The Freedom Race, page 36
* * *
They only had a few minutes to make it across the field before the train would depart from the loading station. Ji-ji was grateful the three of them would not be traveling unaccompanied. Germaine Judd and Bently Turner, selected by Man Cryday to serve as their escorts, were pros.
Tiro and Ji-ji grabbed hold of Afarra’s hands while Germaine and Bently ran ahead, guns drawn. Musa, also accompanying them, bounded along in the rear. If they were spotted they were done for. The railway men and security contingent were farther down the track loading timber onto the train. All the freight hoppers had to do was slip into the boxcar and slide the door closed.
Under the cover of early-morning darkness, the group sprinted forward. Ji-ji’s disobedient sproutings had been bandaged into submission by Man Cryday, who’d been as merciless with them as Silapu had been with her hair on the morning of Lua’s harvesting. Her back was still tender, but at least her sproutings didn’t bounce around when she ran like her breasts did in her ill-fitting bra. She carried Zinc’s saddlebag. Ben had gone through it hurriedly before they’d set out and determined what she should keep. He hadn’t found the letter or the photo. He surmised they must have been lost during the river crossing. Ben called the tooled saddlebag “exceptionally high quality” and advised her to hang on to it.
The fairskin rail guard who hurried them onto the train was nothing like Ji-ji expected. In a hoarse whisper, he cursed them for moving too slow and told them to haul their lazy butts into the boxcar before someone spotted them. When he saw the striper, he drew back in consternation. “Hold up!” he said in a furious whisper. “No way you’re bringing that stinkin’ mutant on board!”
Musa was in agreement. He bared his teeth and started to back away.
The man pulled nervously on his full beard: “Morons, all of you! No one tames a striper! That filthy ant belongs in a cage like the other one.” He gestured to a dark corner of the car. They realized the train hadn’t spooked Musa. Something else had.
There among the crates, in a cage taking up a third of the boxcar, lay a sleeping snarlcat, his mane forming a shaggy halo around his head. It was too dark for Ji-ji to see his dagger-length canines or lethal claws, but she remembered from the attack she’d witnessed on a hunt with Lotter how easily they could rip someone to shreds. Snarlcats weighed even more than stripers. With their huge, leonine jaws and lightning-fast speed, these superpredators could make quick work of almost any foe. As Ben pointed out, Musa, with his hunched, hyena-like back and piercing yellow eyes, could intimidate the crap out of anyone, yet even he shrank back when faced with a snarlcat. The creature was sedated, but Musa seemed to think he was faking it, and the others didn’t trust he would stay asleep either.
The guard insisted this boxcar was their only option: “Train’s packed to the gills with coal, grain, an’ timber. Everyone’s scared shitless of the cat, so no one’ll bother you. Tell the ant to get lost before someone catches us!” But Afarra had no intention of riding the serpent without her friend. As the man continued to abuse them, she coaxed the striper up into the car with a stick of candy one of the Friends had given her.
The railman, muttering something about never doing another favor for that black bitch even if she put a hex on him, leapt down from the boxcar. Speaking fast and addressing Germaine, he told her to tell the dusky witch Reggie’s debt was paid in full and then some. He reminded them they would only have a couple of minutes to disembark when they reached Monticello, unless of course they wanted their heads blown off, which it looked like they did cos only morons traveled in a boxcar with an unchained striper. “This car’s at the back so you should be able to sneak off okay. But the area around Monticello’s swarming with Bounty Boys. Some bigwig’s been murdered.”
“Who?” Ben asked.
“How should I know, boy?” Ben’s eyes flickered in anger at the word boy.
Railman Reggie turned his attention to Tiro. “There’s a reward out for you. Saw your face flash across the Wanted screen ’fore the whole damn system messed up cos of that quake a few days ago. Man, that was a doozy! Must be drillin’ for gas round here again or somethin’. You from the 437th, ain’t you, Mule?” The man took his silence as a yes. “Thought so. They’re lookin’ for you.”
Reggie said to Germaine, “NoVA’s the next stop after Monticello. Every car’s inspected then. Disembark before then or you can say sayonara to liberty. You’ll be toast, understand?”
Afarra, who still didn’t seem to understand what the phrase meant, repeated what she’d said to Ji-ji after she’d lost the map: “We can be toast together.”
Reggie looked Afarra up and down. “I guess you can,” he said, “but I wouldn’t advise it.” He turned back to Germaine. “Dusky’s a Cloth, right? Pretty. Not like the other one. What is she? Eleven? Twelve?” He looked down the track toward the loading dock. “Looks like we could be here a while. She available for a quickie? I ain’t particular when it comes to pussy. Won’t take a second.”
As Germaine pretended she was considering his offer, Ji-ji grabbed hold of Afarra’s arm and held on tight, Tiro moved his hand closer to his gun, and Ben took hold of Tiro’s arm and whispered, “Easy, T. Germy can handle it.”
“How can we trust this jerk?” Tiro whispered back.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Ben replied.
Germaine and Reggie kept talking. “Yeah. That sounds like a decent price for a quickie,” she said, all smiles and accommodation. “Only one drawback. Wherever she goes, he goes too.” She patted Musa’s tiara. “They come as a pair. Still interested?”
Railman Reggie backed away so fast he nearly stumbled on the gravel. “Take me for a fuckin’ pervert?” he hissed. “You tell that witch to leave me alone, y’hear? Tell her if she don’t I’ll have somethin’ to say about it.” Even Reggie seemed to know how pathetic his threat sounded. He spat on the ground in disgust and slid the door closed, leaving them in the dark with the snarlcat.
Tiro holstered his weapon. “Think the bastard knew how close he came to having his fuckin’ balls blowed off?”
“Easy, fly-boy,” Ben said. “You go chasing after every insult an’ you’ll be dead before we reach Monticello. An’ no swearing in front of the ladies. Germaine here ain’t used to vulgarity, are you, darlin’?” Germaine raised her eyes to heaven. “Now let’s make ourselves comfy.”
In the confined space, the stench of snarlcat excrement and urine was so strong it burned Ji-ji’s sinuses. Musa’s odor didn’t help either. Ji-ji was thankful her sproutings no longer stank. As long as she wasn’t the cause, she could put up with almost anything.
A few minutes later, just when they were breathing sighs of relief, they heard other men approaching, calling out as they came.
“Hey! Reggie boy!” Two men. Maybe three.… No, four!
Musa started to growl. “Keep him quiet!” Ben hissed.
Afarra mumbled entreaties to Musa, who stopped growling and lay down on his belly. Germaine and Ben drew their weapons. Tiro wasn’t far behind. Ji-ji dug her hand into Zinc’s saddlebag and withdrew Petrus’ semiautomatic as the group of men strode closer to the boxcar, their heavy work boots crunching on gravel. They could be heard clearly through the warped metal door. One of them told Reggie plans had changed. The entire train would be inspected by inquisitors in Monticello. It would be up to Reggie to make sure the snarlcat behaved himself.
“Thought we didn’t get inspected till we hit NoVA,” Reggie said.
“You deaf or just plain dumb?” another man asked. “If Tate here says cars get inspected in Monticello, that’s what happens. It’s an inquisitorial inspection too. You know what those cardinals do if you keep ’em waiting. Am I right, Tate?”
“It’s not pretty,” Tate replied. His accent made Ji-ji think Tate was from the Midwest Territories. “Cards like their victims to squeal. ’Specially fond of newbies. How’s Pussykins? I gotta hand it to you, Reggie boy, you’re a natural. Could be the Dreamfleet’ll be willing to let you keep the cat company. Bet Kitty would enjoy nibbling on a coupla fresh Rocky Mountain oysters. That’s if you got any. Hear tell you’re one of them hick Deviants they got a whole bunch of down here in the boonies. Is it true you fellas got a preference for bitches of the four-legged variety?”
The men howled with laughter. Ji-ji thought of Zinc and Chet and Daryl. The laughter was the same—thirsty, menacing.… She aimed the gun at the door and held it steady.
“How ’bout we check on the cat?” a voice—Tate’s?—suggested. “He still out like a light? Al, get that door. Let’s have us some fun with Reggie an’ his little friend.”
They heard Al attempt to slide the door open. It stuck.
Musa leapt to all fours. His tiara stood up straight on his head. Ben put his hand to his lips to signal quiet. They’d have a second or two before the men saw them hiding in the shadows.
Al jerked on the door again. Harder this time. It slid partway open!
“JESUS!” Al yelled, as he reeled back and covered his nose.
Quick as a flash, Reggie grabbed the handle and yanked the door closed. “Sorry, Al,” Reggie said. “Guess I should’ve warned you. Kitty pooped. He’s a big fella. Don’t do nothin’ small scale.”
There was a long pause. The tension was broken by a voice yelling in the distance—an order to the railmen to get their butts on the train. Tate cussed Reggie out, promised he’d pay him back later. The men scurried off, their voices melting into the distance. A few seconds later, they heard Reggie walk away.
When Ben was sure they’d gone, he holstered his weapon and said, “Well, how ’bout that? Guess we’re indebted to Pussykins for pooping.” He inhaled more deeply than was wise. “This place smells a whole bunch sweeter’n it did earlier. It surely does.”
Ji-ji slipped Petrus’ gun back into Zinc’s saddlebag. They weren’t toast yet.
* * *
After the Liberty Train got underway, Musa didn’t seem bothered by the snarlcat in the cage. For Ji-ji, it wasn’t so easy. Squeezed between crates, she could hear the wild creature breathing and snuffling a few feet away. Ben had said it was safe to have a mini light on a dim setting so they could keep an eye on their fellow traveler. If Ji-ji leaned forward a little, she could make out the outline of the snarlcat’s enormous back, which rose and fell with each drugged snore. The smell got worse, if that was possible. Afarra offered to reach into the cage, scoop up the mountain of poop, and toss it out of the car, but Tiro said Musa, who was extremely protective of Afarra, would go nuts if she went anywhere near the snarlcat. “The cat is not for killing,” Afarra insisted. “He see us but he is very sleepy.” “I don’t care if he’s dead,” Tiro told her. “You’re not sticking your hand in that cage. He could swallow you in one gulp an’ he wouldn’t even belch afterward.” Unwisely, Ben happened to mention that if the cat woke before they disembarked, he would go berserk when he realized he was in an enclosed space with a striper. Ben said they’d be forced to shoot him if he made a ruckus. Afarra got so upset that Tiro told her Ben had a gun with “special sleeping bullets.” He’d use that one. It took some convincing, but at last Afarra seemed to buy it.
Ji-ji wondered aloud why the Dreamfleet needed a snarlcat. Germaine said the fleet was assembling “a menagerie of exotics” to go along with their state-of-the-art fly-coop. The owners of the Dreamfleet’s flyer-battlers would pay a lot for a full-grown male. It was rumored that, come fall, the flyers would fight in the coop’s upper tiers while ants prowled in the ring below. “The truce has been in place for a while now,” Germaine said, “which means there’s money to be made. The Dreamfleet used to serve as guards to the D.C. Congress when it re-formed itself as an Independent. But the flyer-battler wing is all about entertainment—keeping the public occupied so they don’t see how screwed up things are. Distract people enough an’ they forget what they were objecting to in the first place. Fans’ll pay good money to see a few privileged flyer-battlers get mauled … or worse.”
“No way I’m climbing in the coop with that,” Tiro asserted.
Ben feigned surprise: “Don’t tell me the great Tiro Dregulahmo’s afraid of a little pussy.”
“You bet I am. S’why I still got my Rocky Mountains. How’d you lose yours, Ben?”
Ben gave Tiro a friendly swipe on the back. “The fans’re gonna lap you up, man. Kitty over there’ll be first in line. Ignore Germaine the Judgmental. Got kicked out of the fleet. Been bitter ever since—right, Germ?”
“You better not call me that, Bennyboy. Not when I got a loaded gun on me.”
“She loves me somethin’ awful,” Ben boasted. “S’why she hates me so much.” Ben blew her a kiss, which Germaine batted away in contempt. Ji-ji had never witnessed a black male acting like that before with a female who looked white. On a planting, a seed could be Tilled to death for less than that.
Tiro and Ben were soon in a deep, ’shroom-laced conversation about the pros and cons of the equipment in flying coops. Ben spoke about his experience as a pro wistfully, describing the daredevil moves of flyer-battlers like X-Clamation and his female partner Re-Router. Excitement stirred inside Ji-ji. Not a single Elevation Prohibition against female flyers in Dream City. Maybe she would be the first flyer-battler in history to soar unassisted in the coop.
Ji-ji could see why Man Cryday had picked Ben to serve as one of their escorts. The confident black man dismissed Germaine’s concern about the APB out on Tiro. As long as they kept out of sight till they reached the walls of the Monticello Protectorate they’d be fine, he said. Compact and stocky, with a weightlifter’s build and strength, Ben had a rich brown complexion. If he’d been born in the Territories, he would have been on a slightly darker color arc than Ji-ji, but he had never been a botanical. Bently Turner had been born “New England Free,” as he put it. His knowledge of fly-coops surpassed even Coach B’s. Not surprisingly, Tiro pummeled him with questions. Joining the race at the second leg, Ben said, meant Tiro would have only two opportunities in the coop to score high marks, cos neither of his scores could be dropped. He had to do well in the Jefferson Coop, meet the qualifying time in the sprint segment, and do well in the Dream Coop too. “That’s where the rubber hits the road. Corcoran’ll be there watching.”
Ji-ji wished Pheebs had decided to enter the race. Between the two of them, they could have helped Afarra make it to the finish line. Wild Seeds had no age limit on them, and though she was probably in her fifties, Pheebs was fit as a fiddle. But no one had been able to persuade her to join them. She’d promised Billy she would escort Afarra to safety, if it proved necessary. Having completed her task, she was heading for the Rad Region to rescue her friend and mentor. “Are you nuts, Pheebs?” Tiro had exclaimed. “That’s the last thing Coach B would want. He’d kill me if he found out I let you—” “Let me!” Pheebs had shot back. “No one let me do nothing, fly-boy! Not you an’ not the beards on the 437th. Billy save me. Taught me to read an’ write. Never let ’em hurt me. My turn to save him. I forget no one.” Ji-ji wondered whether Tiro would give up his dream to fly with the Dreamfleet to search for her. If she’d asked herself that question a few days ago, her answer would have been yes. Looking at him now, however, she doubted it.
Before she’d taken off, Pheebs had put her arm around Afarra. “Look after this one like gold,” she’d said. “She small like me—but she grow two inches since we leave. See how she tower above me now? Why? Cos she Free to grow in outer air an’ cos she stay in the tower an’ stretch to the sky at last. No need for hiding small anymore.”
Pheebs’ logic sounded iffy to Ji-ji. Hard to imagine that the old shot tower caused Afarra’s growth spurt. Besides, anyone looked tall next to Coach B’s tiny assistant.… On the other hand, Ji-ji had to admit Afarra had shot up uncannily fast in just a few days.
Pheebs had snuck off during the night, leaving a brief note behind in a sprawling hand.
To say Goodby is bad. I Can not do it Afarra. Musa protect you now. And Jiji too. And Tiro. He is not so dumb for a fly boy sometimes. Love Pheebee. (NOT Cloth-34b) XOX
After Pheebs’ departure, Afarra had been so cut up that Man Cryday agreed to ask Musa if he wanted to go with them. He couldn’t enter the Monticello Protectorate—they shot stripers on sight—but he could travel with them until then. Presumably, Musa had agreed to Man Cryday’s request, because there he was, serving as Afarra’s pillow.
If there had been any doubt that Afarra could communicate across species, doubt dissolved that morning when Afarra began talking to the striper in a hodgepodge language even Man Cryday had difficulty following. She’d detected a mixture of English, patois, Creole, Swahili, sign language, baby talk, and Afarra’s own invented language. A spattering of Totepp too, words she must have picked up from Uncle Dreg. She had the same uncanny ability to converse with the stallion, who would stop fretting in his pen whenever Afarra approached. She could also communicate with Drol. Ji-ji had witnessed it herself.
Late yesterday evening before they went to bed, Man Cryday had invited Drol to her cabin so he could converse with Afarra. When she saw him, Afarra ran to the door, grasped his huge hairy index finger, and pulled him inside. Outfitted in a Jangler costume with a large cow bell and a series of smaller bells in a chain around his neck (so people would know a Viral was approaching and beat a hasty retreat), Drol proved to be a bashful giant. At over seven feet, he made Afarra look like a toddler. He’d been caged for so long, Man Cryday said, his back had forgotten how to straighten itself. She estimated him to be a few years older than Ji-ji, though his stooped posture aged him.
