“Here, you go, ma’am!” Ratcatcher flashed a smile, handling a sealed package for a woman. Scars covered the Normie’s body; sleepless nights had left her with bags under her eyes, but compared to yesterday, there was a glint of life in them. “How is Mr. Mansur today?”
“They released him from the emergency ward,” the woman said in a hoarse voice. A bullet had ruined some of her vocal cords, and the wound was still bandaged, but she held a younger child steady with one hand and tucked the ration, a simple mix of healthy nutrients compressed into a gray baton and a daily dose of apple juice to sweeten up the thing, into her backpack. “The stupid buffoon had tried to escape to find a job, and an Ice Fang had to carry him back by the neck.” She shook her head. “Can’t believe it’s over.”
“Want me to babysit tonight? I am still free this night, and you’ll have time to visit your husband,” Ratcatcher offered.
“Bless your heart, Eliza, but no. A convoy has left town, clearing some space in the kindergartens.” The woman kissed her son in his rectangular eye. “They need free hands to help with the kids, so hopefully I’ll be able to pull my weight too. Come visit us when this is all over.”
“I will!” Ratcatcher promised. She wanted to add that the woman wasn’t a burden but wasn’t sure how to formulate words best, so she simply wished her best of luck and turned back to her duties.
The Church of the Planet had poured obscene wealth into helping the people of Stonehelm. Trucks of food arrived daily, soup kitchens had been opened, free medicine arrived from Iterna by the hour, and there was always something to do. Cook a meal, help unload the crates, dash through the busy streets to deliver insulin, check on people, relay messages from parents working at construction sites to their children, and so on.
Ratcatcher half expected people to stare at her like they did in Iterna. Nope. Stonehelm had over a million people confined to its walls, and indeed, the Normies were the unusual ones here. Mutants slithering on tentacles, Trolls performing guard duties, Insectones buzzing above the streets or skittering over buildings, and Malformed carrying heavy industrial equipment with almost contemptuous ease—all kinds of people found a refuge from invasion here. The only person to ask her about her origins was a security guard at an airport, who scratched behind his ear, pondering whether she should count as a Malformed or a Mutant for identification purposes. In the end, the man listed her as a “Blessed Mutant” and let her in.
She feared getting lost, and there was some merit to it. The old maps didn’t work; most of the chapels had been wiped out during the attack, or were so desecrated that the government decided to level them. Abel Bloodrave and his officers left nothing to chance; no matter the holy relic, if there was even a chance of it bearing a taint, it would go into a furnace. People’s lives mattered, and the faiths grumbled but accepted the rules.
Stonehelm changed from day to day. A road opened yesterday might be closed the next day, opening an alternative path. The streets were so crowded with people that public transportation was shut down and only hospital vehicles traveled. A whole new business of street guides, made by orphaned children, has flourished, and the government has decided to subsidize it rather than shut it down and put children out of work. Dressed in official, standardized green uniforms, cleaned, washed, and on the government payroll, the youngsters helped people navigate around, asking for cash out of sport. One of them led Ratcatcher to the Reverend through the ever-changing maze, pointing out the best bars along the way.
Everyone helped in their own way. Jumail and Elina got drafted by the Champion’s Cult. It was kind of funny; they came over to a volunteer, asking how Jumail could help, and a five-meter-tall Orais, weighing over a ton, simply grabbed the two and carried them to the construction sites along with other hesitant volunteers. The Champion’s Cult venerated the Outsider, a general of the Dynast, as their deity, but in reality, they were more of an organization focused on the betterment of the human body and mind, acting as one of the prime patrons of cybernetics research. Spirituality was something of an afterthought for them, and Jumail reported he settled in well in their barracks. Elina simply adapted to the change and left Vasily in charge of preparing supplies.
The rest of the team was busy as well. Edward and Esmeralda joined a charity hosted by the believers in the Spirits, who owned a small church squeezed between a recruiting office opened by Murzaliev’s company and Scorpio’s store. The twins were a bit disappointed to find no Wolfkin from the Wolf Tribe in the church; apparently some sort of schism had happened between the tribe and the main church. Led by a white-furred Ice Fang, they roamed the city, helping the police break up fights between various groups.
Rowen reported that all was well on his end. Vasily grumbled about being left alone to prepare supplies for the mission, and Augustus dragged Carlos out of a bar by the ear and handed the teen to his mother after Carlos had orchestrated a drinking contest to prevent a fight among two groups of mercenaries.
Ratcatcher gave out the last rations and stretched herself. She’s worked on a small market square that rose from a former parking lot. The explorator-in-training helped the priests clear out their stall, posted an announcement about the temporary closure until tomorrow, and spotted one refugee sitting on a sidewalk, his sealed ration in hand. The man had received his share over twenty minutes ago, so what gives?
“Sir, are you okay?” she asked, coming over to the man.
“What?” He blinked, as if waking from a slumber. He was a mutant; a long patch of gray skin covered his face down to his collar, and one of his eyes shone purple. “Yeah. Am I in the way?”
“Not at all.” Ratcatcher sat beside him, wrapping her tail around her waist. She’d been on her feet for the last sixteen hours; a little rest wouldn’t hurt. “My name is Ratcatcher. Mind if I stretch my legs a bit?”
“Shoot ahead,” the man said.
“No place to stay, by any chance?” Ratcatcher asked. She had helped two families fill out forms for shelter yesterday, after a Barjoni’s backhoe had destroyed their hut during renovations.
“No, I stay in the hangars.” The man pointed down. “It’s just…”
“Dark in there?” she inquired. Today was a sunny day, and she won’t begrudge anyone for getting a sunbath.
“You’d wish!” the man laughed. “It is bright as day every second in there! I just… phased out. It all happened so fast; everything changed so quickly, and I don’t have the faintest idea what to do.”
“Point. Change is always consuming. Why, there was a path there yesterday!” Ratcatcher pointed to the sewer station under construction. The man exhaled and took out a small blue hairpin, rolling it between his fingers. His expression softened. “Did you remember something, sir?”
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“Family,” he responded quietly. “I…” With dead eyes, he followed an arguing family, nodding as a father hoisted a little girl onto his shoulders and promised her he would be home all day tomorrow. “Yeah, that’s the way. Treasure your family, girl. Every single moment. Otherwise, you’ll end up like me.”
“Something happened to them, sir?” Ratcatcher asked cautiously.
“War. The war happened.” The man’s shoulders dropped. “No idea what to do now. What they would’ve wanted for me.”
“To live,” Ratcatcher said at once. “No family would want anything else for their member.” She reached out and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’d be lying if I said I understood your pain. But you have to live, take one step at a time. There are people who can help and listen…”
“Eliza Vong!” She almost jumped at the Reverend’s call.
The Reverend was a tall, thin Normie, who looked as if he would keel over at the slightest breeze. His gray hair was pulled back into a tuft, and his ivory robe was wrapped tightly around his body. He approached the seated girl and towered over her.
“Twelve hours! I’m tired of people collapsing in the middle of the road. Go take a nap, eight hours,” said Reverend Honshu, the head of the small charity organization operating in the area.
“Reverend, I am not tired in the least…”
“At once!” he snapped. The authority the man had earned in the army was in every word, and Ratcatcher saluted, nodding to the seated man. The reverend ignored her nod, but when she started to leave, Honshu sat down next to the refugee and spoke to him in a gentle tone.
She was glad that someone competent took over. Not a night went by without the police finding bodies. Crime aside, accidents and natural deaths were inevitable in such an overcrowded city, but often people took their own lives, unable to cope with the horrible memories of the war or the loss of their loved ones. Or worse, attacked the “lucky” ones. And unlike in Iterna, there was no emergency mental health care readily available.
Ratcatcher made her way through the busy market to the chapel. She could take a nap at the hotel, but it would take a good quarter of an hour to get there, and that if all roads still stood unbarred. At this time of day, the clergy worked in the field, leaving the chapel empty. People came in to pray, but there were several beds on the second floor for volunteers.
Her ears caught a familiar voice, and the girl halted, checking left and right to see if she heard right The day was in full swing, and the market was crowded with people eager to spend their wages on necessities, or to buy real meat and vegetables instead of tasteless rations. The quality of the food and items at the market varied, but they were cheaper than anything in the official stores. Ratcatcher concentrated, ignoring the delicious smell of a roasted rat on a grill, and tried to make out the sounds.
“How about you do not walk around…”
She wasn’t wrong! Ratcatcher pushed through the crowd, holding a hand over his pocket with money. Rowen and Jumail were here. The white-haired teenager wore a white medic’s uniform with green coats of arms on his shoulders. Orange bands encircled Jumail’s body in an odd attempt to make him look like he was wearing a worker’s jacket. The two were arguing with a young woman wearing a T-shirt with big, shiny letters: “Fuck, fuck, fuck off losers.” The woman was quite attractive; parts of her smooth, dark skin were golden and not of an artificial sort, and her slit pupils were an exotic green. If it weren’t for the mocking expression on her face, Ratcatcher would have taken her for a professional model.
A Troll stood some distance behind the woman; the visor of a portable camera covered one of his eyes. The woman herself was filming Rowen and Jumail through her terminal, and a policeman was watching the whole thing with a frown, his hands closed. And an angry crowd had gathered, including several parents. Jumail used his long limbs to keep them from closing in on the idiot.
Just great. Ratcatcher leaped to Rowen before the boy could do something messy and get himself thrown in jail. She didn’t need to ask what was going on; the situation was clear enough. Once the Three Great Nations signed a Net Treaty, many people started filming themselves and uploading it to the Net. It ranged from manuals to pranks and sometimes disgusting provocations like this one.
How would Elina solve this problem? By punching. No, not an option. What would Carlos do? Ah, I got it!
“Miss!” Ratcatcher landed beside the woman. The Troll turned his head, filming Ratcatcher, but his muscles tensed. A hired muscle helped bail the woman out of trouble. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Problem?” The woman turned her terminal at Ratcatcher. “I don’t have any problems. It is this rabble who has problems! They are bothering me out of the blue on my daily walk!”
“Out of the blue!” An Insectone shouted and tried to step to her, but Rowen put a hand on his chest, holding the man back. “What about the profanity on your shirt? My daughter can see it!”
“So what?” The woman turned to him. “She can’t read yet, right? Right? It’s always hard to tell with you people.”
“Either you leave, or…”
“Rowen!” Ratcatcher interrupted him, earning herself a nod of thanks from the officer. The acting governor put in place some harsh rules, but he clearly didn’t account for everything. Ratcatcher didn’t even blame him; who in their right mind would have guessed that idiots would stir up shit and risk their lives for a media clout? “Please show tolerance, everyone.” Ratcatcher bowed low to the crowd. “The poor woman probably can’t even read, so she doesn’t know what’s on her shirt.”
This brought the reaction she had hoped for. Weak giggles and laughter. But more importantly, it angered the woman, and angry and stupid was a dangerous combination. And advantageous.
“I know how to read, dolt,” the woman snapped.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Dolt, I am Eliza.” Ratcatcher pressed her hands together in prayer and made sad eyes. “Listen, I sympathize with your inability to read, and if you want, I can…”
“I already said I can read, moron!” A tint of red appeared on the woman’s neck, and Ratcatcher prayed to the Planet for Rowen to stay silent.
“Oh, please.” Ratcatcher waved her hand. “Fine, prove it if you can. What does this say?” She pointed to the T-shirt.
“It says fuck off, which is what you should…”
“Officer!” Ratcatcher interrupted the twerp, singing in a honey tone, standing on her toes, and waving a hand. “This woman here is spilling cusses; she might not be well. Maybe she has sunstroke or something. Please escort the poor thing somewhere where she can be helped.”
“Of course, citizen,” the officer said, not even trying to hide his pleasure as he took the woman’s hand.
“What?” She blinked, turning to her bodyguard, but he only spread his hands. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Cursing is not allowed in the streets, miss. Follow me to the police district, where we can...”
“I wasn’t cursing!” The woman panicked. “The crowd, they’re the ones who were harassing me; I wasn’t doing anything wrong!”
“I have a video recording, ma’am.” The policeman tapped on the camera on his chest. “Lying to a police officer is only going to make things worse for you, young lady.”
“You have no right! Let me go, officer; I am innocent! That blasted girl insulted me first! Where are you dragging me?! Do you even know who I am?!”
“If you keep resisting, I will be forced to restrain you, miss…”
Ratcatcher watched with some amusement as the officer handcuffed the struggling woman, led her away, wiped her hands, and bowed gracefully to the applauding Rowen and Jumail.
“And that’s how the cookie crumbles. Or something.” Ratcatcher scratched the back of her head, blushing.
“Thanks. I was about to shorten the length of her nose,” Rowen said. “I can’t believe there are idiots who would go around stirring up trouble. The Insectone could have broken her neck with a flick of his wrist.”
“And she bet on you assaulting her. She’d sue you for it, get you thrown in jail, and everyone on the Net would talk about the Iternian threat for weeks,” Ratcatcher explained. “Plus, I bet she paid to have her bones strengthened.”
“The Net was a mistake,” Jumail announced.
“Hey! I use it to buy ponies!” Rowen protested.
“The Net was a mistake,” Jumail repeated.
“Always use Carlos’ method when you encounter such people,” Ratcatcher advised.
“Use the force?” Rowen asked.
“She said Carlos’, not Elina’s.” Jumail tapped at his mandible with his leg. “Use the brain, maybe?”
“That was my guess, but Carlos only laughed and called me stupid. And when I wanted to kick him, he explained.” Ratcatcher gestured for them to step closer and whispered. “Use the insult. His method is based on pissing off an opponent enough to make him the guilty party.”