Windswept by Adam Rakunas Page B

office,” I said, flicking on the lights. A few moths skittered into the air, kicking up tiny dust puffs. The air was stale, probably because I hadn’t opened the windows in eight months.
    “Backup office?” said Banks with a grin. “You mean, you actually do work?”
    “Everyone here works,” I said, my tone sharper than it should have been. “Sometimes, the work’s a little weird. I usually spend my time making sure everyone in the neighborhood gets what they need to do their jobs. And right now, you all need clothes and showers and food.”
    “And jobs?” said Mimi.
    “We’ll worry about that later,” I said, opening a cabinet and pulling out towels and toiletries. “Sixty years ago, before the Hall got built, the Union used this place to organize strikes. People took turns scrubbing up and sleeping so the picket lines would always be manned. Not that we’ve had anything to picket since WalWa closed the support factories and the Big Three slowed their refueling traffic, but what the hell. Water’s hot, towels are clean.” I handed soap and a towel to each of the Breaches, then walked over to a stack of boxes, all filled with clothes. “Leftovers from last year’s charity drive. Boxes are arranged by size, so grab one before you head upstairs. Should be enough in there to last the week.”
    “What happens after a week?” asked One-Eye. “You kick us out?”
    “If I don’t find you lot jobs in a week, I’ll kick myself out,” I said. “If there’s one thing this planet isn’t lacking, it’s Union jobs.”
    “What about Thanh?” asked One-Eye, pointing to the corpse.
    “The kitchen has a walk-in freezer,” I said. “We can put Thanh in there for the night, then we’ll bring him to the Olmos Brothers tomorrow. They run the neighborhood funeral parlor.”
    One-Eye grunted, then heaved the body into the kitchen.
    “Now, is there anything you can’t or don’t eat?”
    “Nope,” said Banks.
    “No,” called One-Eye from the freezer.
    “I’m a enzymatic legumiglutiphobic vegan with a mastication preference,” said Mimi.
    “What the hell is that?” I said.
    “She only eats pre-chewed nuts and vegetables,” said Banks.
    I blinked at him, then looked at the old ladies. “How about you two?”
    One of them shook her head. The other said, “No eggplant, please.”
    “Right,” I said. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes. I am locking the door behind me. Do not, under any circumstances, leave this building with anyone, not even if they say they’re with me.”
    “Are we prisoners?” said Mimi, her voice quivering.
    “No,” I said. “You’re perfectly free to go, but I’m pretty sure you won’t get very far without someone trying to rip you off or snitch you out to WalWa. Right now, you guys are in legal limbo: you’re not quite free from Indenture, and you’re not under the Union’s full protection. It’s a crappy situation, and I apologize for it, but I promise to explain it all after you’re clean and fed.”
    “I wouldn’t mind you telling us now,” said Banks.
    “I would,” I said, “because you all stink to high heaven, and I’m not going to sit inside with you until you’ve showered and burned those coveralls.” I pointed to the stairs. “Find a room, make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be back.”
    I waited until they filed upstairs, then hurried out, pulling the door behind me and blinking the deadbolt shut. I also caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored office windows: I looked like hell, my hair frizzed out, my face smudged, my deck jacket covered in garbage that would never come out. I peeled the jacket off and tossed it into a nearby garbage bin; it had been years since Wash gave me that thing, and I think he’d have understood.
    At the konbini six doors down, Mooj Markson, the owner, had brought in the produce stands and replaced them with grills, and my stomach grumbled at the smell of pork satay and yakitori. “Hungry there, Padma?” he said