The Saffron Malformation (34 page)

             
“No,” she replied immediately.

             
“Tell me something you don’t know.”

             
She thought for more than a few ticks and replied, “What I say that’s wrong.”

             
He nodded.  “Sometimes the answer doesn’t matter.  Sometimes its just fun to talk, to banter, to play.”

             
“Play,” she said thoughtfully.

             
“A person doesn’t play they might go crazy.”

             
“I play video games,” she offered.

             
“Not that sort of play.  This is the sort of play that’s,” he thought for a bit then knew what he could say that she’d understand.  “It’s more like when you dance.”

             
Her eyes widened slightly.

             
“Only with conversation,” he added.  “There’s no point to your dancing is there?”

             
She thought, then said, meekly, “I like it.”

             
He smiled, “And that’s what matters.  Sometimes talk is like that, you do it, not to really communicate anything or learn an answer.  Sometimes you just want to enjoy the company.”

             
She nodded.  Dread spread through her eyes.  When she spoke it was with urgency.  “If a person doesn’t play they might go mad?”

             
“Sure.  Person never plays they keep everything inside, become all curmudgeon.  Everyone needs a release.”

             
“I have to go,” she blurted and nearly knocked her sheet to the floor when she struck the end key before rushing into the elevator and pressing the hidden button for the second basement.

             
That was two weeks ago and the only communication Quey’d had with Ryla since had been through text.  He’d try to call and then get a message claiming she was busy and would get back to him as soon as possible.  He was curious as to what she was up to but decided not to pry.

             
Now the road stretched on from horizon to horizon, flanked on either side by subtle greens and the pastels of wild flowers as it wound around, over and through rolling hills and endless plains.  The engine of the moving truck rumbled loudly as it and the quieter four-door rolled swift along the highway.  Quey sat at the wheel of the truck with Reggie beside him, reading oddities he happened upon in the news feeds off the network signal.

             
Occasionally the big man would tell him about the raids.  Apparently the Angels of the Brood were still looking for Rain, scouring the world was more apt a description.  Blue Moon was doing their best to downplay the incidents but Quey knew the truth.  He’d been at Fen Quada, an incident they claimed wasn’t as bad as the amateur footage being loaded onto the signal suggested.  They claimed that Blue Moon security had responded to and subdued an attack by a raiding gang.  The pretty blonde girl in the blue shirt had smiled when she reported that, though there were casualties and damages to the city, most of the people had been successfully evacuated.

             
Shortly after the attack Blue Moon opened a relief fund so people could donate to help the efforts to restore Fen Quada.  They gathered more than enough to rebuild enough of the town to make it look good and pay off the people who made it out alive and still had enough for a bit of profit as well.

             
Still there were rumors and speculations.  Blue Moon combated this in the time-honored tradition of starting their own rumors and speculations.  Theories about government involvement in the attacks, and others involving anti-corps began to appear across the signal.  They leaked arbitrary ‘evidence’ of such things here or there but nothing real.  The network filters handled any videos that might pop up and censored the uploading of any articles or blogs about it as well.

             
After a while the average person decided it wasn’t worth his time to think about.  There were shows to watch and games to play and dozens of things more fun than a sad story about some town they’d never been to.

             
It didn’t take long for Quey and Reggie to grow wary of those sorts of stories and decided to ignore anything about politics or policies or anything serious and just focus on the bizarre shit people do from time to time.

             
Dusty drove the car with Rachel beside him.  He was more affectionate these days, she’d noticed.  A few times an hour he’d reach over and take her hand for a spell, or he’d bring it to his lips and kiss the back of it.  Sometimes he’d run a hand over her hair.

             
Listening to the big man talk and watching the world pass on either side Quey looked out and for a moment he almost forgot.  The wastes were far from this place, you see, and he understood how they could be ignored amidst the lushness that surrounded him at present.  It was rumored that in areas such as this a man might even be able to dip his cup into a stream or pull water from a well and drink a bit without going mad, of course the mad were the only ones who might test such a theory.

             
A drive like this was the quintessence of tedium.  The sun came up and it went away again but the road stayed right there, extending on ahead and behind you toward what seemed to be infinity in both directions.  Days ran together and then weeks and months and all you were left with were the here and the now.  And fatigue.

             
It was strange, how much a toll just sitting behind a wheel could take on you, even when you didn’t have to press a pedal to keep the vehicle moving, even when you didn’t need a hand on the wheel most times—though Quey found comfort in that so he often rolled on manual.

             
Quey ran a hand through his slightly oily hair—they were all a few days out from their last shower—and felt the tightness in his lower back.  A sign ahead advertised that the city of Northshire was coming up in a little over three hundred kilometers.  Quey looked down at the speedometer and saw he was rolling at a steady 152.  That was fine.  He could go another five hours if he needed to, but he was glad it was only two.

             
“You think we’ll find Natalie here?” Reggie asked.

             
Quey shrugged.  He’d contemplated messaging her from the road but decided against it.  It was easy to dismiss someone through the signal, especially an associate of a father you’re on the outs with, but in person there was a better chance she’d listen.  He had no intention of defending Railen or anything he’d done, he just wanted to pass the message along and shed any light he might have on questions she might pose.  Which was another reason he didn’t just call her.  This was the sort of business you handled in person.

             
“I hope so,” Quey finally said.

             
Reggie looked out the window and watched the landscape roll by.  Saffron really was a beautiful planet, near as the eye could tell from where he sat.  It saddened him a bit and he said, without thinking, “Sure is a fucked up world.”

             
Quey looked over at his friend and silently agreed.

             
Protruding from the deep and vibrant green of outer Northshire you could spot the occasional white or pastel of the buildings scattered throughout.  They were made of synthetic wood, equal in look and feel to the real thing but not prone to infestation or rot.  The buildings here had been constructed by disturbing as little of the surrounding foliage as possible.  There were rain catchers over the main parts of town but the surrounding lands and some of the roads in between were left open.

             
As the group rolled further into town and came to its center they could see the square where there was a park with a pond and picnic area.  Across the street that surrounded it were the quaint shops and restaurants of a little town.  Of course all of that was just on the surface.  Where the small towns of an older time may have had stories and history this had none because it wasn’t an actual small town with hundreds of years of history, it was just built to resemble one.  A product manufactured so people who spent their days in the cities had a place to go where they could use the word quaint.

             
Towns such as this existed all over Saffron.  They had buildings and roads named after historical figures no one remembered and sometimes housed museums in honor of people who had invented or achieved things, but all of it was superficial.  Most of those people had been dead when Saffron was still a lifeless rock no one knew existed.  But it didn’t matter, the masses drolled out to these places and ignored the lie.  It’s easier that way, Quey supposed.

             
The two vehicles rolled to a stop in front of the Evening Lilly Inn, a lovely little place of maybe two dozen rooms over two stories with a hall perfect for weddings and receptions, so said their advertisement.

             
Quey arched his back and stretched his arms over his head as soon as he had both feet on the pavement.  Reggie stepped beside him and looked up at the building, a brilliant white with light blue trim.

             
“You sure you want to stay here?” Reggie asked him.

             
Quey clapped the man’s massive shoulder once and told him to, “Wait till you taste the breakfast,” before starting for the door.  Halfway there he turned over his shoulder and shouted, “And we’re getting separate rooms.”

             
“You shouldn’t get your hopes up, you’ve never been much with the ladies,” Reggie joked.

             
“Yeah but if I have to listen to you snore and fart through one more night you might not make it to morning old friend,” Quey finished as he stepped through the door.

             
The lobby was elegant, white wood trim around polished light-brown floors.  There were wingback chairs and couches with tables between them and vases with wildflowers stood anywhere they could fit one.  Quey walked over to the check-in desk and a woman with dark hair and blue eyes approached him with a smile.

             
“Hello there, what can we do for you today?” she asked pleasant enough but Quey could tell, under her smile, was a bit of disgust.  A roader had come traipsing into her inn reeking of greasy food and body fluids.

             
“I need three rooms,” he told her and she obliged.

             
As Quey stood waiting he couldn’t help but smile.  Cal never got the humor in it but Quey always loved coming off the road and into places such as this.  Sometimes he’d walk over and lie down on their couches then shout, “Sure is a mighty cozy place you got here,” from across the room.  Sometimes he really turned it on, acting like a complete bumpkin, mannerless and without shame, but with a pocket full of money so they endured him.

             
He chuckled as he looked over at a tray of sweets sitting at the end of the desk.   Ordinarily he might point and inquire, “these for everyone?” then horde as many as he could into both hands.

             
Maybe he was tired or maybe it was because there was something about the lady checking him in that seemed sweet and undeserving of such an act, but he refrained.

             
The lady presented him with a sheet that displayed an agreement with a place for him to sign and explained a few things about the inn, some of the amenities and the times food would be served, then presented him with his passkeys.

             
Reggie, Dusty and Rachel were coming in, bags in hand, by the time he was through and he crossed to them, handing a key to the couple and another to the big man.  Reggie handed him his bag.

             
“I’m going to have a shower,” he proclaimed and then started toward the hall leading back to the rooms.

             
Quiet.  Alone.  Relief.

             
It happened in that order as he closed the door behind him and took a moment to sit by himself in his room.  There was a chair and sofa along with a small round table with a pair of chairs and the bed.  He chose the sofa and sunk into it with a long sigh.  More than a countable number of ticks had passed since last it was just him and his thoughts.  Even when the talking stopped and the two men simply sat in the truck watching the world go by there was still that feeling of presence.  Even when the big man curled against the door and slept while he drove there was the awareness that someone else was there.  Quey took a long moment to enjoy the emptiness of his single room.

             
Drifting briefly toward sleep, he suddenly became very aware of his skin and the layer of film he could feel caked over it.  More than a few days worth of sweat and oil, a layer of bodily residue that he needed to wash off.

             
In the bathroom he peeled his clothes off, probably a full pound or two heavier with his secretions and instantly felt a little better.  The best thing about staying in a hotel, in Quey’s opinion, was the hot water—scalding and endless.  That and what he did next.  Sitting on the toilet, he took his time and relished the fact that no one was around to rush him.