A Gluttony of Plutocrats (The Respite Trilogy Book 1)

by Ella Swift Arbok

  He found matches in a drawer. “What if I am?” He took a cigarette from the pack and lit it, placing the pack beside the ashtray.

  Any doubt about my status evaporated at that moment. I pushed my seat back a couple of feet.

  Cragsby picked up the pencil, examined its point, took a folding knife from his pocket, and removed a few slivers of wood. He tested the point against the pad, trimmed some more, then leaned forward. “Name?” He didn’t look up.

  “Lemuel Oneway.”

  “You’ll need to spell that.”

  I spelled it.

  “Place of origin?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m from Earth.” Dempster had given no good reason to deny Earth, and the war between Eden and Elysium must be a strong reason not to claim Elysium as a place of origin.

  Cragsby’s hand hovered over the paper. He lowered his pencil, pushed the pad of forms away, took a long drag at his cigarette, and leaned back in the chair. He stared at me, the muscles of his jaw tense. “You listen carefully, Lemuel Oneway. I want you to say Elysium, which is where all refugees come from. Do you understand me? I’m not here to play games, and I don’t want you to waste my time.”

  A shiver ran along my spine. The menace of Cragsby’s words conflicted with Dempster’s, who had assured me registration was a formality. Of course, he had also advised me not to mention Earth.

  Without my combi, I couldn’t prove I came from Earth. Even if I could, would it help? On the other hand, to deny my words and say I came from Elysium would brand me as inconsistent and untrustworthy. I should have questioned Dempster more.

  Cragsby turned the pencil in his large hand. Once again, he held it over the pad. “Place of origin?”

  My short-term difficulty with Cragsby, a barrier between me and freedom, had to be less important than my status once I walked free. I couldn’t believe one minor official would have the right to cause me harm. What made me decide was the belief that if I said Elysium, I would be asked for more details, an address at least, and I couldn’t name one town in Elysium.

  I took a deep breath. “I’m from Dusseldorf, Europe, Earth. Via Space Station Delta and a couple of interesting holiday stations.”

  Cragsby was out of his chair before I had finished. He switched off the light as he left the room. Despite its creaky hinges, the door would have slammed had there been any escape for its air. It closed with a dull thud and the turning of a key.

  My ears ached from the pressure. My hands shook as I picked up Cragsby’s cigarette and stubbed it out.

  Life on a new world. Not a great start. My gold had proved useless, although by luck I had been presented with a substitute. I was imprisoned as a hostile alien with no knowledge of the law. The thought that things could only get better crossed my mind, but I dismissed it at once. They could get a great deal worse. I knew nothing of my rights, if I had any, and I had no one on my side.

  As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, enough light entered through the door’s vertical slit of a grill to let me move around. For an hour or two, I paced. It’s difficult to estimate time when nothing happens.

  I sat, trapped and helpless, in the scrubbed corner, no longer aware of its chlorine odor. A few more hours, and I moved to the table, where I pulled out a chair, sat—and slept.

  I woke with a start, squinting into bright light. The door stood open.

  An unfamiliar sergeant entered. She examined the pad. “Hmm. Not gotten far, have we?”

  She sat opposite me, removed an implement from an inside pocket, unscrewed its top, and let it hover over the pages. “Place of origin?”

  Which way to go? Elysium or Earth? Either route held some risk, but at least I could avoid vacillation and maintain some credibility. I risked truth. “Earth.”

  She wrote.

  I stared. “Just like that? After the threats Cragsby made?”

  She pushed the ashtray away with the back of her fingers. “Oneway, you take him too literally. He can be a bit of a thug at times, but we need men like that in the force. Date of birth?”

  I had anticipated the question. “August 23, 2591.” It matched my age—almost thirty-five years, ignoring cryo—but I had learned little of the local calendar except that the year couldn’t relate to any episode of the inhabitants’ history.

  Again, the sergeant wrote. She noted a few more details, including an address as I had feared, then returned the writing implement to her pocket. “Right. You can go.”

  As we made our way back to the front desk, she tore the second page from the pad. “This is your copy. Don’t lose it. The top-left number is your temporary ID. You’ll need that if you’re looking for work, which I strongly recommend.”

  We reached the front desk. The clock showed midnight. She found the tray with my possessions and held it, a hand on either side. “Report in tomorrow between ten and four to be photographed. Then, report daily until we tell you otherwise.”

  “How long will that be?”

  She put the tray down on the desk and pushed it toward me. “Could be years. And if you don’t come, we’ll be looking for you.” She watched as I gathered my things. “If you’re working and we know where you live, it could be a few days.”

  She signed herself and me out and walked with me to the street. “Play games with us, and you’ll be sent back to Elysium. They don’t treat returnees well.”

  I declined her offer of a lift, stunned at the suddenness of my release.

  Alone under an alien sky, with a full moon showing through dappled cloud, I strolled back to Dempster’s home. I couldn’t equate my mood with the treatment I had received. I felt elated.

  It was more than relief at having regained my freedom; although, a few minutes earlier, even that freedom seemed uncertain. I had gained a victory over an inflexible system. What rights my registration gave me, I had yet to discover. But at least I existed on Respite as an individual.

  My touchdown was complete.

  What had I gained? I was now on record as being from the planet Earth, the only one of my kind on Respite. Would that benefit me or mark me as a freak? As a stranger in a strange land, the police already treated me with suspicion. What else should I expect? Harsher restrictions had been applied on Earth many times in its history.

  The sergeant had suggested I get a job. An interesting idea. If I were to stay on the planet with my worthless gold and dwindling supply of buttons, a regular income could do no harm. How else would I fill my days? How better could I understand the ways of this planet and its people than to immerse myself in its daily life?

  I had no home but Respite. Respite wasn’t yet a home, but the thought of spending decades in the search for another colonized planet had little appeal. Isolation? I’d had enough. And if by some strange chance I should find myself back in one of the old domed bases of the solar system, in some unimaginable future, I would have tales to tell, unique experiences to relate. Whether those tales would be glorious or tragic, I had yet to discover.

  A car slowed as it passed. The driver peered at me. He wasn’t one of the few people I knew on the planet. I returned my attention to the road ahead. The car pulled forward a hundred yards and stopped again. A small figure approached it and, after a moment, got in. The car sped off.

  A lone disposable? A child, not mine. Why should I care? Because I was human. For the sake of another child whose safety I once failed to question until too late.

  I hurried down Bluefinch Avenue.

  Dempster had left a light on and a key under the welcome mat, but he opened the door before I could get the key into its lock.

  He spoke in a whisper. “Mabel’s asleep. She works early. I could kill a chicken, if you like.”

  “I’m hungry enough, but eggs’ll do. I thought you’d be asleep.”

  Dempster diced vegetables and tossed them into a pan. “I got a few hours.” He broke a couple of eggs into another pan. “Sit. This won’t take long.”

  I sat. One day survived. I had identity. But Resp
ite had a darker side.

  “Al, the street children.”

  “The disposables? Be very careful, Lemuel. You can’t afford to get arrested.”

  Maybe Dempster wasn’t the person for the questions in my head.

  Chapter 3

  Despite the strange bed and novel surroundings, I managed some sleep, peppered with dreams of locked doors and panoramic views of an alien world.

  Mabel had left for work at the local slaughterhouse by the time I got up.

  Dempster had a fried-egg-and-Respite-vegetables breakfast ready when I reached the kitchen. I wouldn’t need lunch. In return for a silver button, he gave me a map of Cragglemouth, a week’s lodging, and twenty cupros—enough cash, he assured me, to eat well and get more appropriate clothes.

  I spent the day being photographed at the police station, exploring the town, and buying clothing that didn’t raise eyebrows. Despite some incredulity at the sight of my papers, by evening I was a member of the West Cragglemouth Library, of a small athletics club affiliated with the Temple of Darken’s Revelation, and of a juggling club for recovering alcoholics, where I had somehow volunteered as an instructor. I knew how many days constituted each month—thirty-two, except for the shorter December—and had some insight into the value of the currency.

  On Wednesday morning, something hushed against my window an hour before Dempster’s mechanical alarm clock had a chance to do its job. I sat up, stretched forward, and flicked at the curtain.

  Gray clouds covered the sky. Rain, the first unscheduled rain I had ever witnessed, splashed against the pane, each drop creating a subliminal hiss as it spattered on glass.

  I grabbed my clothes and dressed by the window. The changing wind brought swirls and flurries, a brief cascade, and peace as the rain eased to nothing. The sound of the last drops was lost against the clanging of my alarm.

  By the time I had eaten the generous breakfast Dempster provided, sunshine forced its way through gaps in the clouds.

  I pushed my plate away. “Today, I’m looking for work. Any advice?”

  Dempster handed me an umbrella. “Be back by evening. There’s a storm forecast.”

  I set off as soon as I had eaten. My aim was to reach the labor office, a journey of two miles according to the town map, before it opened. It didn’t work out that way.

  The shortest route took me along Darken Walk, a narrow lane that led from Bluefinch Avenue to the commercial district in the city center. It traversed a tributary of the Craggle via a pedestrian bridge, timber standing on ancient wooden piles. A harsh wind set my coat flapping as I crossed. I raised the collar.

  At the high point of the bridge, I caught a sight of the distant ocean, beyond what looked like an industrial estate. I had seen the ocean during my descent, and heard its waters once, or dreamed I did, as I struggled for sleep the first night. Large boats—business or pleasure, I couldn’t guess which—were moored in a loose skein across the sea. Dark clouds over the horizon hinted at the predicted storm.

  I hurried on. At the far end of the bridge, pinned to a wooden post, was a rain-soaked page that wouldn’t survive any coming storm.

  reward: six cupros for nelly’s return. thirty cupros on conviction of her captors.

  It is with great sadness that we announce the loss of our friend and companion, napped from her own pen for Darken knows what evil purpose.

  Two years old, almost. Purple streaks down her throat. She answers to the name Nelly, or to any other.

  There followed contact details but no further explanation of Nelly’s nature.

  Around the poster, metal tacks indicated a history of posting.

  A missing turkey? A strange choice of pet, but I had seen no mammals apart from horses and goats in the butcher’s shop, and humans.

  I hurried on. By the time I reached Silversmith Square, Cragglemouth’s center of commerce, steam rose from its cobbles.

  On each side of the square, widely spaced stone buildings four or five stories high gave a sense of affluence: the Bank of Eden, with its great glass frontage; the marble-clad Heyho Bank; Draco Trading, built with massive blocks of black granite with steps at its front of the same material; Cragglemouth Insurance, a paler granite with a red stone inlay. There were others, but no labor office.

  A patch of grass with ornamental trees filled the middle of the square. Standing at its center, with a wooden bench near each of its four sides, a stone statue dominated the scene. Motorized vehicles on the cobbled road outnumbered horse-drawn vehicles, though there were few of either.

  A man in a dark-blue suit hurried toward me, collar held around his cheeks. I called to him as he passed, asking directions to the labor office. He pointed toward a side street but didn’t slacken his stride.

  As I approached the street he had indicated, two small children, who had been watching me from the green center, ran across the cobbles. They stopped in front of me. Both were dressed in tattered, ill-fitting clothing and were barefoot. They didn’t seem in poor health, but their pleading eyes and their limp, quivering mouths suggested great sadness. A practiced sadness?

  Did they see me as an outsider, a new target? The younger, a girl of no more than eight, held out a hand. “Spare a coin, Mister.”

  Dempster had warned me not to interact, but I couldn’t ignore them. I fumbled in my pocket and found a fifty-cent coin—enough, if I understood the currency, to buy them each a cheap meal. I held it out. “No home?”

  The girl snatched the coin before I had finished speaking. She turned it in her hand and frowned. “Hey, Mister.” A flutter of her eyelids. “I’ll do anything for a couple of cupros. Anything at all.”

  A piercing whistle sounded from nearby. I turned. Two police officers rushed toward me. One shouted an order to stop, but when I turned back, the children had fled. I waited. “I didn’t see which way they went, Officers.”

  The first policeman pointed a baton at me then jabbed it into my ribs. I stumbled. He lowered his face to mine. “You think this is a joke?”

  “No, I—”

  The second policeman, larger and fiercer than the first, also had his baton directed at my midsection. “We saw you give that child money. If I don’t get your papers in five seconds, you are under arrest.”

  He had my papers in three seconds. He looked at the single sheet, stepped back, muttered something to his companion, and jotted a few words into a notebook. “It’s your lucky day, my friend. For some reason, new refugees get a little leeway.” He handed my papers back. “If you take my advice, you’ll keep well clear of the disposables. This is on your record now.”

  I pocketed the paper and edged away, the memory of a baton in my ribs still strong. So was the memory of that well-fed child whose story I needed to know.

  Twice in three days, I had been approached by child beggars. The first pair had been starving, the second pair, living in the center of Cragglemouth’s commercial district, better fed, supporting themselves by a trade older than humanity, which brought no credit to a civilized nation.

  I found it difficult to worry about the plight of a missing turkey in a land where the welfare of children received such scant regard.

  To have a voice, I needed to survive. With aching ribs and a pounding heart, I set off toward to the labor office.

  Ms. Winterthorn brushed a strand of gray hair from her forehead and stared at me over her half-glasses. Our ten-minute chat hadn’t impressed her.

  She took a form from a pile on her desk and handed it to me. “Fill this in. At least we can get your lack of experience on our records.”

  I took the form. The words were easy enough to read, but answering proved difficult. All the eye movements I tried failed to create a tick or a word in any box. “How?”

  “You can write, can’t you?”

  Writing by hand, like knitting or starship design, was a skill practiced by few scholars in the butt end of Earth’s thirty-fifth century.

  Ms. Winterthorn sighed and held her hand over the form. W
hen she had filled it in according to my responses, she wrote my name on a slip of paper. “Just copy this in here, and we’ll call it a signature.”

  I took the pen she offered and struggled to fill in my name.

  She shook her head. “I like a challenge, but this is ridiculous. You seem intelligent, but you are almost thirty-five years old with no work record and no certificate of education. You can’t shoe a horse. You can’t drive a car. With no proven skills, it’s farm labor or factory work.”

  I slumped against the chair. “Just those? I have to do something.”

  “It’s up to you. New jobs come in every day, so keep popping in.”

  Neither farm labor nor factory work had great appeal, but if nothing else came up in a few days, I’d take what I had to.

  Back in the square, I saw no sign of the two children. Were they sharing a fifty-cent meal at some cheap café? I tried not to think of the alternatives.

  For an hour, I wandered through the commercial district. I bought lunch far enough from the square that a cupro covered two courses with change. Where next?

  Where did they come from, the children of the streets? Why were they allowed to live as they did?

  With no omninet available, or any of its antecedents, I headed for the library and showed my temporary registration card to the clerk. “I need to know the origins of the disposables. Where should I begin?”

  The clerk led me to the classical-fiction shelves, where she handed me An Orphan’s Tale—a novel written a century and a half earlier and soon, she assured me, to become an EBC film. I took it to a reading desk, sat down, and began to read.

  The first chapters did little more than set the background. I found them fascinating, perhaps because of my great ignorance of the society in which the story was set.

  Someone sat beside me, short and slight, with a thin leather raincoat, the hood of which was raised. “You ask about the disposables.” The voice, female, was no more than a whisper.