Crossroads, page 7
part #1 of Hollow Island Series
Any respect he had for John Wayne was gone. Nash could take the correction in private, but what he was doing now was just cruel and immature. His fingers were turning white on the ceramic cup from squeezing it so tight. Rather than crush it, he set it down on the table.
Turning toward the group, he tried to think of something scathing to say. He stopped after one step.
What could he possibly gain by making a scene in front of this group of people who instead of making the smallest attempt at appreciating where he was coming from, only wanted to mock him? There was nothing to gain here. Nash didn’t need any of them. Except for John Wayne, and he could confront him in private.
Nash walked away from them, past the rest of the booths toward the market exit. The smell of grilled chicken caught him again just before leaving and drove stakes of hunger into his stomach. He mentally searched the flatpack on his back for something of value he could trade for food. He had some ammunition, Holy Barbs antidote, and a change of shirt. The food smelled better than anything he’d ever smelled. Its smoky aroma sang a siren song to his nostrils.
Briefly, he considered trading his pocket knife, but that felt too shortsighted. They might open a tab for him, but without knowing where money would come from, Nash refused to go deeper in debt than he had at the tavern last night. Those rounds of drinks had been a stupid thing to waste money on.
If he stood here smelling it any longer, he’d go crazy. He left the market and considered his options. Immigration House fed people for free, but Rangers weren’t welcome there. Until he figured out how to earn some money, Nash needed to stick with John Wayne. It felt like a hundred eyes were on him—cameras and the eyes of the people in the area. The mango tree looked like as good a place as any to kill time.
With a good view of the market exit, Nash sat down to watch and wait. He sat right on a mango, then pulled it out to look at it. It was half the size of the green and red mangoes he’d seen in New York. Orange and firm, not rotten, skin intact. The ground was littered with mangoes in various states of decay.
Nash was almost hungry enough to eat manure off the street, what John Wayne had called road apples. He could definitely try some ground fruit. With his pocketknife, he cut into the mango and hit a pit. He carved out a wedge, and gnawed the meat off of the skin. It was sweet as sugar. Juice ran down his chin and he tried to catch it with his fingers, not wanting to waste any of it.
His stomach clamored for more, but he didn’t know the best way to eat this thing. He shined part of the mango and took a bite, like an apple. The skin was too tough and had a bitter taste so he went back to cutting wedges out and chewing the syrupy orange flesh off the skin. When he had cut all the wedges he could, he was left with a lump of sticky mango with irregular clumps attached to the pit. He shoved the whole thing in his mouth and chewed what was left off the pit, then spat it out by the trunk of the tree.
More.
Changing position so that he sat with his legs spread in front of him, he picked up another one and dug in with his knife. The juice ran down his face and dripped to the grass in between his legs. He watched the market exit for John Wayne as he feasted on mango after mango, collecting a sizeable pile of skins and pits.
People came and went, but no sign of John Wayne. The only one Nash recognized was a new Legionnaire named Gurpreet Flower he’d chatted with on the ferry the day before. The professional rivalry between Rangers and Legionnaires hadn’t mattered to Gurpreet on the ferry. Today, when Nash jumped up, stepped out, and waved, hoping for more conversation, Gurpreet barely gave him a nod.
By the time John Wayne strolled out of the market, Nash had lost count of the number of mangoes he’d eaten. He was filled, but still hungry, which was probably something he could look forward to every time he took a beating like yesterday and forced his body to kick the healing into high gear.
John Wayne was looking around the area, searching, but didn’t see Nash in the shade of the huge mango tree.
Good. John Wayne might not care about Nash, but at least he felt some responsibility for him. After shoving a couple handfuls of mangoes into his flatpack, Nash stepped out into the street. He and John Wayne met in the middle of the large intersection.
Nash spoke first. “I know it’s boot camp and I have to take my lumps, but that was a hell of a way to treat a trainee and a damn disloyal way to treat a friend.”
With a smirk on his face, John Wayne sized up Nash. “I don’t even know where to start with you, piker.” He folded his arms. With a disgusted sigh and a shake of his head, he said, “Next time I hear a hell or damn from you, I’m washing your mouth out with soap.”
“You can try,” said Nash. “I’ll talk how I want.”
“Don’t get all butthurt,” said John Wayne. “You look like you’re twelve, but that’s not what I’m talking about. You should have left those words on the ferry. Try maggot pie. Even better, pigsquirmy if you really wanna make some ears burn. Don’t tell me they’re censoring the hollows now.”
Nash had heard all varieties of swear words on the hollows, but he’d heard the traditional, outside ones too. “I don’t give a damn about that right now. Let’s talk about something important.”
“Ooh, tough guy,” said John Wayne. “Big mouth don’t make a big man.”
Nash knew people in the streets were watching them, and he didn’t care. He needed to settle this at some point.
“Now,” said John Wayne, “you’re gonna learn the lessons I teach or you’re gonna learn somewhere else.”
“Fine,” snapped Nash. “Let’s talk about my language, but then we’re coming back to the real issue.”
“If you say so, tough guy. Have you heard the words we use here or not?”
“I’ve heard the words,” said Nash. “They just feel unnatural.”
“And what does feel natural? Your mechanical eye?” John Wayne looked around and settled on the barbeque chicken stand in the market. “That Ware paying way too much for a pincho?” He indicated a stocky, hairy man handing coins to the vendor in exchange for barbecued chicken on a stick.
At the sight of the Ware, Nash’s hand went automatically to his gun, and John Wayne laughed. “Settle down, piker. I’ll protect you from the big, bad wolf.”
Nash blushed, feeling stupid for reacting. His nerves were ready to snap. He kept one eye on the Ware, who crossed the aisle to a jewelry stand as John Wayne went on with his lecture.
“Swearing like an outsider is the easiest way to mark yourself as a newie, or worse, a nostalgic. Now let’s hear some good cussin’.”
Nash hated performing on demand. Back when he started mixed martial arts people would say, “Show me some MMA.” It was something he did, not something he performed. But he and John Wayne needed to move past this, and he was angry enough to not have to fake it when he said, “Fig you, you swiving pig milker.” He did the hand gesture.
John Wayne chuckled. “Better, I guess. You got the fig down, but you still sound like a ten-year old using daddy’s words.”
Nash made what he hoped was a bored face and stayed silent.
The Ware had turned from the shop, and was walking away as the merchant shouted, “You have to pay for that!”
Rising up and facing the merchant, the Ware growled, and the merchant cringed back. With a rough laugh, the Ware stomped out of the market gates, holding a thick, silver chain link piece of jewelry.
“Hey,” said Nash, pointing at the shoplifting Ware. “That Ware just stole—”
“I don’t care,” said John Wayne uncrossing his arms and poking Nash hard in the chest. “We’re going to talk about your hurt feelings you self-important, whining little girl.”
“We can’t just let him walk away.”
John Wayne was on tip-toes, leaning toward Nash. “Are you in charge now? Do you decide what we do? I’ll give you a hint. No. I do. And I say we talk. Now.”
“Want to talk,” said Nash, furious that he couldn’t even stop a crime in progress. “Let’s talk about bringing me to the market just to mock me in front of your friends.” Nash poked him back.
John Wayne’s eyebrows shot up and he looked down at the indentation on his red shirt. “They kill cowpokes for less than that where I come from.”
“In China?” demanded Nash. “They kill cowpokes for that in China?”
His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits and he said quietly, “You’re blabbing secrets that aren’t yours to tell, son, and next time you do it, I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”
Goodkind had told them in training, “Save a secret, save a life,” and Nash felt a little bad about blabbing it. He simply said, “I shouldn’t have said that, but—”
“Next time you poke me, partner, I swear on my name you’re gonna lose another finger.”
Nash did not feel bad about that. The Ware was long gone now, and the shopkeeper was eyeballing the two apathetic Rangers. “I’m willing to do what I have to for this job, even if it means sleeping on the floor. But I’m not the stuff you scrape off the bottom of your boot at the end of the day, so stop treating me like that.”
John Wayne studied him again. Nash didn’t break eye contact. The world went on around them for at least a minute with people walking past, others shouting to be heard in the market, and the warm Caribbean sun bringing up a sheen of sweat on Nash’s brow.
Eventually his trainer said, “So you do have some guts after all. I’ll give you some credit for that. But you gotta learn who to stand up to, and here’s another hint—it ain’t me. I’ve said this one time more than I should already, and this is the last time you’ll hear it. Go crosswise of me and you’ll feel like a ton a brick fell on ya.”
That was something. It only took twenty-four hours but he had finally eked out an ounce of respect. Now if he could just last thirteen days without going crosswise of John Wayne.
Nash gave a small nod, and they broke the stare down. When John Wayne’s eyes slipped away, they focused on something over Nash’s shoulder.
“I can’t believe that winnit on a rat’s anus came back,” he muttered as if to no one, then beelined toward the wooden fence of the market. “Ready for your first lesson?”
Nash had to hustle to catch up. “Yeah.” He was pretty sure that wasn’t the first time his trainer had said that.
“A Ranger’s reputation is everything. And it starts at the bottom. If you let one piece of garbage street trash stand up to you, you’re done. When you push someone down, they better stay down or it’ll bite you in the butt.”
They were headed toward a man in dirty clothes sitting in the shade of the fence. As they got closer, Nash noticed that slobber was mixed with dirt around his mouth, caking his scruffy beard with mud. The man’s head hung against his chest, but his hand was outstretched toward the street waiting for coins.
The man had been pushed down at some point in life, and hard.
As Nash’s eyes rested on the man, a bio appeared. Gembel Saatia, unmodified. Drunkard.
He was originally trained as a bean farmer ten years before, making him one of the most senior residents of the island. It’d been five years since he’d worked an honest job. He had a record of trespassing and minor theft, and had fathered three native-born children. Severe cirrhosis of the liver, current life expectancy three months.
That was tragic, but what really hit Nash was that even the lowest drunk on the street was monitored closely by Hollow Image Projections, though they obviously didn’t intend to offer any sort of treatment to extend Gembel’s life.
Regardless of all that, there were currently no bounties out on him. To Nash that meant they had no business with him.
John Wayne came to a stop in front of the man and nudged him in the ribs with the tip of his boot. “I told you I didn’t want to see your filthy mug beggin’ by the market anymore.”
Gembel opened his eyes and looked down at the boot tip in his chest then took notice of the rest of his surroundings, including John Wayne’s face. “Fig me,” he slurred. “If there was a God, your dad would’ve been castrated as a yearling.”
The tip of John Wayne’s boot went into Gembel’s ribs as a kick this time, knocking the drunk onto his side. Nash winced as John Wayne’s spurs narrowly missed the man’s arm. There were a few people walking near the market entrance, but all of them seemed to be in a hurry to be anywhere else.
“Just can’t help yourself, can ya?” said John Wayne. “A day in the hole without any hooch might teach you a lesson. Get up and get movin’.”
With a run of curses under his breath, Gembel worked on climbing to his feet. Nash leaned closer to his trainer and said, “Is begging illegal?”
John Wayne rose to his full height, turned to face Nash, and stared up at him. “Didn’t we have this discussion twenty seconds ago, piker?”
“I’m just trying to learn the ropes.”
A red undertone was visible on John Wayne’s face. “I like to keep the unsavory elements off the street, as if I have to explain myself to you.” He spat on the ground near Nash’s feet.
Nash didn’t back down. “Unsavory elements? That Ware in the market was more likely to cause problems than a quiet drunk.”
With a rising voice, John Wayne replied, “It’s not against the law to be modified, piker! Most Jennies just run around acting like idiots, not hurting anyone.” He glanced at Gembel who was watching the argument with interest. He poked Nash in the chest and snapped, “Don’t question me in public.”
From his hands and knees, Gembel added in a slur, “Or in private, or even in your head. He’s one mean pig milker. And I should know. He’s milked me plenty of times.”
“Are you still here?” growled John Wayne.
The drunk lifted his hand to protect his face, but when a blow didn’t come, he put it on the ground and worked on standing again.
John Wayne turned his gaze back to Nash. “You’ve already burned through ten inches of my three-inch fuse.” Punctuating each word with another poke in the chest he said, “Do, not, push, me, again.”
Nash glared back, but didn’t say anything.
After a few seconds more of the evil eye, John Wayne’s gaze went back to Gembel. “You know the way.” He shoved the man the direction he was already heading.
It was too much help for the intoxicated man and he stumbled forward into the street. A small cut was already bleeding on his cheek when he looked back at John Wayne and said, “Why do people with the biggest guns always have the smallest … brains?”
“Pukewater in a bucket,” said John Wayne and gave him another full strength kick to the ribs.
“Hold on,” said Nash, reaching into his pack for his first aid kit. Let John Wayne get pissed off at him, he couldn’t just stand back and watch. “You’re taking this too far.” He knelt beside Gembel.
Before Nash knew what was happening, John Wayne’s gun dug into his temple. In a voice too detached for the situation, he said, “Rangers aren’t some mamby-pamby police agency. And there’s no UN inspector peacekeeping forces here. If you’re not hard enough, you’re a liability to me and every other Ranger. I should just do all Rangers a favor and flunk you right now.” John Wayne laid his finger on the trigger.
Nash stood as slowly as possible and faced his trainer, who raised the gun until Nash could see down the barrel.
In training he’d learned all about the gun, but the view down the cylinder was a whole new perspective. The tiny aperture filled his vision. It took him back to Jed’s pistol-shaped stun gun—but unlike that implement of torture, this one could do permanent damage.
The words from an old poem came clearly to his mind: Never befriend the oppressed unless you are prepared to take on the oppressor.
There was no way to know if John Wayne would actually shoot, but it wasn’t a risk Nash could take at this point. He couldn’t look out for anyone if he ended up dead on his second day.
“Fine,” he said, raising the flag of surrender and feeling like a piece of garbage.
“Scutting right it’s fine,” said John Wayne. He still didn’t take the gun out of Nash’s face.
“C’mon, Gembel,” Nash said to the drunk. “Get walking.” If he could get the man to the jail, at least he’d be out of John Wayne’s hands for a couple of days.
John Wayne lowered his gun but not his eyes. “In case you haven’t figured it out, the Corporation doesn’t give a fig about how smart or tough you are. They just want Rangers who can follow orders.”
Nash bit his tongue so he didn’t talk about the Nazi Holocaust, suicide bombers of the early 2000s, or whoever pushed the buttons that launch the Final Nukes. Many of the tragedies of those situations had been committed by people who had just been following orders.
No one spoke as the two Rangers followed Gembel down a couple city blocks. With every step, Nash cursed the bully tactics of his trainer, but what could he do? Taking a bullet would help no one. Nash wasn’t about to blindside John Wayne with a bullet in the back, and anything less would only piss him off and make matters worse.
All he could hope for was to get through this deal with Gembel and hope his trainer chilled out a little bit.
Just like the rest of the buildings on the street, the jailhouse was a cement building, but hanging in front was a wooden sign painted with cell bars. The front door was open.
John Wayne followed his prisoner in and said, “We’ve got one for your special cell.”
Nash heard the guard chuckle before stepping into the building and seeing a bald, stocky man with a scar on the side of his head. “Mr. Saatia. Welcome back. Your suite is ready for you.”
The jail consisted of four stark cells in a row, each with a cot and a toilet. A large brass bell hung near the doorway. Off to one side was a metal door with no grate or opening. The guard used a large key to unlock the solid door then pulled it open. The cell was a meter across and barely two meters deep. It held no toilet and no cot, just a bucket in the corner. The one basic human right that was provided to everyone on Hollow Island free of charge wasn’t even available in that cell.
