the
contempt of a bunch of refugees.
7
At dawn, Nyx made Khos drive her and
Rhys out to the central train station in Basmah, following the long scar of the
elevated tracks the whole way. The local, intercity trains didn’t run anymore,
and hadn’t in about three years. The Chenjans had taken out the main line
between Punjai and Basmah so many times that the Transit Authority had stopped
sending out tissue mechanics to fix it. They used to come back at least one
woman short after every run. Most of the busted tracks were planted with mines
and bursts now.
The threat of Chenjan terrorism kept
train tickets on the working long-distance lines exorbitant. Nyx had ridden the
train only twice in her life—to and from the front.
Khos got them within a hundred yards
of the station before the crowd of bakkies, rickshaws, and pedestrians brought
them to a standstill. Half a dozen security techs dressed in red burnouses
prowled the station with enormous sand cats on heavy chains.
Nyx shouldered her pack and slammed
the door. She said to Khos through the open window, “Don’t give Anneke any
shit. Taite’s in charge. If he says fuck off, you do it.”
“He knows where to find me,” Khos
said, and grinned. He and Taite were fast friends, disparate brothers from
foreign countries who went to mixed brothels together, back before Taite had a
boyfriend. Nyx wasn’t sure why the friendship annoyed her. Maybe because she
didn’t understand it. When had she ever had a friend close enough to go to
brothels with? Not since grade school.
“Just don’t blow all your money on
girls and wine. I need you to keep your head clear for whatever I bring back.
Don’t throw it all away on some green girl.”
“I like them green.”
“Virgins are boring,” Nyx said.
“What is it with Mhorians and virgins?”
She caught Khos blushing before he
turned away. It was remarkable how red he could get. Nyx waved him off. He gave
a blast of the horn and backed away from the station. She watched him go. She
was worried about what all that time at the brothels meant. She was worried,
too, about the team, about how long she could keep them working for so little.
It had been a long time.
Nyx turned and saw Rhys standing at
the edge of the crowd. They didn’t give him much space. He kept a firm footing,
though creepers bumped into him with their nets and at least one child spit at
him. He was the only black man in view for as far as Nyx could see—a black
roach skittering along a sea of sand.
The station reared up behind him,
gold-colored stone perched on a series of pointed arches that the bustling mob
slowly pushed through on their way to the platforms and ticket desk.
Nyx elbowed her way into the swarm
and looked back once to make sure Rhys was following unmolested. The arches
leading into the station were plastered with martyrs’ letters from women who’d
volunteered for the front. A couple of pushy women dressed in the prophet’s
green were handing out copies of the latest propaganda sheets and shiny
carcasses of pretty holiday beetles, insects known for their cowardly aversion
to loud noises.
Nyx shouldered past, and the look
she gave the green-clad women was enough to make both of them jerk their hands
away from her, withdrawing their insulting little beetles.
Once inside the station, Nyx found
some room by the empty fountain and shuffled around the tickets.
Rhys looked at her dubiously. “You
do know how to use those, right?” he asked.
Nyx turned the tickets over a couple
more times until she matched the gate numbers at the station to the ones on her
card.
“Fuck off,” she said.
They got lost on one of the
platforms and had to double back. Once they were on the right platform, Rhys
bought himself a purified water. Nyx bought a whiskey, straight.
Rhys watched her take a swig with
his usual distasteful eye.
“I can get you a soda,” he said.
“I’ve had enough of soda,” Nyx said.
She wanted to be drunk by the
contempt of a bunch of refugees.
7
At dawn, Nyx made Khos drive her and
Rhys out to the central train station in Basmah, following the long scar of the
elevated tracks the whole way. The local, intercity trains didn’t run anymore,
and hadn’t in about three years. The Chenjans had taken out the main line
between Punjai and Basmah so many times that the Transit Authority had stopped
sending out tissue mechanics to fix it. They used to come back at least one
woman short after every run. Most of the busted tracks were planted with mines
and bursts now.
The threat of Chenjan terrorism kept
train tickets on the working long-distance lines exorbitant. Nyx had ridden the
train only twice in her life—to and from the front.
Khos got them within a hundred yards
of the station before the crowd of bakkies, rickshaws, and pedestrians brought
them to a standstill. Half a dozen security techs dressed in red burnouses
prowled the station with enormous sand cats on heavy chains.
Nyx shouldered her pack and slammed
the door. She said to Khos through the open window, “Don’t give Anneke any
shit. Taite’s in charge. If he says fuck off, you do it.”
“He knows where to find me,” Khos
said, and grinned. He and Taite were fast friends, disparate brothers from
foreign countries who went to mixed brothels together, back before Taite had a
boyfriend. Nyx wasn’t sure why the friendship annoyed her. Maybe because she
didn’t understand it. When had she ever had a friend close enough to go to
brothels with? Not since grade school.
“Just don’t blow all your money on
girls and wine. I need you to keep your head clear for whatever I bring back.
Don’t throw it all away on some green girl.”
“I like them green.”
“Virgins are boring,” Nyx said.
“What is it with Mhorians and virgins?”
She caught Khos blushing before he
turned away. It was remarkable how red he could get. Nyx waved him off. He gave
a blast of the horn and backed away from the station. She watched him go. She
was worried about what all that time at the brothels meant. She was worried,
too, about the team, about how long she could keep them working for so little.
It had been a long time.
Nyx turned and saw Rhys standing at
the edge of the crowd. They didn’t give him much space. He kept a firm footing,
though creepers bumped into him with their nets and at least one child spit at
him. He was the only black man in view for as far as Nyx could see—a black
roach skittering along a sea of sand.
The station reared up behind him,
gold-colored stone perched on a series of pointed arches that the bustling mob
slowly pushed through on their way to the platforms and ticket desk.
Nyx elbowed her way into the swarm
and looked back once to make sure Rhys was following unmolested. The arches
leading into the station were plastered with martyrs’ letters from women who’d
volunteered for the front. A couple of pushy women dressed in the prophet’s
green were handing out copies of the latest propaganda sheets and shiny
carcasses of pretty holiday beetles, insects known for their cowardly aversion
to loud noises.
Nyx shouldered past, and the look
she gave the green-clad women was enough to make both of them jerk their hands
away from her, withdrawing their insulting little beetles.
Once inside the station, Nyx found
some room by the empty fountain and shuffled around the tickets.
Rhys looked at her dubiously. “You
do know how to use those, right?” he asked.
Nyx turned the tickets over a couple
more times until she matched the gate numbers at the station to the ones on her
card.
“Fuck off,” she said.
They got lost on one of the
platforms and had to double back. Once they were on the right platform, Rhys
bought himself a purified water. Nyx bought a whiskey, straight.
Rhys watched her take a swig with
his usual distasteful eye.
“I can get you a soda,” he said.
“I’ve had enough of soda,” Nyx said.
She wanted to be drunk by the
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