what I’m going to, but it is an option. My mouth is dry so I swallow. There’s not a drop of moisture in my mouth or throat so all that happens is that it hurts and my throat clicks. It’s so horrible I can barely work up the spit to speak the words. “We can either let them go or we can kill them.”
The options lay between us like a bad smell. Those in the cells aren’t going to sit idly by while I discuss ending their very short lives. Most of them will get final adjudication tomorrow and be dead by nightfall, but every hour of life a person can get is all the more precious when they know there are only a few such hours left. They start working themselves up for a loud round of making their preferences known.
I can’t simply hush them so I raise the gun instead and say, “The first one to raise their voice will make my decision for me. I’ll be left with only one option.”
It’s like a soundproof door closes on them it gets quiet so fast. The only sounds are Jovan’s hard breaths and those of the young man with four strikes. And young he is. Cleaned up and without a layer of fine Texas dust marring his features, he’s not much older than I am.
“We…you can’t do that,” Jovan says. His face is flushed. He’s scared and he wants to distance himself from this decision.
“Which one?” I ask.
“Either!” he hisses back at me. “You don’t know what any of these guys did, Karas. We don’t even have them identified yet.”
I nod, giving in on that point. He’s right that I don’t know what all they did to earn their strikes and go Striker. For all I know they could be really bad criminals, the dangerous kind. I start walking down the line of cells, looking at the occupants to either side.
They are mostly young, but not all. The woman—and I’m still not completely sure she is one—and the grinning man are the only ones aside from my father who seem to have any real age behind them. What I do see is strikes. Three and four strikes on every single neck. Except the grinning man. He doesn’t have even one.
I stop at his cell and ask, “Where are you from?”
He grins at me, making his creepy scar even creepier, but he answers. “North.”
“Wild lands?”
He nods but doesn’t specify where. It wouldn’t make any difference anyway since all I know of the north is that it is wild and that very bad people live there.
“Smuggler?” I ask.
He nods again but this time he adds, “Mostly medical supplies. I also do regulated trade of some of the electronics overflow for the Tribes.”
This does surprise me. The Tribes inhabit the vast desert west of Texas, over the border, and are the primary conduit for any official trade we have. Not many places outside of Texas will trade with us, but those who do have only one decent path to get it to us—through the Tribe lands. They work those routes for us and extract a pretty percentage for themselves in the bargain. That would mean this ugly man has an official trade business as well as a smuggling route. It seems ludicrous to risk a good living by smuggling when you can do it officially with an assurance of safety.
“Then why smuggle?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Are you kidding? How much trade do you think you’ve been getting here lately? What do you think you have left to trade with? I’ll tell you in case you don’t know. Not much,” he says, emphasizing the last bit with a shake of his head.
I’m not sure what he means about not having much. We have lots that people want here in Texas. Or, at least I think we do. He seems surprised that I don’t know this for myself when he notes my admittedly blank look. I turn away and shrug. There’s no time to waste. It does explain a lot, though, about the lack of necessary things in the market during the last few years.
“What do you say, Jovan?”
He shakes his head at me, pushing back any attempt I might make to force him to share in this decision.
“Okay, let’s try this,” I
The options lay between us like a bad smell. Those in the cells aren’t going to sit idly by while I discuss ending their very short lives. Most of them will get final adjudication tomorrow and be dead by nightfall, but every hour of life a person can get is all the more precious when they know there are only a few such hours left. They start working themselves up for a loud round of making their preferences known.
I can’t simply hush them so I raise the gun instead and say, “The first one to raise their voice will make my decision for me. I’ll be left with only one option.”
It’s like a soundproof door closes on them it gets quiet so fast. The only sounds are Jovan’s hard breaths and those of the young man with four strikes. And young he is. Cleaned up and without a layer of fine Texas dust marring his features, he’s not much older than I am.
“We…you can’t do that,” Jovan says. His face is flushed. He’s scared and he wants to distance himself from this decision.
“Which one?” I ask.
“Either!” he hisses back at me. “You don’t know what any of these guys did, Karas. We don’t even have them identified yet.”
I nod, giving in on that point. He’s right that I don’t know what all they did to earn their strikes and go Striker. For all I know they could be really bad criminals, the dangerous kind. I start walking down the line of cells, looking at the occupants to either side.
They are mostly young, but not all. The woman—and I’m still not completely sure she is one—and the grinning man are the only ones aside from my father who seem to have any real age behind them. What I do see is strikes. Three and four strikes on every single neck. Except the grinning man. He doesn’t have even one.
I stop at his cell and ask, “Where are you from?”
He grins at me, making his creepy scar even creepier, but he answers. “North.”
“Wild lands?”
He nods but doesn’t specify where. It wouldn’t make any difference anyway since all I know of the north is that it is wild and that very bad people live there.
“Smuggler?” I ask.
He nods again but this time he adds, “Mostly medical supplies. I also do regulated trade of some of the electronics overflow for the Tribes.”
This does surprise me. The Tribes inhabit the vast desert west of Texas, over the border, and are the primary conduit for any official trade we have. Not many places outside of Texas will trade with us, but those who do have only one decent path to get it to us—through the Tribe lands. They work those routes for us and extract a pretty percentage for themselves in the bargain. That would mean this ugly man has an official trade business as well as a smuggling route. It seems ludicrous to risk a good living by smuggling when you can do it officially with an assurance of safety.
“Then why smuggle?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Are you kidding? How much trade do you think you’ve been getting here lately? What do you think you have left to trade with? I’ll tell you in case you don’t know. Not much,” he says, emphasizing the last bit with a shake of his head.
I’m not sure what he means about not having much. We have lots that people want here in Texas. Or, at least I think we do. He seems surprised that I don’t know this for myself when he notes my admittedly blank look. I turn away and shrug. There’s no time to waste. It does explain a lot, though, about the lack of necessary things in the market during the last few years.
“What do you say, Jovan?”
He shakes his head at me, pushing back any attempt I might make to force him to share in this decision.
“Okay, let’s try this,” I
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