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Authors: Steven Harper
Tags: Science-Fiction
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boy was nowhere in sight.
“What the hell did you do?” he snarled. “Where did your little friend go?”
“I don’t know,” Kendi said. “I swear!”
The man smashed Kendi’s face and he fell to his knees. A foot slammed into his stomach, and he vomited over the alley floor. Kendi wondered if Ara would find his body as pain exploded at his temple.
CHAPTER FIVE
SEJAL’S JOURNAL
DAY 4, MONTH 10, COMMON YEAR 987
I turned my first trick today.
There. I said it. Or I wrote it down, anyway.
I’ve never kept a journal before. It’s kind of weird. I’m typing because I don’t want Mom to overhear me talking to the terminal. It’s an old, clunky thing, and you have to talk loud to get its attention. We can’t afford a new one, though.
Okay, I’m not a virgin anymore. Or does this not count? It’s not like I let the guy screw me or anything. I’m not into men. Or does this mean I am? I don’t feel any different, and I don’t look any different. I’ll write it all down and maybe then I’ll know if something changed.
I’m kind of scared.
The voices haven’t gone away. I was hoping they would when I lost my virginity. I don’t know why I thought they might. Sometimes I think I’ll go nuts. They whisper and whisper and and I can’t quite understand what they’re saying. Grampy Lon says hearing voices is a sign of Silence, but I haven’t said much about that to Mom. Every time I bring it up, she changes the subject or just clamps her lips together. I know I had the test—twice—when I was little and that it came up negative both times. They take Silent kids away, so I can’t be Silent.
Anyway. I was talking about the other stuff.
I did it for the money. You don’t make much busking, that’s for sure, and there aren’t any jobs for a sixteen-year-old who can’t afford more school, not when slaves do the work cheap. No one gives a shit how many hours you spend studying on the nets, either. So I stood on the corner down by the kelp seller’s with my flute. I’ve been playing since I was six, ever since Grampy Lon decided to give me lessons, and I’m pretty good.
Okay. The kelpies are at the edge of the market, almost into the business district, and there were lots of bureaucrats skulking around under the tall buildings the Unity sprayed up after the Annexation. The traffic was heavy, with both groundcars and aircars. Between them and the people on the street, it’s almost claustrophobic—perfect spot for a busker, I thought.
I thought wrong. After three hours, my fingers ached and I had a quarter kesh —enough to buy lunch if I was careful. That was when Jesse wandered over.
I met Jesse six months ago at the market. By then, Jesse’d been tricking for almost a year. He’s not that good-looking—scruffy black hair, heavy eyebrows, pointy nose, pretty good build—but he doesn’t work for one of the houses, which means he’s cheap and he can usually find a jobber. I think he lives on the street, dodging slavers and goons from the houses. One time the house goons caught up with him and beat him so bad it gave him a permanent limp. He started sucking a lot more jay-juice after that, and I think he tricks to feed his habit.
Anyway. Jesse looked at the two coins in my hat and tossed in fifty kesh. I stopped playing.
“Glory. What the hell is that?” I asked. I don’t talk the same at the market as I do at home. Mom would have a moon fit if she knew how much I swear and how bad my grammar is when I’m on the street—or in this journal.
“Glory. It’s your share.” Jesse hooked his thumbs in his pockets.
I just gave him a blank stare.
“You see that guy across the street?” He jerked his head. “The one in the red shirt.”
Automatically I glanced across the street. An older guy in red was leaning against one of the buildings. Traffic buzzed between us. The guy was lean and looked maybe forty, but for all I knew he had just left a fresh-up and was older than Grampy
“What the hell did you do?” he snarled. “Where did your little friend go?”
“I don’t know,” Kendi said. “I swear!”
The man smashed Kendi’s face and he fell to his knees. A foot slammed into his stomach, and he vomited over the alley floor. Kendi wondered if Ara would find his body as pain exploded at his temple.
CHAPTER FIVE
SEJAL’S JOURNAL
DAY 4, MONTH 10, COMMON YEAR 987
I turned my first trick today.
There. I said it. Or I wrote it down, anyway.
I’ve never kept a journal before. It’s kind of weird. I’m typing because I don’t want Mom to overhear me talking to the terminal. It’s an old, clunky thing, and you have to talk loud to get its attention. We can’t afford a new one, though.
Okay, I’m not a virgin anymore. Or does this not count? It’s not like I let the guy screw me or anything. I’m not into men. Or does this mean I am? I don’t feel any different, and I don’t look any different. I’ll write it all down and maybe then I’ll know if something changed.
I’m kind of scared.
The voices haven’t gone away. I was hoping they would when I lost my virginity. I don’t know why I thought they might. Sometimes I think I’ll go nuts. They whisper and whisper and and I can’t quite understand what they’re saying. Grampy Lon says hearing voices is a sign of Silence, but I haven’t said much about that to Mom. Every time I bring it up, she changes the subject or just clamps her lips together. I know I had the test—twice—when I was little and that it came up negative both times. They take Silent kids away, so I can’t be Silent.
Anyway. I was talking about the other stuff.
I did it for the money. You don’t make much busking, that’s for sure, and there aren’t any jobs for a sixteen-year-old who can’t afford more school, not when slaves do the work cheap. No one gives a shit how many hours you spend studying on the nets, either. So I stood on the corner down by the kelp seller’s with my flute. I’ve been playing since I was six, ever since Grampy Lon decided to give me lessons, and I’m pretty good.
Okay. The kelpies are at the edge of the market, almost into the business district, and there were lots of bureaucrats skulking around under the tall buildings the Unity sprayed up after the Annexation. The traffic was heavy, with both groundcars and aircars. Between them and the people on the street, it’s almost claustrophobic—perfect spot for a busker, I thought.
I thought wrong. After three hours, my fingers ached and I had a quarter kesh —enough to buy lunch if I was careful. That was when Jesse wandered over.
I met Jesse six months ago at the market. By then, Jesse’d been tricking for almost a year. He’s not that good-looking—scruffy black hair, heavy eyebrows, pointy nose, pretty good build—but he doesn’t work for one of the houses, which means he’s cheap and he can usually find a jobber. I think he lives on the street, dodging slavers and goons from the houses. One time the house goons caught up with him and beat him so bad it gave him a permanent limp. He started sucking a lot more jay-juice after that, and I think he tricks to feed his habit.
Anyway. Jesse looked at the two coins in my hat and tossed in fifty kesh. I stopped playing.
“Glory. What the hell is that?” I asked. I don’t talk the same at the market as I do at home. Mom would have a moon fit if she knew how much I swear and how bad my grammar is when I’m on the street—or in this journal.
“Glory. It’s your share.” Jesse hooked his thumbs in his pockets.
I just gave him a blank stare.
“You see that guy across the street?” He jerked his head. “The one in the red shirt.”
Automatically I glanced across the street. An older guy in red was leaning against one of the buildings. Traffic buzzed between us. The guy was lean and looked maybe forty, but for all I knew he had just left a fresh-up and was older than Grampy
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