“Who the hell are you?” I ask, unable to cover my surprise.
“Who the hell are you?” she returns.
Intrigued, I study her round, angelic face. Big, grey-green eyes stare right back at me. There’s no suspicion in her gaze, no fear or cynicism. In fact, her eyes glow with the glory of a youth untouched by tragedy. But that can’t be the case if she’s sitting down here. Does she have any idea how innocent she looks?
“Someone who wants to know if there’s any more coffee,” I finally answer.
“You look like you need it.”
Motioning towards the seat across from her, she rises and nearly floats through the run-down kitchen. I guess she knows her way around. Sitting in the offered chair I put down my bag and study the way she walks. There’s something about it. Why is it bugging me?
“I thought I was the only one who ever came down here,” she says, delicately dusting out a blue mug. Filling it with coffee from a decrepit pot she turns around to study me. Her grey-green eyes send a strange tremor through my body, making me suspicious of her saintly appearance. A moment later, she sits down and hands me the mug. “I’ve been coming here for a whole year and I’ve never seen anyone else.”
Thanking her, I sniff the hot liquid and look around for the sugar. Kentucky usually keeps it in an old tin box about the size of my fist. Oddly enough, when I look down at the table, I find it right next to my hand. I must not have seen it when I first sat down.
The girl’s eyes widen in fascination and excitement. “How did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“With the sugar tin,” she explains. “It was next to me and then it slid across the table! How did you do that?”
I can’t decide if she’s playing a game with me. Confused, I shoot her a inquiring look. Picking up the tin she searches for a string or wire with her hands. “My brother used to love illusions. Did you learn it from a book?”
“Book…?” I know I’ve heard that word before.
“Yes, a b... never mind.” She folds her hands on the table and demurely studies a burn mark in the decaying metal.
Shaking sugar into my coffee I search for a safe question to ask. “So…what sector are you from?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” She shrugs. “You?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I echo. Despite my initial instinct not to trust her, I can feel her drawing out my softer side. “I used to be a Cop.”
“You’re Daryl, the Criminal from A Sector?” she breathes. Her grey-green eyes widen in fascination once again. She gives me another look over. “You don’t look at all like I imagined you.”
“And how did you imagine me?”
“I mean, the way they talk….” Her face flushes with embarrassment. “It’s like you’re made of precious gems or eight feet tall, or something.”
I chuckle into my coffee. “The way they talk…?”
“The other orphans. They all tell stories about you. None of them are going to believe that I actually met you.”
“You’re a scavenger?” I ask. Each sector has a different name for its orphans. In B it’s scavengers, in Q it’s strays, in N it’s germs. The list goes on. “The old man’s adopted you?”
“I suppose,” she answers, picking at a nasty scab on her arm. “I mostly live here…like you did when you first met Kentucky.”
“I take it you know everything about me.”
“Not everything, just a lot. It’s hard not to.” She studies my face and her brow wrinkles in concern. “Everyone’s watching you. They want to know what you’re going to do.”
There’s something in her tone that trips my psychic talent again. Suspicious of her motives, I take the time to study her intense gaze. The finely tuned survival instinct buried in the depths of her eyes tells me everything I need to know.
Information is power. People must be playing high stakes with my Madman drama; the whole Criminal world has probably laid down bets. If this girl could get inside info she could sell it for some real fame on the streets. She figures she’s got me trusting her enough that I’ll let something slip.
Irritated at her little show, I decide to teach her a lesson. Hideouts are no bullshit zones—business is reserved for topside.
“You must think I’m some shiny novice, bright eyes. I’m a veteran. I don’t give away anything for free.”
Her air of simple purity melts away. Fatigue and disappointment darken her clear gaze as her lips descend into a frown. Shaking her head vigorously, she rolls her eyes and lets out an annoyed sigh. “Did I come on too strong? I thought I had you.”
“Are we going to trade or not?”
She pouts when she realizes that I’m not going to fall for her second trap—camaraderie. Leaning forward onto her elbows, she studies my face once more. “You’re not as wrecked as you look. I’d heard you were off your game.”
I won’t be falling for that maneuver either. Locket and Wulff are the only ones who can manipulate me that way. “It’s either a trade or nothing.”
“Fine,” she yields, exasperated. “I’ll trade. What do you want?”
“I want your story.”
She lets out a skeptical huff. “Yeah, right, that’s all you want.”
“I’m guessing you live on the streets,” I continue. “You know what a good story is worth. I’m also guessing that you’ve never told anyone where you’re really from. If you know anything about me, like you claim, you know that my curiosity gets me into a lot of trouble. I want to know your story. You can start with your name. Your real name, not your scavenger name.”
I sit back in my chair to watch the emotions play across her face; suspicion, frustration, uncertainty, curiosity and then, finally, acceptance. Searching my idle gaze, she nods slowly.
I wonder how long she’s been on the streets. It’s possible the speck of optimism I can still see in her eyes is genuine, but it’s also possible she’s one of those people who can’t stop acting. Whatever the case, I need to satisfy my curiosity. If we come up against each other again, I want to know as much as I can about her.
“What do I get in return?”
“My plans,” I promise. “I have two days left but I already know what I’m going to do.”
“I can live with that,” she replies after mulling it over for a moment. Because I have seniority she has to deliver first. “My name is Tyler, Clarissa Tyler.” She hesitates before continuing, waiting to see if I think she’s lying.
“I believe you.”
“I’m from the Court.”
I wait for my psychic talent to tell me she’s full of shit, but it doesn’t kick in.
There are no F Sector would-be Criminals. Maybe my talent isn’t working like it used to. Then again, I suddenly understand why her walk was bugging me. The citizens of the Court, called Lawmakers, have a way of moving. You won’t find it anywhere else. It’s like they’re gliding across the floor, feet hardly touching the ground. The only reason I know about it is because I was Jack’s second thief in his line to F—I’ve been to the Court. Clarissa has done a good job learning to walk tough, but there’s still a bit of her old life in her muscles.
“Lawmaker,” I finally acknowledge, impressed. Jack would be interested in her story. “How were you swallowed?”
“My father…” she stumbles over her words “I was seven when they arrested him.”
“Arrested?”
Clarissa nods. “I never really understood what happened. Our lives were just over. My father was gone; my elder sister disappeared, I don’t remember seeing her before I was taken away; my elder brother was already an adult by then, but there was nothing he could do to help us; we had no guardian so my mother and I were sold as slaves into T Sector.”
Obviously unsettled by her memories, she stumbles over her words and then stops talking altogether. Her story sparks a note of compassion in my heart. I know all too well what it’s like to lose your family at a young age. Still, I can
’t completely understand because I was never sold into slavery. The Court has a strange policy when it comes to women: no male guardian, no citizenship. I don’t know much about it except that Gentry women, by law, belong to Gentry men. So, in a way, Clarissa and her mother were already slaves before they were sold.
“After a few weeks in T Sector my mother bribed a smuggler to get me out,” she finally continues. “I’ve been a scavenger ever since.”
I can only imagine what she means by bribe. There’s something she’s leaving out of her story, but I don’t need the gory details. “How do you like the streets?”
“Anything is better than the grind,” she replies.
That word—grind—abruptly ends our conversation. That’s what escaped slaves call their time in T Sector. It has a double meaning. Most are worked until they can’t remember their own names, but some are used for more recreational activities. Ex-slaves like to debate about whose worse off, the land-workers or the sex-workers.
I slowly examine Clarissa’s angelic features—her bright eyes and healthy, flawless skin. Thick hair cascades in flowing waves around her shoulders. She’s little more than a child but, without her carefully constructed mask of innocence, I grasp exactly what the grind means to her.
Sickened at the realization, I struggle not to pity her. Pity is reserved for the pathetic. As far as I’ve seen, Clarissa is a survivor. We wouldn’t be having this conversation otherwise. Besides, sympathy will only cloud my judgment.
“If you could get back into F Sector, would you do it?”
Clarissa balks at the question. Much like me, I don’t think she ever considered the possibility of going back. “What would be the point?”
“Let’s say a powerful crime boss calls in a favour. It’s either find a way home or die.”
Her mouth falls open. “You’re going to find a line into A.”
I smile in confirmation. Placing my half empty mug on the table, I get up and grab my bag.
“Everyone will say I’m lying,” she protests. “You only have two choices: death by Locket or work for Madman. People will rub my face into the pavement if I give them this.”
“Will they?” I ask with false innocence. “Wow. I guess you shouldn’t say anything, then.”
“Fuck you!” She jumps to her feet. Her head barely reaches my shoulder but she’s ready to hit me. My amused expression only fuels her anger. “You knew I couldn’t use this info for anything.”
“And you shouldn’t have tried to trick me down here,” I answer. “If you want to make it off the streets, bright eyes, this is your first lesson. Even Criminals have a code: we don’t disturb the sanctuaries. If you’re a guest in someone’s hideout you don’t play the game; if you’re a hostess you don’t play the game; if you meet another Criminal in a hideout neither of you play the game.”
Clarissa visibly deflates. Hunching over, she places her hands over her stomach as though recovering from a punch to the gut. She doesn’t know where to look so she fixes her gaze on her mug of coffee.
It isn’t easy watching her collapse inwardly. Despite my belief that no good can come if I sympathize with her, I feel horribly guilty.
“Then again, you could take a chance,” I say. “People might believe I’m crazy enough to try.” My words don’t do anything to improve her mood. I try another tactic. “Heath Jackson might be able to find a job for you, if you’re willing. What’s your scavenger name?”
She immediately perks up when I mention Jack. “Sonora.”
“Well, Sonora, he’ll send word by the old man.”
She manages a small smile before I walk away. A warm feeling settles in my chest. Despite her manipulations, I’m fond of Clarissa Tyler.
Her story is different from mine. Nineteen years ago my mom died; seventeen years ago my dad never came home. On the morning of the seventh day of his disappearance my younger brother, Nathan, and I were officially declared orphans. A few minutes later, one of our neighbours came to claim the bounty on our heads. I was three months away from my twelfth birthday—ninety-one days stood between me and the ability to become my little brother’s guardian.
Nobody knows where the orphans go; I didn’t want to find out. The day I became one, I ran.
Nathan didn’t want to go with me. He didn’t understand the City the same way that I do; this is a place that pits neighbour against neighbour in the name of survival. My harmless ten-year-old brother trusted the other Cop to help us. While I was throwing clothes and tools into a bag he called me paranoid and let our neighbour in.
I think the tranquilizer dart must have killed him. When I say I think, I mean that I don’t know—I can’t be sure. Nathan went down so quickly. Mier, the desperately poor guy who lived in the box above us, was a giant fuck-up. There’s no guarantee he adjusted the dosage to fit a kid’s metabolism. As he stood over Nathan’s motionless body he prepared the dart that was meant for me. I didn’t wait around long enough for him to catch me.
When mom died my dad moved us into a poorer area of Cop Sector. I spent most of my time exploring the air ducts and basement passages of our run-down, piece of crap building. I scrambled into an air duct, took the quickest route to the basement, squeezed through the bent bars of the basement door, and ran. Somewhere in the middle of my panicked escape I found myself in Cop Sector sewers. A few hours later I came up for air and I was in B Sector.
I never saw my little brother or my dad again.
From then on, I learned the hard way. I had no credit balance so, like Klem, I worked for food. It isn’t hard for a scavenger to figure out that the best way to make a living is by helping others break the law. But nobody trusts orphans. They don’t see the big picture because they’re starving. Most of them die before they get a chance to prove themselves.
Despite the differences in our stories, however, I feel a certain kinship with Clarissa. Her family is gone, just like mine; she’s using her talents to eke out a living, just like I had to. And she’s making it work. The streets are a brutal place. If she hasn’t died yet, there may be a future for her in the Criminal underworld. Depending on what happens in the next few days, I’ll see what I can do to ease that transition.
At the back wall I step behind an industrial storage unit. Bending metal away from the wall, I slip through a hole that serves as Kentucky’s back door. There are handholds all through it to help the old man move through in case of emergency. It’s a maze of tunnels but I know which lefts and rights to take. Before long I emerge into the streets. It’s a bright afternoon by the looks of it.
Jumping over Kentucky’s getaway vehicle—a seemingly rusted out piece of metal that can actually get about ten feet in hover and ninety in speed—I head for the messier streets of B.
It’s time to visit my old crew.
13
Getting to Heath Jackson’s hideout is more uncomfortable than it is hard. It’s in the rough area of B. Gentler sorts don’t come here. Someone might decide to smash your head in if they decide they don’t like you. When last I was here a man named Gullet owned these streets. He gave Jack’s crew freedom to roam as they liked. I don’t recognize any faces and it’s likely that Gullet is dead. Street bosses, like orphans, never last too long.
Rough looking men scan my body as I walk past. Nervously stepping over a stoned user, I make sure to keep my head down. If a woman is walking down one of these streets she’s probably selling sex. I get more than a few offers for a quickie before I manage to get down the first block.
“Once you see the size of my dick, sweetheart, you’ll thank Luck for sending me your way,” one heavily muscled man taunts as he leers at me. “I could split that fine body in two and still have you begging for more.”
I stare uneasily at the street and pretend I don’t hear him. Sexual harassment always put me on edge. It brings back memories. The big talker guffaws before getting out of my way. He’s impressed his buddies enough, he doesn’t need to make good on his claim. Relieved, I scurry away from him
and his sniggering gang.
There’s a group of four scarred and ragged men up ahead. My psychic talent buzzes—some idiots you can walk right by, others refuse to be ignored. Unluckily for me, they’re loitering in front of the alley that leads to Jack’s hideout.
“Now you I could ride for hours,” one guy loudly remarks when he sees me coming their way.
“I get her first. All I need is a minute,” a tall, hollow-faced man promises. “I’ll just slide in and slide out. She won’t miss a step.”
Disgusted, I shake my head. “Just let me through.”
His hand slides over my shoulders, down my waist and over my hips. Bringing his fingers back up to rub my neck, he runs his tongue over cracked lips. My skin crawls at the unwanted contact, my stomach churns with revulsion. These guys need to learn to keep their hands to themselves. While the men continue to taunt me, circling me like their next meal, my mind retreats into menacing stillness. I can’t hear them anymore. All I know is that one of them is still touching me.
He’ll be the first to go down.
I’m carrying my bag in my right hand so I casually grab his wrist with my left. It takes very little effort to put someone into an arm lock if you know what you’re doing. He grunts in pain as I kick out his knees. When he falls to the ground, I put my foot on his back and pull back on his arm. His shoulder pops out nicely from his body before his scream echoes through the afternoon heat. My instincts sharpen as his pain filled cry fills the uncaring streets; power surges through me as his arm flops uselessly at his side.
But I should have made this first encounter bloodier. Blood tends to make others hesitate.
Turning to my next attacker, I easily duck under his ill-aimed punch. A moment later my fist rams into his nose. The cartilage breaks with an exquisite crunch and blood pours down his face.
The Line Page 9
