Simoom Rising

Chapter Fourteen

HARMONY

They've given me something for the pain, and I'm lying on a soft bed in the infirmary. I can't remember the last time I felt such luxury. I'm drowsy. I want to sleep, but I can't. I think it was a mistake to close myself off from Vestra this morning, and now I'm worried I won't be able to breach the gap. I have to make her understand about Mancy—about all of it.

"Talk to me," I whispered. Talk to me, please. She was there just at the edge of my mind. I could feel her, but she wouldn't speak. She wouldn't turn to me.

Fine, Vestra, don't say nothing. I wish I had the time to take this more slowly, but I didn't set the deadline; I know New Earth Sec is coming for me. I'm just going to have to intrude on her privacy. I'm sorry to do this, Vestra. I pushed my thoughts her way. But you have to listen.

***

Simoom
Two years ago

Once, before the blockade made it impossible, before the riot, Mancy got me a fancy dress from somewhere, found me enough water to wash and took me to dinner on the Plat—a fancy place in the High Ridge Mall. He liked to do that every once in a while, clean up, go to the Plat and pretend that he belonged there still—pretend he was still that big-shot PR guy, creating those happy stories about WAVE Corp. workers, before the booze, before they fired him.

We took the back tunnel that leads out of the main bunker and up the slope and connects with the east commuter breezeway near Sampanthar Station on the Plat. As soon as we stepped into the breezeway, I was worried that people would stare at us. They'd know that we were Pitters, like I hadn't washed all the dust off, like it was still on my skin, like a stain. And, of course, I was right, by that time I had begun to glow. Mancy told me just to act like I belonged. He told me I looked beautiful. He told me to just relax, to stroll, to admire the stars in the night sky, which we hardly ever saw in the Pit because of the dust, he told me to breathe in the clean air. But I couldn't relax, I was jittery. I kept rubbing my arms, trying to get the dust off. We took the bullet train; it was so bright and clean inside; the air tasted of nothing. There was no grit on the seats, no layer of dust on the floor. It was weird to be free of the dust—well, not completely. Me and Mancy could still hear each other's thoughts.

We took the escalators up to the top floor of the mall and I'm jumpy the whole time— looking around at everybody and everything; Mancy just smiled, kept a steady hand on my arm. And just as I was beginning to think maybe it would be okay, we got to the restaurant—and wow what a restaurant. The Skyward it was called—all fresh food—no prepackaged stuff. And we went in, and the woman at the desk said, "Well if it isn't our favourite Pit Rat!"

I cringed, but Mancy didn't. He puffed out his chest and preened like those fancy pigeons the Plat Zoo has. Strutting, being fawned over. Oh, she was nice enough when Mancy introduced me to her. She congratulated me for being so clean after living in the Pit for so long. My heart stopped for a moment, how did she know who I was?

As she led us to our table, I glared at Mancy.

Relax, Mancy told me in my mind. Last week I told Sammy all about you. She was very sympathetic. She suggested I bring you this week. She even gave me the dress for you to wear.

I was confused. Sammy?

The hostess.

That woman? What did you tell her about me?

Oh, you know, how we met—how I saved your son from a life of crime and you from a life of degradation.

I was pissed. Why the Hell did you say that for? I don't know this woman. If Mall Sec finds out that we're here—

They won't. These are my friends.

And all this time as we were walking to our table, people were calling out to Mancy and he was nodding and waving back. Sammy put us at a table in the middle of the room, so just about everyone else there could look at us, like we were on display. And then it dawned on me—we were on display.

I asked Mancy what the hell was going on; he said "Nothing." I asked him where he got the credit to pay for this meal in this fancy restaurant—something, I admit, I should have asked him before, but didn't. He told me his friends would pick up the tab in exchange for "the pleasure of his company and his storytelling."

They pay for storytelling?

He grinned at me. If you're good at it like I am, they do.

You understand, this whole conversation was a silent one, taking place while we looked over the menu and used the touch screen to place our orders, while everyone was watching us and in between people were coming over and Mancy was introducing me. That whole time we were talking mind to mind.

What kind of stories do you tell them? I asked him, when person after person came up to me and told me how brave I was.

Oh, you know, about life in the Pit—all the characters I meet there.

You write about us?

Well, yes, but ... they're not really true to life, God knows you wouldn't want to talk about real life in the Pit. I exaggerate for dramatic effect, you know—abject poverty, violence, the cruel death of innocent.

What the fuck, Mancy!

What? It gets me out of that hell hole, doesn't it? At least for a little while. I get some good food, and some very good liquor. What's the harm?

I couldn't really tell him what the harm was; I didn't know exactly. All I knew was I wanted to leave.

But Mancy wasn't going anywhere. Smile, Annie, Mancy told me, and after an ugly little man pulled up a chair and plopped himself down beside me, and tried to grab my hand, don't worry. these people have never been in the Pit; they can't mind-link with you if they touch you. Go on, flirt with him; he'll buy the next round.

So, I sat there and ate and drank and smiled and tried to flirt—though I was never good at that. And I watched as Mancy smiled and flirted and told them horrible stories about the Pit with stupid, happy endings, and cardboard villains. He ate and he drank and he drank and he drank.

After dessert, I had had enough of patting away the ugly little man's wandering hands and I told Mancy I wanted to go.

He ignored me and kept whispering into the ear of this one Plat matron who had joined us at the table. Her red nails clawed at his arms and she leaned into Mancy.

I want to leave.

He ignored me.

I want to go Mancy. I WANT TO GO!

He lifted his head from this woman's boobs, and his anger seeped into me. Then go, his mind whispered. I wasn't grateful enough, you see. I didn't thank him for taking me to dinner on the Plat. I didn't like his friends enough. I wasn't what he wanted me to be, I guess.

I couldn't believe he was going to let me go back to the Pit alone. I was scared shitless to be out in the Mall by myself; I was worried I'd be stopped by Security. But I made apologies and went. I got up and left. And all the way back down the escalators, all the way back on the bullet train, all the way back to Sampanthar Station and through the tunnel, Mancy and me were connected—our heads were linked. He kept his mind open to me. He never tried to close it off—even when he was having sex with that Plat lady up against a bathroom stall in the restaurant. He made sure I felt every thrust.

So that date did not go well. Does Harmony get a sympathy vote?