faces.”
“I got what I got,” says Syria. “You just sit there while I think it over.”
It’s impossible to make out his face, hidden under the strands of greasy hair. I hover on the outside of the circle, willing people not to notice me. I’ll talk to him when the game’s finished, when he’s—
Syria looks up and sees me.
“Everybody clear out,” he says quietly.
The other players have seen me by now, eyeing me warily, but now they turn back to Syria, cursing and complaining. He silences them with a wave. “I said clear out.”
In seconds, they melt away. And I become aware of something else: no one is looking at me any more. I’ve gone from being an object of interest to not existing. That’s what happens when you go and speak to the single most powerful person in the Caves – a man who, if you believe the stories, has never set foot outside his sector.
I don’t know if Syria is his first name, or his last. He’s not a gang leader, or a power-hungry maniac like Oren Darnell. He just keeps the Caves safe. I did one or two deliveries for him while I was with the Devil Dancers, although he’s not what I’d call a regular client.
Syria folds his feet under him, sitting cross-legged. He shuffles the cards, and I see he’s wearing a thin, highly polished silver ring on his hand. It seems out of place amid the dirt and grime on the rest of his skin. I sit opposite him, my legs complaining as I do so. He says nothing.
“How are you, Syria?” I say.
It’s a few moments before he replies. “You’re a stomper now. Got nothin’ to say to you.”
“Come on, Syria,” I say, feigning bravado I don’t feel.
He says nothing. I exhale slowly. No point trying to convince him that the stompers aren’t about to come busting in here. Better just to be out with it.
“I need your help,” I say.
“And what exactly do you think I can help you with?” He looks up at me again. The spark in his eyes has faded a little, replaced by an amused curiosity.
I look behind me, at the queue of people by the water point pretending to pay no attention to us. “Can we go somewhere private?” I say.
“Don’t get cute.” His eyes find me again. “You got two choices. You can speak your piece here, the whole of it, no lies, or you can get out. There’s a third option, but it’s not one you want to pick.”
I lean in as close as I can. “I want your help to break Janice Okwembu out of the brig.”
Syria rockets to his feet. Before I can react, he grabs me by the arm, marching me away from the water point.
“What’s the deal?” one of the men yells.
“Back later,” Syria says. He rips open a door, and shoves me inside. It’s a dormitory hab, with neat rows of bunk beds lined up along the walls. Drying clothes hang from lines strung wall-to-wall, and there are kids’ toys underfoot. The air is thick and muggy.
Syria leads me to a bed, and pushes me down to sit on it. He stalks around the hab, and, when he’s satisfied that we’re alone, he sits down opposite me.
For a long time, neither of us says anything. My SPOCS unit is completely silent.
“Do you have any idea,” Syria says, “of what would happen if any of my people heard you say that?”
“I—”
“They’ve been wanting to take a crack at her for months. It’d be like putting a torch to a line of fuel.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, don’t you? A stomper, with inside knowledge of the whole system, comes into Caves talking about a prison break. They’ll either think you’re on a sting operation, in which case you won’t make it out of here alive, or they’ll go off half-cocked, and get themselves killed. Not to mention bringing every stomper on Outer Earth into the Caves, looking for payback.”
He sits back on the bed, his shoulders sagging, as if he used up all his energy on the outburst. “What are you doing, Riley? I know what happened to you. Everybody does. But you aren’t thinking straight.”
I look down
“I got what I got,” says Syria. “You just sit there while I think it over.”
It’s impossible to make out his face, hidden under the strands of greasy hair. I hover on the outside of the circle, willing people not to notice me. I’ll talk to him when the game’s finished, when he’s—
Syria looks up and sees me.
“Everybody clear out,” he says quietly.
The other players have seen me by now, eyeing me warily, but now they turn back to Syria, cursing and complaining. He silences them with a wave. “I said clear out.”
In seconds, they melt away. And I become aware of something else: no one is looking at me any more. I’ve gone from being an object of interest to not existing. That’s what happens when you go and speak to the single most powerful person in the Caves – a man who, if you believe the stories, has never set foot outside his sector.
I don’t know if Syria is his first name, or his last. He’s not a gang leader, or a power-hungry maniac like Oren Darnell. He just keeps the Caves safe. I did one or two deliveries for him while I was with the Devil Dancers, although he’s not what I’d call a regular client.
Syria folds his feet under him, sitting cross-legged. He shuffles the cards, and I see he’s wearing a thin, highly polished silver ring on his hand. It seems out of place amid the dirt and grime on the rest of his skin. I sit opposite him, my legs complaining as I do so. He says nothing.
“How are you, Syria?” I say.
It’s a few moments before he replies. “You’re a stomper now. Got nothin’ to say to you.”
“Come on, Syria,” I say, feigning bravado I don’t feel.
He says nothing. I exhale slowly. No point trying to convince him that the stompers aren’t about to come busting in here. Better just to be out with it.
“I need your help,” I say.
“And what exactly do you think I can help you with?” He looks up at me again. The spark in his eyes has faded a little, replaced by an amused curiosity.
I look behind me, at the queue of people by the water point pretending to pay no attention to us. “Can we go somewhere private?” I say.
“Don’t get cute.” His eyes find me again. “You got two choices. You can speak your piece here, the whole of it, no lies, or you can get out. There’s a third option, but it’s not one you want to pick.”
I lean in as close as I can. “I want your help to break Janice Okwembu out of the brig.”
Syria rockets to his feet. Before I can react, he grabs me by the arm, marching me away from the water point.
“What’s the deal?” one of the men yells.
“Back later,” Syria says. He rips open a door, and shoves me inside. It’s a dormitory hab, with neat rows of bunk beds lined up along the walls. Drying clothes hang from lines strung wall-to-wall, and there are kids’ toys underfoot. The air is thick and muggy.
Syria leads me to a bed, and pushes me down to sit on it. He stalks around the hab, and, when he’s satisfied that we’re alone, he sits down opposite me.
For a long time, neither of us says anything. My SPOCS unit is completely silent.
“Do you have any idea,” Syria says, “of what would happen if any of my people heard you say that?”
“I—”
“They’ve been wanting to take a crack at her for months. It’d be like putting a torch to a line of fuel.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, don’t you? A stomper, with inside knowledge of the whole system, comes into Caves talking about a prison break. They’ll either think you’re on a sting operation, in which case you won’t make it out of here alive, or they’ll go off half-cocked, and get themselves killed. Not to mention bringing every stomper on Outer Earth into the Caves, looking for payback.”
He sits back on the bed, his shoulders sagging, as if he used up all his energy on the outburst. “What are you doing, Riley? I know what happened to you. Everybody does. But you aren’t thinking straight.”
I look down
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