“Really? That seems impossible.”
“I hear things weren’t so different.”
“But how? How could we do the things you do?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t live in that time. I hear it was similar, only then, humans imagined themselves the most superior species. Instead of saps, they had other animals for livestock. They drove cars and read books and went to work and school.”
“What is sch-ool?”
Draven laughed softly and rolled over to face Cali. He rested his cheek on his hand as he spoke. “School is a place where people go to learn.”
“Learn what?”
“Whatever you would like to know. Reading and writing, or how to build a car or a bridge, or fix someone’s brain. Anything.”
“Wow,” Cali said, mirroring his position with her own. “I thought you learned all that in books.”
“I imagine you can. But you can learn more thoroughly at school, where an expert instructs you and you can practice a skill until you’ve mastered it. A book is only words.”
“That’s amazing,” Cali said, rolling to her back and resting her head on her arm. “Did you go there?”
“A few times,” he said. “But when humans ran things, they had many children to go to school. Most Superiors know what we want to know, so schools have closed.”
“Do they open again if you want to learn more?”
“There are a few left. If there were to be another mass evolution, I suppose we’d open new schools, if anyone survived.”
“Why wouldn’t they survive? And what’s a mass…whatever you said?”
“We evolved to fight in a war that ended before it began. That’s why I’m here. If another war erupted, I imagine another evolution would be in order, once all Thirds are killed off.”
“What’s a third?”
“That’s all the people who evolved in the Second Evolution.”
Cali made a sound of frustration. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why can’t you explain it like a normal person? Or like I’m a normal person.”
“I am.”
“Well, then, explain it like I’m not a normal person. Explain it like I’m a human.”
“Right.”
“So, what’s a Third? To me. What’s it to me.”
“Most people you’ve ever met, I imagine. In restaurants and the Confinement, you fed lots of Thirds. Most of us eat at those places, as we can’t afford a human.”
“But my master could.”
“Byron is Second Order. He is my superior. The law requires I do his bidding.”
“So…he’s your master, too?”
Draven hesitated. “No, and also yes. Thirds are of a lower class, ruled by the higher class—Seconds.”
“But if he’s a Second, and you’re a Third, then he rules you. So he’s your master.”
“It’s more complicated.”
“How?”
“Thirds do the jobs Seconds don’t want—capturing runaway saps, any sort of job involving sapiens or animals, bouncers, factory work, salvaging parts to recycle and make new things, builders, maintenance workers, mistresses, actors and athletes, entertainers of all sorts.”
“So what do the Seconds do?”
“They run the government and the businesses.”
“What do you mean? How do they run them?”
“They make and enforce laws, invent things to make in their factories, and own all the factories and businesses, the land and the restaurants and sapiens.”
“So they own everything, and they tell you what to do and give you food for doing the things they don’t want to do.”
“Very good.”
“So you’re a slave.”
Draven sat up and turned to Cali, ready to admonish her. Her direct and unapologetic gaze met his. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, that’s exactly what I am.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“But you were right. They keep us complacent so we’ll obey their laws, laws that benefit them. Do you know, only three percent of Third Order Superiors own sapiens?”
“You were going to. You said you were going to buy me, but Byron already had.”
“Yes, because they paid me a lot of money to do something they didn’t want to do.”
“When you killed that man.”
“Yes. When I killed that man.” Draven thought and then shook his head. “He was a bad sort. I’m not sorry.”
“You’re not?” Cali asked. “You sound sorry.”
“I am. More every day.” Draven lay back again, this time beside Cali. For a time, neither spoke.
“So what else was different back when humans owned the world?” Cali asked, breaking Draven from his thoughts.
“There’s a saying that when we took over, we spent the first hundred years destroying everything humans built, and the next hundred building it all back exactly as it was.”
“It is true? Was everything the same?”
“Not entirely.”
“So what things were different?”
Draven thought a moment. “Humans spread out and inhabited areas we wouldn’t,” he said. “We congregate in large cities, mostly in warmer areas. This city is as far north as we settle. This part of the country is mostly used for growing sapien food.”
Cali sat up. “Really?”
“You’ve so many questions tonight,” Draven said, touching her hair without awareness. “This area is favorable in summer, but cold in winter. There are many more cities than in the mountains, but so few compared to back home in the Funnel. This is where sapiens are sent to work the corn that makes up nearly all your packaged food.”
“You know everything,” Cali said, lying back. “I wish I was that smart.”
“We all start somewhere. Once, I knew less than you do.”
“No you didn’t.”
“I did,” he said, looking down at Cali’s caramel hair spilling from her sleep sack into his hand. “Perhaps I still do.”
Chapter 43
Meyer loved skiing more than almost anything on earth. Except perhaps eating. Eating in itself made life worthwhile. And being hated—he certainly enjoyed being abhorred.
Meyer took hold of the handle on the end of the ski cable with both hands and twisted to maximum speed. Despite the low number of people left who enjoyed skiing, Superiors really had improved the sport. Going up had become almost as fun as going down. Who wanted to sit in a chair and be lifted up the hill when skiing up was as viable an option? As the cable began to vibrate, Meyer tightened his grip and let the vibration build in his arms before traveling into his shoulders. Soon his whole body hummed with excitement. Then the cable began to recede, pulling Meyer up the slope.
Not many skiers out, as usual. For some reason Meyer had never understood, most people avoided snow and cold. A few avid skiers in life had retained the habit as Superiors, and Meyer had made a few friends on the slopes. When he shared an activity so well-loved by all the participants, their suspicion thawed a bit. That would never happen in the business world, but out here, a certain camaraderie existed that never translated to the world off the slopes.
Meyer whooshed to a stop at the top of the slope and released the cable tension before he began his descent. What a shame that he couldn’t bring some of his girls. But he had to protect them, especially the youngest ones. And that nosy Enforcer lived up here, crawling around in Meyer’s business even more than back home in Texas.
He had to admit, though, that he rather enjoyed Byron’s attentions. He may have finally met his match, as his mum would have said. It had been a while since Meyer had a real challenge, someone so persistent, so convinced of his guilt. Just about everyone thought he had something up his sleeve, as his mother would have said. People, as part of their nature, would always hate him out of jealousy. It was practically his civic duty to be guilty of something. Otherwise, all that hating would be in vain.
He’d particularly enjoyed Byron’s last visit. Of
course he knew Byron had orders not to contact him at all. He’d found that out easily enough. After all, Meyer had money, and most anything could be bought if one found the right person to sell it. His trusted Princeton informant had let him know when his genius engineering of the sap’s escape had gone awry. Not that his informant knew he had anything to do with the escape, or that he’d asked Herman to lure Byron’s sapien in particular. But he kept Meyer abreast of Princeton news, so naturally he’d informed Meyer when Enforcers slaughtered a band of runaways. That was a juicy bit, and Meyer liked to be in the know, as his mum would have said.
What had come as a surprise? That Byron had lost his sapien again—no, not lost, but had her stolen. The beauty of it was almost too much. Certainly Meyer could never have hoped for something so serendipitous, let alone engineered it.
Meyer liked knowing everything about his enemies, even when it didn’t concern or affect him or his affairs. He never could tell when some bit of information would prove useful later. He didn’t underestimate his opponents as they so often did him. But when Byron had told him Draven Castle stole his sapien…well. The shock had nearly rendered him speechless. That didn’t happen often, and he did not enjoy it. Although, this time, he had enjoyed it a little.
He reveled in the sweet irony of the situation, the seeming coincidences that all fit together like some perfect twisted puzzle. What to do now, he pondered as he jetted down the powdery slope, illuminated by the sharp, cold brightness that the stars only achieved in mountain winters. Though he relished the information, it had thwarted his plans. Reconsideration was, perhaps, in order. He’d been on the verge of setting a target on Draven’s back and calling in a debt. But now that Draven had stolen Byron’s sap, perhaps he’d let the man roam a while. Someone would capture Draven eventually. Until then, he would be in hiding, not ratting out the Mountain Free Community. He would avoid Enforcers as ardently as the community’s humans.
Instead of pursuing the sapnapping Third, Meyer would research Draven. He’d have to reconfigure his headhunter plan, perhaps send a spy instead. Though Draven didn’t sound like much of a threat, one could never be too careful. Meyer knew that. He knew the power of underestimation. In a way, it accounted for his success. If people had shown him the respect he deserved all his life, he’d have been able to take advantage of them far less often.
Meyer knew better than most how desperate Thirds could get, that a Third might do a great deal to try and enhance his position in society. Although he cared little for Orders himself, he knew most placed great weight on them. Meyer himself could have done without Orders. Of course he enjoyed certain advantages that came with Second Order status, but he rather thought the title should be earned, not given based solely on Evolution date. This conviction had grown in the years he’d spent repapering unfortunate Thirds, when he’d grown familiar with the frustration inherent in Third Order status. He knew the anger festering below their docile exteriors and firmly believed one day, probably soon, they would bite the hand that fed them, as his mum used to say.
Meyer had only thought briefly of Draven before he’d decided to put a target on him. A night on the slopes always shined his mind and let him concentrate on whatever project he wanted to mull over without interruption, and tonight, he mulled over Draven’s fate. He could go ahead and void him. But then the problem arose over what to do with Byron’s sapien. Meyer wouldn’t touch that situation with a ten-foot pole, as mum used to say. He wanted to give Byron fits of frustration, not his own head on a pole. But he could always find ways to offer support to Byron’s tormentor, if he couldn’t play the part himself.
He rather enjoyed acting as puppet-master. Draven, if he was like most Thirds, would fall into the trap of his own ambition. He would be easy to manipulate from behind the scenes and, if Meyer ever had to contact him directly, obedient to a Second’s commands. Byron had been playing with Meyer’s life for two years, causing him stress and toying with him. It was time Meyer returned his attentions.
That morning when he returned from skiing, he skimmed Draven’s entire database file. He read every comment from every infatuated partner and friend, every jaded ex-lover, every argument from the current lover against what the ex had said. That could take years for some, but Draven didn’t seem particularly interesting. He’d had one inconsequential scrape with the law decades ago, and since then, nothing at all noteworthy. He’d switched jobs often, and the comments ran along a theme Meyer found cohesive with job changing. Here was an ordinary lower-class bloke, chafing under his yoke, discontented with his lot in life but unable to alter it. Meyer didn’t blame him, or any of the Thirds. That’s why he helped those who had run short on luck.
Since he had Draven’s papers, he guessed Draven had run out of luck. Eventually Meyer would cast a line and reel him in. But for now, he would leave the man to his hard luck. Though Meyer could find him easily enough—money bought everything, after all—he thought he’d wait and see what happened first. He rather enjoyed sitting back and watching the natural progression of things. Life was so often like one of his vids, only better. Besides, he didn’t want to risk leaving a trail. Byron hadn’t come close enough to make Meyer squirm yet, but he was getting a little too close for comfortable sleep.
The most fun part of his visit with Byron had been finding Byron’s weak spot. Enforcers usually had one—that one crime that drove them crazy. Their passion. They all wanted to eradicate something—prostitution, black market smuggling, left-wing nut-jobs who wanted human equality. Meyer had enjoyed poking around in Byron’s mind, finding that one thing that really goaded him. It hadn’t been too difficult. Sometimes Meyer had to dig for a while to find an Enforcer’s obscure crusade. Once, he hadn’t found any one thing that bothered an Enforcer, and it still needled him to this day.
He had ferreted out Byron’s easily enough. He’d simply rattled off a list of Draven’s supposed crimes and waited for Byron’s reaction to each. It just so happened that the one thing Byron hated was something that Draven could do to Byron’s very own property on a regular basis. And who knew—maybe this Draven character really was a sex pervert. If anyone knew about it, Byron should have. According to Draven’s record, they’d been right chummy there at the end. Which only made Draven’s violation of Byron’s sapien even more beautiful. Only rarely did life offer such perfect serendipity.
Chapter 44
Draven and Cali spent a good deal of time huddling in the tent, its top sagging under the weight of snow, waiting. Though fuel was scarce, when Draven procured fire biscuits or other flammable items, they built small fires during the day. Draven found a few broken bricks in the endlot and heated them in the fire so Cali could hold them at night for warmth. Although less snow fell here than in the mountains, enough fell to completely bury the tent and collapse it several times.
Draven excavated the tent on these occasions, packing snow around the bottom and working his way up the walls to partially obscure the tent without the weight of snow crushing it. Finding anything to burn in the endlot became impossible as the snow piled higher, one fall after another with very little melting. Scouting for fuel and food without leaving a trail in the snow also became impossible, and sometimes Cali had to go several days without eating. Once the snow had lain several days, Draven could risk losing his footprints among others or use paths cleared by snowplows. But in freshly fallen snow, he could not risk leaving a trail to and from the tent, no matter how circuitous a route he took.
When he ran out of packaged sap from the trackers, he resisted drawing from Cali unless she ate. He could not risk losing her, and already her condition worried him. Her form, once healthy if not exactly voluptuous, had grown thin. Though he piled layers of clothing on her, as well as the sleep sack, still she shivered through the night.
As snow piled high on the endlot, Cali’s project came to a standstill. One night she showed Draven what she had built so far, piling up rubble to make a three-walled structure without roof or door. She had me
ant to carpet the floor.
“I’ve never had real carpet,” she said. “It’s like your apartment. We’ll live like Superiors.” Then she looked away, at the shanty she’d built, as if remembering that he was a Superior. He could understand how, for a moment, she might have forgotten. He was far from what she would hope for in a master. Perhaps she didn’t mind too much, though. Perhaps she’d not imagined such freedom. Aside from drawing from her, he rarely treated her like a sapien. He rarely thought of her that way. She had become his companion, his charge. He took responsibility for her, and her safety, and her many needs. When they spent so many days lying in the tent together, the importance of remembering their places faded away.
They spent hours talking in the dark, making plans, dreaming, fantasizing about the life they’d never have. Draven attempted to read Cali the books he had, despite the frustration on both their parts. Cali didn’t understand much of the text, and she pelted him with an unending stream of questions that he found so distracting that he often stopped reading altogether.
Cali especially had trouble with the oldest books, the ones written by humans. In the first book he read, she didn’t understand how the woman got the baby—she missed the subtleties of language and the implied sexuality. She didn’t understand why the writer didn’t simply say ‘they had sex.’ She could not grasp the concept of sex or illegitimate childbirth being a taboo subject or shameful in any way. “Why is she hiding?” she would ask. “Why are people mad that she had a baby? They should be happy for her. Why is she doing that? Which man does she love? What happened to the baby she just had? Why are they talking about someone else now, I thought the book was about her? So it’s two different stories? Then why doesn’t one come after the other? How can two stories be told at the same time?” Although Draven tried to explain that world to her as best he could, sometimes he understood it no better than she. He had never been a part of it, either.
During their stay in the endlot, Draven also began to take out Cali’s scars. Each time Byron had drawn from her without closing the bite properly, he’d left two tiny beads under the skin. The bites riddled her arms and wrists, the sides of her hands, the backs of her legs. Though the protective slime that formed around the tiny droplet of venom tasted foul, Draven swallowed it just the same. He could not afford to waste the bit of sap he’d spit out with it. Mindful always that the poison could escape the beads if his teeth pierced them, he drew the beads from her skin with surgical precision.
The Renegades (The Superiors) Page 31