[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
offering him snippets of wisdom from his own experience of the world beyond
Lingaba, looking to ride his shoulders up out of the garbage pile he'd been
thrown into. He couldn't avoid the man but Momak made the inside of his bones
itch; he loathed him. The thought of ending up like him made Ross want to lie
down in front of a jitt and let it run over him. On the other hand there was
nothing on Lingaba for him but the whips of disappointment and scorn in the
eyes of his clan and a dull deadly slogging life like his father's. He turned
and twisted, seeking desperately for some third choice, something that would
give him a chance at self-respect and surcease from boredom.
A month before he was due to leave for the school that third way appeared; he
didn't recognize it at first, it seemed only the cousin/uncle no one talked
about except in whispers. Kleys soheyl Fahan was much worse than a black
sheep, call him a black goat; he was a con man, a thief, a smuggler, a pirate
and whatever else he had to do to scratch a living and keep out of Imperial
hands. He'd been scratching for somewhere around fifty years and had managed
to keep loose, but now and then when things got tight, he slipped back home to
let the Cluster cool off. Though they deplored him publicly, the Fahan clan
secretly delighted in exaggerated stories about Old Sneak and the coups he
pulled off. Imperials came sniffing around Hadda Adda a time or two, but no
Fahan ever betrayed him; whatever else he was, he was family and this branch
of the Fahan line Bryssal sept had been surviving on Lingaba under Imperial
rule of varying degrees of severity for more than thirty generations. Much
scarifying and debilitating experience had taught them the value of presenting
a bland unbroken face to authority. Uncle Kleys never messed on homeground and
the clan never messed with him; he'd spend a month or two telling stories the
children weren't supposed to hear (but always did) then he'd slip away from
Lingaba and go back to nipping at Imperial ankles.
Uncle Kleys sneaked into Hadda Adda and moved in with one of his nieces, a
broad-minded and marginally respectable female who earned a living of sorts
from cooking and cleaning, supplementing her official earnings with presents
from assorted lovers who appeared and disappeared in her life. She had a house
full of children, hers and strays she took in, all of them under ten; she kept
them fed and washed and more or less clothed, laughed with them, played games
with them, organized them into squads that cleaned house, worked in the
garden, took care of the littlest ones, scowered the streets for reusable
scrap and brought in vast volumes of reusable gossip. Want to know anything
about anybody? Ask Veesey. Uncle Kleys settled into that household with
scarcely a ripple to indicate his presence. He played with the children, dug
in the garden, made love to Veesey, spent whole nights talking and drinking
with kin who dropped in to say hello and hear the new stories about the world
out-there. Everything seemed to be going along as it always did.
But Momak was back in Hadda Adda. Not back enough, not really part of the clan
again, still wanting, still hoping to climb back among the kickers, refusing
to admit he was discarded. Hoping. Brooding. And then he saw Kleys in Veesey's
back yard, mending her iron, a repaired com unit by the box he was sitting on,
broken appliances ringed round his feet, his hands working delicately while he
joked and laughed with three of the older boys spading the garden. He saw
Page 47
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Kleys and thought he saw a way to buy himself back into influence.
Ross was slouching along these back streets heading circuitously for Veesey's,
taking a last sniff at places he hoped and feared he'd never see again,
looking as inconspicuous as he could because his father would skin him if he
knew his son was on his way to talk with that seducer of pure youth, old Uncle
Kleys, and he would know sooner or later, there was bound to be some snitch
about who'd see him and draw instantaneous and regrettably accurate
conclusions about what he was doing in that part of town. He saw Momak skulk
from the gate in Veesey's back fence and scoot furtively away; curious, the
boy followed the man.
Momak worked his way to the local platform and got on a jitt going to Degali,
the administrative center. Ross slipped on after him, sliding in the back door
and slumping into a seat by the fender. Momak's bobbing gray head turned
constantly, his mean little squinted eyes turned here, turned there though
never back all the way where Ross was sitting. For a while Ross kept his head
down, then he realized however much Momak peered about, he was seeing nothing
but his greedy hopes and the tear that someone would snatch his chance from
him. Ross told himself he couldn't be sure what was happening, but that was
just words; if one of his teachers set this up as a moral problem, that kind
of quibbling would be expected in the discussion that followed, but this was
real. Ross knew by the sick knots in his stomach what Momak had seen in the
yard and what he was intending to do about it. Otherwise, why would he be on
this jitt? But Ross' guess was not proof and he knew he had to see for sure
what Momak was up to if he wanted adults to believe him.
The journey took an hour, the jitt clattering and swaying along the rails,
stopping, starting, folk getting on, getting off, Ross in his seat at the back
of the car watching Momak, Momak sitting up behind the pilot column growing
more eager and nervous as the kilometers clicked off under the jitt's little
wheels. At Degali Center Terminal, Momak stumbled off, almost falling in his
eagerness. Shaken by the jolt, he ran his hands over his hair, straightened
his clothing, arranged his face, then walked on, looking coolly contemptuous
of the world around him. Ross followed. Momak strolled to Government Square,
looked casually about, then started up the steps of a tall golden building,
heading for the great black glass doors set into the austere facade; there
wasn't a window visible anywhere in that glittering metal, vertical folds were
the only breaks in the mirror surface. Air rushed down in a continuous gale
that hammered the boy breathless. He lingered, making faces at himself in the
golden mirror surface, drifting gradually closer until he could hear Momak
arguing with the guard who stood before the doors and barred his way, a stun
rifle held horizontal between them. Momak was shivering with rage and
frustration, but keeping his voice down except for a few squeaky shouts. He
made no impression on the guard for all his blustering until he flung a word
at him: KLEYS.
Ross sidled away, driven by an urgency he could hardly control. Over his
shoulder he saw the doors opening, the dark mouth swallowing Momak, but he
didn't run until he was round a corner and away from Government Square.
Back at the terminal he hopped into a jitt heading toward Hadda Adda and sat
with his hands fisted on his thighs, his mouth dry, a sick fear churning in
his middle. Again and again as the jitt shuddered and jerked along, he [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl akte20.pev.pl
offering him snippets of wisdom from his own experience of the world beyond
Lingaba, looking to ride his shoulders up out of the garbage pile he'd been
thrown into. He couldn't avoid the man but Momak made the inside of his bones
itch; he loathed him. The thought of ending up like him made Ross want to lie
down in front of a jitt and let it run over him. On the other hand there was
nothing on Lingaba for him but the whips of disappointment and scorn in the
eyes of his clan and a dull deadly slogging life like his father's. He turned
and twisted, seeking desperately for some third choice, something that would
give him a chance at self-respect and surcease from boredom.
A month before he was due to leave for the school that third way appeared; he
didn't recognize it at first, it seemed only the cousin/uncle no one talked
about except in whispers. Kleys soheyl Fahan was much worse than a black
sheep, call him a black goat; he was a con man, a thief, a smuggler, a pirate
and whatever else he had to do to scratch a living and keep out of Imperial
hands. He'd been scratching for somewhere around fifty years and had managed
to keep loose, but now and then when things got tight, he slipped back home to
let the Cluster cool off. Though they deplored him publicly, the Fahan clan
secretly delighted in exaggerated stories about Old Sneak and the coups he
pulled off. Imperials came sniffing around Hadda Adda a time or two, but no
Fahan ever betrayed him; whatever else he was, he was family and this branch
of the Fahan line Bryssal sept had been surviving on Lingaba under Imperial
rule of varying degrees of severity for more than thirty generations. Much
scarifying and debilitating experience had taught them the value of presenting
a bland unbroken face to authority. Uncle Kleys never messed on homeground and
the clan never messed with him; he'd spend a month or two telling stories the
children weren't supposed to hear (but always did) then he'd slip away from
Lingaba and go back to nipping at Imperial ankles.
Uncle Kleys sneaked into Hadda Adda and moved in with one of his nieces, a
broad-minded and marginally respectable female who earned a living of sorts
from cooking and cleaning, supplementing her official earnings with presents
from assorted lovers who appeared and disappeared in her life. She had a house
full of children, hers and strays she took in, all of them under ten; she kept
them fed and washed and more or less clothed, laughed with them, played games
with them, organized them into squads that cleaned house, worked in the
garden, took care of the littlest ones, scowered the streets for reusable
scrap and brought in vast volumes of reusable gossip. Want to know anything
about anybody? Ask Veesey. Uncle Kleys settled into that household with
scarcely a ripple to indicate his presence. He played with the children, dug
in the garden, made love to Veesey, spent whole nights talking and drinking
with kin who dropped in to say hello and hear the new stories about the world
out-there. Everything seemed to be going along as it always did.
But Momak was back in Hadda Adda. Not back enough, not really part of the clan
again, still wanting, still hoping to climb back among the kickers, refusing
to admit he was discarded. Hoping. Brooding. And then he saw Kleys in Veesey's
back yard, mending her iron, a repaired com unit by the box he was sitting on,
broken appliances ringed round his feet, his hands working delicately while he
joked and laughed with three of the older boys spading the garden. He saw
Page 47
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Kleys and thought he saw a way to buy himself back into influence.
Ross was slouching along these back streets heading circuitously for Veesey's,
taking a last sniff at places he hoped and feared he'd never see again,
looking as inconspicuous as he could because his father would skin him if he
knew his son was on his way to talk with that seducer of pure youth, old Uncle
Kleys, and he would know sooner or later, there was bound to be some snitch
about who'd see him and draw instantaneous and regrettably accurate
conclusions about what he was doing in that part of town. He saw Momak skulk
from the gate in Veesey's back fence and scoot furtively away; curious, the
boy followed the man.
Momak worked his way to the local platform and got on a jitt going to Degali,
the administrative center. Ross slipped on after him, sliding in the back door
and slumping into a seat by the fender. Momak's bobbing gray head turned
constantly, his mean little squinted eyes turned here, turned there though
never back all the way where Ross was sitting. For a while Ross kept his head
down, then he realized however much Momak peered about, he was seeing nothing
but his greedy hopes and the tear that someone would snatch his chance from
him. Ross told himself he couldn't be sure what was happening, but that was
just words; if one of his teachers set this up as a moral problem, that kind
of quibbling would be expected in the discussion that followed, but this was
real. Ross knew by the sick knots in his stomach what Momak had seen in the
yard and what he was intending to do about it. Otherwise, why would he be on
this jitt? But Ross' guess was not proof and he knew he had to see for sure
what Momak was up to if he wanted adults to believe him.
The journey took an hour, the jitt clattering and swaying along the rails,
stopping, starting, folk getting on, getting off, Ross in his seat at the back
of the car watching Momak, Momak sitting up behind the pilot column growing
more eager and nervous as the kilometers clicked off under the jitt's little
wheels. At Degali Center Terminal, Momak stumbled off, almost falling in his
eagerness. Shaken by the jolt, he ran his hands over his hair, straightened
his clothing, arranged his face, then walked on, looking coolly contemptuous
of the world around him. Ross followed. Momak strolled to Government Square,
looked casually about, then started up the steps of a tall golden building,
heading for the great black glass doors set into the austere facade; there
wasn't a window visible anywhere in that glittering metal, vertical folds were
the only breaks in the mirror surface. Air rushed down in a continuous gale
that hammered the boy breathless. He lingered, making faces at himself in the
golden mirror surface, drifting gradually closer until he could hear Momak
arguing with the guard who stood before the doors and barred his way, a stun
rifle held horizontal between them. Momak was shivering with rage and
frustration, but keeping his voice down except for a few squeaky shouts. He
made no impression on the guard for all his blustering until he flung a word
at him: KLEYS.
Ross sidled away, driven by an urgency he could hardly control. Over his
shoulder he saw the doors opening, the dark mouth swallowing Momak, but he
didn't run until he was round a corner and away from Government Square.
Back at the terminal he hopped into a jitt heading toward Hadda Adda and sat
with his hands fisted on his thighs, his mouth dry, a sick fear churning in
his middle. Again and again as the jitt shuddered and jerked along, he [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]