I glanced at a door, stopped. Damn. I’d gotten off at Thirty-one instead of Thirty. I started back for the bank of elevators, decided the stairs would be faster. Taking them two at a time, I flung open the door, darted into the corridor.
Two men, at the door to my room. I froze. They knocked again.
The fat one wore a hotel uniform. Was the other a jerry? No way to be sure.
Mystery man glanced my way; smoothly, I turned, sauntered toward the elevator bank, dropping my key in my back pocket, hoping they saw.
I rang for the elevator, listening.
“He’s not in.” The hotel man.
“Use a passkey.”
“Left it at the desk. Besides, I got to get the manager’s okay.” Where was the frazzing elevator?
“For a runaway?”
“For any guest, joey.” Come on, elevator! “’Sides, this one’s got connections. The home office called, said to be extra care—”
“Go on up. I’ll wait here, case he shows.”
Trouble. Big trouble.
“Right. Lemme see the holo again. Ya never know.” The fat man peered. “Say ...” He glanced at me.
I sprinted down the corridor, accelerating like a suborbital. How the hell did they know?
At the end of the corridor, another staircase. Up or down? No time to think.
The lobby was upstairs. Best go the other way, then. I could catch an elevator from a couple floors down. I raced down the stairwell, trying not to stumble. Twenty-eight.
How could they know? My reservation was in the name of Adamson. I’d paid cash when I checked in. I’d used Dad’s card, but that was at the shuttleport. Twenty-seven.
Damn. I’d charged last night’s dinner with Dad’s card. But how could they connect—Christ, I’d made the dinner reservation with my room number.
I tore around the stairwell, peered down at the endless flights. I’d be wheezing when I reached the bottom. I swung open the corridor door, peered out. Twenty-six. Steady, Jar. You have time. I trotted to the elevator bank, jabbed the buzzer.
An endless wait, while I caught my breath.
The bell chimed. A car, going up. No. I waited.
Damn. At this rate even the stairs would be better. How could elevators keep going up without one ever coming—
At last. I managed to walk rather than dive aboard. I punched One, waited through interminable stops.
I glanced about. No one paid me any attention. Passengers stood in elevator silence, eyes front, except for a woman adjusting her collar in the mirrored sidewall. Fancy elevator, this. Mirrors on all sides, sleek alumalloy door, brass controls, even the security camera had brass—
Oh, God. “Hold it!” I thrust my way past an annoyed matron. Where the hell was I? Five. The lowest floor with bedrooms.
I hesitated, wondered whether to go upstairs. Had they noticed? Just how good was Sheraton security?
A stairwell door swung open. Two guards. “There he is!”
Too damn good. I raced to the stairwell at the far end of the corridor. A guard rasped instructions into his caller.
Five flights were below me. I dashed down, tripped, ricocheted off a wall. Easy, joey. Above, footsteps thundered.
Four. Hurry, but stay on your feet. The guard hurtled after.
Three.
“Hey, you! Hold on!”
Sure. I’ll wait here, officer, while you cuff me. Well, maybe not. I knew Dad wouldn’t press charges. Even if he had a mind to, I’d talk him out of it. But, damn it, I wouldn’t let my plans be ruined. All I had to do was call Holoworld and reschedule my interview at their offices.
The doorway to Two loomed. One more flight, and—
They’d be waiting below. I flung open the second floor door. There was another stairwell at the far end of the corridor, and I could run faster than they.
“Outa my way!” Baring my teeth, I lunged past an elderly man struggling with an armload of packages. Behind me, relentless footfalls. Were the guards armed? My back itched. No, they wouldn’t shoot. I had connections.
I flung open the far door, raced down the last flight, emerged on the first floor.
Dusty, ill lit. A dirty tile floor. Stained carpet. Which way should I—
A guard thudded around the corner, making my decision. I sprinted the other way.
“Wait, joey. We ain’t gonna hurt—”
I tore into a side corridor, slammed into a stack of chairs. Christ. I rolled to my feet.
A door, chained shut. I ran past, looking for escape.
The corridor came to a corner. A dead end ahead. No, damn it! I whirled, caromed off the guard’s shoulder. I ducked past him, back the way I came. Cursing, he followed.
“We got him!” The guards from floor Two, waiting at the end of the corridor.
At the chained door, I glanced both ways. They weren’t going to drag me back to Dad like some young—
The guards rushed in concert. I reared back, gave the padlock a mighty kick. The chain snapped. I tore at the links. A hand fell on my shoulder. “Easy, boy. You can’t go—”
I rammed the bar. With a squeal, the heavy alloy door fell open. I tore myself loose from the clutching hand, dashed into the street. The guards hesitated. Before they made up their minds to follow, I raced around the corner and out of sight.
I was safe.
A hot summer evening. Stores were closed, though it was still light. I slowed to a walk, trying to catch my breath. I needed to find a caller and contact Echart or his girlfriend.
The street was filthy. I stepped around the worst of the rubbish. Four or five joeys watched from a doorway. I glanced around. Others loitered further down the street, but these were the closest.
“Excuse me, where can I find a caller?”
The one in front spat, just missing my boot. Well, I’d heard the street people were glitched. Once, the Old Man had told a wild tale—
A teener pranced, circling me. “Watchadoon onna street, Uppie?”
I wrinkled my brow, puzzling out his gibberish. “Me? Looking for a caller.”
He guffawed. “Ain’ no callers in trannietown.”
I flinched from a rank smell and hurried away, uneasy. I couldn’t return to the hotel, but I ought to get back to civilization.
Two teeners followed. I spun. “Jet off!” I thrust my hand in my pocket, made a fist. “You’re asking for trouble!”
One of them snickered. I hurried on, trying to increase the distance between us without breaking into a run.
No use. They kept pace. “Frazzin’ Uppies think ya own da worl’! Ya onna street now, joey!”
The other grinned. “An’ nigh’ be soon! Betta run ta mama!”
One, the more daring, pawed at my jacket. I lunged, shoved him. He sprawled in the gutter. He leaped to his feet, his eyes blazing. “Dissya, mess wid Broad!”
I made my voice cold. “Prong yourself!” He hesitated at my assurance, and I strode away.
I breathed easier. All it took was confidence.
People in threadbare clothing stared as I passed. I searched for a street sign, couldn’t find one. I had to find another tower, bang on the door until they let me in. Or a helicab stand. I had enough money for that, though not much more.
Someone jostled; I staggered, resumed my pace.
A snicker. I looked over my shoulder; the trannie teeners were back. “Help fin’ ya way, Uppie?” A gap-toothed grin.
“Prong yourself.” This time it didn’t have the same effect. I hurried on in the fading light. At the corner, I’d be able to spot the nearest tower above the nearby buildings.
A hand grasped at my jacket. I whirled, struck at the nearest trannie, and ran.
Shouts, clawing fingers. I slapped them away, dashed to the corner and beyond. Across the street lounged a group of ragged trannies. In the road I risked a glance back. My pursuers had given up.
I loped to the sidewalk. One of several unkempt men stepped into my path. “Ain’ day, Uppieboy. Streets be ourn.”
“Prong yourself.” It was becoming a litany. I sidestepped him, strode on. There’d be a frazzing caller somewhere.
“Karlo take dat from a Uppie joeykit?”
“Naw!” Footsteps thudded after me.
I ran.
I was faster than most of them, but one was gaining on me. His grunts echoed in the humid silence. A hand clawed at my back. I shook it off, but a moment later I felt it again. The trannie grabbed my collar, nearly threw me to the ground. His gangmates were only steps behind. I cursed, squirmed out of my jacket, ran on. A frazzing coat wasn’t worth getting killed for. Holoworld would buy me another.
The trannie followed.
I made it to the corner, dashed across the street. I glanced back, breathed easier. The bastard had stopped.
This block seemed deserted. No, not quite. Ahead, a well-dressed youngster. Thank Lord God, another Upper New Yorker. I ran toward him. “Hey! Where’s the nearest tower?”
He smiled.
Chapter 18
POOK
DAY AFTA WE GET back from Washinton, ol’ man quiet, like too tire’. Sit in shop all day, rockin’ wid his tea. Don’ even wan’ open door ta trayfo, when Mid or Broad knock. Ova an’ ova I tellim, come on, Mista Chang, ya be traytaman, so trayfo. Trannies be waitin’.
Naw, he say. Leave me ’lone, Pook.
Please, Mista Chang, ya can’ let shop go. Where ya respec’? He smile, pat me. Okay okay he say, an’ open door. Tire’ an’ ol’, maybe, but not so tire’ he can’ skin a trannie come fo’ tray. C’n-do dat in his sleep, prolly.
Stupid ol’ man laugh when I tellim I wanna keep jumpsuit. Couldn’t getcha put it on, Pook, can’ getcha take it off. Who care, I say. I wear what I wan’. Mid joeys laugh, I diss ’em all.
Don’ talk like dat, he say. I shrug.
Nex’ day he sit an’ rock, same as ’fore.
“Ya sick, Mista Chang?”
“Nah. Depress.”
I dunno. He glitch. I wan’ go out, but he won’t answer yes or no, so I run roun’ asking questions, pickin’ up stuff, ’til he sigh, open door. “Okay okay, ya drive me craze. Nex’ creature I raise be a stuff owl. G’wan.”
“Yes, Mista Chang. I do whatchew say.” I gone.
I check out street. Watch for Karlo, ta hide from, but he ain’ out. Other Mids nod, talk ta me civil. A snot joeykit try joke ’bout my jumpsuit, so I stomp him. Den he shush. I feel good. Nothin ta do, so I go in ol’ build ’cross from lair, look roun’.
I seen build otha times, but look different now, afta governmen place. In hall elevate, I wham on buttons, but nothin’. Broke. Be a zark make it work, but dunno how. Upstair, door hang open ta hole where elevate was. I look down. Jus’ coupla feet below, be big box wid small trap in top. Climb down, checkitout. Inside awful dark, but look like elevate, buttons an’ all. I figga usetabe go upandown.
Build all bust, windows broke. Wonder if Changman know what he talkinabout, tellin’ me it once be like Unie build.
I bore. I go back ta shop, bang ’til Changman let me in.
“Why ya keep permaligh’ so low, Mista Chang? Like nigh’ in here.”
He fuss with pile a Unibucks. “Midboy go back outside, he don’ like Chang shop.”
I go sullen. “Ain’ no ansa.” I turn up ligh’. He glare, but leave it be. In back, I look in mirror. My hair still glitch. Stupid ol’ man, makin’ me cut. If hair spose ta be shor’, why it grow, hah?
Chang get up. “I don’ see any otha way,” he say.
“Whatcha talkinabout, Mista Chang?”
“Gotta go, ’gain.”
“Noway!” He ain’ takin’ me on Hitrans no more. I dissim firs’.
“Din’ mean you, Pookboy. Jus’ Chang this time.”
I go bristle. “Where ya go Pook ain’ good enough ta come ’long?”
“Lancaster.”
“Whazzat?”
“Cross ocean. Suborbital.” He pour tea. “Can’ bring ya. They search fo’ shiv, an’ fin’. Anyway, I be too ol’, take ya so far. Don’ got patient like I used.”
“Why go?”
“Fisherman.” He sit. “Gotta talk ta him, Pook. ’Fore it too late.” Look at watch. “Tonigh’. Go crosstown ta Unie, take helicab ta Von Walther. Got just enough coin.”
I go anxious. “Some trannie try grab ya bag, whatchew gon’ do widout Pook?”
“No problem once I get outa N’Yawk. I go Uppie places.” He sigh. “Use my last Unibuck, jusabout. No matta. Get more, soonalate.”
“I wan’ go!”
“No. Can’ pay for both.” He finish tea, stand. “Gotta pack. Go fin’ Karlo; see out how much innifo ya need ta go home. I give.”
“Prong yaself!” I go growly. “Don’ need no ol’ man ta—”
He raise eyebrow. “No joeykit talk ta Chang in his shop like—”
“Prong yaself! Prong yaself! I wan’ go wid!”
He move fas’, fo’ ol’ man. Trot ’cross room, grab my arm when I reach automatic fo’ shiv. Whop me inna mouth. I go teary. “Ain’ fair!”
He whop me again, take shiv from pocket, put in his.
“Leame ’lone, Changman! Leggo!”
Whop. I settle, cryin’. Can’ help.
“Tolya, no joeykit gon’ curse Pedro Telamon Chang in own house!” Ol’ man mad like I neva seen. “Siddown!” I sit. “Shut face ’til I say!”
I be sulk, but he don’ pay ’tention. Fuss at packin’ his bag, grumblin’ ya give Midboy nice jumpsuit, he start talkin’ like Uppie, ackin’ like one. No respec’. No wunner Karlo decide no upbringin’. I sniffle.
He pack. He go up stair, come back afta while, hard breathe.
I glare. “Wanna go out!”
“Did I say okay ya talk, hah?” He come close, but I c’n see he done wid mad.
“Lemme go.”
“Back ta Mid lair?”
I go proud. “Don’ need no lair. Be all ri’. Gimme shiv, I be gone.”
He sigh. “I back tomorra. Or nex’ day for sure.”
“Don’ care.” I hol’ out hand.
He jus’ stare.
Always gotta do his way. “Please, Mista Chang. Gimme shiv.” He give, like he ain’ afraid I stick it in. I be tempt. Stupid ol’ man. I hate.
He open door. “Wan’ innifo for Karlo?”
“Naw.”
He shrug. “Midboy ain’ gonna starve in day or two.” We go out, he lock door. “Come knock, when I’m back.” Afta ol’ man whop me, think I be back? Ri’.
I cross street, fo’ safe. He walk away, carryin’ bag.
“Prong yaself!”
He preten’ don’ hear.
“Neva talk ta ya ’gain, Changman! Hope ya die!”
I watch him go. Ain’ fair, he don’ take Pook. Las’ time, I help when he say.
I wait ’cross from lair, ’til Bigsis come out. No Karlo, so I run ’longside. “Hi.”
She smile, but look roun’ fo’ safe. “G’wan, ’fore Karlo seeya.”
“Still pissoff?”
“Yeah. Prolly fo’ longtime, now.” She shrug. “Shouldn’t a pissoff Ravan an’ Karlo same time.”
“Whazzat?” I checkout laserpen in her han’.
“Trayfo. Need cansa.”
“Lemme help?”
“Naw. Can’, wid Karlo out.” She stop. “Bes’ be gone, joeykit.”
“Yeah.” I kick sidewalk. “See ya roun’.”
Rest a day, I wander, careful ta stay inside Mid turf, but not too near tribe. Bore.
Dark comin’. I no worry, figga I c’n sleep in ol’ build cross from lair. Hid there once, Karlo be pissoff.
Go ta corna, checkout Broad turf. Some kinda fuss. Boy runnin’, Broads chasin’.
Come closer.
Uppie.
I watch wid ineres’. Dey catchim, be fun.
Almos’, dey gottim. Grab his jacket, but he twist outa. He run cross street, ta Mid turf. I look roun’. No one. I hope Broads follow. Good chance ta end Karlo’s pissoff, if I yell warn.
Broads stop ’fore cross to Mid. They don’ wanna start rumb.
Uppie hurry down sidewalk. He see me, slow a bit. “Hey, where’s nearest towah?” Bigger ’n me.
I grin, beck him inna storefron’. Casual, I stand in fronta.
Behin’, feet runnin’. I whirl.
Jus’ Jag an’ Swee. Mid teeners, but Karlo already give ’em upbringin’. No fair. Dey allowed ta sit wid growed, yet I jus’ as big.
“Who ya got, Pook?”
“Uppie!”
“Outaway!” Swee push me ’side.
I prates’, “He mine!”
“Outahere, joeykit!” Jag spit.
When dey do upbringin’, Jag wail an’ cry. Yet Karlo do him, an’ not me. Thinkin’ of it, I go a little craze, an’ pull shiv. “Outaheah, Jag! He mine!” Crouch. “Dissya if I gotta!”
“Easy!” Jag back way, scare.
Uppie boy edgin’ outa doorway. “I thought you were—I have to go—” I shove ’im back. He jump fas’ ta stay way from shiv. “Hey—”
“He mine!” Wolfy, I bare teeth at Swee an’ Jag.
Swee step back. “Fadeout.”
“Botha?”
Swee an’ Jag glance each otha. “Fadeout.”
I turn ta Uppie. “Lessee watcha got!” I go close.
His voice drip snot. “Get away, trannie!”
Behind, hear Jag breath hiss. I snarl, “Whatcha call?”
“Frazzing trannie! Get lost or I’ll call the jerries.”
I smile, nice. “’S okay, Uppie. We friens’.” I take step, crouch head down, butt him har’ in stomach.
He oof, bend over holdin’ self. Look up, cheeks wet. “Why’d ya—”
My foot swing up. Broken ol’ shoe kick him inna chin. His eyes roll up in head. He fall an’ lie still.
Jag an’ Swee watch, eyes wide.
I go proud. Don’ need no upbringin’ ta be growed. I kneel, roll Uppie ova, empty pockets. Coin. Unibucks, buncha. Neva had none, ’til now. I stick ’em in my jumpsuit, ’fore Jag see.
Swee come closa. “Gonna dissim?” Respec’ in voice like din’ usta.
I swell. “Prolly.” I prod wid foot. “Frazzin’ Uppie, talk ta Mids like we sheet.”
“Dey allasame.” Jag nod wise.
Voices of Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 5) Page 14