Broken (6 page)

Broken smiled wide. "Hi. Got a sick baby. Can you help?"

The woman hesitated, and looked fretfully up and down the street before saying, "Um. Sure. Come in."

They were led into what looked like a living room. Couches and chairs were grouped together. Michael and Ian collapsed onto one of the softer couches. It felt
so
good to be warm again.

"Sil, what
happened
to you? I haven’t seen you in… what, ten years? How did you find me? You look terrible." The red-haired woman sniffed. "And you need a bath."

"The baby," Broken reminded her.

“Is he yours?” She eyed the two of them suspiciously.

“Long story,” grunted Broken. “Medicine first.”

"Right. Is he sick? Let me see." She took the baby in her arms. "Oh! He has a serious fever. We should take him to the hospital."

Broken grabbed her arm. "No. No hospital. You. Here."

The slight woman hesitated, visibly warring with herself.

 “Please, Lucky Jane,” said Broken in perfectly even, lucid tones. Michael stared at her in shock; it was like a different person had spoken, her voice sweet and persuasive. “We need you. We can't go to anyone else.”

 The woman—Jane?—closed her eyes and dipped her head. "I see. Okay. Fine. Let me find something here that will bring the fever down." She disappeared into another room.

"You know her?" Michael asked.

"Yuh," Broken assented. “Lucky Jane. She was a doctor back at the Tower.” She’d found a bowl of fruit and was cramming an apple into her mouth.

"She's from the Union?" Michael started to panic. He had thought the Union people were all in the Tower. That was the law, wasn't it? Why was there one here? Was she going to go call Sky Ranger?
Broken nodded again, but didn’t elaborate. The woman came back.

"Here. Let’s try this." She put a green slow-release patch on Ian’s arm. "That should bring the fever down. Look. He really should go see a doctor."

"
You’re
a doctor," Broken said.

"Well, uh, I, ah, I’m
sort
of a doctor," Lucky Jane stammered. "Not much of one, really. I don’t practice anymore. Not since…"

"Still a doctor," Broken said. "Always. You can’t not be one."

The woman shrugged and sat, cradling the baby in her lap. She wrinkled her nose.

"I’ll get that," Michael volunteered. "Got a bathroom?"

"It’s… it’s all right,” she said, a faraway look in her eye. I should examine him a little more closely anyway. Be right back. Lydia is here, too, she might come in." She carried Ian out of the room. He started crying again, which was a good sign. They heard the woman make happy, disgusted noises from the bathroom.

“Are you
sure
this is safe?” Michael hissed.

Broken glanced over. “Safe,” she assured him.

Possibilities came and went, none of them useful. He sighed. He'd have to trust her for now.

"Nice house," Michael said, to fill the silence..

"Belongs to her
rhi
," said Broken.

"Her what?"

"
Rhi
," Broken said, irritated. "Räton marriage. I used to watch this place, knew
she
was here. There’s maybe seven of them."

"Oh. Räton marriage?" Michael had never met a Räton. He knew that the Reformists hated them, though. What had he heard about Räton marriages?

Seven people? Were they all married to one another? That sounded familiar. The Reformists had been making a big deal out of that sort of thing.
Alien
.

He picked up a small pamphlet on the coffee table.

"The Räton Family—An Alternative for Humans" read the title.

This place had its own literature? He skimmed through it.

The Räton family is MISUNDERSTOOD and much maligned, even by those in our own government. The following an except from Andrew Angstrom’s FAMOUS study of the rhi:

Räton Family Structure and Politics

From the Journal of Xenocultural Studies v.12(2) (©2091 Sydney Univ. Press)

Ever since the landing of the Mathapavanka in 2050, humans have been flummoxed by Räton family structure and internal politics. This guide should help the curious human to understand more about the complex relationships that underlie Räton society.

1. Family units

 The basic Räton family unit is not, as it is for most humans, the nuclear assemblage of two married parents and their children. Nor is it an extended family of grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. Räton families are called rhi, which means "circle". The rhi often contains a dozen or more individuals who are bound together in a socio-economic, sexual, and legal relationship (something like human and Rogarian marriage), along with the children who ultimately result from their couplings.

 Despite claims by certain religious and moral groups, the Räton rhi is nothing like historical human polygamy. One male does not marry several wives. Indeed, most rhi contain an equal number of men and women, all of whom are permitted and encouraged to have sexual relations with one another. There is sometimes a hierarchy in the rhi, but where it appears, it is usually based on ability and seniority rather than gender. The entire rhi raises the children, who rarely know exactly who their biological parents are. It seems to be enough to know that they are genetically part of the rhi. When questioned on the subject, most Rätons were either uninterested in or somewhat skittish about the "act of biology" that had brought them into this life.

Additionally, the members of the rhi all will usually share the same vocation or related group of vocations. For example—

Ugh. How boringly alien. He put the pamphlet down. No wonder everyone hated the Rätons.

 And yet here they were in a house occupied by a Räton-style
rhi
, while the Reformists and their goons were looking for Ian. Great.

Broken seemed right at home. She had stretched out on a couch, where she had promptly fallen asleep. The beige couch was turning a nice shade of dull gray from the crud caked on her clothes.

Lucky Jane re-entered the room. "Oh! Sil, honey, could you—uh, could you not...?

"She can’t help it," Michael said. "She’s been living on the streets."

"Oh! I, uh… Really?"

"Why don’t you give her a shower and wash her clothes?" Michael suggested evenly. "She was your friend, right?"

"Well… yes… but that was a long time ago."

"No friend like an old friend. She won’t steal anything. How is Ian?"

"Ian? Oh, the baby? Uh. Do you have any food?"

Michael rummaged around in his pack, which still smelled faintly of Ian excreta. Had it really been two days since he’d last been clean and warm? "Yeah. Here." He tossed a can of cheap baby formula her way. She fumbled it, and it rolled away under one of the couches; she had to kneel to find it.

Another woman entered. She was plump and middle-aged, and wore the expression a nun might have upon finding semen splattered on the communion wafers. "
Jane!
" she gasped. "What is going
on
? Who are these people?"

"Uh," the red-haired woman stuttered, bumping herself on the couch as she hurriedly straightened, "Uh, they’re—er—they’re some friends, Lydia. Old friends."

"They look like bums," Lydia whispered, too loudly.

"
She’s
a bum," Michael said, pointing a foot at the sleeping Broken. "I’m just... I'm passing through."

Jane took Lydia by the shoulder and hissed a few things in her ear. Michael thought he heard the word "baby"  a few times. Lydia’s expression didn't change .

"Why not the hospital?" Lydia demanded. "Why here?"

Michael made the mistake of looking at her, and their eyes met.

—Fire.

—Fire.

—"FIRE. FIRE! FIRE!!"

—"Burn them! Alien-loving garbage!"

—Her skin blackened and crisped as she lost the ability to scream anymore. She lived for another two full minutes of purest agony before death mercifully carried her away.

He reeled, gasping. "Ah!"

"Well?" Lydia advanced on him. He noticed that she had a small, light blue pin on her jacket. "UNP," it read. "Why
not
the hospital? Are you criminals?"

"No," he whispered, stunned and trying to shake the image he’d just experienced. "No."

"Then
why
?"

Michael gambled. "The Black Bands are looking for us. Political trouble."

Lydia’s face darkened. "I see!" she said, regarding him a little more kindly. "The Reformists have no respect for anyone. What did you do?"

"I—" What would sound good to this kind of woman? "I painted a picture of Peltan," he said. "With
blood
on his mustache. The Black Bands wanted to burn it, so I—I
punched
one of them and ran. They're after both of us."

"Good for you!" Lydia said viciously. "No wonder you look so terrible. An artist! So few artists these days. Well. You can stay here until the ‘heat is off,’ as they say, and your—your?— baby gets better. I’ll talk to Andrew."

"Thank you, Lydia," Jane said softly. She returned to the bathroom, where Ian was starting to howl again.

"Broken," Michael said. "Wake up."

She stirred briefly. "Wha...?"

"We can’t stay here long,” he whispered. “This place won’t last. They’re going to be killed by a mob. I don’t know when. Soon, maybe."

"Oh. Okay." Broken dropped back to sleep. He doubted she’d registered a thing he’d said.

What was it Joe called me? Cassandra? How appropriate
.

[CHAPTER 7]

T
he rest of the
rhi
arrived as night crowded out the short, cold day.

Andrew, the patriarch, came home first. Michael knew guys like Andrew. He was maybe fifty, maybe sixty. It was hard to tell. He wore very neat clothes in a deliberately casual fashion. His gray hair was close-cropped, and he wore spectacles perched low on his nose. Since most men of Andrew’s class could afford corrective surgery, the glasses were likely an affectation.

He glanced at Michael and the sleeping, but now cleaner, Broken, who was wearing one of Jane’s pink sweatsuits; Jane had managed to wake her up just long enough to get her to shower and change. A solitary "Oh!" escaped his lips before Lydia dragged him over to the corner, where they conversed animatedly for about a minute. Lydia’s part of it was animated, anyway. Andrew mostly just stood there and nodded,  every once in a while raising a finger to interject a word or two. When they returned, he greeted Michael warmly.

"An artist, is that so?" he asked. Michael nodded warily. This “artist” thing was going to lead to trouble, he knew it. What if they wanted him to paint a picture? He could always fake artist’s block. Did artists get blocked? Maybe a wrist injury.

"We have a few spare rooms in the house," he said, a little too jovially. "You can each have one. That’s the Räton way; everyone needs to have their own
zha
. yes? Have you read the pamphlet we put out?" He indicated the pamphlet on the table that Michael had glanced at.

"Some of it," Michael said.

"Well, then, you know what we’re all about! I wrote most of the articles it cites, you know. I used to be a lecturer on the subject at Sydney University; I’ve been to Räta, and lived amongst the Rätons themselves. Such an experience! Of course, with things the way they are, it’s unlikely I’ll get back any time soon. You say you painted Peltan with blood? How rich! Well, it may be true soon enough. But let’s get you something to eat. Lyddie, have they eaten?"

"No," Lydia said. "They can have dinner with the rest of us in an hour. I’m not making another meal; we can’t afford it."

"Lyddie over here keeps the books," Andrew said to Michael. "She’s a slave-driver, I tell you!"

Michael grinned weakly.

"So where’s that baby?" Andrew asked, looking around. "Been a while since we had a baby here!"

"With Jane," Lydia said. "She’s keeping an eye on him."

"That’s good. Is he yours?" Andrew said, casting a suddenly critical eye on Michael.

"No. Nor hers," Michael said, indicating Broken. "Orphan."

"Oh? And what are you doing with him?"
Michael cursed himself for not thinking of an answer to that question sooner. He hadn’t planned any of this very well, had he? He had a tendency to assume the future would take care of itself. In his visions, it always did, somehow. Planning seemed irrelevant; no matter how many plans people made, they always fell victim to forces beyond their control. That was life. That was fate.