general com announcements of restored schedules, or the promise that food would
be forthcoming in all areas.
Food. The thought began to obsess him. He said nothing of it, his knees tucked
up within his arms and his limbs feeling weak with hunger; weakness, he thought
it, regretting a neglected breakfast, no lunch, no supper… he was not accustomed
to hunger. It was, as he had ever felt it, a missed meal on a day of heavy work.
An inconvenience. A discomfort. It began to be something else. It put a whole
new complexion on resistance to anything; played games with his mind; forecast
whole new dimensions of misery. If they were to be caught and recognized it was
likely to be in some food line; but they had to come out for that, or starve.
Their very remaining still grew obvious as the aroma of food swept the docks and
others moved, as carts trundled along, pushed by Downers. People mobbed the
carts, started snatching and shouting; but the troops escorted each then, and it
calmed down quickly. The food carts, stores diminished, came closer. They stood
up, leaned there in the recess.
“I’m going out there,” Josh said finally. “Stay back. I’ll say you’re hurt. I’ll
get enough for both of us.”
Damon shook his head. It was perverse courage, to test his survival, sweaty,
uncombed, in dirty, bloody coveralls. If he could not cross the dock for fear of
an assassin’s gun or a trooper recognizing him, he was going to go mad. At least
they did not look to be asking for id cards for the meals. He had three of them,
and his own, which he dared not use; Josh had two and his own, but they did not
match the pictures.
A simple act, to walk out with a guard watching, to take a cold sandwich and a
carton of lukewarm fruit drink, and to retreat; but he retired to the sheltering
storefront with a sense of triumph in his prize, crouched there to eat as Josh
joined him… ate and drank, feeling in that mundane act as though a great deal of
the nightmare were past, and he was caught in some strange new reality, where
human feelings were not required, only an animal wariness.
And then a shrill ripple of Downer language, the one with the food cart speaking
out across the dock to others of his kind. Damon was startled; Downers were
generally shy when things were quiet around them; it startled the escorting
trooper, who lowered his rifle and looked all about. But there was nothing, only
quiet, frightened people and solemn round-eyed Downers, who had stopped and now
went about their business. Damon finished his sandwich as the cart passed on
along the upward curve of the dock toward green.
A Downer came near them, dragging a box into which he was collecting the plastic
containers. Josh looked anxious as the Downer held out his hand, surrendered the
wrappers; Damon tossed his in the box, looked up in fright as the Downer rested
a gentle hand on his arm. “You Konstantin-man.”
“Go away,” he whispered hoarsely. “Downer, don’t say my name. They’ll kill me if
they see me. Be quiet and go away quick.”
“I Bluetooth. Bluetooth, Konstantin-man.”
“Bluetooth.” He remembered. The tunnels, the Downer who had been shot. The
strong Downer fingers closed tighter.
“Downer name Lily send from Sun-she-friend, you name ’Licia. She send we, make
Lukases quiet, not come in she place. Love you, Konstantin-man. ’Licia she safe,
Downers all round she, keep she safe. We bring you, you want?”
He could not breathe for the moment “Alive? She’s alive?”
“’Licia she safe. Send you come, make you safe with she.”
He tried to think, clung to the furred hand and stared into the round brown
eyes, wanting far more than Downer patois could say. He shook his head. “No. No.
It’s danger to her if I come there. Men-with-guns, you understand, Bluetooth?
Men hunt me. Tell her—tell her I’m safe. Tell her I hide all right, tell her
Elene got away with the ships. We’re all right. Does she need me, Bluetooth? She
needs?”
“Safe in she place. Downers sit with she, all Downers in Upabove. Lily with she.