Read Online Benighted by Kit Whitfield - Free Book Online
Authors: Kit Whitfield
Tags: Fiction
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mock-tough. My voice doesn’t shake at all.
“You can take them. Any lune messes with us is going to end up lining your gloves.” His voice is reassuring, which irritates me: no stripling gets to reassure me, however smart. I’m also disturbed that he sees through my joking that easily. At his age, it’s not natural.
“Keep my dainty fingers warm,” I say.
“I’ll cure the pelt. No sweat.”
His voice stretches tighter as he speaks. I toss the keys in the air to distract him, and miss them on the way down. Marty crouches and hands them back to me; once down, he stays crouched. I watch him for a few moments, then tug on his shoulder. “On your feet, kiddo. We’ve got dogs to catch.”
He rights himself. “Bring them on.” He says this without looking at me.
We settle into the van. Marty produces a flask of coffee; I take a pack of Pro-Plus out of my pocket, and use a swig from his thermos to knock one back. Marty shakes his head at the packet when I proffer it.
“You’ll be sleepy,” I warn.
He looks at me. An apologetic expression is on his face; the catching hood has squeezed it at the corners so it’s flushed. “I don’t need stringing out any further,” he says.
There’s a silence on these nights, which is like nothing you ever hear. It’s so quiet it’s almost musical. We sit in our van, the flood-lamps on top giving us a small circle of light. Lycos never see this. No one to run the power, no one to run the water, the gas, the telephones, the city. It all shuts down, the electricity grids go off, the world is black. Lycos lock their doors with bolts instead of coded security pads and hope nothing catches fire until morning. We run our shelters on generators and stock up on water and supplies, and the darkness outside lays siege. Our radios and tracking systems keep us reminded that there are other people in the world. We need reminding. First-aid workers at the shelters, skeletal staff at the DORLA offices. And no one else, no one else awake or tame. We dwell on the shelters, think about them a lot. It’s like knowing that down under the deep sea there is a bottom somewhere.
Our patrol tonight takes in Spiritus Sanctus Park and the area around it. Last time we had to do Kings, which wasn’t so bad; Kings is less densely wooded, so there’s a better chance there of finding a lune that’s kept out of the forest. Though not as much as any of us would like. Sanctus is small, forested, impenetrable. Too many trees, not enough open space. No one likes getting assigned there; it’s early in Marty’s training to be given somewhere so difficult. I wonder if this is a token of official approval of him, or of me.
Marty is biting his fingernails; I reach over and pull his hand out of his mouth without taking my eyes off the tracker. “Bad habit,” I say. “Light me a cigarette, will you?”
He makes a noise like one fragment of a laugh, and gets out the pack for me. “Nothing much on the tracker,” he says.
“Not yet. Best not to worry about it, though. Could just be a quiet night.” I turn the van left along the patrol route. As I do this, I wonder how I’ve become the grown-up. I’ve been catching since I was eighteen, and I still don’t know a damn thing about doing it safely. I think about the woman who taught me catching, my friend Bride Reilly, a big jolly woman with blond-by-choice hair who showed me all there is to know about a right hook. I share cases with her sometimes. She’s got a new trainee: a boy shorter than I am who boxes as well as she does, probably to make up for his lack of height. Bride used to sing dirty songs as we cruised, tell jokes and make me forget my fears. Poor Marty’s stuck with me, and I can’t think of any way to make him forget.
“How many—” Marty’s voice clicks in his throat. “You never told me—how many catches does this make it for you?”
I keep my hands on the wheel. “I can’t remember. You lose track after a while.” I
“You can take them. Any lune messes with us is going to end up lining your gloves.” His voice is reassuring, which irritates me: no stripling gets to reassure me, however smart. I’m also disturbed that he sees through my joking that easily. At his age, it’s not natural.
“Keep my dainty fingers warm,” I say.
“I’ll cure the pelt. No sweat.”
His voice stretches tighter as he speaks. I toss the keys in the air to distract him, and miss them on the way down. Marty crouches and hands them back to me; once down, he stays crouched. I watch him for a few moments, then tug on his shoulder. “On your feet, kiddo. We’ve got dogs to catch.”
He rights himself. “Bring them on.” He says this without looking at me.
We settle into the van. Marty produces a flask of coffee; I take a pack of Pro-Plus out of my pocket, and use a swig from his thermos to knock one back. Marty shakes his head at the packet when I proffer it.
“You’ll be sleepy,” I warn.
He looks at me. An apologetic expression is on his face; the catching hood has squeezed it at the corners so it’s flushed. “I don’t need stringing out any further,” he says.
There’s a silence on these nights, which is like nothing you ever hear. It’s so quiet it’s almost musical. We sit in our van, the flood-lamps on top giving us a small circle of light. Lycos never see this. No one to run the power, no one to run the water, the gas, the telephones, the city. It all shuts down, the electricity grids go off, the world is black. Lycos lock their doors with bolts instead of coded security pads and hope nothing catches fire until morning. We run our shelters on generators and stock up on water and supplies, and the darkness outside lays siege. Our radios and tracking systems keep us reminded that there are other people in the world. We need reminding. First-aid workers at the shelters, skeletal staff at the DORLA offices. And no one else, no one else awake or tame. We dwell on the shelters, think about them a lot. It’s like knowing that down under the deep sea there is a bottom somewhere.
Our patrol tonight takes in Spiritus Sanctus Park and the area around it. Last time we had to do Kings, which wasn’t so bad; Kings is less densely wooded, so there’s a better chance there of finding a lune that’s kept out of the forest. Though not as much as any of us would like. Sanctus is small, forested, impenetrable. Too many trees, not enough open space. No one likes getting assigned there; it’s early in Marty’s training to be given somewhere so difficult. I wonder if this is a token of official approval of him, or of me.
Marty is biting his fingernails; I reach over and pull his hand out of his mouth without taking my eyes off the tracker. “Bad habit,” I say. “Light me a cigarette, will you?”
He makes a noise like one fragment of a laugh, and gets out the pack for me. “Nothing much on the tracker,” he says.
“Not yet. Best not to worry about it, though. Could just be a quiet night.” I turn the van left along the patrol route. As I do this, I wonder how I’ve become the grown-up. I’ve been catching since I was eighteen, and I still don’t know a damn thing about doing it safely. I think about the woman who taught me catching, my friend Bride Reilly, a big jolly woman with blond-by-choice hair who showed me all there is to know about a right hook. I share cases with her sometimes. She’s got a new trainee: a boy shorter than I am who boxes as well as she does, probably to make up for his lack of height. Bride used to sing dirty songs as we cruised, tell jokes and make me forget my fears. Poor Marty’s stuck with me, and I can’t think of any way to make him forget.
“How many—” Marty’s voice clicks in his throat. “You never told me—how many catches does this make it for you?”
I keep my hands on the wheel. “I can’t remember. You lose track after a while.” I
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