Read Online Allies by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee and Steve Miller - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steve Miller, Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
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told
Penn, and deliberately didn't add anything more.
"Well," he said after a second. "If you see
him . . ."
"I'll let him know," she said, and raised a
hand. "See you."
"Right." Penn turned back to the broom, and
Miri moved toward the hatch that gave out onto the alley.
*
Outside, the air was pleasantly cool. It had
rained recently, so the breeze was grit-free. On the other hand,
the alley was slick and treacherous underfoot.
Miri walked briskly, absentmindedly
surefooted, keeping a close eye on the various duck-ins and hiding
spots. This close to Kalhoon's Repair, the street was usually OK,
Penn's dad paying the local clean-up crew a percentage in order to
make sure there wasn't no trouble. Still, sometimes the crew didn't
come by, and sometimes they missed, and sometimes trouble herded
outta one spot took up in another.
She sighed as she walked, wishing Penn
hadn't mentioned her father. He never did come home no more except
he was smoked or drunk. Or both. And last time–it'd been bad last
time, the worst since the time he broke her arm and her mother–her
tiny, sickly, soft-talking mother–had gone at him with a piece of
the chair he'd busted to let 'em know he was in.
Beat him right across the apartment and out
the door, she had, and after he was in the hall, screamed for all
the neighbors to hear, "You're none of mine, Chock Robertson! I
deny you!"
That'd been pretty good, that denying
business, and for a while it looked like it was even gonna
work.
Then Robertson, he'd come back in the middle
of the night, drunk, smoked, and ugly, and started looking real
loud for the rent money.
Miri'd come out of her bed in a hurry and
run out in her shirt, legs bare, to find him ripping a cabinet off
the wall. He'd dropped it when he seen her.
"Where's my money?" he roared, and took a
swing.
She ducked back out of the way, and in that
second her mother was there–and this time she had a knife.
"Leave us!" she said, and though she hadn't
raised her voice, the way she said it'd sent a chill right through
Miri's chest.
Chock Robertson, though, never'd had no
sense.
He swung on her; she ducked and slashed,
raising blood on his swinging arm. Roaring, he swung again, and
this time he connected.
Her mother went across the room, hit the
wall and slid, boneless, to the floor, the knife falling out of her
hand.
Her father laughed and stepped forward.
Miri yelled, jumped, hit the floor
rolling–and came up with the knife.
She crouched, the way she'd seen the street
fighters do, and looked up–a fair ways up–into her father's
face.
"You touch her," she hissed, "and I'll kill
you."
The wonder of the moment being, she thought
as she turned out of Mechanic Street and onto Grover, that she'd
meant it.
It must've shown on her face, because her
father didn't just keep on coming and beat her 'til all her bones
were broke.
"Where's the money?" he asked, sounding
almost sober.
"We paid the rent," she snarled, which was a
lie, but he took it, for a second wonder, and–just walked away. Out
of the apartment, down the hall and into the deepest pit of hell,
as Miri had wished every day after.
Her mother . . .
That smack'd broke something, though Braken
didn't find no busted ribs. The cough, though, that was worse–and
she was spittin' up blood with it.
Her lungs, Braken'd said, and nothin' she
could do, except maybe ask one of Torbin's girls for a line on some
happyjuice.
The dope eased the cough, though it didn't
stop the blood, and Boss Latimer's security wouldn't have her in
the kitchen no more, which meant no wages, nor any leftovers from
the fatcat's table.
Miri was walking past Grover's Tavern and it
was a testament to how slim pickin's had been, that the smell of
sour beer and hot grease made her mouth water.
She shook her head, tucked her hands in her
pockets and stretched her legs. 'Nother couple blocks to Trey's,
and maybe there would be something gone funny in the duct work he
was too big to get into, but
Penn, and deliberately didn't add anything more.
"Well," he said after a second. "If you see
him . . ."
"I'll let him know," she said, and raised a
hand. "See you."
"Right." Penn turned back to the broom, and
Miri moved toward the hatch that gave out onto the alley.
*
Outside, the air was pleasantly cool. It had
rained recently, so the breeze was grit-free. On the other hand,
the alley was slick and treacherous underfoot.
Miri walked briskly, absentmindedly
surefooted, keeping a close eye on the various duck-ins and hiding
spots. This close to Kalhoon's Repair, the street was usually OK,
Penn's dad paying the local clean-up crew a percentage in order to
make sure there wasn't no trouble. Still, sometimes the crew didn't
come by, and sometimes they missed, and sometimes trouble herded
outta one spot took up in another.
She sighed as she walked, wishing Penn
hadn't mentioned her father. He never did come home no more except
he was smoked or drunk. Or both. And last time–it'd been bad last
time, the worst since the time he broke her arm and her mother–her
tiny, sickly, soft-talking mother–had gone at him with a piece of
the chair he'd busted to let 'em know he was in.
Beat him right across the apartment and out
the door, she had, and after he was in the hall, screamed for all
the neighbors to hear, "You're none of mine, Chock Robertson! I
deny you!"
That'd been pretty good, that denying
business, and for a while it looked like it was even gonna
work.
Then Robertson, he'd come back in the middle
of the night, drunk, smoked, and ugly, and started looking real
loud for the rent money.
Miri'd come out of her bed in a hurry and
run out in her shirt, legs bare, to find him ripping a cabinet off
the wall. He'd dropped it when he seen her.
"Where's my money?" he roared, and took a
swing.
She ducked back out of the way, and in that
second her mother was there–and this time she had a knife.
"Leave us!" she said, and though she hadn't
raised her voice, the way she said it'd sent a chill right through
Miri's chest.
Chock Robertson, though, never'd had no
sense.
He swung on her; she ducked and slashed,
raising blood on his swinging arm. Roaring, he swung again, and
this time he connected.
Her mother went across the room, hit the
wall and slid, boneless, to the floor, the knife falling out of her
hand.
Her father laughed and stepped forward.
Miri yelled, jumped, hit the floor
rolling–and came up with the knife.
She crouched, the way she'd seen the street
fighters do, and looked up–a fair ways up–into her father's
face.
"You touch her," she hissed, "and I'll kill
you."
The wonder of the moment being, she thought
as she turned out of Mechanic Street and onto Grover, that she'd
meant it.
It must've shown on her face, because her
father didn't just keep on coming and beat her 'til all her bones
were broke.
"Where's the money?" he asked, sounding
almost sober.
"We paid the rent," she snarled, which was a
lie, but he took it, for a second wonder, and–just walked away. Out
of the apartment, down the hall and into the deepest pit of hell,
as Miri had wished every day after.
Her mother . . .
That smack'd broke something, though Braken
didn't find no busted ribs. The cough, though, that was worse–and
she was spittin' up blood with it.
Her lungs, Braken'd said, and nothin' she
could do, except maybe ask one of Torbin's girls for a line on some
happyjuice.
The dope eased the cough, though it didn't
stop the blood, and Boss Latimer's security wouldn't have her in
the kitchen no more, which meant no wages, nor any leftovers from
the fatcat's table.
Miri was walking past Grover's Tavern and it
was a testament to how slim pickin's had been, that the smell of
sour beer and hot grease made her mouth water.
She shook her head, tucked her hands in her
pockets and stretched her legs. 'Nother couple blocks to Trey's,
and maybe there would be something gone funny in the duct work he
was too big to get into, but
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