dat all day.”
Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5) Page 21
