A Slice of Unkindness Page 6

  Warren gasped in horror.

  Morris muttered sadly, “She never got a chance ta see ya or hold ya in ’er arms. Tha’s cold, ice cold tha is, an’ no mistake.”

  “You were raised in Miss Madeline’s orphanage until your natural powers began to show and then they began to experiment on you. It seems the government had thought better of their worlds’-wide extermination plan and wanted a psychic of their very own, one they could mold any way they wanted.”

  They were silent a long while as they absorbed this new information.

  “Then why did they let me get away so easily?” Warren asked.

  Edgar smiled. “The Lord Chamberlin has some pull with the most powerful here on this planet,” she told him. “I don’t care what rank of the government you’re in, what the Lord Chamberlin says, goes. Nobody countermands any order from it.”

  “Although it’s interesting the Chamberlin went to bat for you. They could also be waiting for your powers to come to full strength,” Morris pondered aloud.

  “I thought you said they wanted to mold me, raise me to do anything they want whether I approve or not,” Warren asked.

  Toggle laughed. “Maybe when you were younger,” he sniggered. “But not now. They’ve perfected a drug that will make you completely compliant with whatever they suggest, think Mulligan Stew times ten. They don’t need to raise you. Just give you a suggestion while you’re under the influence and you’ll be their perfect little puppet. Castor 5 is where they do all the experiments the other planets’ codes of ethics forbid. Which reminds me… does anyone know he’s here?”

  The women exchanged looks among themselves.

  “Where are you going after this?” he asked.

  “Ta tha swap fer food an’ supplies,” Morris said.

  “Change it!” Toggle sternly advised. “Go back home and keep him there. As long as he stays on your property, certain unsavory persons will leave you alone. Castle laws and all. Cross the threshold and he’s fair game for anyone. And let me tell you, everyone wants this child. He’s got a steep bounty on his head.”

  “But we need food…” Warren began.

  “Then order it and get it delivered like I do,” Toggle said angrily.

  “But… we need untainted food…” posed Morris.

  Toggle threw up his hands in desperation. “Do you want to get kidnapped? Fine! Take him to the illegal market. I guarantee you won’t make it out of there alive. Not with that juicy tidbit traveling with you. Every hooligan, murderer, scalawag and cut-throat wants to get their hands on him. It’s suicide!”

  Chapter 6

  “But he is also the smallest fraction of a slice”

  “So… we’re still goin’ ta tha swap?” Morris asked as their carriage rumbled along the foggy city streets.

  “We have no choice,” muttered Edgar. “Do you want more Mulligan Stew crap?”

  Silence was her answer.

  Edgar’s thoughts were troubled. She wanted nothing more than to return to the shop, barricade the windows and doors and never go out again. All her suspicions were true and worse than she had originally thought.

  “Mulligan Stew or not, couldn’t we just get some ordinary food to get us by for a bit? Get it delivered like he said? Just until things blow over,” Warren asked.

  Edgar shook her head in denial and Morris tossed her wild red curls. “Nae! Absolutely not!”

  “Things aren’t going to ‘blow over’ anytime soon,” Edgar said. “They’re just going to escalate. We’re caught between a rock and a hard place. We must eat.”

  Warren heaved a deep sigh. “What’s really so bad about the Stew?” he asked. “You said it’s just chemicals, fake food.”

  Morris frowned. “Tha ’uman body ’as never done well on synthesized fuel. At tha least, it stunts yer growth. Ta minute we changed yer diet, ya started to sprout up. People are going ta mistake ya for a transplant soon. People born on Castor 5, raised on a steady diet o’ Mulligan Stew never git very big.”

  Edgar pushed back her top hat and rubbed her forehead wearily. “It’s more than that.”

  Warren stared hard into her face until she noticed. “You told me all those years ago, Mulligan Stew is how they control the population,” he said and she nodded. “How? How is it done?”

  Edgar frowned and sighed. She took a deep breath and began her explanation. “Mulligan Stew isn’t any sort of soup or food product. It’s an oily, chemical cocktail. It can be dried, powdered, crystallized or liquified so that it can be easily slipped into everything we eat and drink. And over time and constant feeding, it changes us. But it does it so gradually that no one, not even the closest family or friends take notice of the change in personality. It doesn’t make a murderer stop killing people, or a pickpocket stop stealing or a habitual liar stop lying. But it keeps us passive.

  “Castor 5 is a planet populated by criminals and useless cast-offs of genteel society. Everyone who lives here knows the government is as corrupt as they come. But nobody does anything about it. Nobody organizes into groups, nobody marches or demonstrates their displeasure at how poorly they are being treated. Nobody tries to stage an uprising or tries to overthrow the government. Nobody takes that next step. Here we are a planet of violent convicts yet we’ve never had a revolution, never had a battle, never had a war. We are the most peaceful planet of hoodlums and brigands you’ve ever seen. And that’s the way the government wants it.”

  Morris sniffed and fluttered her fan in front of her face, trying to blow the stink of Toggle’s place out of her clothes. “This planet could stand for a good uprising! I’d love ta be tha one ta kick tha hornet’s nest into tha head honcho’s office while ’e’s sipping ’is daily tonic.”

  Edgar turned and looked directly at Warren. “Not everybody knows the truth of the Mulligan Stew. But there are enough of us that we’ve started an underground grocery chain. It’s very secret and always in a different place. The government would love to shut us down because our numbers keep growing and that is a threat to them. Maybe when there are enough people whose eyes have been opened, maybe then things here will change. Until that happens, we need sources for pure food. Do you understand now why we can only buy there?”

  “We are nae lemmings!” Morris said with determination lacing every word.

  “What’s a lemming?” asked Warren.

  Edgar gave a wry smile and explained. “A small rodent from the northern regions of First Earth. There was a myth that every four years the population of lemmings would explode, then commit mass suicide. Their numbers would crash and the species would barely survive.”

  “We are nae lemmings!” Morris repeated. “Nor did we raise ya ta be a lemming.”

  Warren slowly smiled in return.

  “I am not a lemming,” he stated firmly.

  Both Edgar and Morris smiled.

  “That’s the spirit, my boy!” Edgar beamed proudly.

  * * *

  They had donned their breathing masks again and disembarked from their horseless carriage and were now walking through the fog down the street of Gardner’s Barracks.

  “If its location is secret, then how do we know where it is?” Warren asked them in a low voice.

  The Gardner’s Barracks was in the west end of town and few people were out. Most who lived on the street were employed in the fuel refineries and it was between shifts.

  “Go ta Gardner’s Barracks and look for the signs’, the directions said,” Morris told him. “Pay attention ta tha graffiti.”

  Edgar took out her phosphorus torch from time to time to fan the walls with its beam of light, looking for anything that glowed. Presently they came to a particularly dark end of the street next to a drainage pipe large enough for a tall man to stand upright and three people to stand abreast. There was a crude, spray-painted depiction of a rodent within a circle and a slash through the center.

  “’Ere we be!” Morris said softly in triumph and she headed into the drainage pipe. Edgar and Warren follo
wed her.

  “But,” Warren whispered doubtfully. “That’s only a rat-catcher’s sign saying he’s cleared this tunnel.”

  Edgar smiled. “It wasn’t a rat.”

  Warren stopped and his face screwed up in confusion. “How do you know?”

  Morris chuckled and, tapping his arm, aimed the beam of her torch at a scrawl of graffiti ahead of them. It read, “We are NOT lemmings!”

  “Like she said before… that’s nae rat!” she told him with a wide smile.

  They continued onward and downward into the dank, dripping sewer pipe. A little of the surrounding smell bled through in spite of their breathing masks. It was not a pleasant odor.

  “They sell food down here?” Warren said with a grimace.

  Morris laughed. “Anywhere tha government would’na tink ta look.” She chuckled. “Don’t worry. Tha produce won’t smell like this. If it did, I wouldna buy it.”

  Edgar had taken the lead and was fanning her torch all about. They heard the hum of a great machine and the fog suddenly became not as thick. There was a vibration they could feel through the soles of their shoes which accompanied the hum.

  As they rounded the corner they discovered the source of the noise and vibration. Two enormous fans nearly as tall as a human had been set up side by side to blow the fog and smell back up the drainage pipe. A collection of flood lights, triggered by their movement, clicked on, blinding them.

  “Remove your masks and face the light!” boomed an authoritative voice over a crackling loudspeaker.

  They did as they were ordered to, although they left their eyes closed against the brilliant onslaught of the light. In spite of this, they could still see its brightness through their eyelids.

  Just as suddenly as it appeared, the light was switched off. They squinted but could barely see through the spots in their eyes.

  “It’s a defense mechanism,” Morris explained squinting and rubbing her eyes. “If tha police find our location, they’re too blinded ta pursue an’ some will escape.”

  Three human shadows were advancing on them. More details they could not tell until their eyes had adjusted to the light.

  “Apologies, Morris my dear,” said a man’s voice. “But you know it’s necessary to get in.”

  Two of the human shapes had surrounded her and were shining a healing, blue pen light into her eyes.

  “One of these days yer gonna burn me retinas out doin’ that!” Morris complained as the third guy added drops to her eyes. The three people moved on to administer the same treatment to Edgar and Warren.

  “Physician, heal thyself,” jested the first man. Morris only grumbled.

  “Who’s the fresh meat?” asked another of the door wards.

  Warren realized they were discussing him.

  “My… er… our adopted son,” Edgar informed.

  “What’ve you been feeding him?” inquired the other. “Miracle grow?”

  They all laughed.

  “Pure food, of course,” she replied. “Nothing but the best!”

  “Is his name Goliath?” teased one guard.

  They laughed and waved them past the fans, into the secret market.

  The three had to bend nearly double to enter through a smaller drainage pipe. Once through, they found themselves in a large underground chamber with vaulted ceilings held up by pillars. Temporary lights hung from electric wires were festooned haphazardly everywhere above them, illuminating the large room and chasing all the shadows away. There were around twenty other drainage pipes leading away from the great antechamber and each one had a portable air filtration system hooked up in front. The air in the sewer may have been stale and disgusting but the atmosphere inside was fresh and relatively stink free.

  The booth tables were cleverly designed. All the separately packaged wares were carefully strapped inside briefcases that could be opened wide to lie flat like a table. Legs which could be unfolded, held each briefcase table up to nearly waist high. All the vendor had to do to pack up was snap the briefcase closed, latch it shut, gather up the legs and they could be on their way in less than a minute. It was a handy feature should the illegal market be found out and everybody had to pack in a hurry.

  The market was filled with customers. In spite of the large number of vendors and shoppers, the room was amazingly quiet. There was little speaking. Most of the transactions were conducted through sign language to keep the noise to a minimum. Someone could have walked out of the big chamber, turned the corner and never have known the market even existed.

  “All these people know about the Stew?” Warren asked in a low tone of voice.

  The women nodded. “And they have all rejected it. They prefer to buy their food here.”

  “Where does it all come from?” he asked.

  “Some of it comes from the people who care for the dekas. They order double batches when supplying their employers’ larder and sell half here. Some of it conveniently… goes missing. Some is just plain stolen and never recovered.”

  “Stolen food,” murmured Warren. “So that’s why this market is illegal.”

  “Tha’ an’ other reasons,” Morris commented.

  “Now keep you mind wary,” Edgar cautioned Warren. “If you hear anyone talking or even thinking about us, be sure to let us know.”

  He nodded and dutifully followed. Morris conducted most of the transactions over the goods they needed. Edgar hung back a step or two blending into the crowd, seeming not to be with them and kept her eyes constantly roving those gathered. Warren served as Morris’ shopping cart, carrying her bags as she accumulated the groceries they would need. In little over an hour they had purchased everything. They decided to stop for a snack before heading home and bought some meat pasties from a woman with a cart.

  They were halfway through their meal when a voice behind them spoke up. “Professor A.P.?”

  Before remembering not to, Edgar had reacted to her name.

  A young negro woman stood before them. She looked barely twenty years old. She was dressed similarly to Warren in a white shirt, suspenders, trousers and boots. She wore no hat but a pair of goggles pushed back onto her head which kept her wild curls out of her face. She was lean and fit. Her dark, beautiful eyes spoke of things that should not be repeated.

  “It’s okay,” reassured Morris. “I know ’er. She’s Sprocket, one of Toggle’s people.”

  Edgar looked her up and down suspiciously and sniffed.

  “You don’t look like a ‘den-dragon’,” she commented.

  There was a flash of white teeth as she smiled. “Some of us got better,” she replied in a rich, full voice. Her words were deep and clipped at the end with a heavy African accent. “I now run errands for those who refuse to leave their holes but I will never live there again.”

  “Why?” asked Edgar, testing her.

  Her eyes narrowed as she caught wind of what Edgar was up to. She raised one delicate eyebrow and sneered. “Those who live in holes can be easily hunted down and cornered. I always have an exit plan.”

  Edgar relaxed and so did Sprocket.

  “Toggle sent me here to warn you,” she reported and she looked directly at Warren. “You’re being hunted. You must leave this place immediately.”

  Warren glanced about warily. “By who? I haven’t sensed anything.”

  “Silly child!” teased Sprocket. “You’re not going to find anyone that way. They’ve brought a Blocker and a Finder to catch you. They’re here now, somewhere in this market. Toggle sent me to get you safely away.”

  Edgar nodded and crammed down the last bite. The others caught the hint and gathered up their packages.

  “Do not hurry,” Sprocket advised. “Do not act in any way that will attract attention. Just follow me calmly. If we need to run, I will tell you. Understood?”

  They nodded and followed without another word.

  She led them a winding route around stalls and food vendors. She was taking them a different way than they had come in. T
hey realized she was leading them in a leisurely manner, toward one of the many drainage pipes which led out of the vast chamber.

  Warren lagged back, still mentally searching and finding nothing to arouse any of his suspicions. It was just then, around stall forty-five, it happened.

  He heard, with his ears, a pitiful cry: “Help us! Please, help us!” The weak voice raised louder and called, “Just a crust of bread, a sip of water, please? A penny or two to keep the demon hunger away from us another day. Please!”

  Warren easily found the source of the cry.

  It was a beggar.

  A very thin man knelt on the ground cradling another person to his breast. His clothes were in rags. He was barefoot and had no breathing apparatus. He clutched desperately the body of an equally thin woman to his form. He held out his cap for spare change to the passers-by. Whether the woman was alive or not, Warren could not tell.

  He remembered being that desperately hungry. Miss Madeline used to withhold food as a punishment, sometimes for days. He hesitantly approached.

  The beggar kept his eyes down, not looking anyone in the face as he cried out for aide. “Please help us!” he called. “We’re so hungry, my wife and I. Please help.”

  The starving man’s greasy haired head, swung Warren’s way and focused on his shoes. A hopeful note crept into his voice.

  “Please help us, young sir,” the beggar directed his voice at Warren. “My poor wife and I have fallen on hard times. She has a disorder that has made her blind and mute. I lost my job caring for her. We were kicked out of our hovel. We have no home and no food. Please! Can’t you spare a crumb for the less fortunate? Please? Just one more day of life for my wife and I. Please?”

  Warren shuffled cautiously closer and a handful of pennies found their way into his palm. He drew near and extended his hand toward the offered cap. He wanted to see the woman’s face. He needed to see if she still breathed.

  As the pennies slid slowly out of his hand and fell into the tattered cap, the man shifted his hold on the woman. Her head rolled limply toward Warren. He saw her face. He saw the nature of her ‘disorder’.