by Adam Rakunas
The cutters followed suit. “It’s just there’s this little matter of the fifty thousand yuan,” said Onanefe.
“Which I’m not about to discuss without a change of clothes and a consult with my site manager,” I said. “What, you think I’m going to disappear?”
The cutters all looked at each other, then nodded.
I rolled my eyes. “Where can I go? Up the cable? If there’s a planet-wide strike, it’s probably going to extend to everyone working in orbit. Besides, it’s creepy as hell to have you all following me. Knock it off.”
“But–”
“No.” I didn’t yell it, but I put as much force into that word as I could as I held up a single finger. “You got a business problem with me? Okay. Then we will deal with this like business people.”
“But–”
I put my finger on Onanefe’s chest. He froze, and I pushed until he stepped back in the middle of his crew. “If I actually owe you money, I will make it right. But that doesn’t mean you get to tail me, hoping I’m going to drop fifty K on the sidewalk for you to scoop up. You’re freaking me out, and that makes me want to call a cop, not my manager.”
“Cops are on strike,” said one cutter. Onanefe shot him a withering look, and the man shrunk behind his comrades.
“I’m sure they are,” I said. “But they’ll look out for someone from their neighborhood who’s got a dozen guys following her around.” Or for someone who could call the police chief’s direct line, busted Public or no.”
Onanefe worked his jaw for a moment, then pulled his crew into a huddle. They conferred in low whispers, punctuated by the occasional punch to the shoulder. They stood up, and Onanefe said, “How do you feel about me going with you?”
“Still creepy as hell.”
“I would like to point out that someone tried to stab you.”
“What, you want to be my bodyguard?”
He smiled. “Why not? I have a vested interest in keeping you free from harm.”
On the one hand, it still bugged me that these guys felt the need to stick with me. Then my shoulder twinged, like my whole arm had been jabbed with tiny, tiny needles. The CauterIce must have begun to wear off. It had been a long time since someone had tried to take me on at close range. The fact that I hadn’t seen it coming bugged me even more.
“Here’s the deal,” I said, putting my hands on my hips and regretting it. “First, the minute I feel like you’re occupying too much of my space, you go. No questions asked.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and swayed, like the movement helped him weigh his options. He shrugged and nodded. “Done.”
“Second, if someone tries to take a swing at me, you do not step in.”
He snorted. “What, you want me to just stand by and let you get knifed again?”
“No, but I would rather you not get knifed on my account.”
He swiped at his mustache with his thumb. “Okay. But I’m not going to let you get yourself croaked. Dealing with probate’s a bear.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
“Anything else?”
“Keep up.” I turned and walked down Samarkand.
Onanefe ran after me. “You always this quick?”
“Death threats are a great motivator.” I looked up at the sun, now working its way toward the middle of the sky. “Besides, this coat is hot as hell.”
We pushed our way through the mass of marchers working its way down Koothrapalli. The commercial enthusiasm I’d seen earlier had not touched this block. Only a konbini and a bar were open. Every other business had closed up, their storefronts covered by makeshift barricades. The ribs of airship canopies held battered deckplates over windows and doors, and worried shopkeepers cradled cricket bats and pipe wrenches as they eyed the mass of people. I couldn’t remember the last time there had been any looting, not even during the messy weeks that led up to Contract Time. My neighbors looked at me like I was a barbarian raider, not as someone who bought eggs and face cream from their stores.
Saroyan Street was on the other side of Koothrapalli, and the open clothing store had marked everything up two hundred percent. I was out of cash, so Onanefe had to float me enough to buy a second-hand t-shirt covered in pinhole burns. “Factory seconds,” said the woman behind the counter, a cigarette smoldering between her lips. The shirt itched, but I figured the holes would help with ventilation. I made a mental note to bring the owner in front of the Commerce Committee for price-gouging, assuming there would still be a Commerce Committee.
It was a long, long walk to Globus Heights. With no cash or Public connection to my bank account, I couldn’t buy any of the food offered by the conspicuously non-striking vendors we saw. Onanefe, however, kept recognizing people along the way and cadged a sandwich here, some guava there, drinks of water everywhere. By the time we got to Lepa’s Bakery, I was full, hydrated, and had to pee.
I assumed the woman standing in front of the bakery was Lepa herself; with no Public access, every face in the city now belonged to a complete stranger. Her hair was held close to her skull in a hairnet, and her lipstick was a bright orange. She held a rolling pin in her hand, and she had a rolling pin tattooed on her cheek. I walked up to her, my knees tumbling together to keep my screaming bladder from emptying. “Bathroom’s for customers only,” she said before I could even ask.
I gritted my teeth. “Then I’ll take some proja.”
“That’ll be forty yuan.”
“Can you take an IOU? I’m good for it.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “‘I’m good for it’ usually means ‘I don’t have cash.’”
“The Public’s down, and I had to shell out all my money for this shirt.”
“My money, technically,” said Onanefe.
Her other eyebrow went up. “You got ripped off.”
“I got this,” said Onanefe, holding up a ten-yuan note.
Lepa’s orange mouth curled into a sneer. “What do you expect to buy with that?”
“A bathroom break for my friend.”
Lepa snorted. “You have any idea what my water bill has been for the past week? What toilet paper costs?”
“Look, forget it,” I said, stepping between the two. “I’ll cop a squat in an alley.”
Onanefe held up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Where’s your dignity?”
“Dignity probably costs more than either of us have right now.”
Onanefe pulled more bills out of his pocket, muttering under his breath. He held up the wad of cash in Lepa’s face. “Is that enough for her?”
I batted his hand. “I do not need you covering for me, okay?”
“What, you’re worried about adding more to your tab?”
I fought back my rising gorge. “You know, a few hours ago, I was prepared to give you a fair shake. I’d get my manager, talk this out, make sure we were square. But now? Now you’re pissing me off. Now you make me want to get lawyers.”
“Oh, look at Ms Distiller. How’s the weather up on your high horse?”
“At least I can climb up on a high horse myself, without some asshat pretending to help me.”
“Jesus.” Lepa snatched some bills from Onanefe’s hand. “I haven’t seen drama like that since Shakespeare in the Bay.” She unlocked the door. “You can do better than this, honey.”
“I’m sure we all can.” I hustled inside to the toilet, thankful it was also unlocked.
When I returned to the sidewalk, Onanefe sat at a table with Lepa. They stirred tiny cups of espresso. “You want one?” he asked.
“It would be on the house,” said Lepa, clinking her spoon on her saucer. “Your friend told me about your building. My condolences.”
“Thank you, but I’ve had enough caffeine for the day.” I thought ahead to Six O’Clock, about drinking my rum and going right to sleep. Then I remembered my flat, my bed, and that bottle of Old Windswept were all gone. Prickles of icy panic ran over the back of my skull, and The Fear stirred. I cleared my throa
t to cover me shaking my head, trying to rattle The Fear back to sleep. I had backups. I had plans. If I could manage to make Six O’Clock work in the middle of a Force Eleven storm (take that, Hurricane Bessie), I could make it work now. “My friend happen to tell you why we’re here?”
She nodded. “If the guy who attacked you hung around here, I’m happy to help you find him. I don’t need that kind of reputation. You got a picture?”
“You okay with a local connection?”
Her mouth made a thin, orange line. “Looks like I’ll have to be.”
I blinked up the footage from my buffer and sent it direct to Lepa’s pai. She blinked, then sneered. “This guy. He made a giant order last month, enough pita and knedle for a hundred people, deliverable today. Me and my husband have been working our tails off, and then he shows up this morning and gives us some song and dance about not having cash, and, what with the Public down – tsch.”
“Did he say what this was for?”
Lepa shook her head. “He only said it was for a social function. I wasn’t going to let him have anything, but then he yells and these two giants come in the door.”
“Giants?” I said. “Like, goon giant?”
She touched the tip of her nose. “Just like that. If he hadn’t surrounded himself with those goons, I’d have given him a bash.”
“I think I can take care of that for you,” I said. “He leave an address?”
Lepa tapped her temple. “I always keep receipts up here. He’s around the corner off Lutyen–”
I didn’t wait to hear the rest of it. I just saw red. I got up, excused myself, and marched up the street to Saarien’s church. Onanefe kept pace, making sure not to get in my way. “I hope you’re not going to go in there swinging.”
I cracked my knuckles. “Don’t worry. I’ll be good and calm before I tear that white-suited sonuvabitch a new one.”
“What if he isn’t there?” said Onanefe.
“Then we’ll see how fast word gets to him,” I said. “If the Public’s down, he’s got to have some way to communicate with his followers.”
“I really wish you’d have let me bring my crew.”
“What, you don’t think I can handle this?”
He ruffled his mustache. “I just don’t like goons, you know?”
“Join the club.”
The alley off Lutyen was packed. Tired teenagers slumped in the shrinking shadows, and kids painted the walls with smiley faces and STRIKE. Some people drank tea from battered caneplas cups, their eyes unfocused and bloodshot. It was a majority Freeborn crowd, and everyone handing out instruction sheets and directing groups in and out of the Temple were also Freeborn. One kid who looked no older than twelve juggled three different clipboards. “BUDVAR!” she yelled, and one of the teenagers heaved herself out of a crouch, took a sheet of paper from Clipboard Girl, and ran off into the street. A woman in her thirties hovered nearby, adding or taking away paper from the clipboards.
I nudged my way to the door, Onanefe sticking close to me. Ahead of us stood a group of exhausted women holding babies and bundles of clothes. In front of me was an old lady with a monstrous stack of cloth diapers. “May I help you with that?” I asked, not waiting for an answer. I swept the diapers out of the old lady’s hands, and she turned. Her ink, an IF/THEN logic gate, crinkled above a sweet and confused smile. I kept my head down as Clipboard Girl directed us inside. “And don’t mess up the stacks!” she yelled.
The Temple was a beehive. I could hear nothing but the buzz of people talking about food runs, people talking about repairing PV cells, people talking about the best way to keep the Brapati Causeway blocked to motor traffic. The tables that had been covered with food and clothes were now empty except for a man sitting on one, cradling a baby. Everyone had sagging eyes and downturned mouths. The last strike, those looks hadn’t appeared until the second month. I remembered spending every waking hour making sure people had their needs met and their gripes heard. Maybe Saarien hadn’t planned this very well, and the whole thing would collapse on its own. Maybe the best thing to do would be to go back to the distillery and ride it out.
Someone shhshed, and the screen in the corner flicked on. There was Saarien, his eye a little swollen but still smiling. “Friends,” he said, holding up his hands. “This has been a glorious first week. Our labor action has already unified the planet into a harmonious accord–”
I stopped listening to the words and paid attention to the sound. I could hear Saarien’s voice echo in the room. At first I thought it was the screen’s high volume bouncing around but then I heard it: a faint version of Saarien from inside the room that spoke before the screen. He was broadcasting from here. I scooted through the crowd as Saarien’s voice rose and fell. The people clapped and hooted, and I lost the trail. I looked at the screen: behind Saarien was a wall covered in STRIKE graffiti. He squinted into the camera. A shadow flickered across his face.
“He’s outside,” I hissed to Onanefe, and pushed back to the door.
ELEVEN
Saarien stood at the end of the alley, the wall making a perfect backdrop. The two goons I’d met before, Gwendolyn and Kazys, held the crowd back but for a few kids gathered at Saarien’s sides. I squeezed my way to the front row and glared hard. Saarien’s eyes flickered over to me, and he paused in his speech. I couldn’t tell what flashed across his face. Fear? Relief? Anger? He finished his remarks with the bit about lifting fists, and I could hear a roar ripple out of the alley onto Lutyen and beyond.
Saarien walked right up to me. “If you’re going to hit me again, please don’t hit me in the face.”
“I’m not going to hit you again. Though I hope you don’t give me a reason to.”
He nodded. “I heard what happened. I’m so glad you’re all right.”
“I’ll bet.” The goons formed a cordon around us, pushing him way too close to me. “I don’t have time to waste, Rutey. Who is this guy?” I touched his temple, and he opened a connection to my photo.
He blanched. “Oh, no. Are you sure?”
“You want me to send you footage of him stabbing me? Who is he?”
“Octavian Noon. One of the more fervent members of the congregation.” He rubbed the back of his head, and his hair pooched up to the sky. “Some of these kids, they get caught up in talk about The Struggle, and next thing you know they’re grabbing weapons and going out into the streets–”
“Did you send him for me, Rutey?”
Saarien shook like I’d slapped him. “What? No! No, Padma, I would never do anything like that! This whole strike is supposed to be non-violent!”
The look of panic on Saarien’s face wasn’t that of a guilty man. It reminded me of the dozens of people I’d met over the years who had built up angry anti-Big Three movements, only to have them all fall apart before their moments of glory had arrived. Saarien wasn’t afraid he’d been caught red-handed; he was upset that one of his overzealous followers had struck without his say-so.
But I didn’t have to let him know that.
I shook my head. “You know I can go to Soni Baghram and have you chucked back in the clink, right?”
“But I’m out. I was released.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re immune from going back on new charges, like conspiracy to commit murder. Soni hates conspiracy, and this looks like a textbook example. We got a firebrand preacher, we got a lunatic follower, and we got video footage of said follower using said preacher’s words right after I get a knife sunk into my shoulder. Just one note from me, and you’re done. All this is done. Soni would cross a picket line for me. You think she’d stay behind it for you?”
Saarien held up his hands. “No, of course not. Please, Padma, don’t, we’re working so hard for everyone, even you. I should have kept Octavian on a short leash, should have kept him from taking things so far. You understand that, right? Getting caught up in the heat of the movement?”
“I never felt the need to shank someone from the Big
Three.”
“No, but you probably wanted to crack a few skulls, right?” Flop sweat rolled down Saarien’s temples. He leaned in close. “Please, Padma, it is getting tense out here. I’m hearing about people coming close to fighting, trying to settle old scores. If word gets out that someone made an attempt on your life, it could set off riots.”
“Over little old me?”
“Over a symbol of the Union’s triumph over the Big Three.” He swallowed and made a face like he’d just eaten bitter medicine. “People are itching for an excuse to start swinging. It’s harder to hold this coalition together than I thought, and if people hear that a Freeborn man tried to stab a beloved Union member, that would be enough.”
I smiled. “Beloved? I need to update my theme song.”
Saarien clasped his hands together. “Please let me handle this. Can you trust me to keep everything under control?”
I let my upper lip curl into a sneer. “That’s a hell of a thing to ask.”
“I know, I know.” His hands shook as he pressed them tighter. “Our city, our world, it needs this to work. I need this to work. Don’t make it for nothing. Please.”
I thought back to that horrible day two years ago when Saarien had me tied to a chair, ready to dump a can of cane diesel on me and light me up. He had shot Wash in the gut. He had worn this look of triumph, like he’d won every World Cup in history. I looked at this ruined creature begging and snorted. “You’re going to have to work a whole lot harder than that to earn my trust, Saarien. Anyone from your group so much as looks at me funny, and I’m going straight to Soni, and you’re going straight back to Maersk.” I looked up at the goons. “Could I please get by? Gwendolyn? Kazys?”
Gwendolyn stared down at me, her mouth a hard, thin line. She rolled one of her shoulders, and I heard bones grinding together.
“I’m sorry for everything I said about people in your profession,” I said. “That was wrong. I think you’re absolutely right to go on strike. The Union has been terrible to former security services personnel.”
Gwendolyn and Kazys exchanged glances. “Talk is cheap,” said Gwendolyn.