Not sure who Commandant was, ’til I realized he meant Fisherman. Strange folk, Uppies. Diff name for everything.
Chapter 26
PHILIP
SWEE WINCED, HIS FACE jammed against the fetid wall. “Doncha unnerstan’? I can’ tell ya!”
I’d never really hurt anyone on purpose. Well, only Jared, and thanks to my cruelty he’d fled to the streets. I hoisted Swee’s wrist higher along his shoulder blade. Torture conferred a sense of power I wasn’t sure I disliked.
“Ow! Please, Uppie! Hurts!”
It was Jared’s shirt the boy wore. I steeled myself. “Where’s Jared?”
Wailing, Swee stretched himself taller. “Pook gonna diss me if I tell! Oh God, please! Stop!”
I let go, struggling not to retch. “I’m sorry.”
Swee leaned sobbing against the wall.
He’d led me on a mad chase. Across two rooftops, through sagging buildings, up rotting stairs dimly lit by gaping holes in the roof. After a time my quarry was reduced to a green shirt flitting through the shadows. When at last I’d caught him I had no idea where we were; luckily, the dank hallway seemed deserted.
Swee was bigger than I; he should have been able to defend himself. Yet my newfound rage had prevailed. I wondered if it would come on me often, now it had been wakened. Not a pleasant thought.
If I hurt him any more I’d become a savage myself, and I couldn’t have that. But I doubted this was a good time to tell him so. Now that my fury was fading, he might remember how much stronger he was.
Would it help if I acted like the streeters I’d seen? I gathered a wad of saliva and spat, narrowly missing his foot. Sorry, Mom; I know you’d go ballistic.
Swee didn’t seem impressed. Perhaps, crying and hugging his arm, he hadn’t noticed. How to persuade him? Dominance was beyond my experience.
What would Fath do? I thought back to the tales he’d told of his shipboard days.
I snarled, “Turn around!”
“Wha’?”
As if I were unafraid, I spun him to the wall. “You heard me!” I needed a weapon. Anything. Swee glanced over his shoulder; I gave his ear a sharp cuff. He yelped. I forced down a surge of guilt, reminding myself I’d done him no real harm. Acting like a bully would keep him from realizing how helpless I was.
I remembered the caller buried in my pocket, reached for it. Gone; it must have slipped out in the chase. No time to worry about it now. What else could I use? I dug into my jacket, found the money clip I’d brought from home. I stuffed the few Unibucks into my jacket, pressed the corner of the clip to Swee’s back. He squirmed.
“You asked for it.” I kept my voice low; it gave me more control over pitch. The last thing I needed was my voice shooting an octave in mid-word.
What was the term they used? Diss. I still wasn’t sure what it meant, but ...I’m your problem, not Pook. I’m going—” No. It had to be more crude. I growled, “—I’m gonna count to five. Tell me about Jared, or I diss you right here and now.” I pressed harder. “It’ll hurt a hell of a lot.” Sorry, Lord, about the language. But a life is at stake. “Four. Three.”
“You don’ unnerstan, Uppie! Pook gets ... grody!”
“Two!”
“All righ’!” A squeal. “Pookboy has ’im!”
“Jared’s alive?”
“Yeah.”
The wave of relief was almost dizzying. “Where?”
“In Pook lair!”
Only Lord God knew what that meant. I slipped the clip into my pocket. “Turn around.”
I made sure to stand very close. In the psychology texts I’d downloaded to study Jared, I’d found an intriguing dissertation on personal space. When one invades personal space, the subject becomes nervous. I experimented with Jared, and he’d abruptly shoved me away.
Swee wiped his face. “Yah?”
“We’re going to Pook’s lair. Lead me astray—I mean, to the wrong place—or try to run, and I’ll ...” Deliberately, I left it unfinished. It sounded more menacing.
“Cool jets, Uppie.” He raised a hand, as if to ward off a blow. “Won’ run. Swear.”
“Take me to Jared.”
“Pook gonna diss me fa tellin’!”
I said authoritatively, “I’ll handle him.”
Still, he hesitated. “Gotta go on street.”
“So?”
He stared at me, amazed. “Uppie ain’ ’fraid?”
Of course I was. Only yesterday I’d learned how dangerous the streets were; that’s why I’d been hiding on the roof when Swee appeared with Jared’s shirt. But I shook my head. “Take me by the back ways, if you’d like. And stop calling me ‘Uppie.’”
“Why? It what you be.”
“Don’t be silly; Uppies are from the towers. I live in Washington, in a—” I sighed, doubting he’d understand. “Call me P.T.,” I said.
Snuffling, he wiped the last of his tears with a grimy sleeve. “’Kay, Peetee.”
“Remember, I’ll diss you if you run.” Wondering what that meant, I kept a firm grip on his arm as we walked. Mom held me that way when she was really irked, or when she insisted on a time-out in my room. Objectively speaking, I found it rather intimidating.
Swee led me through a courtyard half-filled with rubble, then to another building. To my surprise, he took care to avoid our being seen, as if protecting me. We worked our way down the block. Eventually he pointed to a sagging apartment across the street. “Gotta run har’, case Mids see ya.”
I didn’t like that idea. I looked around, saw a jagged bar protruding through the dusty brick at waist level. Perhaps it once helped support a wall. For a moment I released Swee. Catching my jacket on it, I pulled hard. A loud rip, and my jacket was torn down the middle.
“Stop!”
I bared my teeth in warning; Swee drew back.
“Coulda trayfo a zillion cansa,” he said plaintively.
I shrugged, wishing he spoke English. As he watched, openmouthed, I carefully worked the point of the bar through the knee of my pants and let myself fall. Now my pants were torn too.
Overcoming my disgust I rubbed some grime into my hair, and, gritting my teeth, gave myself a streak on the face for good measure. “We don’t have to run.”
Swee’s brow wrinkled. “Think ya make yaself trannie?” He studied me, broke into a slow grin. “Not too bad, actual. Could pass, from far. Walk close wid me.”
My spine prickled as we strolled across the lonely street. At the far corner, a group of transients lounged against a rusting pole. They regarded us with indifference. Swee headed to a boarded door. In the recessed doorway he stuck his hands in his pockets, glanced out casually. His eyes flicked left and right. “’Kay, no one lookin’.”
“What now?”
“Uppie stupe.” Scornfully he pushed me aside, shouldered open the door. It gave way with a loud creak. “C’mon.” After closing the door, he led me upstairs.
I followed, my eyes still accustomed to daylight. In the gloom I was almost blind. Was Swee leading me into a trap? He was several steps ahead of me, and gaining. In panic, I scrambled up the stairs, yanked on his arm. “Not so bloody fast!”
Swee squealed. Frantically, he tried to free himself. “Fahgadsake! Don’ grab me in dark!” For a moment I thought he was going to cry again, but he pointed upward. “Two more stair.” His voice dropped. “If Pookboy in lair, we be diss.”
I was disgusted with my cowardice. At home I slept in the dark, didn’t I? “Go on.” I made my voice rough.
We tiptoed down a dim hall. Open doors to abandoned offices provided the only reflected daylight. Midway along the hall was an elevator shaft, the safety doors ajar. Swee whispered, “In dere.”
It was a trap. “You think I’m glitched?”
“Look down, see a li’l room.”
Look down and he’d shove me into the shaft. I pictured myself windmilling to my death. “I told you not to fuck with me!”
I couldn’t believe I’d said it.
Mom would wash out my mouth. She had, the last time, and I’d promised her—no time for that.
“I didn’, hones—”
My fist shot out. I caught him in the eye.
Swee howled.
From the elevator shaft, a screech.
I nearly jumped out of my pants. “Jesus, Lord Christ!” Amen. Sorry, Lord, but it scared me out of my wits.
Hands to his face, Swee stamped away his pain, crying and snorting.
Downstairs the door creaked loudly.
Swee gasped, shot me a look of terror. “Run hide!” He raced down the hall. I dashed after, no more anxious than he to meet whatever was coming upstairs.
Swee dodged into an open doorway. I skidded after. He pressed himself against the wall.
“What are you—”
“Shh!” He made a frantic gesture of silence. “If it’s Pook ...”
Footsteps. Dim voices. I strained to hear. Swee dabbed helplessly at his tearing eye. The footsteps stopped.
Standing in utter silence, I was aware of a horrid stench. “I whispered, “What’s that smell?”
He waved to the corner. “Shithouse.”
Oh, great. Cautiously, I edged my head through the doorway. In the hall was a teener a bit older than I, and with him, a brawny joey with a menacing air.
With great care Swee knelt and peered down the hall. “God, it’s Pook!”
I stared at the figure hunched over the shaft. No wonder Swee feared him; the big joey could tear us in half. My whisper was barely audible. “Who’s the joeykid with him?”
A snort. “Joeykit is Pook.”
I squinted, as the teener straightened and came into the light. I bit back an exclamation; he was the one from the roof, who’d tried to stop me from catching Swee. He’d walked into a simple armlock and shoulder-toss. If I’d done anything so stupid, Mom would have had me doing push-ups for a week.
I whispered, “Who’s the big one?”
“Dunno.”
“Where’s Jared?”
“Tolya. Innahole.”
I watched with foreboding. Abruptly the two of them disappeared into the elevator shaft. A clatter. I waited. From within, a cry of protest. Should I tiptoe down the hall to look? From the shaft a hand appeared, then a head.
Pook. Then the big joey.
And Jared.
He emerged from the shaft, clutching his chest. The big joey pointed toward the stairs. Jared shook his head. The man slapped him hard.
I was surging into the hall when a hand closed around my collar and hauled me back.
Swee hissed, “Ya crazy, Uppie? Wanna get us diss?” In the hall, Jared wailed.
“He hurt Jar!”
“Jus’ whomp him a bit.”
“What’s ’diss’? You keep saying—”
Swee drew his finger across his throat in an unmistakable gesture.
“Oh.” I could think of nothing else to say. I peered around the door. Barefoot, Jared shuffled toward the stairs, his captors close behind. He sniffled. I eased back into the debris-strewn office.
Swee kept his voice low. “Bigman ain’ no Mid. Threads like Sub.” Whatever that meant, it seemed to frighten him. “Dunno why he here. Must be Pook brung ’im. Guess he pay innifo.” The boy’s brow knotted, as if puzzling through a problem in advanced trig. “No one ’xcept Pook knows ’bout hole. So maybe he sell Uppie ta Subman.”
I glanced out. The hall was deserted. “Where are they going?”
Swee shrugged.
I said, “We have to follow. Don’t give me that look; I came here for Jared. Move!” Reluctantly, he came along.
We were halfway to the stairwell when footsteps thudded up the stairs.
“Sheet!” Swee spun on his heel and dashed to safety. His foot caught on a loose board; he went down with a thump. In an instant he was on his feet. Together we dived into the nearest office. We cowered against the wall on opposite sides of the door.
“Who dere?” The voice was too high to be the big joey; it must be Pook. I looked across the doorway to Swee, who emphatically shook his head.
In the hall, silence.
A creak. Another. Swee’s eyes darted, as if searching for escape. I hardly dared breathe.
The crash of a door, somewhere down the hall. A muttered curse. Swee flitted past the doorway, put his mouth to my ear. “Gotta get out!” Before I could reply he tiptoed to the rotting window, pulled loose a splintered chunk of wood. It gave way with a loud protest. The noise didn’t much matter; my heart pounded loud enough for all to hear.
Swee tiptoed back to the door, raised his club as he pressed back against the wall.
A thunderous kick. The door flew open, narrowly missing my ear. Pook lunged into the room. “Gotchas!”
Swee smashed his club down on the teener’s head. It drove Pook to his knees even as the rotten board crumbled to pieces. Swee tossed the remains aside. “C’mon!” We collided in the doorway, and my breath was knocked out of me. Sucking for air, I dashed to the stairs. Behind us, a roar of anger.
I tore down the steps three at a time and wrenched open the stubborn street door. Above, a despairing cry. I raced out to daylight. Jared and his captor were nowhere to be seen. I waited in a frenzy for Swee to join me.
Nothing.
Ignoring a pair of curious transpops I dashed to the corner, peered down the street, whirled around to look the other way.
No one.
Come on, Swee!
What chance would I have finding them if they disappeared in some hovel among the thousands of the city? Swee could take care of himself. It wasn’t my fault he chose not to follow.
My reluctant feet took me back to the door. I peered into the gloom. Odd sounds. Grunts. Perhaps a whimper. The hair on my neck rose.
Every lost moment made finding Jared less likely. As quickly as I dared, I forced myself up the stairs.
In the hall, a pair of feet faced the stairwell. Sitting atop the prone form, a hunched figure. Occasionally the feet kicked, to no avail!
I inched forward. The grunts were Pook’s, as he savagely pounded Swee’s bloody head and chest. With a cry I sprang on the maddened Mid, hauled him kicking off the prostrate Swee.
“Leggo! I diss ya!”
“Leave him alone! Run, Swee!”
Swee groaned, rolled onto his side.
Pook shook himself loose, sprang to his feet. A knife flashed. He lunged.
I leaped aside, but the point caught in my torn jacket. I stumbled. The knife came up, ready to plunge.
For an instant Pook froze. His eyes narrowed. “You!”
I whipped off my jacket, rolled it around my arm. Any port in a storm, Mom had taught. I aimed a kick at his wrist, but it missed. I shouted, “C’mon, frazball! Take me!” Part of me knew it was glitched to say such things, but part of me didn’t care.
Pook stood his ground. Unexpectedly, I lunged at him, stamped loudly. He careened backward, into the wall. Could it be he was afraid of me? Press your advantage, Mom said. But how?
Grinning now, Pook worked his way closer. “Gonna eatcha livah, Uppie.”
To regain the initiative I spat at his face. He flinched. As if I knew what I was doing, I knocked on the wall three times. The teener whirled, searching the empty doorways. I sprang toward the knife, stamped my foot as hard as I could, let out a dreadful shriek.
Pook bolted toward the stairs.
No! That’s the way I need to go!
At the stairwell he turned, waiting.
I bent to Swee. “Get up.”
He retched, brought up nothing. “Can’t. He hurt me, Uppie.”
I caught Swee’s arm, tried to heave him up. “Do you want Pook to get you?” Moaning, he staggered to his feet.
Pook charged. So did I. As our paths converged I dived at his legs, slid clear of the knife. I grasped his ankle. My inertia carried me past him, breaking my grip, but not before he fell with a thud. Now he was between me and Swee. Not what I wanted.
Pook wasn’t happy
either. He leaped to his feet, pivoting between us as if expecting a concerted attack. Not likely, with Swee lurching to the rear of the hallway, clutching his stomach.
Pook sized us up, made his choice; He turned his back on me, dashed after Swee, knife raised to strike.
No time to think. I raced after. Lighter on my feet, I swarmed onto his back. He tumbled, just missing Swee’s calf with his jagged blade. I clawed at the knife. Pook was bigger and heavier; suddenly, he twisted loose.
In an instant he was on top of me. He tore his wrist free, raised the knife to plunge it into my chest. I squealed in panic.
Swee’s foot shot upward, caught Pook in the side of the head, slammed him into the wall. The knife clattered to the floor. In a frenzy borne of desperation I squirmed from underneath, scampered across the hall. I grabbed the knife just as a hand latched onto my ankle.
I whirled, leading with the knife.
Pook was on his knees. My blade hovered a millimeter from his throat.
He froze.
After a moment he began to cry.
Chapter 27
JARED
WHAT GOOD HAD IT been for Pook to untie me, leaving me trapped in that dark elevator?
If only I could have reached the hatch. But even if I could jump so high, my swollen hands couldn’t hold on to the edges. And I had no way to pull myself up without ripping open the wounds on my chest.
So I’d waited endlessly in the pitch black, every creak above a new terror.
Sitting in the dark, I’d tried to be brave. Dad was a selfish grode, but on Trafalgar, he’d faced the alien fish. Perhaps, if I got out of this, I could tell him how I—
A shriek, outside the shaft.
I’d screamed; I couldn’t help myself. I cowered in the corner.
The elevator bounced; someone had jumped on top. Pook? Could he be bringing real food? I licked my lips. Please, God. Not dog food. Anything. If I lived to a hundred, I’d never outgrow that shame.
The hatch opened. Pook jumped down, with a metal bucket. “Stan’ on this, Uppie. Takin’ ya out.”
Eagerly I complied. As I reached for the hatch, other hands helped pull me up, while Pook hoisted my waist.
In a moment we were in the hall. I blinked at the light.
Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5) Page 24
