by C A Gleason
He realized he needed to slow down even more, but also to talk to her, realizing his silence might make her want him to leave. He sighed heavily.
“That was a smile!”
Onnin felt his lip lift a little. He supposed he couldn’t help it. Smiling was natural and he was human. Royah was a beautiful woman but she was also rather funny. And likable. Even though she talked too much.
Maybe if he talked to her some, she would stop talking again and then they could enjoy the silence the way he liked. But together.
“What kind of name is Onnin anyway? I’ve never heard of it before.”
He shrugged and kept walking. He could have spoken but so many questions could be answered with a shrug. At least he’d responded. It was his own way of communicating but he would talk more in time. He would pace himself.
His lip lowered back to normal. He realized he didn’t smile often and it felt awkward.
All they needed to do was make it to the next town. Royah would eventually agree to take the baby. Women liked babies. Then she would probably go her own way and ask him to do the same.
Unless he could get her to like him between here and there. Except it would definitely require conversation. He didn’t know much about women, but knew they liked to talk. For a while, he could get away with shrugging and moving his head around based on all she was saying.
Unfortunately, men needed to say things sometimes too. He felt his hands start to sweat and it wasn’t from the heat. For so long, he wished for this to happen but now his own behavior mystified him.
“You don’t say much, do you?”
He shook his head.
“You understand me though? My accent?”
He nodded. Royah spoke differently than other people, an inflection he couldn’t quite place. She sounded like she was from somewhere civilized. A unique pronunciation was typical when someone was from a town like Westo.
“You don’t like to talk but the nice part is you have no choice but to listen. Which is fine with me. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had a two-sided, one-sided conversation with me, to myself—or wait—that doesn’t sound right. A one-sided two-way conversation with myself to me involving someone else. Does that make more sense?”
“No.”
“Aha. So, you do understand?”
“You asked me already.”
“You do listen! Good for me, because I like to have conversations. A lot! I’m kidding. But not really. I do like to talk though.”
Onnin inhaled and exhaled loudly. So many words. This was going to take some getting used to but probably because no one ever talked to him as much as Royah, especially in one day. Sometimes, he went weeks without even greeting someone.
At least it seemed she was comfortable around him though.
“Oh. it won’t be so bad. I’m sure I’m not, I can’t be, the ugliest woman you’ve ever seen before.”
Royah went quiet. He didn’t think she was ugly. Far from it. She was the most beautiful woman Onnin ever saw in his life. It occurred to him every time he looked at her and he wondered why she thought it about herself.
“Maybe I am, since you didn’t correct me. I’m the ugliest woman you’ve ever met. No wonder you won’t converse with me. I guess I can live with that.”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Royah walked faster. “I see.”
He exhaled again and lengthened his stride, catching up with her easily, getting his face into her view. “Joke. Very pretty woman.”
She lit up. “Thank you. I haven’t been called pretty, well, ever.”
Onnin spoke low to quiet his voice. “Many men think it.”
She looked over at him warmly. “You aren’t who I thought you were. At first. What I was thinking is what everyone says. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not a mind reader.”
“I believed—never mind. It doesn’t matter. You’re handsome. Do you have a girlfriend?”
He choked on some spittle and coughed. It was loud, almost as loud as a gunblast, and Royah took an involuntary step away from him.
Had he heard her correctly? She said no man ever called her pretty. He didn’t believe that for a second. She would sooner be hard of hearing. But him handsome? He’d seen his reflection in lakes before. Handsome was no way to describe him.
He had a pronounced brow under long, straggly hair, with a wide jaw under a lot of beard. The men he saw who were with women, had short hair and short beards.
Maybe she was trying to trick him. He felt himself blush. Of course she was. She needed him to protect her and would say anything to make that happen. He’d been blinded by how he was feeling about her.
Onnin picked up the pace. He hated being a joke. He’d been a joke to too many people too many times. They mocked him from a distance, but Royah had the gall to do it up close.
She must have sensed what he was thinking, his feeling must have flashed across his face before he’d marched ahead, because she yelled after him.
“I’m serious!”
Her shouting woke the baby and she fussed. Royah whispered to her, trying to soothe her. There was no way to know if Royah was telling the truth. He didn’t have experience with women and he witnessed men tricked into doing what women wanted from a distance many times.
But he liked Royah.
Royah’s words hadn’t worked to comfort the baby, so she was quick to feed her protein juice. A natural at being motherly, as he’d hoped.
The baby quieted, and they walked together again.
“We should name her.” She looked over at him. “What would be a nice name?”
He shook his head.
She was looking up at him with a familiar expectation. “I thought you were going to talk to me?”
“Your idea. You choose.”
Royah thought for a moment. “How about Emma? I’ve heard the name before. I’ve always liked it. It’s a nice name for a girl. I think. What about you, Onnin? How do you feel about the name?”
He nodded.
“Emma it is. It’ll be easier to talk about her with a name. Won’t it?”
He nodded again and noticed Royah was smiling down at Emma. Emma’s eyes were heavy. Already sleepy again from feeding. It seemed feeding, sleeping, urinating, and defecating were all babies did. At least they were predictable. Until they grew up.
“You remember what my name is, right?”
“Yes, Royah.”
Royah stared up at him. “I really didn’t mean to embarrass you back there. I was just hoping to learn a little more about you. Which is to say to know anything at all. So, no girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Good. I don’t have a boyfriend either, so it looks like we were meant for each other.”
Onnin wasn’t sure if she meant what she was saying—maybe she talked to all men that way—but he noticed she was walking nearer to him than anyone ever did during his life.
If he dropped his hand down, it might touch her hand. Maybe she wouldn’t recoil. She didn’t seem afraid of him, being so close. He sensed it. She was smart. But brave. Knowing so, made him feel good about himself.
There was a man ahead. He was crouched next to a scoutbike. Which could be useful to the quest.
According to his behavior, the bike looked broken down and he seemed to be performing maintenance. Maintenance on a scoutbike was hardly required. Solar engines ran forever unless they were damaged. Damaged ones typically exploded.
Onnin recognized the scene. It was usually a ruse. A trap. The scenario played out to him before, from a distance, and for those who were involved, usually only one side survived.
“Do you see him in the distance?”
Royah reacted to the worry in his voice. “Who?”
“Follow me.” Onnin was ready to pull his revolver. “Stay close.”
33. Yohiro
Sweeping was something he’d done since he was old enough to hold a broom. His father placing a broom in his hand and showing him how to sweep p
roperly, was one of his earliest memories.
A benefit was witnessing dirt and grime collecting. The results practically immediate after what piled, which was filth not belonging, and was disposed of soon after.
Now he swept multiple times a day. There’d been so many brushes back and forth on the same floor of his father’s store, he couldn’t possibly count them.
Because it was a responsibility even a child could handle, and he did it for so long, as an adult it felt like therapy. Not just because work was being done, but getting lost in thought while in the midst. Work was its own reward.
He couldn’t explain that to someone, unless they experienced it for themselves. They wouldn’t understand. Like many lessons, feeling satisfied by work couldn’t be given, only learned. Earned.
And initiated by a teacher who knew how to lead in the right direction, as Yohiro’s father did. Yohiro’s daily chore dropped away layers of stress as deep as the cavernous bunker he returned from.
After he’d pushed YES to begin the program, the Sword-bot had slashed with enough force to cut him to pieces. It moved so quickly and with such fluidly, its flurry of blade strikes was practically a rehearsed dance.
Thousands of shards of splintered mirror, the audience against the walls.
Yohiro blocked lightning fast slashes, stabs, thrusts, and arcs, any one of which could have taken off a limb or even his head. He blocked and lunged, his own quick strikes clanging off the robot’s head until it froze in place.
Then Yohiro saw what he hoped for. A green light.
“DEFEAT. DEFEAT. DEFEAT,” the Sword-bot had admitted.
Though likely, nowhere close in skill to those he admired from Earth, he believed himself to be the most skilled warrior on Home.
But the Sword-bot held one more training program. And he’d pushed YES again.
The Sword-bot had driven itself over to the weapon rack, picked up an additional sword, and driven itself back, holding a sword in each robotic hand.
Yohiro had raised his sword, feeling the corner of his mouth lift into a half-grin, because he had been seconds away from experiencing the Sword-bot’s MULTIPLE ATTACKS training program—
The bell above the door chimed, as deputies pushed their way into Ito’s General Store And Supplies.
Yohiro’s remembrance of the training faded away. But the lessons were part of him. And always would be.
His sweeping, and all its therapy, including helping his father maintain the store, would intensify today.
This time they were accompanied by Overseer Bloomfeld himself. They’d chosen to enter as the store was closing. There were no other patrons. That was not an accident. Nor was it an accident how they were dressed; for battle.
Ito did his best not to react from behind the counter. But it was difficult for him to hide what he was feeling. He went pale. He believed them to be in danger.
As Yohiro swept, he easily hid his anticipation. Positioned at the back of the store, his eyes were on them. Once again, he was hardly noticed. The overseer didn’t even glance in his direction.
For a few seconds, Yohiro thought that maybe the overseer being present was a positive. That maybe they were going to iron out the discrepancy from before. He quickly realized that wasn’t going to happen.
Bloomfeld stood among his deputies looking nothing more than an additional deputy himself. Another outlier prone to violence. Except the armor he wore wasn’t quite as weathered as the armor worn by those surrounding him.
No matter how others might interpret the scene, Yohiro was witnessing a group of men standing before his father in a threatening manner. Even if one of them called himself overseer.
Physically, Overseer Bloomfeld was better kept when first elected, but his true self shone through. Upon inspection—as best Yohiro could from the back of the store—he noticed the overseer differed slightly from his deputies. By his power and natural leadership.
But there was a tiredness about all of them. A weakness wore through. A desperation. They were criminals and lazy and wouldn’t understand the benefits of accomplishing a task such as sweeping.
The deputies could surely afford to better themselves in appearance—more complete sets of armor for instance—with all the currency they swindled from Easto’s citizens. They likely didn’t care, instead spending it on who knows what.
They weren’t afraid or ashamed to hide—or even attempt—what they truly were; outliers from beyond Easto. It was the only characteristic about them Yohiro respected. At least they were being true to themselves.
Bloomfeld was older than the others. His hair and beard gone gray. He kept his facial hair trimmed somewhat, but wild hairs still speared in every direction.
He attempted to blend in with the rest of the townsfolk, but was incapable. Everything about him screamed false, except for his contempt for having to be there.
And they were all acting oddly. They were waiting for something to happen. The deputies were biding their time. One of them might reach over the counter and pull Ito over to beat him again.
Let them try.
Bloomfeld finally spoke up. “I understand there was some trouble.”
It was what the rest were waiting for. For their leader to speak. Of course he would be the one doing the talking. Bloomfeld did sound more civilized than his outlier deputies, but it was a practiced deceit.
Ito shook his head. “No trouble.”
Bloomfeld stared, expecting a different answer. Ito wasn’t working or even pretending to. He leaned on the counter giving the overseer his full attention.
It was a confrontation and Yohiro was proud of how his father was handling things so far. Yohiro would have already handled it differently.
But he knew his father was a better man than he was. A better negotiator. More disciplined. More pride. And had more to lose.
Bloomfeld seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Maybe more deputies would soon join them in their confrontation against the most reliable tax payer and shop owner in town.
It started to make Yohiro nervous as he swept. Perhaps they didn’t view him as a threat because of his height?
The men, and others in town were far taller than him. If he were taller, the intruders would definitely have taken notice of him.
“No, there was trouble all right,” the heavyset deputy said, the one with the black beard who did all the talking last time. “This guy ain’t contributing like the rest.”
“Guy? My name is Ito. It is the name on the sign outside the store. Or can’t you read? What kind of deputies do you have working for you, Overseer?”
“Watch your mouth,” the deputy said. “Or your name won’t be on any sign for much longer.”
“Why?”
Ito waited.
“You know.”
“I do not.”
The harsh words were rehearsed but badly. Bloomfeld turned to the deputy who spoke and then back to Ito, impersonating someone who wanted to nod thoughtfully at what was said, as if his mind weren’t made up already.
Because they didn’t notice him, or chose not to acknowledge him—Yohiro saw them flashing looks to one another and mouthing things—he approached. It was pathetically obvious what they were doing, displaying their lack of intelligence.
Bloomfeld faked seriousness. “Is that so?”
“Is what so?”
“You aren’t contributing?”
“Of course I do.”
“He’s lying,” the deputy said.
“See I have to take that,” Bloomfeld pointed at his man, “seriously. This here’s one of my best and I respect him. I have no reason not to believe him.”
The bearded deputy sneered showing what was left of rotting teeth. “Hear him Shop Owner? The best.”
Bloomfeld’s tone changed. “I said one of the best.”
He faltered and closed his lips over his disgusting teeth.
“I’ve lived in this town for years. I’ve kept this business going. I’m a good citizen. I d
o what’s asked of me. And I do not make trouble.”
“Until now,” the deputy said.
Bloomfeld raised a hand to silence him. “My deputies, they do what I tell them. If they’re asking, then I’m asking. You understand?”
Ito said nothing.
“Easto’s a nice town.” Bloomfeld looked around the store. “This is a lucrative location. Wouldn’t you say, Ito?”
“Yes.”
“The more business being done in a town like this, the more it costs to run it. Make sense?”
“My profits are consistent. There’s only so much room in the store.”
“Hear me out. I’m not saying you have to do anything more than you’re used to.”
Bloomfeld leaned his hands on the counter. Both men angled toward the other like a mirrored image. Except the opposite in character: one righteous, the other a villain.
Getting closer was clearly an intimidation tactic, and it was working. Yohiro saw nervousness on his father’s face, but he was also getting angrier. His breathing visibly quickened.
“What I am saying is, seeing as I’m in charge of this town, I could easily give someone else the opportunity to run their business in this particular location. Someone who can appreciate it more. Seem reasonable to you?”
Ito’s silence was his answer. Of course his father didn’t think so. All of what transpired was a threat.
Yohiro knew his father well enough to know what he was thinking; this was a racket.
It was then Yohiro decided to creep faster.
But sweeping as he normally did, he remained ignored. His biggest weakness was his small stature, now a strength, practically making him invisible.
His will was beyond what any of them were capable of though, and he would remain hidden in plain sight. He made no effort to do anything out of the ordinary. Nothing displaying what he was planning. What might cause a deputy to question him.
He was calm and composed and seemed to be focused on the task at hand as he did typically when the deputies were busily—and illegally—shaking down his father for more currency.
