Like a Boss

by Adam Rakunas

  A mild titter traveled through the crowd. A few of them whispered to each other, and I caught them saying my name or Sky Queen. That damn song...

  I cleared my throat. “I know a lot of you are angry because you haven’t gotten what you think you’ve earned. A lot of you think you’ve been ripped off by your bosses, or by the Union, or by the person who sells you vegetables. The more I’ve talked with people, the more I’m convinced that you’re right. Things have gone bad with the Union. It’s not living up to its end of the bargain.

  “But is this the way to hold them to it? Fighting each other over tea and bolts? This is the kind of crap that the Big Three loves. When we fight each other, we forget to fight them. And do you want to let the Big Three win?”

  The people looked at me, then at each other.

  I sagged, then leaned toward the crowd. “Really? Contract Time is less than a year away. The Big Three are betting that we won’t have our act together so they can slip some new evil under our noses. You want that? You want to make even less than you do now?”

  People shook their heads. I heard a few Nos here and there.

  “Then you have to want a better life. You have to want to work together, ’cause that’s the only thing we’ve got. When we’re united, Union and Freeborn, we are unstoppable. We have to work together. We have to fight together. And you look like people who want to fight. Am I right?”

  That got a few cheers.

  “I said, do you want to fight?”

  That got even more.

  “Then start talking it out here, then you take it to your Ward Chairs. Take it to the Union Hall. Even if you’re Freeborn, ’cause whatever the Big Three are planning to do will screw you even harder.”

  I jumped off the table and pointed at the first person I saw, a Union woman clutching a stack of motherboards. “You,” I said, “what are you pissed off about?”

  She held out the circuitry. “I can’t operate my CNC mill with this crap.”

  And so on for another two hours. I ran out of buffer space on my pai recording one story after another about pay cuts, evaporating benefits, or promised equipment never arriving. I got the names of everyone involved: the Ward Chairs who were supposed to make things happen, the Committees that were accountable, the endless list of promises broken to everyone, Union and Freeborn alike. I cadged a notebook from a bookbinder’s stall and a bunch of colored pencils from an art supplier, and even then I ran out of room. I had a whole volume of How I Got Screwed By The Union, written by the people of Bakaara Market.

  I blinked up the time: five o’clock. My hand hurt from writing. My eye twitched from all the blinking. I thanked my last interviewee and found Onanefe talking to a Freeborn woman. He scribbled in a notebook, nodding as the woman talked about water cutbacks. When he saw me, he thanked her and stuffed the notebook in his satchel. “You finally ready to go shopping?” he asked.

  “Food first.” I nodded to his satchel. “You been busy?”

  He shrugged. “A lotta people want to talk. I like to listen.”

  “And record.”

  “That a crime?”

  I shook my head. “Looks like someone doing the work.”

  He made a face. “I think I’d rather do the eating.”

  “Then follow me,” I said. “I know a place with great tacos.”

  “I suppose I’m buying?”

  “No, because I get tacos on credit.”

  He opened his eyes wide. “I think I have much to learn from you.”

  I threw him a very sloppy wink. “Stick with me, mister. I’ll take you places.”

  We wove our way through the stalls. The mood had calmed, though I could see tension on everyone’s faces, as if they were still waiting for something to happen. The vendors kept their patter to a minimum. Everyone kept blinking madly, the sign of pais on the fritz. The sharp wave of panic had died down, but I could feel the anger running through the people, like a low-level electric current just waiting for a gap to jump.

  “What’s got you angry?” asked Onanefe.

  I shrugged. “The usual. The unfairness of entropy. Man’s inhumanity to man. The fact that my favorite konbini upcharges for kimchi.”

  He shook his head. “You want to keep it to yourself, fine.”

  “I don’t know you,” I said, giving him a broad fuck-you smile. “We’re not friends. We’re not colleagues. You claim I owe you money, so that means we have a transactional relationship. Feelings aren’t part of that transaction.”

  “Even though we have the same goal?”

  “We do? That’s news to me.”

  He smiled as he wagged his finger. “I watched you today. Every time you talked with someone, you lit up. You like this.”

  “Because I know I’m going to use it to get Leticia Smythe off her ass. Never underestimate the motivational power of spite.”

  “So you’ve been done wrong, too?”

  I gave him a little shrug. “I guess. Spend enough time wading in muck, you’ll think everyone’s done you wrong.”

  Next to us was a table covered in coiled multi-colored network cables. Two men were arguing about the esoterica of network protocol and blaming each other for their lack of pai access. A pair of cops stood by, not looking at the ever-heating argument. Soni would have had their heads if she’d seen her people not breaking up arguments before they turned into brawls.

  Both of the arguers, I couldn’t help but notice, wore a Temple pin. Even Saarien’s people were losing their cool. “But you know what? Right now, I just want to get dinner. We can worry about Letty later.”

  “What, you think she’s gonna pay attention to you?”

  “I’ll make sure she does.”

  And that’s when the network cables exploded.

  TWELVE

  My brain wasn’t sure how to process that. One moment, I was looking at a table full of cables; the next, the cables flew at me like a forest of striking cane vipers. There was no flash, no bang, no puff of smoke. Just a thousand noodles of wire and caneplas shooting toward our heads. They lashed around my shoulders and neck, and I fell to the ground under their weight.

  I took a moment to catch my breath and tamp down my rising panic. I wasn’t on fire. I looked over at Onanefe. He wasn’t on fire either. That was good. I could work with that.

  “Here.” I reached for him, and another wave of cables flew over us, followed by a table, two chairs, and a few hundred people.

  Three of them stepped on us before I could grab Onanefe and pull him toward me. I wrapped my arms over his head and held on tight. Boots came down on my legs, my hips. Someone tripped and landed on my side, squeezing all the air out of my lungs. I let fly with an elbow while I gasped in a breath. Onanefe’s eyes were wide with panic. I couldn’t hear his muffled words over the roar of the mob. I held him closer, wrapping a leg over his hip. “It’s going to be okay!” I yelled, my own voice fighting to get through the cables covering my face.

  The Fear hissed: You’re going to miss Six O’Clock, and all because you saved this guy who says you owe him money. What is he to you? A creditor. Who saves someone you owe money? You’re an idiot.

  “Shut it,” I hissed under my breath. A foot came down on my back. Three people stepped on Onanefe, and he howled. I held him closer. To hell with The Fear. I wasn’t going to let anyone get trampled. I wormed both of us against the overturned table until we both huddled against the ragged tabletop. People jostled the table as they bumped the ends. The world was a white noise haze of rushing bodies, screams, and the table banging on the pourform ground.

  I didn’t know how long it took for the noise to die down. I waited until the table stopped moving for a whole minute before I threw off the cables and gave Onanefe a nudge. “You still alive?”

  He groaned. “I think I broke a rib.” He tried to get up, then went right back down. “Or three.”

  I took my multi-tool from my trousers, thankful it hadn’t tumbled out in the chaos. I snapped open the shears and
cut away the cables around his body. “Just stay still. I’ll find help.”

  Onanefe gave a weak chuckle. “I think the help went with the mob. What was that?”

  “No idea.” I pulled cables off his neck, trying not to touch the fresh lashes the cables had made on his skin. “Can you breathe?”

  He inhaled and winced.

  “Good enough.” I got under his arm and helped him up. “Please don’t faint on me.”

  We stood all the way up. It looked like a hurricane had swept through the Market. Everything that wasn’t made of coral steel had been smashed to pieces. Awnings were torn apart, tables snapped in half, and fruit, clothes, and electronic components lay scattered on the ground. There were a few other wounded people with bloodied faces and limbs hanging at weird angles.

  But as I looked toward the west edge where Hawa kept her stall, I saw no damage. The line of wreckage moved in a thin, straight line from Parkhurst to Djimon, two hundred meters long. It was like a stampede of very narrow bison had plowed its way through the Market.

  The small amount of damage wasn’t enough to keep the other vendors open, however. As I helped Onanefe toward Hawa’s stall, I saw everyone had closed up shop. What couldn’t be rolled up, stowed, or boxed was simply dumped into wheelbarrows and bakfietsen and taken away. It looked like someone had hit the hurricane warning alarm, the one that meant get the hell out now.

  Hawa’s stall was one of the few permanent ones, more of an open-air office than a tent. The front was all display boards, but the back was a pourform shed with enough room for four people. By the time we got there, the coral steel door to the shed was closed, and chicken wire wrapped around the now-emptied front. An embroidered sign (All done for the day, thank you!) hung from the wire. Above the sign was the crocheted figure of a woman holding a spiked cricket bat. Tiny crocheted heads hung from the woman’s belt, their eyes now adorable stitched X’s.

  “Hawa!” I yelled, banging on the chicken wire with my free hand. “I need you!”

  “We’re closed!” came Hawa’s voice from behind the door.

  “I can see that, but I still need you! It’s Padma!”

  There was a horrible pause, and then the door’s multiple locks clacked. Hawa opened the door enough to see me and cursed. She was an elegant woman who decorated her hand-knitted hijab with strings of glass beads. They rattled as she shook her head. “This isn’t a good time.”

  “I pay you five hundred yuan a month for times just like this.”

  She tched, wrinkling the starfield and sextant tattooed on her cheek. “I’ve got all my stock in here, plus my granddaughter.”

  “Then we’ll be very careful and polite as we take shelter. You gonna let us in, or do I have to start telling everyone that you farm out your needlework?”

  “Shh!” She strode to the chicken wire and unwrapped it. “You want to ruin me?”

  I helped Onanefe through the gap. “Of course not. I love the scarves you make.”

  Hawa gave Onanefe the hairy eyeball. “Who’s this?”

  He straightened up enough to give Hawa a bow. “Asalam malakum, sister.”

  “Wa alaikum salaam.” She nodded. “At least he’s got manners. More than I can say for you, Padma, showing up in the middle of a riot. Get your asses inside.”

  Hawa slammed the door behind us and threw four bolts into place. The pourform walls kept the inside of the shed cool, though I felt little balls of heat from the two lamps overhead. Stacks of knitwear went from floor to ceiling. A teenage girl sat at a tiny table, knitting needles in hand. I eased Onanefe into the chair opposite her. The girl looked at him, then gripped her needles together, points facing him. He gave her a polite nod before going back to sweating and wincing.

  “How long you been holed up in here?” I asked.

  “Long enough.” Hawa’s copper bracelets rattled as she fussed over a tiny teapot with equally tiny copper cups. They looked like giant thimbles. She made a tall, precise pour into each one. The smell of heavy mint filled the office. “I opened up this morning and could tell it was going to be a weird day. Everybody was snapping up staples or meds or anything that could make for a good weapon. And no one knew why! No one talked about what they were worried about, just that they were worried.” She handed each of us a cup and toasted us. “One gulp. You lose flavor if you sip.”

  We downed our tea, and I felt something like relief rush from the back of my head down to my toes. Except for the bus ride and hiding from the human tsunami, I had been on my feet all day. I also hadn’t eaten since that guy gave me a coconut hours ago. I nodded to Onanefe. “You got any pain meds? He got stepped on.”

  Hawa shook her head. “My first aid kit got boosted yesterday. Why don’t you give him a slug of that rum?”

  I felt the blood rush out of my face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She clucked her tongue. “Oh, please. You think I don’t know what’s in your stash?”

  “I paid you to keep it, no questions asked!”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t ask. I just looked. A case of Old Windswept and some candles? Is that really worth five Cs a month?”

  Onanefe turned to me. “Seriously? What is it, some kinda special blend?”

  Hawa laughed. “No, it’s just the plain stuff. From what I understand, you make a good rum, but it can’t be that good.”

  “I want a refund,” I said. “Right now. All of it.”

  Hawa pointed at the door. “Then you’re welcome to step outside and talk to my banker. She’s probably ransacking the neighboring stalls.”

  I stood up. I clenched my hands so tightly that the tea cup bent. “Where is it?”

  Hawa made a big show of sifting through the piles of knitwear. In the middle of a stack of onesies was a canvas sack. She smiled as she reached in, her bracelets rattling. “Seriously?” I said. “Five hundred for a bag?”

  She waved me off. “You know what the secret is to maintaining a good holding company? Misdirection.” She pulled a battered pad from the bag and tapped its screen. The lamps winked out, then blacklight LEDs embedded in the ceiling winked on. The pourform walls came alive with star charts and circuitry diagrams. Hawa hummed as she ran her fingers over the constellations and tapped at a scrawled keypad on the wall. She nodded to Onanefe. “Can you scoot ten centimeters to your left, dear? I don’t want you to get a concussion.”

  Onanefe slid to the side. Hawa put her palm flat against an outline of a hand (decorated, I noticed, with feathers, eyes, and a beak), and the portion of the wall where Onanefe’s head had been chunked open. Hawa tugged at the panel of pourform, and two wire racks on rails slid up from the ground. In the racks were bundles of blue boys, three foil bags covered in biohazard stamps, a khanjar in a silver sheath, what looked like the components of an automatic pistol, boxes of ammunition, and, tucked behind a skein of purple yarn, a crate holding my candles and my bottles of Old Windswept.

  Hawa pulled a candle and a bottle out of the rack. “Is this worth your five hundred?”

  I plucked the bottle out of her hands and grabbed a candle out of the crate. “Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I walked to the door and started throwing bolts.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” said Hawa.

  “Going out. I need some privacy.”

  Hawa gawped. “To drink? Are you nuts?”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “I think not,” said Hawa. “You step out of here, Padma, I’m locking the door behind you. It’s insane outside, and I’m not going to let it get in here.”

  “But you let us in!”

  “That was before I knew you were going to go right back out,” she said. “As of a few minutes ago, you’ve reclaimed your stuff. That means our deal is done. You want to have a nightcap in the middle of all that madness, you go on ahead. But you can’t come back in.”

  “You got any matches?”

  Hawa crossed her arms over her chest. “What, it’s not enough to wade int
o a riot? You want to start a fire, too?”

  “No questions asked,” I said. “You got a light, or what?”

  Hawa’s beads clacked as she tilted her head to the side. “Maybe. You can’t tell me why you’re going to commit suicide first?”

  “Good Lord, Hawa, could you knock off the theatrics? There is no angry mob. There is no riot.”

  Onanefe groaned.

  “Okay, not anymore,” I said.

  “You got some kind of problem? Let me help you.” Hawa put her hands on my arms and tugged. “Whatever it is–”

  “Christ Almighty, I am not an alcoholic, okay? I’m not some rummy who needs to get liquored up to deal with stress! I just have to step out for all of sixty seconds, and then I’m done.” I clicked the bolts.

  Hawa moved to block the door. “Padma, please. Don’t do this. Whatever you need to do out there can wait until it’s safe.”

  The Fear hissed. I blinked up the time. Five forty-seven. “No, it can’t,” I said. I gave her a kiss on the cheek, kicked open the bolt in the floor, and went outside.

  I shivered even though it wasn’t cold. The sun had started its dip toward the horizon, and everything looked angry and red: the sky, the Market, the people. I clutched the crate as a pack of women holding cricket bats sifted through the wreckage next to Hawa’s stall. They all wore gray t-shirts with SECURITY printed on the front and back. They couldn’t have been younger than thirty, but they all looked old and hard as they squinted into the failing light.

  “Oy!”

  I turned. Onanefe held onto a strut, gasping as he took an unsure step toward me. “We had a deal!”

  “No, we had a bet. Which you lost.”

  “Semantics.” He screwed his face and winced as he walked toward us. “Ladies, good evening. You mind if I talk with my colleague?”

  The women looked at each other, their wariness transferring from me to Onanefe. I held up a hand. “It’s okay. He’s okay.” They shrugged, then moved on to another pile of wreckage.