The Guardsmen did not use knives or nightsticks of any kind, but guns - automatic guns that shot off three-round bursts with each depression of the trigger. The gun fired specially designed bullets that street people called "gut-cutters.” As soon as a gut-cutter entered the victim’s body, four sharp tiny fins opened from the sides of the bullet, like solar panels extending on a satellite in orbit.
These fins were irregularly spaced so as to cause the bullet to weave through tissue, rather than going straight. This weaving caused maximum destruction to internal organs, and could direct a bullet entering the abdomen to curve and strike a rib bone, bounce, and cause more damage to organs. This also made removal of the bullet and repair of the internal organs beyond the capability of the street medics. Only the doctors who serviced the company officials possessed the technology and surgical skill to repair such a wound. Yet for even them, the odds were not promising.
Think of a piece of cloth that is cut cleanly with scissors; it can be sewn back by a skilled seamstress and continue to be very useful. If the same cloth is torn with the ragged metal edge of an opened can of beans, it is less likely to be of any use at all. Such is the work of the gut-cutters.
The man was shot in the back with a gut-cutter and death was only minutes away. His wife and child were already gone.
Joniver approached with slow, measured steps. What had the man held on to so fiercely? He advanced a few more paces, then stopped and listened.
Nothing.
Joniver proceeded, stepping over the bodies of the young mother and son to reach the father. He squatted, pulled the man’s hand away, and jerked the man’s pant leg up a few centimeters.
He was mesmerized. He saw the shining steel of a sword! A real sword! The sight took his breath away, and he could scarcely believe his good fortune. He was as elated as any lottery winner ever has been. He had heard of Guardsmen who carried decorative swords, and he had heard of sword competitions, but he had never thought he would see, much less, own one!
Why did this man have a sword, and why didn’t the Guardsmen take it?
The questions flashed across his mind and disappeared, like the glint of the street lamp off the formed steel.
Possession of a weapon of any kind was illegal, especially a sharpened blade. Such items in the hands of ordinary people were deemed a security threat at best and terrorist activity at worst.
Joniver crouched next to the man suffering on the street from pain and loss. He begged for Joniver’s help. He begged with his eyes, with his trembling arm as he tried to reach out. He pleaded with Joniver through unheard but formed words on his lips. Joniver saw all of this, took it all in, and then kicked the man’s hand away from the weapon. Joniver pulled it free, admiring it in his hands. How beautiful, how light it was! He pulled the hilt away from the scabbard and saw the craftsmanship of the blade. Images of glory and battles flashed through his mind. Stories he had read of knights and pirates and the proverbial damsel in distress popped to life on the movie screen of his imagination. This sword is real!
He stood up and turned to walk away.
The dying man lay crushed emotionally and physically on the broken pavement. He cried to Joniver in soft, garbled whispers.
“Hup muh!” The words seemed more air than speech. His eyes bulged with pain and determination, as he attempted to will himself through the next few moments.
There was something else too. The man had eyes that looked somehow at peace.
How was that possible? He was in agony, yet his eyes were clear. The man was not simply resigned to die, he was ready to die. Was he expecting the attack? The realization was eerie, and a shudder ran the length of Joniver’s spine.
Joniver felt the urge to turn and run, but at the same time he knew what the man wanted and needed. He wanted to be spared the pain of the gut-cutter inside his body. He saw the sword in Joniver’s hand as a relief, or as a passage - a way out, maybe. Could it be the sword was the way for him to rejoin his family? Joniver thought about what he heard as a dying man’s last request.
Joniver knew and Joniver saw, but neither knowing nor seeing stopped him. He clutched the sword and walked away, leaving the man to die. In that instant, he killed him. Joniver did not physically harm the man or inflict his suffering, but he killed him just the same.
He killed him by not helping. Joniver chose to leave the man to suffer alone within sight of his murdered family and the memory repeating in horrible fashion over and over in the man’s mind. Joniver left him. He did not help, and to Joniver, he had participated in the man’s murder as sure as the Guardsmen had.
Rationalizations abounded for Joniver whenever the incident pushed its way into his conscious thoughts, and it crowded there much too often with a growing intensity, but he never shared the burden with anyone.
He told the story in vague terms, as if the man had threatened him. Joniver had disarmed and then killed him. This version often raised the appreciation street people had of him.
Joniver knew the truth, however. He had not helped, and it gnawed at him, like a spreading black emptiness in his head, eating him from the inside. At times, he felt as though there was a force inside his mind, pushing out against his skull, ready to burst his head into a thousand pieces.
He was not sure why.
He simply knew he had not helped.
***
A passing fire fighter plowed into Joniver knocking him sideways. He was jolted back to the present, seeing and smelling the horrible remains of the burned building. His and Nana’s former home and the building he loved.
“What started the fire?” Joniver asked the fire fighter. Joniver hoped to engage someone in conversation. He did not want to be around Nana and Emily as they wept.
The man did not stop, but turned his head, and shouted over his shoulder, “Looks like the work of a Crazy.”
“A Crazy?” Joniver scrunched his face and cocked his head. “A Crazy?”
Seeing a Crazy was rare, at least in this part of the city. Everyone said that the Crazies massed in certain other parts of the city and those areas should be avoided, but here? A Crazy here seemed too unreal. And how would a Crazy start a fire anyway?
Crazies roamed the streets aimlessly. They were not simply homeless, however. Many people were homeless but were not Crazies. The Crazies had a look in their abnormally wide eyes, as if they were seeing something not actually there.
When you looked at them they seemed to look through you or in you or something. The whole thing was weird, Joniver thought. They moved awkwardly as well, as if their joints were stiff and only able to move in certain directions at certain times. This gave them a halting, staggering non-symmetric gait, as if they might topple over at any moment.
Their skin was pale, and what of it could be seen was usually full of sores and cuts, some healed, some still oozing blood and puss. When they spoke, they groaned almost like a dying animal, with indistinguishable words and grotesque gurgling sounds.
When he was a boy, kids at school said that Crazies even ate normal people. Joniver did not believe it, but he knew that others did.
When a Crazy was around, nothing good happened, but a Guardsmen never shot a Crazy. They had some kind of weird code of honor about it. Joniver had heard rumors of people hiding behind Crazies to get away from Guardsmen.
He had seen a crazy just twice, maybe three times if Olinar was correct, but twice to be sure. He did not hang around to see what happened. Like most others he got out of the way and found a place where the Crazy was not.
So how did a Crazy get here? And how did he - she, it, they - start the fire? A Crazy starting the fire made no sense.
Where would he and Nana live?
His mind reeled with fear and confusion and concern. He felt concern for Nana and himself, but he wanted to do something for Emily. He turned back toward the tent, and she was there. She had noiselessly moved to his side. She stood without a word or sound, taking in the night and breathing in the cool air.
>
She had a bottle of water and offered it to Joniver. He took it. In the moment, he realized he had forgotten about his physical discomfort, wondering what would happen when his sword was found. He hid it in a makeshift compartment he used in the wall of his bedroom. His former bedroom, he corrected himself.
“Aunt Naomi is dead,” she said with a shaky voice.
“I know. I’m...I’m sorry. I really am.”
“Ruth...your Nana, said you came back for me. Is that true?” she said. Her big dark eyes looked up at him with a mixture of questioning and hope. He thought he also saw anger.
Anger? Why was she angry? Was she angry at him?
She still clung to the old nasty backpack she had drug from her aunt’s apartment.
What is in the backpack? Joniver wondered to himself.
“I thought it was Ms. Ruth who had come back, but she says you insisted you had to return for me.” Then she added, “Don’t lie to me Joniver.”
Her words came out as part command and part pleading. She had lost too much tonight and was at risk now. She had little time to feel sorry for herself or to put up with this dingle-doofus of a human being.
“Yeah...yes,” he said. He dropped his head. “I had seen you go in earlier, but the door had not opened as we all left. Leaving you seemed like the wrong thing to do.”
“Oh, great! I’m a moral decision now. Terrific!” She turned and walked away.
“Wait a minute, Emily! That is not what I meant and you know it. I came back because it was you.”
“You don’t even know me.”
Joniver was not sure what to say. He didn’t really know her that well, so she was right, but arguing this point seemed to miss the intent of her statement somehow. He didn’t know how it missed her point, but he was sure it did. He did not know what to say in response. What was the intent of her statement?
He was confused.
Women, he thought. Why is it so hard to talk to them?
Talking to them was not a problem, though. The problem was talking to Emily. Talking with her was hard. When she wasn’t around, he wanted to talk with her and tell her so much, but when she was around, the words failed, like flower petals opening in the morning with no fragrance.
“Look,” he said, turning toward her. “I wanted to help you, and I want to help you now. Please let me.”
Emily sighed outwardly and groaned inwardly. He was such a dingle-doofus! Is this not why she stayed frustrated and disappointed with him!
Tonight, however, he had braved a fire and saved her life. At this moment, she could not, rather, would not, dismiss that. His actions this night did make him courageous, she reasoned, and possibly even sweet, if still and yet a dingle-doofus.
She looked up at him as he stood staring at her like a lost puppy looking for some table scraps. His handsome face was smeared with ash, his tee shirt torn and burned through and he smelled, as did she, like a fireplace.
He had saved her! He had come back - for her!
He was very cute, and a girl could do worse, she thought. Then she smiled. A thin, but strong smile a young woman smiles when she sees something in a young man no one else has seen - or at least, until now, she has not seen.
“What?” Joniver said smiling in return. “What is it?” Joniver did not recognize this smile.
Emily did not realize her internal thoughts had translated to external expression. She was suddenly embarrassed and angry. She mentally shook herself. She could not get involved with anyone right now. Too much is at stake, and especially tonight! She had lost her aunt, for crying out loud!
She cleared her mind of the foolishness. She glanced up in anger at Joniver and pulled herself together. How could she allow herself to fall into this nonsense? Who was the dingle-doofus now? She had to get out of the crowd and avoid any further questions until she could hide the back pack again. “Nothing,” she said and walked away. Her tone was not pleasant.
Joniver reached out to stop her, and his hand inadvertently caught on the back pack as it swung on Emily’s left shoulder held by one strap. Not expecting this, Emily lost control of the pack and it slipped down her arm, both she and Joniver trying to catch the strap. Each effort failed, and the pack hit the ground with a dull thud, popping open the top.
“No! No!” cried Emily. “Stop!”
But it was too late. Although too dark for the crowd to see, Joniver watched as the pack tipped over and the contents spilled out on the trampled grass beside them. It was books.
How odd, Joniver thought. Why was she so concerned about books?
At first, he thought this was no big deal, but as he studied each title and author, Joniver saw these were not just any collection of books. He recognized names of authors who had been banned, and titles that taught ideas counter to the current company territory system. His eyes widened and his mouth opened in surprise. The books were one of the most beautiful sights he had ever laid eyes on - Emily excepted, of course.
There were enough books here to keep even him busy for several hours. He wanted to sit down and immediately start reading. Joniver’s eyes danced with excitement and anticipation as he looked up to Emily.
“You were not supposed to see these, and you should not have,” she said.
“Emily, I want to see them. I want to read them. I love to read books - any book!”
“Not these,” she countered scrambling to gather the tomes back into stacks. Once collected, she shoved them in the canvas back pack. The pack had been a dull green before the fire, but was now a blackish, grayish color with singe marks along the sides and bottom. There was a big canvas flap that flopped over the front from the back. The canvas straps, which loop around the shoulders of the carrier, were frayed and singed from the fire.
Emily stowed the books, pulled the top drawstring to narrow the opening, and threw the flap over the top. She hoisted the load on one shoulder with one of the straps and turned.
“Where are you going?” Joniver questioned as he followed.
“Away from here,” was all she would say.
“I want to read those books! I can read fast, it will not take long.”
“You have no idea what you are asking.”
“I do and will not stop bugging you until you let me read some. I can read one or two in the next 20 minutes.”
She continued walking.
This was getting old Joniver thought. He very much liked this girl, but she was acting like a pain in the back side right now. He strode after her when he heard his name from a different direction. He turned and saw it was two Guardsmen running toward him. All at once, his blood ran cold. He stood fixed in place, wanting to run, but reason telling him it was madness to do so.
This could not be good. They had called his name, which meant they knew his name, and they must have found the sword.
“Are you Joniver?” the short one asked with a commanding voice. He sounded as though he were barking a command, rather than asking a question.
“Would it do any good to say no?” Joniver asked.
“Come with us. The search-bots found something and your DNA markings are on it.”
“What is it?” Joniver asked. He tried to sound as innocent as he knew how to.
“You know very well what it is.”
“You also know it is unlawful to possess weapons or terrorist equipment of any kind,” said the other.
Joniver glanced over his shoulder as Emily walked away. What had just happened with her? What were those books?
Was Emily smart? Was she book smart? She’s beautiful and fun, but what was she doing with banned books? What would anybody be doing with banned books?
What about the resistance? Could Emily be part of the resistance?
No way, he thought. They’re just a bunch of terrorists. Everybody knows it. Not Emily, she’s not a terrorist.
He turned back and saw the search-bots as they rummaged through the smoldering wreckage of the fire. They hovered, their three long double-jointed arms
hanging down as they moved debris and the remains under the watchful eye of the sun-bright searchlight sourcing from their undercarriage.
A total of four bots searched through what was an hour ago his home. He thought of Nana.
“I’ve gotta tell my grandmother I’m leaving,” he said and turned around.
“No need. We will handle that.”
“But-” Joniver said in protest.
“Look,” said the second taller Guardsman, grabbing him by the arm while his partner clutched his other. “You are doing as we say one way or the other.”
His teeth snarled and Joniver imagined him a less than pleasant person to spend extended time with.
He resisted in vain, as the guards drug him, and he soon felt his feet leave the ground as the two burly Guardsmen hustled him to a waiting van. They threw him inside and drove off. With the door shut and the van compartment empty, he struggled to his feet, taking stock of his injuries as well as his now singed and blackened clothes, stinking of smoke.
He felt as helpless as he had ever felt in his life. He looked out the back of the van as it whirred noiselessly on its spherical rubberized tires. He thought of the day. Just a few hours before, he and Olinar were stealing apples from Michaels and stealing glances at Emily.
What had happened?
Nana would be worried sick, and he was not sure Emily was the best person to explain just now.
“This is not how things should be,” was all that came to his lips as he thought of them - of Olinar, Nana, Emily and her Aunt Naomi.
He had just been with them. Then there was the fire, and now they seemed a world away.
Chapter 5
The building that housed the Station had once been covered by a domed roof made of gold, at least that was the legend. The people who worked or lived in the building many decades ago had been so rich they used their money to build a gold roof. So said the storytellers.
Another Force Page 5