Children of Eden
Page 31
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Why doesn’t EcoPan divide the resources equally?
I’m distracted from my thoughts by a group of people moving purposefully along the street. There are six or seven, all dressed in bone-white decorated with a dotted pattern. They look so clean against the grime that I’m immediately relieved . . . until they come closer and I see that what I took for abstract polka dots are really splashes of blood. It is bright and fresh.
“Lost, little girl?” one of them asks in a tone of slimy concern.
“Found, now,” a woman says, and they all laugh at the weak witticism.
They start to crowd around me.
“What do you have in your pockets?”
“She doesn’t have pockets.”
“Must have something good hidden somewhere,” one says with sly insinuation. “Let’s have a look.”
I feel a hand on me and something snaps. I punch the closest one in the nose, sending out new decorative sprays of blood and hurting my own hand far more than I anticipated. An elbow takes down another one, and that method feels much better to me. For a second they hardly react. They must not expect an inner circle girl to be capable of much. Some of them are even laughing at their comrades’ injuries. They’re that confident that I’m not a threat.
I’m not. But neither am I their plaything to rob or torment. I do what I do best. I run.
They must have had a long night. I smell alcohol and synthmesc. They make a token show of chasing me down, but even with my ankle screaming, my gait gimpy, I lose them within half a mile.
I feel the tears starting again, only this time they’re tears of frustration. Is this my life now, being alternately accosted by Greenshirts and thugs until one of them finally wins? Isn’t this supposed to be a nearly perfect society, a preserve for the last of the humans? Why are humans friendly and happy and easygoing and rich near the center, and trying to assault one another out here?
Someone is approaching. “Get the hell away from me!” I scream, only to see them cower and slink away. It’s a middle-aged woman with a bundle under her arm. She wasn’t a threat (was she?) and I treated her like a monster. What’s happening to me?
I need to find the building the ragged second child told me about. If that’s in fact what he meant. Most of the buildings aren’t marked. A few have numbers with gaps where some have fallen off. Others have numbers spray-painted on them, half-obscured by graffiti championing one gang or another. That one says 5994 in dark green paint. I wander until I find another: 6003. I’m headed in the right direction, at least. It is a small victory, and my heart feels the tiniest bit lighter. But what awaits me there? An ambush from another gang, or Center officials, or the strange old bum himself? Maybe he makes a habit of luring lost girls . . .
People look at me, either in curiosity or hostility or evaluation, and I glare back. Finally, though, I see the building he must have been talking about. It is gray and squat . . . and crowded. I smell food, and my stomach gives a growl. How is it that my body still thinks something like hunger is important?
It’s a charity house, dispensing food to the poor. In other words, to every outermost circle resident who isn’t strong enough to take, or keep what they need. Barefoot children emerge with flatbread smeared with a bland but nutritious basic algae paste. I think of the huge variety of flavors available in my home circle. The food there tastes (so they assure us) exactly like pre-fail food, even if it isn’t actually made from fruits and vegetables. Here, it seems, taste doesn’t matter. The children wolf their bread and algae down as if they’re worried someone might snatch it away.
Then, on the periphery, someone does just that. A scrawny girl cries as a bigger boy yanks her dole out of her hands. She looks down miserably at the crumbs she managed to salvage in her fist. Suddenly the bum is there, moving swiftly through the throng, his motley rags flapping dramatically. No unsteady shuffling this time. He whacks the boy across the shoulders with his cane. The boy drops the bread and runs. It lands algae-side down. The little girl obviously wants to pick it up and eat it anyway, but the bum takes her hand and gently pulls her back toward the charity house. He’s gotten a new pair of glasses since our meeting. With his free hand he raises them, flashes me a wink of his bright golden eye, and heads inside. I’ll mingle with the crowd and wait for him to return. He has to be able to help me.
I watch mothers standing on the dole line with children who scamper and cling and laugh and cry, all the things children do when they’re bored and waiting. Though the mothers’ clothes are worn and torn, though there is despair in the back of their eyes, when they look at their children they’re exactly like my mother. They’re so full of love and care and worry. They’ll do anything for their little ones. My eyes get hot, my throat tightens, as two small children play tag around my legs. The mother examines me curiously, but doesn’t seem to condemn me. She calls her kids over and gives me a little smile before turning away. Apparently I’m not a threat, but none of her concern. I relax just a bit . . .
. . . which, I’m learning, is generally a bad idea.
A murmuration goes through the crowd, and it starts to close in around me. I don’t know what’s happening, but they move like one entity, a multicelled animal with a mysterious but frightening purpose. I’m being closed in by a wall of people. No one is looking at me, but I can feel the heat of their bodies as some twenty people subtly move nearer to me.
Then I hear the voice, loud and commanding. “We’re looking for an inner circle girl. Have you seen anyone who doesn’t belong?”
They’re trapping me! They’re holding me for an easy capture, for the reward! I shove my way through, shouldering mothers and children out of the way, and break from the crowd.
“There!” a Greenshirt shouts, and I’m limping away again, a slow and painful half run. I look quickly over my shoulder. Behind me, the people move once more, like a school of fish, a flight of starlings, to get between me and the two pursuing Greenshirts. It is so smooth it looks accidental, circumstantial. The Greenshirts shout at them to move and force their way through after me. By now, though, I have a decent head start.
Then I hear a bullet hit the wall beside me. Without meaning to I skid a brief stop and look at the groove it gouged. That isn’t an electrical charge. That’s a real solid bullet that will tear apart my flesh!
There’s nowhere for me to go but in a straight line. The Greenshirts will have a clean shot at me. Another bullet streaks by my side and I dodge, zigzagging in what I hope are unpredictable turns. I might as well be a difficult target. Bikk! Isn’t there a place to turn? There are no alleys, no open doors.
I’m distracted from my thoughts by a group of people moving purposefully along the street. There are six or seven, all dressed in bone-white decorated with a dotted pattern. They look so clean against the grime that I’m immediately relieved . . . until they come closer and I see that what I took for abstract polka dots are really splashes of blood. It is bright and fresh.
“Lost, little girl?” one of them asks in a tone of slimy concern.
“Found, now,” a woman says, and they all laugh at the weak witticism.
They start to crowd around me.
“What do you have in your pockets?”
“She doesn’t have pockets.”
“Must have something good hidden somewhere,” one says with sly insinuation. “Let’s have a look.”
I feel a hand on me and something snaps. I punch the closest one in the nose, sending out new decorative sprays of blood and hurting my own hand far more than I anticipated. An elbow takes down another one, and that method feels much better to me. For a second they hardly react. They must not expect an inner circle girl to be capable of much. Some of them are even laughing at their comrades’ injuries. They’re that confident that I’m not a threat.
I’m not. But neither am I their plaything to rob or torment. I do what I do best. I run.
They must have had a long night. I smell alcohol and synthmesc. They make a token show of chasing me down, but even with my ankle screaming, my gait gimpy, I lose them within half a mile.
I feel the tears starting again, only this time they’re tears of frustration. Is this my life now, being alternately accosted by Greenshirts and thugs until one of them finally wins? Isn’t this supposed to be a nearly perfect society, a preserve for the last of the humans? Why are humans friendly and happy and easygoing and rich near the center, and trying to assault one another out here?
Someone is approaching. “Get the hell away from me!” I scream, only to see them cower and slink away. It’s a middle-aged woman with a bundle under her arm. She wasn’t a threat (was she?) and I treated her like a monster. What’s happening to me?
I need to find the building the ragged second child told me about. If that’s in fact what he meant. Most of the buildings aren’t marked. A few have numbers with gaps where some have fallen off. Others have numbers spray-painted on them, half-obscured by graffiti championing one gang or another. That one says 5994 in dark green paint. I wander until I find another: 6003. I’m headed in the right direction, at least. It is a small victory, and my heart feels the tiniest bit lighter. But what awaits me there? An ambush from another gang, or Center officials, or the strange old bum himself? Maybe he makes a habit of luring lost girls . . .
People look at me, either in curiosity or hostility or evaluation, and I glare back. Finally, though, I see the building he must have been talking about. It is gray and squat . . . and crowded. I smell food, and my stomach gives a growl. How is it that my body still thinks something like hunger is important?
It’s a charity house, dispensing food to the poor. In other words, to every outermost circle resident who isn’t strong enough to take, or keep what they need. Barefoot children emerge with flatbread smeared with a bland but nutritious basic algae paste. I think of the huge variety of flavors available in my home circle. The food there tastes (so they assure us) exactly like pre-fail food, even if it isn’t actually made from fruits and vegetables. Here, it seems, taste doesn’t matter. The children wolf their bread and algae down as if they’re worried someone might snatch it away.
Then, on the periphery, someone does just that. A scrawny girl cries as a bigger boy yanks her dole out of her hands. She looks down miserably at the crumbs she managed to salvage in her fist. Suddenly the bum is there, moving swiftly through the throng, his motley rags flapping dramatically. No unsteady shuffling this time. He whacks the boy across the shoulders with his cane. The boy drops the bread and runs. It lands algae-side down. The little girl obviously wants to pick it up and eat it anyway, but the bum takes her hand and gently pulls her back toward the charity house. He’s gotten a new pair of glasses since our meeting. With his free hand he raises them, flashes me a wink of his bright golden eye, and heads inside. I’ll mingle with the crowd and wait for him to return. He has to be able to help me.
I watch mothers standing on the dole line with children who scamper and cling and laugh and cry, all the things children do when they’re bored and waiting. Though the mothers’ clothes are worn and torn, though there is despair in the back of their eyes, when they look at their children they’re exactly like my mother. They’re so full of love and care and worry. They’ll do anything for their little ones. My eyes get hot, my throat tightens, as two small children play tag around my legs. The mother examines me curiously, but doesn’t seem to condemn me. She calls her kids over and gives me a little smile before turning away. Apparently I’m not a threat, but none of her concern. I relax just a bit . . .
. . . which, I’m learning, is generally a bad idea.
A murmuration goes through the crowd, and it starts to close in around me. I don’t know what’s happening, but they move like one entity, a multicelled animal with a mysterious but frightening purpose. I’m being closed in by a wall of people. No one is looking at me, but I can feel the heat of their bodies as some twenty people subtly move nearer to me.
Then I hear the voice, loud and commanding. “We’re looking for an inner circle girl. Have you seen anyone who doesn’t belong?”
They’re trapping me! They’re holding me for an easy capture, for the reward! I shove my way through, shouldering mothers and children out of the way, and break from the crowd.
“There!” a Greenshirt shouts, and I’m limping away again, a slow and painful half run. I look quickly over my shoulder. Behind me, the people move once more, like a school of fish, a flight of starlings, to get between me and the two pursuing Greenshirts. It is so smooth it looks accidental, circumstantial. The Greenshirts shout at them to move and force their way through after me. By now, though, I have a decent head start.
Then I hear a bullet hit the wall beside me. Without meaning to I skid a brief stop and look at the groove it gouged. That isn’t an electrical charge. That’s a real solid bullet that will tear apart my flesh!
There’s nowhere for me to go but in a straight line. The Greenshirts will have a clean shot at me. Another bullet streaks by my side and I dodge, zigzagging in what I hope are unpredictable turns. I might as well be a difficult target. Bikk! Isn’t there a place to turn? There are no alleys, no open doors.
