Dreamer (5 page)

“I’m not worried about my current cargo,” Ara replied. “It’s the future I’m looking at. I have a couple of standing contracts for slaves, and I need to know more about Rust’s regulations. I tried to access the public terminals, but they won’t let me in without a code. The error message said I could get one here.”

Although it would be relatively easy for Ben to hack into Rust’s nets again, Ara saw no point in risking arrest over information that could be gotten legitimately with proper paperwork. Best to save Ben for the high-powered stuff not available to the public.

Fen’s face cleared. “Access codes I can help you with. I’ll just need to download your papers. And there’s a forty
kesh
charge.”

“Forty
kesh?”
Ara yelped. “I could open my own store for that.”

“Not on Rust,” Fen replied. “Sorry.”

Making a big show of grumbling, Ara paid the fee and let Fen download from her computer pad the identity papers Ben had forged for her. In the interest of keeping everything simple, he had used their real first names and falsified last names.

“I adopted my grandmother’s name after she died,” Ara breezed when Fen asked about the discrepancy. “I wanted to honor her memory.”

“Did you ever marry?” Fen used a small scanner to verify her retina and thumb prints.

“No.” She laughed. “Running a merchant vessel doesn’t leave time for romance.”

“It must be more interesting than working here.” Fen’s fingers flicked over his terminal. “All set. If your crew wants access, though, they’ll each have to come down here themselves. Tell them to bring a good book.”

“And a small fortune,” Ara groused.

Fen leaned across the counter. “I’m supposed to go on break soon. Let’s get something to eat, hey?”

Ara’s initial instinct was to make excuses. She’s have to watch every word she said and remember every lie she told. A moment’s thought, however, told her that this man was a friendly contact in unfriendly territory.

“I’ll wait in the lobby,” she said.

Chin Fen’s face lit up like a puppy in love, and suddenly Ara wasn’t so sure she’d made the right decision.

CHAPTER FOUR

PLANET RUST, CITY IJHAN

The arm of coincidence is long indeed.

—Silent Proverb

Kendi Weaver wandered from stall to stall, pretending to browse and trying to keep the memories at arm’s length. Voices, colors, and smells swirled around him. He wanted to run all the way back to the
Post Script.
But the Silent on Unity worlds were slaves, and Kendi’s knack for worming his way into the underworld made the illegal slave market his most logical assignment.

The black market for slaves was, as usual, hidden in the red light district. On Rust, just like elsewhere, it was easy for black marketeers to tell inquisitive authorities that their merchandise was only for rent, not sale, and to pay the fines—or bribes—for violating anti-prostitution laws. It had taken two hours to find Ijhan’s red light district and four days of “shopping” to get a feel for who was selling what. During that time, he’d picked up rent boys from three different places, thumped some illegal dermosprays, and paid for time in bed so word would get out that he was customer, not guard. The antidote strips Harenn had implanted under his skin kept Kendi from getting high, but there was no way around the sex. Kendi hoped Ben didn’t find out.

Two of the rent boys had had red hair.

Kendi browsed the market. At first glance, the place looked like any other market near sunset. The area was closed to ground traffic, and stalls and booths were scattered up and down the street. Buyers crowded the sidewalk, and the street was full of bicycles and people pulling light passenger carts. Vendors hawked food, clothing, and cheap jewelry. Shouts and conversations mixed with smells of sizzling fat and human sweat. Signs and posters were everywhere, extolling
Humans, Yes! Aliens, No!,
Love the Unity Like Yourself,
and
Our Children Are the Unity.

Kendi ignored all of this. He couldn’t shake the feeling that should hurry. His mind held no doubt that other Silent soon feel the strange child’s presence. When that happened, others would start looking too.

Some stalls were large enough to be living rooms. Others were actually entrances to what looked like apartment houses. Prostitutes, male and female, were draped inside and in front of these stalls. Most looked bored, some looked scared, a few looked seductive.

“Hey!” called a familiar voice as Kendi passed one stall. “Looking for more fun?”

Kendi turned to the speaker, a young man with a long face and thin lips. Kendi put a knowing grin on his face and entered the stall. It was carpeted with threadbare rugs. Three attractive young men were stretched out on the ground. They glanced idly at Kendi as he shook hands with their pimp.

“Your man was pretty good yesterday, Qadar,” Kendi said. “Worth it.”

“Mine are trained,” Qadar breezed. “These other places just throw someone into bed with you and take your money. I make sure my boys know what they’re doing. You want a drink? Or a refill on your dermos?”

“Don’t need the refill,” Kendi said, patting a brace of dermosprays in one pocket, “but I’ll take some wine.”

He and Qadar made further small talk while one of the rent boys brought Kendi a glass of wine. When the timing felt right, Kendi leaned conspiratorially toward Qadar.

“I’ve got a friend,” he said. “And we’re in the market for something...permanent, you know? Someone we can have whenever we want. But we don’t want to pay taxes and license fees and all that shit every year. You know anyone?”

Qadar hemmed and hawed until Kendi dropped considerable
kesh
on the table.

“Talk to Mr. M and to Indri. They’ll set you up,” Qadar said, and gave directions to their stalls.

Kendi winked. “I’ll be back. Gotta keep your men in practice.”

Out in the market, Kendi suppressed a shudder and paid to wash hands and face at a hot water stall. When he emerged, he stopped abruptly enough to earn an elbow in the side from an annoyed passer-by.

The boy was back.

Kendi’s heart lurched. The boy slouched against a gray aerogel wall half a block up the street. His clothes were ragged, even torn, but he was quite handsome, with tousled black hair and a swarthy complexion that contrasted sharply with a startling pair of ice-blue eyes. He looked fifteen or sixteen.

Kendi looked away, then back, careful not to stare. He had seen the boy around the market several times. Something about him rang bells in Kendi’s head, but he couldn’t say what or why. Kendi doubted he was the kid they were looking for—that would be too much to hope for. The Children of Irfan had been planning to spend several weeks or months on their search. Finding their quarry in only four days would be a miracle. But the elusive Silent child wasn’t the only person Kendi was seeking.

Kendi studied the boy’s face as best he could in gathering dusk. It was the eyes that drew him. Utang, Kendi’s brother, had blue eyes just like them. They were rare among the Real People. Excitement gripped Kendi. His heartbeat sped up, and he found himself trotting briskly toward the boy. At that moment, the boy’s gaze met Kendi’s. Their eyes locked. Then a look of fear crossed the boy’s face and he bolted. The crowd swallowed him up.

Dammit!
Kendi gave himself a mental kick. He’d been walking with too much purpose. The boy had probably mistaken him for guard. Kendi should have let the crowd carry him toward the boy. He sighed heavily and headed for Mr. M’s stall.

It was another entryway masquerading as a booth, though it was much plusher than Qasad’s. Thick rugs covered the floor, and people lounged provocatively on comfortable-looking furniture. Several were talking to customers. Sweet incense perfumed the air. The proprietor bore down on Kendi the moment politeness allowed, computer pad in hand.

“Something I can help you find?” the man asked. He was older, and as round as Ara, though she had more hair.

Kendi drew himself up. “I represent an...interested person. We’re looking to acquire a few things on a permanent basis.”

The man hemmed and hawed just like Qasad had. Kendi dropped more
kesh
and mentioned the other places he’d patronized. “Check with them and they’ll tell you I’m a good customer.”

The man tapped some keys on his pad and spoke to it in a low voice. Kendi let his gaze wander around the booth, feigning boredom despite a dry mouth and sweaty palms.

“Do I hear fifteen? Fifteen for this fine—fifteen, thank you, sir. Do I hear twenty? I have fifteen, will someone give me twenty?”

“I’d be glad to show you what we have, sir,” Mr. M said, breaking into Kendi’s memory. “This way, please.”

Kendi followed Mr. M through an opening in the back of the booth and into the tall, thin house behind. The round little man presented his thumb for verification, opened a heavy door, and descended a flight of stairs. Dampness mingled with faint murmurs from below. Kendi’s stomach churned. The urge to run welled up, but he bit the inside of his cheek and went down the steps.

It was like descending into the past. Mr. M’s words barely registered as he showed Kendi a long row of people. Each person wore a thick metal bracelet on wrist and ankle. On the concrete wall behind them glowed a series of disks. They were sensors that tracked the movements of the shackles. If any slave moved beyond a prescribed area, the shackle transmitted first a warning tingle, then a wrenching shock unless the slave immediately returned. If the slave somehow managed to stay mobile after a full shock, the shackles became electromagnets, instantly chaining ankle to wrist and hobbling the escapee.

The youngest slave in the basement was a girl of nine, the oldest a man of seventy. Kendi passed a teenage boy who looked up at him with frightened eyes, and memories rushed at him. He was twelve again, fettered near a damp stone wall near his mother. A procession of people probed and pushed at him with rough hands. Anger mixed with hurt, frustration, and fear, and all of it turned to terror his father and sister were lead away. His brother was already gone.

Kendi rubbed his wrists and firmed his jaw. He would find them—all of them. If he had to check every slave in the universe, he would do it.

“...can produce Silent children,” Mr. M said.

Kendi snapped his head around. “Say that again?”

Mr. M’s eyes gleamed briefly. “I said, this particular cow—” he gestured to a seated woman “—can produce Silent children. She has already born three.”

The woman looked up at Kendi. Her brown eyes were empty, vacant.

“Each one comes with papers that will stand up to the closest scrutiny,” Mr. M was saying. “Do you see anything that interests you?”

Any
thing.
As if they were discussing rugs or lamp shades instead of people. Kendi realized he was grinding his teeth. To cover his consternation, he bent down to touch the woman’s shoulder. She tried not to flinch.

Nothing. Her children might be Silent, but she was not.

Kendi moved down the line, ignoring the slaver’s chatter and touching the shoulder of every slave under the age of twenty. None was Silent.

“Nothing young enough for you?” Mr. M asked. “I do have contacts who—”

Kendi curtly waved the man to silence. “Nothing here interests me.”

“I’m expecting more next week,” the slaver told him. “Cows and bulls both.”

“Then I may return.” He strode up the stairs without another word.

Back in the busy, crowded market, he paused to lean against a wall. He wanted a shower, or a long soak in a tub. But there was Indri’s stall to visit. Kendi wondered how long it would take to find the child and if his sanity could stand up to repeated visits like this one.

Deciding to get it over with as quickly as possible, Kendi started off, and halted. The ragged boy was back, slouched against the same wall, scanning the crowd with those oddly blue eyes. Kendi ducked between a pot seller and a noodle merchant and peered cautiously at the boy’s face.

It wasn’t just the eyes. The boy’s skin tone and facial structure reminded Kendi strongly of Utang, the older brother he hadn’t seen in over fifteen years. Kendi couldn’t keep his excitement down. Was it possible? Had his brother escaped slavery and had a son?

Right,
he told himself.
In a universe of who-knows-how-many trillion people, you just happen to arrive at the one market in the one city on the one planet where a nephew you didn’t even know existed hangs out.

But the resemblance was undeniable. Kendi bit his lip. More astounding coincidences were common enough. Why should this one be so unbelievable?

Steam rose from the noodle merchant’s water kettles and the pot seller cried out to passers-by about the fine quality of his wares. It was almost dark, but the market showed no sign of slowing down. Here and there, street lights flickered to feeble life. The boy didn’t move.

Kendi wondered what he was doing. He couldn’t be hustling—the local houses didn’t put up with freelancers. Was he dealing drugs? Why had he run away when Kendi approached him?

A heavyset man in a blue jumpsuit approached the boy and engaged him in conversation. Kendi noticed two other sharply-dressed men drifting steadily toward the duo from different directions. The impending scenario was obvious from Kendi’s vantage point. Kendi cracked his knuckles.

You don’t need to get involved,
he told himself.
Just walk away.

But Kendi’s feet refused to move. After more conversation—negotiation?—the heavyset man cocked his head toward an alley. The boy hesitated. The other two men sidled closer.

Don’t do it,
Kendi pleaded silently.
You don’t need whatever he’s selling.

The boy nodded once at the heavyset man and trotted ahead of him into the alley. The man gestured to his compatriots, and all three swarmed in after him.

Shit,
Kendi thought.
Shit shit shit. That kid won’t even know what hit him.

The alley gaped like the space between a lion’s paws. This was none of Kendi’s business. For all he knew, the boy was a drug dealer or serial murderer who deserved whatever the men were planning to deal out to him.

“Right,” Kendi said. He dashed across the market, dodging shoppers and bicycles and earning angry shouts from both. With a deep breath, Kendi plunged into the alley.

The alley was dark and smelled rancid. Kendi skidded on something slippery, caught his balance, heard a yelp of pain. Just ahead of him, the boy had been shoved up against one wall. The heavyset man held him there by the neck while the other two stood with their arms crossed. Snarling, the captor drew back a fist, and the boy squeezed his eyes shut.

Kendi flung himself forward. He barreled straight into the heavyset man. He went down, Kendi on top of him. Kendi leaped free and spun to face the other men who had already produced weapons. The boy’s eyes popped open. One man carried a blade that crackled and snapped. The other aimed a pistol.

Operating on instinct, Kendi dove for the ground. Energy spat through the air above his head. He rolled to his feet and came face-to-face with the crackling knife. An arc flashed in the air and something slashed Kendi’s arm. It went numb from shoulder to elbow. Kendi’s foot smashed the man in the groin. The knife clattered to the ground, but Kendi could feel the other man’s pistol trained on his back. Everything moved in slow motion.

Dodge dodge dodge,
he thought. His legs pushed him sideways and warm, fetid air moved against his cheek. Kendi flattened himself against the alley wall, expecting pain to crash across his back. Nothing. He looked over his shoulder at the gunman. The man stood motionless, pistol in his outstretched hand. The heavyset man lay where Kendi had tackled him, and the man with the knife moaned on the ground. Kendi spared a glance for the boy. He was staring at the gunman. Puzzled, but deciding it would be best to take care of the immediate threat first, Kendi removed the pistol from the man’s unresisting hand. Kendi pistol-whipped him and he fell.

“Are you all right?” Kendi said to the boy.