Undercity by Catherine Asaro Page B

but if any of our actual population came up here, the police chased them back to the aqueducts or threw them in jail for the night.
    My beetle had followed Scorch here, but it lost her after she entered the Maze below in the aqueducts. I didn’t intend to enter the Maze the same way I had before. Last time I wanted her to know I was coming. This was different.
    Nowhere in the crowds on the Concourse did I see anyone from the aqueducts except Jak and me, and we knew how to blend in with above-city types. Every now and then, someone from the undercity did find employment on the Concourse. They usually spent their earnings here, for supplies or food. We didn’t use money in the aqueducts; the economy worked on barter. Some people spent their above-city chits at Jak’s casino, mixing with the glamour-riz crowds from Cries.
    “No dust rats here,” I said.
    Jak’s voice took on an edge. “Little Jaks and Bhaajs still aren’t welcome.”
    So it hadn’t changed. When we had come here as kids, it had usually ended in trouble. A few vendors just shooed us away, and a cloth merchant had once given me a clean shirt, but such kindness was rare. Most shop owners called the police or used us for target practice, intent on cleaning up the scourge of dust rats.
    We were no angels, either, though. I had done stupid things in my youth, letting hunger cloud my judgment. One time, a cop caught me filching jabo fruit from a café. I told him the truth, that I hadn’t eaten all day, but he didn’t believe me. He said I was too pretty to shoot, that maybe we could work out a deal. When he put his hands where I didn’t want him touching me, I threw him over my hip and ran like hell. I managed to escape back into the aqueducts, which was why I didn’t have a record, but it had been close.
    My strongest memory of the Concourse, however, came from another day. We hadn’t done anything wrong that time. A vendor saw me and Jak running by his stall, two undercity adolescents. We hadn’t stolen anything; we were just two kids out for a lark, enjoying the sunshine streaming through the skylights, a sight so rare for those of us who lived underground. The shop owner fired iron balls at us, pelting our bodies, leaving us bruised, bloodied, and beaten, Jak with two broken ribs and me with a cracked femur, our joy in the sunlight ruined.
    “Do the gangs still fight back?” I asked.
    “Always,” Jak said. “In the shadows.”
    I nodded, remembering how our gang had prowled up here at night, protecting ourselves with numbers. We learned to fight as a form of gang identification, and we were damn good at the rough and tumble. It wasn’t like we had much else to do. None of us had been in school or had jobs.
    “Who trained us?” I said.
    He gave me a quizzical glance. “What?”
    “Our gang. We had incredible discipline.” I couldn’t remember anyone actually teaching us how to fight. “Military almost.”
    He shrugged. “We trained ourselves. What works for military works for rats.”
    I continued to think as we walked. “One reason I succeeded in the army was because I already knew discipline. Hell, it was easy. They yelled at us a lot, sure, but they didn’t kill us for screwing up and we had plenty to eat.”
    His voice hardened. “What, are you saying dust rats should join the army?” He looked as if he wanted to punch the wall. “Give our lives for the people who let us starve? What a way to swell the enlisted ranks, eh? Draft all the rats. Let us die on the front lines. After all, we aren’t valuable.”
    “For flaming sake, Jak. You know I didn’t mean that.”
    He looked like he still wanted to be angry. “So what the hell do you mean?”
    I spoke slowly, thinking it through. “A way to improve the lives of our young people. They need a structure that supports them, one that comes from the undercity itself. The gangs are a start, but they aren’t enough.”
    “We have our own ways,” Jak said. “No interference from