concealed areas, Cleo knew, enterprising individuals tapped the lines, drawing illegal power from the city for personal use.
It got dark as she descended. There was little light from the dome down here. Dust grew thicker, with no winds or rain to clear it, and cockroaches thrived. The walls were thick in the sub-levels: load-bearing reinforced concrete and denceramic architecture. Ash Harborâs most abundant mammal, rats, had made homes in the countless nooks and crannies. Cleo had learned once in history that the rat had conquered the world right alongside humans.If the elements won out, rats, not humans, would be the last mammal to die. And the cockroaches would be around a long time after that.
Ash Harbor was in what had once been the South Pacific, before most of the ocean had become a vast plain of pack ice. The Philippines had been one of the last refuges of the Old World as the city was built, and the Filipinos had wielded a huge amount of influence in the last years before people moved in. As the richer countries slowly became frozen wastelands, Southeast Asia had found itself host to its more affluent neighbors, and when the rich and the influential booked their places in Ash Harborâs safe confines, the workers who had built it begged, bribed, bargained, and cheated their way in. Many, many more were turned away by force.
In the years that followed, many of those who had been rich on the outside used up what they had to trade, and affluence took on a new shape in those who could affect the running of the cityâs machinery. But there were still many thousands who had come in on the bottom rung and were forced to stay there. The majority were Filipino, and their culture dominated the sub-levels of the Fourth Quadrant. Of all the cultures that had taken refuge in Ash Harbor, only the Pinoy, as they called themselves, had managed to keep a semblance of their original culture. They had also established a new one; the bulk of the black market in Ash Harbor was run byFilipino gangs, and that was what had drawn Cleo to this area on a Sunday morning.
The Filipino District was her favorite place in the whole city. The same smells always hit her as she drew near: dust, grilled fish, spices, and closely packed people. An eclectic mix of stalls and arcades filled the collection of alleys and streets before her, all under the roof of the heavy machinery above.
Cortezâs store was a small, incredibly cluttered stall on Sub-Level Three. It was filled with all manner of merchandise, from handmade toys to fertility cures. A webscreen sat on the counter, with a pornographic animated screen saver cycling through a lewd liaison. Behind the counter, a mountainous Pinoy man with a scarred face sat, dozing fitfully. Cleo knew there would be other, more watchful sentries nearby.
Cortez himself was a chubby man in his sixties who wore old-fashioned half-moon glasses and dressed as if he was always cold. This morning he had a womanâs shawl draped over his shoulders and a thick cotton hat on his balding head. His flat, wide face split into a smile when he saw Cleo, and he stood up from his little stool.
âAhhh! Little Cleo, come to warm an old manâs heart! Mabúhay! Come in, come in!â He turned to a little girl with a small mouth and big eyes who was hugging the frame of the door that led to the back room. âGátas! Bring some tea for our guest. Be quick now!â
Cleo knew better than to refuse the tea, although she did not want to stay long. âMorning, Cortez,â she said confidently. âIâm looking for some strings.â
âOf course, of course.â He waved at her to slow down, as if she were in danger of hurting herself if she spoke any faster. âAll in good time. First, you have to tell me how youâve been. I havenât seen you in an age. Youâve grown since you were last here!â
Given that it had only been about a month since her last visit,
It got dark as she descended. There was little light from the dome down here. Dust grew thicker, with no winds or rain to clear it, and cockroaches thrived. The walls were thick in the sub-levels: load-bearing reinforced concrete and denceramic architecture. Ash Harborâs most abundant mammal, rats, had made homes in the countless nooks and crannies. Cleo had learned once in history that the rat had conquered the world right alongside humans.If the elements won out, rats, not humans, would be the last mammal to die. And the cockroaches would be around a long time after that.
Ash Harbor was in what had once been the South Pacific, before most of the ocean had become a vast plain of pack ice. The Philippines had been one of the last refuges of the Old World as the city was built, and the Filipinos had wielded a huge amount of influence in the last years before people moved in. As the richer countries slowly became frozen wastelands, Southeast Asia had found itself host to its more affluent neighbors, and when the rich and the influential booked their places in Ash Harborâs safe confines, the workers who had built it begged, bribed, bargained, and cheated their way in. Many, many more were turned away by force.
In the years that followed, many of those who had been rich on the outside used up what they had to trade, and affluence took on a new shape in those who could affect the running of the cityâs machinery. But there were still many thousands who had come in on the bottom rung and were forced to stay there. The majority were Filipino, and their culture dominated the sub-levels of the Fourth Quadrant. Of all the cultures that had taken refuge in Ash Harbor, only the Pinoy, as they called themselves, had managed to keep a semblance of their original culture. They had also established a new one; the bulk of the black market in Ash Harbor was run byFilipino gangs, and that was what had drawn Cleo to this area on a Sunday morning.
The Filipino District was her favorite place in the whole city. The same smells always hit her as she drew near: dust, grilled fish, spices, and closely packed people. An eclectic mix of stalls and arcades filled the collection of alleys and streets before her, all under the roof of the heavy machinery above.
Cortezâs store was a small, incredibly cluttered stall on Sub-Level Three. It was filled with all manner of merchandise, from handmade toys to fertility cures. A webscreen sat on the counter, with a pornographic animated screen saver cycling through a lewd liaison. Behind the counter, a mountainous Pinoy man with a scarred face sat, dozing fitfully. Cleo knew there would be other, more watchful sentries nearby.
Cortez himself was a chubby man in his sixties who wore old-fashioned half-moon glasses and dressed as if he was always cold. This morning he had a womanâs shawl draped over his shoulders and a thick cotton hat on his balding head. His flat, wide face split into a smile when he saw Cleo, and he stood up from his little stool.
âAhhh! Little Cleo, come to warm an old manâs heart! Mabúhay! Come in, come in!â He turned to a little girl with a small mouth and big eyes who was hugging the frame of the door that led to the back room. âGátas! Bring some tea for our guest. Be quick now!â
Cleo knew better than to refuse the tea, although she did not want to stay long. âMorning, Cortez,â she said confidently. âIâm looking for some strings.â
âOf course, of course.â He waved at her to slow down, as if she were in danger of hurting herself if she spoke any faster. âAll in good time. First, you have to tell me how youâve been. I havenât seen you in an age. Youâve grown since you were last here!â
Given that it had only been about a month since her last visit,
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