David: Savakerrva, Book 1

by L. Brown

  A glorious misery, his return to the nets. For though the ropey sway soothed, lulled his hunger and aches, Garth couldn’t relax, couldn’t understand how you could be surrounded by thousands, yet still be alone. Not since the river had isolation so overwhelmed, but even then, if he could trust some vestigial sense, even in that undefined skew of space, he’d perceived a presence, someone enigmatically there.

  But here? Now, he looked in from without, and in the world of the herd, the outlier dies.

  So the only question, he supposed, was when he would go, or perhaps also how. Would he faint against the J’kel, just fry in its glow? Or maybe he’d be struck by a slagger, some accidental blow straight to his head. Then again, maybe he would initiate the attack; would some Son of a Quill push him too far? And as scenarios played out behind his heavy, sagging lids, he wondered how true it actually was, if only the fittest survived. Because if he really believed it, acted it out, then wouldn’t he have to bully the weak, steal their place at the trough? And if so, then what did that make him, had he come to a world where murder made you ‘fit’?

  Then again, did that describe the world he’d left? Regardless, that was then, this was now, and even if he faced starvation, he would never prey on the aged or sick, that just wasn’t him.

  Not yet.

  About to doze off, perhaps he already had, Garth recalled his wild card. And though the Manager had his shiv and the slaggers had tools, none but the G’mach appeared to be armed. So if it happened again at the troughs, if he were kicked, beat, or tossed? At least he had something, the shock of surprise. But as they weighed upon his chest, those X-blades under his coat, he wondered if someone might attack while he slept. Could he retrieve them in time? Unnerved a bit, Garth touched his chest, and that’s when he flinched, when he felt the thing that shouldn’t be there.

  One eyelid cracking, then two, Garth peered at a slab speckled with flecks. The same wonderful grub he found after his fall, he surmised it had just been left; and might, in some alternate universe of inexplicable acts, be some kind of gift.

  Startled from sleep into wide-awake disbelief, Garth felt a quiver, a jostle of rope behind. But a quick look back revealed only the net’s top edge, a dark perimeter marked by a stretch of rope — and faintly discernible, a shadow over the side.

  Garth wolfed down the slab. Marvelous, the caloric rush, but he didn’t just chew, didn’t just savor the vanilla and lime, for as he peered at the perimeter, he weighed the risk of descent, of scrabbling down this five-story web. Would he be seen by the herd and shot by G’mach? Did he really have to know who snuck him this slab?

  A spider after its fly, Garth hurried to the perimeter, then eased down the back of the sleep nets, a zig-zagging weave past dangling feet and hands. He moved slow, just tried not to fall, and though he nearly succeeded, an inadvertent grab of a woman’s ropey braid loosed a shriek that loosened his grip, and after a six-foot plummet, he smacked the ice.

  Conscious but dazed, he waited for shouts, for alarm from the herd and the approach of G’mach. But the chorus of snore had covered his crash, and after a moment to check his bones for cracks, he rolled upright. Then pondered, sitting there, the clothes draped like a curtain, forty yards of overlapping coats and wraps tied to the lowest sleep net extending to the ice.

  Laundry?

  Garth touched a sleeve. Dry, no scent of soap — but then he heard whispers, raspy swells behind. Was this the source, what I heard high above? But before he could hesitate, listen to fear and climb back up, he lifted the sleeve.

  And discovered Algiers.

  Haggling buyers and sellers, goods for sale arranged on cloths — the five vertical feet under the lowest sleep net seemed not just a market, but a bazaar, a transactional realm reminding of old movies and also, strangely, The Clash. Recalling one of their songs, exhuming its annoying refrain, Garth crept under the sleep nets, the Casbah of the Machine.

  Back bent, exploring in a crouch, he followed haphazard aisles by flickers of fire, small candles made, by the smell, of hard-rolled swill. Just as strange, the aisles also moved, for as the Machine inched along, so did the Casbah, the merchants tugged their display mats in a near-continuous crawl. But what was the point, what could these people possibly sell?

  Nosing closer, Garth watched a woman unwrap three dark jewels. Valuable, by her cautious movements, and then she showed them to a merchant. A man with patterned whiskers, some crop circle beard, he stood over a tiny city, thumb-sized structures carved, by the look, from slag.

  The woman seemed taken with the largest carving, a circular building with a dome of red stones, yet despite her pleading, the merchant just yawned. But then, horribly, he noticed Garth’s vest.

  “Shee kah?” he asked, now inspecting the fur. “Shee kah?”

  “No, I — no thanks,” replied Garth, and noting the merchant’s quizzical look, he turned and left. Reminding himself to say nothing, he followed the browsers and tried to blend in; and learn, under snores overhead, the secrets of the herd.

  Jewelry and gems seemed the accepted currency, but most engaged in trade, the swap of boots or gloves for needles and knives of slag. Though strangely, an entire aisle of merchants sold only tops, those children’s toys that spun. But when a buyer picked one up, when he held its ornately carved spindle, then unrolled its interior scroll, Garth wondered if it might be a book.

  His interest piqued, wondering what other treasures this Casbah held, Garth discovered a pair of dead birds, two plucked fowl on a mat. The sight watered his mouth for chicken, the glories of KFC, but their serrated-saw beaks indicated a species more hawk than hen. Debating a trade, his vest for a breast, leg, or thigh, he turned to the merchant, a little girl in a cap with two striped tails.

  Was it her, the one who laughed when he fell from the nets? She said nothing, but when she looked up with a smile, not only did she erase all doubt, but Garth smiled, too.

  At least for a moment, but recalling her mother, how protective she’d been, he left. But the discovery of meat fired hope, the only question was cost, and as he considered possible trades — his vest, the blades? — he stopped by another mat of carvings. But instead of buildings, these depicted some natural landscape, three dark cliffs.

  Garth bent for a look. Curious about their significance, why each dark cliff was flecked with orange, he lost all focus in a single inhale, the whiff of vanilla and lime.

  Garth turned. No slabs in sight, he saw only sellers of inedible wares. But he still had the scent, so following his nose, he tracked the aroma to an aisle of moan.

  Fingers kneading necks, hands pressing backs — the bleary kneading the weary, it was escape through massage. Male and female, twenty or more sighed while dreaming, one assumed, of somewhere, anywhere else. And though odious molecules of every glandular kind clouded Garth’s hunt, he persisted, just hounded along until reaching two familiar figures, the lumpy, furry forms of Ox and Yak.

  Knives, their trade. And while Ox fashioned a large blade, Yak honed a small, but when both saw the boy in the vest, all work stopped.

  Noting their smirks curl into snarls, Garth pivoted, reversed course. But ducking and weaving, moving too fast, he tripped over a leg, some client of a masseuse, then slid into a seller’s embroidered scarf, now a mat.

  Garth braced for the seller’s scold and stomp, but hearing nothing, he peeked up. Fifty, by her hands, so maybe only thirty-five; yet whatever the seller’s age, the woman said nothing, just squeezed and rolled a dense handful of swill from the troughs. But when she finally turned, when she deigned to consider the sprawl at her feet, Garth noticed she was easily one of the more attractive of the herd; and possessed, it seemed, an imperious air more suited to a seat of power, some meter maid’s Prius or senatorial throne. Yet if Helen of Troy launched a thousand ships with her face, then this Helen of Swill could do it with her stare, with eyes suited less for seduction and more cold-blooded aim.

  “Sorry,” Garth mumbled. “I tripped, I—?”


  Unable to continue, he stared, incredulous, at what stacked her second mat, at five brown slabs flecked with white. “You?” he gasped. “You brought—?”

  “M’la!” someone whispered, and whoever’s whisper it was, it turned Helen’s head.

  Following her turn, Garth saw something he’d perhaps seen before, a half-shell fedora over brown and auburn curls. Yet he recalled nothing else until she slid up beside, until she eyed the boy on the mat with confusion, that same cock of her head.

  It was her, Garth knew, the girl he saw when he first fell in. But instead of looking up at the boy who hung overhead, she now looked down. And this time, she smiled.

  Maybe for just a moment, maybe a few more, but whatever the intangible span, it ended in a snort, a jarring snore from the sleep nets above. The sound made the rounds, bounced from one end of the Casbah to the next, and as bartering stopped and massaging stalled, no one stirred until, again from above, somebody sneezed. Then with a frenzy, sellers stuffed away wares, and as strong arms shot down from above, they grabbed all within reach and yanked them back up.

  But Garth did nothing, just sprawled where he fell. And though he looked back for the girl who smiled, he saw only her cleats, a flash of steel flourished with birds. A flurry of arms retracted the curtain of coats, and just that fast, no Casbah trace remained, nothing but the boy on the ice.

  Platform clatter swelled, the sound of swooping G’mach. Searchlights probed, swept under the nets, and Garth knew he’d now be caught. Too late to run, no place to hide, but just before the sweeping light hit, a long swipe of arm grabbed his hood and yanked him straight up.

  Then came the searchlight, but it caught only cloth, just an embroidered scarf on the ice.

  Hours later, Garth woke to the horn. But he didn’t stir until he had it secured, until he refreshed again that moment she smiled. Holding it, fighting the inevitable dissolve, he dismounted the nets and followed the trek to the racks. Looking every moment for the half-shell hat and cleats painted with birds — Was she the one, did she really bring me food? — he grabbed a random T-bar tool, not his axe. And after a last look around, he slid into the steam of the trench.

  So he never saw him, the last slagger in line. Not quite awake, the man slumped to the usual rack, then reached for his tool.

  But today he felt nothing, swiped only air. An unexpected result, so the last man in line looked up. He looked handsome in a Hollywood way, but right now, his smile of well-practiced sincerity with no shortage of teeth went missing, his T-bar tool was gone. He checked left and right, every hanging slot; but no tool remained, the racks were bare.

  An approaching rattle straightened his slump. Now wide awake, Hollywood charged through the racks and hunted all ’round, yet he came up empty, no tool remained. So he turned to the ceiling platforms, the four descending G’mach, and shouting and pointing, shrugging the universal I don’t know!, he pled his case as if it were his last, best act.

  Shark and Firefly and two more G’mach stayed quiet. Glowering like critics and circling like hawks, they watched him point to Tool Repair; and beg, just this once, for a spare.

  A reasonable request, Repair never lacked for spares. But after last night’s ineffectual raid, after Shark once more failed to uncover the rumored black market, it wasn’t a tool Shark wanted; and when his weapon sleeve hissed, neither was there a need.

  Oblivious in the trench and deep in the steam, Garth hefted his axe for the opening swing. Then noticed, perplexed, it wasn’t an axe he held, but a T-bar tool. And though they were common, this looked unique, for etched with portraits, the T-bar depicted a handsome man’s face.

  A hissing whoosh pierced the din. Reflexively ducking, Garth hoped he’d misheard, but when a blood-letting howl came next, no doubt remained. Not wanting to know, but knowing he must, he climbed the side of the trench. Four platforms hovered over someone’s flaming remains, and though the sight sickened, the scream from the footbridge was worse.

  Abandoning her handcart, a Woman in Black raced toward the pyre. A few slaggers caught her, held her back, but as she shrieked, tried to break free, Shark told her something, then clattered off. Anticipating she would scream at Shark, she instead turned to the trench; and shaking her fist, she screamed what sounded like a curse.

  Strange, her reaction. And so was the murder by fire, nothing made sense. But the drama wasn’t complete, and as Garth looked on, three saw-beak birds alighted by the fire. And ignoring the flames, they tore into flesh and sawed into bone.

  “Bhog!” yelled a familiar voice. But before Garth could turn, a kick smacked him back down the trench, a sliding return to the broiling J’kel.

  Singed by it, feeling the scorch, Garth recoiled back.

  “Bohgga leek!” shouted the Manager, and then he was gone, enveloped by steam.

  That should have done it, those two events,. Shark’s murder-by-torch and the Manager’s kick to the J’kel should have stranded Garth between rage and despair. Dangerous, that crossroads, it left many dead. Yet though he pitied the man who burned, felt for the Woman in Black as well, his empathy for the victims and rage at the G’mach soon dissipated, yielded to thoughts of the girl, to when and where he’d see her next.

  Garth regained his feet, then looked for a clock. He needed a way to mark time, but seeing only steam and shadows and the slag-crusted J’kel, he decided to make his own.

  “One!” Garth shouted, and swinging the T-bar, he slammed the slag and started his count. And though muscles revolted and agonies rose up, he knew every swing meant one moment less.

  “Two!”

  A haze of hours later, Garth could barely stand. A shell of himself, two ravaged hands on unsteady stilts, he hoisted the tool once more.

  “Three — thousand,” he rasped, then wondered if he’d said ‘three-thousand’ before. Was it now four-thousand? Four-thousand and one? Blurry with numbers, with circuitous thoughts asking what he was doing and why he was here, he tried to recall the point of this thing, this glowing J’kel that circled — would soon circle this world.

  Devour, was that the word Logaht had used?

  It was, but that conjured only carnivores, made no sense. Yet if this seething creation would, in fact, eradicate every living thing on C’raggh, then maybe ‘devour’ was justified, captured the basic intent. But the larger intent, why build it all? Weren’t there simpler ways to kill?

  Racking his mind to recover more words, Garth recalled Dahkaa, his strange phrasings about the J’kel’s. They opened the river, apparently, the trans-galactic paths; and to extend their reach and accommodate larger craft, another J’kel had to be built.

  Hopefully absurd, undoubtedly true — but as the glow of this newest J’kel seduced, Garth leaned in close. Maybe an illusion, some quirk of the light, but as he peered between scales of slag, he perceived something new, a glimpse of… swirls? Hair-thin shapes of interlinked 8’s, they reminded, with paralyzing effect, of glowing chains.

  The klaxon jolted, slapped him back. Blinking again, he retreated from the J’kel, then watched the shadows, the race of the slaggers vacating the trench. Time to follow, head for the racks, but as Garth drug his T-bar up the side of the trench, he knew it wasn’t the troughs he sought, he would search for the cleats with the birds and that half-clam of hat.

  And that’s why he never noticed the other search in progress, the stakeout at the racks.

  Resolute and grim, five stone-faced slaggers eyed the returns. And while they watched the T-bars clang in, checked each one for the telltale art, the Woman in Black just clenched a hidden knife. But possessed with revenge, a need to balance the scales for whoever stole her boyfriend’s T-bar and thus, his life, she also held little hope. The thief would have disposed of it by now, skillful crooks were rarely so dense.

  Haphazardly flung, a T-bar banged off a rack, then slid to a stop near the Woman in Black. She staggered a bit, just stared at the face, those handsome lines etched in steel. Then she turned; and watching him run,
the thief in his white fur vest, she felt the edge of her jagged slag knife.

  Unaware of the danger, of frankly anything at all, Garth slid into the feed zone. Jumping high and ducking low, he looked for a glimpse of the girl, any telltale sign, but in the herd of two-thousand, faces and cleats began to blend.

  But Ox and Yak stood out. Then to the right, he spied the quills, that mother and son. And maybe he was disoriented, maybe just wrong, but these few he recognized seemed to feed at the very same spots, their troughs hadn’t changed. But was this any different from school, didn’t students in cafeterias return to their usual table and chair? Would she do the same?.

  Garth looked up. Surveying the ceiling, trying to recall where he’d first fallen through — the middle? — he knew she’d been close, just a trough away. So he hurried to the center, the Midlands of slurp, but because he sought only her, he never noticed the rest, the five closing in.

  Garth scraped to a stop between four troughs. This was it, he first saw her near here, but with all the bent backs and mouths taking swill, one feeder looked just like the next.

  Then a flash caught his eye, the glint of a spoon. At a trough? Stranger still, it sprinkled white flecks into a woven rope cup, and after a swirl, the vessel was raised to an unstained mouth.

  “Hey!” Garth shouted.

  Most ignored, but the cup drinker flinched, and as a drop splashed her face, she turned to Garth.

  It was her, he knew. And yet, maybe he didn’t know so much, for her smile was missing, just wasn’t there. Garth waited for recognition, some tiny spark, but she showed only anxiety, a furrowed concern. So lacking a plan, he simply amped it up.

  “Hi!” Garth yelled, trying to outshout the noise. Then he smiled, but the girl seemed immune.

  “Ah, sorry to bother,” Garth sputtered, “but did you bring me food?”

  Befuddled or scared, her look. Worse, she said nothing, just glanced left and right.

  Anxiety peaking, losing a moment that could lead to more, Garth knew he had to speak beyond words, project an inner strength he’d never known or possessed. In short, he had to become someone else, a desirable stranger larger than life; and somehow, do it all on the fly.