Worlin was shaking. He crossed to the decanter on the wrought-brass stack table and was about to pour himself a hefty shot of ten-year-old joiliq to calm his brittle mood. But he paused. He went to his desk, unlocked a drawer with the geno-key that he kept around his wrist on a thin chain and took out the compact needle pistol.
He checked it was primed and armed, then fetched the drink. He sat back on his lifter throne, sipping his liquor and holding his badge of credit—the mark of his rank—gazing at the Worlin crest and its bright ornament. He waited, the weapon in his lap.
The klaxons continued to wail.
At carriage station C4/a, panic had begun. Workers and low-classers who had ventured into the mercantile slopes for a day’s resourcing began to mob every brass-framed transit that trundled in along the cogged, funicular trackway. Carriages were moving out towards the Outer Habs and the Main Spine alike, overloaded, some doors only half closed.
Crowds on the platforms, shivering at each yelp of the alarms, were getting fractious as more and more fully laden transits clattered through without stopping. A slate-seller’s stall was overturned in the press.
Livy Kolea, hab-wife, was beginning to panic herself. A body-surge of the crowd had pushed her past the pillars of the station atrium. She’d kept a firm grip on the handles of the child-cart and Yoncy was safe, but she’d lost sight of Dalin.
“My son! Have you seen my son?” she asked, imploring the frenzied crowd that washed around her. “He’s only ten! A good boy! Blond, like his father!”
She grabbed a passing guilder by the sleeve. A rich, lavish sleeve of painted silk.
“My son—” she began.
The guilder’s bodyguard, menacing in his rust-coloured mesh, pushed her aside. He jerked the satin shroud off the weapon in his left hand, just briefly, as a warning, escorting his master on. “Take the hand off, gak-swine,” his vox-enhanced larynx blurted gruffly, without emotion.
“My son—” Livy repeated, trying to push the child-cart out of the flow of bodies.
Yoncy was laughing, oblivious in his woollen wrap. Livy bent down under the segmented hood of the cart to stroke him, whispering soft, motherly words.
But her mind was racing. People slammed into her, teetering the cart and she had to hold on to keep it upright. Why was this happening—to her—now? Why was it happening on the one day a month she carriaged into the lower Commercia to haggle for stuff? Gol had wanted a new pair of canvas mittens. His hands were so sore after a shift at the ore face.
It was such a simple thing. Now this! And she hadn’t even got the mittens.
Livy felt tears burst hot onto her cheeks.
“Dalin!” she called.
“I’m here, mam,” said a little voice, half hidden by the klaxons.
Livy embraced her ten-year-old son with fury and conviction, like she would never let go.
“I found him by the west exit,” a new voice added.
Livy looked up, not breaking her hug. The girl was about sixteen, she reckoned, a slut from the outer habs, wearing the brands and piercings of a hab-ganger.
“He’s all right though.”
Livy looked the boy over quickly, checking for any signs of hurt. “Yes, yes he is… He’s all right. You’re all right, aren’t you, Dalin? Mam’s here.”
Livy looked up at the outhab girl. “Thank you. Thank you for…”
The girl pushed a ringed hand through her bleached hair.
“It’s fine.”
The girl made Livy uneasy. Those brands, that pierced nose. Gang marks.
“Yes, yes… I’m in your debt. Now I must be going. Hold on to my hand, Dalin.”
The girl stepped in front of the cart as Livy tried to turn it.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Don’t try to stop me, outhab! I have a blade in my purse!”
The girl backed off, smiling. “I’m sure you have. I was just asking. The transits are packed and the exit stairs are no place for a woman with a kid and a cart.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe I could help you get the cart clear of this press?”
And take my baby… take Yoncy for those things scum like you do down in the outer habs over the river!
“No! Thank you, but… No!” Livy barked and pushed the gang-girl aside with the cart. She dragged the boy after her, pushing into the thicket of panic.
