Turncoat: Turncoat Trilogy Book 1

Chapter 4.1

“You were told I live in the slums, correct?” I asked.

“You live where?” he asked.

Oh, this was going to be fun… 

I led Alener through the tunnels to the elevator to the slums. By now we were alone. Carly had split for her ride up another plate, Allen two plates above us, and Felix one above. So it would be a quiet ride down to the bottom for myself and Alener. I motioned to the duffle of clothes he had brought. “You may want to change into something other than your uniform,” I said. “People won’t be too friendly towards you dressed like you are now.”

“What? Why?”

How new was this guy? “Your kind isn’t exactly welcome in the slums,” I said.

“My kind?”

“Yeah, your kind. Dead Heads, they aren’t welcome down in the slums,” I said. “My neighbors will murder you in your sleep if they see you in your uniform.”

“They would be arrested and sent to work camps,” Alener said drawing his shoulders up. “The Dead Heads are to be feared. I refuse to change because a few poor cripples would be frightened at the site of me.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “You will change here or you will change in the elevator. If you do not, you will find yourself hard pressed to keep up with this cripple as the others introduce you to Segvug ul vesig Miltzew.”

“Segvug ul vesig Miltzew?” he asked as he unbuttoned his jacket. He spoke the words slowly, stumbling over the syllables.

“It’s Tzi for Teeth of the Dragon and is the name of the slum,” I explained. “What, do they not require you Dead Heads to learn the Tzi language?”

“It’s an optional course,” Alener said.

“What? Didn’t want to understand them as they begged for their lives?” I scoffed.

“Why do you know it?” he asked.

I looked at him sideways. “I live in a slum that was founded by militant Tzis. I picked some up since I came to live here,” I lied. My parents taught me the Tzi language when I was young. They taught me mannerisms, etiquette, everything. I didn’t grow up in a traditional Tzi family, but my father was an excommunicated Tzi and he would have nothing less. He’s the reason I still styled my hair the way I did. My mother wasn’t a Tzi but that hadn’t mattered when the Dead Heads found us. A sympathizer, just as bad a trueblood Tzi. They were both hauled away as I stood across the road with my neighbors holding my arms so I didn’t run across.

My father swore relentlessly in Tzi as they hauled him out kicking and struggling. I sobbed as they beat him into the ground with truncheons and rifle stocks. The last thing he shouted had been directed at me, “vopzin van woflik, rovil.” Make me proud, little one.

“Are you going to turn me in for learning some of a language because of where I live?” I asked.

“No,” he said as he pulled a plain tee shirt on and started unlacing his shoes.

I screwed around in the news feed on my wrist interface while I waited. Mixed in with the government approved stories were the underground stories, hidden as tiny bits of news. Three successful raids against weapon caches, two alliance spies were in the city looking for any information on the work camps, plus a smattering of other smaller things, a successful escape by two Tzi families and new members to the resistance. Some of it was a few days old, but I hadn’t checked recently.

I glanced over to see him stuffing his dress pants into the duffle, now clad in a pair of jeans and a loose grey shirt. He had his sidearm clipped to a belt and a truncheon hanging next to it.