Page 14 of Odder Still
The parasite draws up another of today’s memories,‘That sounds tough.’
At least there’s one thing I can agree with the parasite on. Findlay Inc. seems less and less respectable by the minute.
But that turns my thoughts to Tavish and to the jolt of sorrow that overtook him in the face of those suits. What could have happened to stir that kind of reaction? I shake away the prickle of worry just in time for a woman on the corner of two conjoining streets and a descending stairwell to wave a pamphlet in my face.
“The ignation spills are planned! Don’t let them cover up the truth,” she shouts. I make the mistake of pausing to look at her, and she bares her crooked teeth, her eyes locking aggressively with mine, as though she can hook me right through my pupils. “Findlay Incorporated is creating a shortage of ignation on purpose, keeping the levels low to prevent us from getting ahold of it!”
I lift a hand defensively, ducking to the side. “If you say so.”
A stocky man coming from the other direction counters, “Fuck off, Jean! We all ken the damn uppers are just hoarding it. If there really were leaks, they’d be breaking our backs to get their grubby hands on the fuel again.”
“Still got some shite going down with them.” The man’s companion nudges him. “The Findlays are using a new kind of ignation to make enhanced soldiers so they can take the BA on. Been testing it on sea life. My uncle’s a cleaner in the upper and saw one with him own eyes: a great huge orca’d gone all sorts of aurora colors.”
The woman—Jean—seems to forget my presence, leaping after this new conspirator with a heckling of demands, and I slip away. I don’t know what specifics to believe amidst their convoluted claims. None of them quite match what I know from the deserted selkie town. But one thing is clear: no one here holds any love for the Findlays.
I cross the street once more. Another Sails and Co. steam trolley chugs by behind me, turning the walkway into a hazy mask of vapor so thick I could be back on the edges of the Murk if not for the stink of unwashed bodies and the subtle tinge of oil. I down the rest of my bottle. It doesn’t manage to take away the lag settling into my step or the gurgling hunger in my belly.
As I pass a rugged, little place called Reid’s Bar with dim lights and dingy floors, I catch the slightly metallic voices of two radio hosts.
“Looks like the decision on the gate’s coming in soon, you wee scunners.”
“Aye, but why’d the gates close at all? That’s the real query here.”
“Ha, we already ken that, MacNair. They saw your mum’s arse in line and had a panic!”
While the hosts dissolve into good-natured insults, I step just inside the garage-sized front entrance and lean on the wall. A bit of it crumbles against my back. I slip my hands into my vest to keep from rapping my thumbs along my fingers as they grow bored.
No one seems to notice me, half the meager occupants distracted by a game of cards at a rickety corner table and the other half setting up a cauldron and bowls on a line of O’Cain Fishery crates. A food-splattered flier pinned to the end crate reads,Soup kitchen dinners, every Tuesday and Thursday, free to all. The shriek of a toddler announces the arrival of its first patrons, tired eyed and dirty.
The radio box sits at the end of the bar. A Callum & Callum logo fills its side, its distinctive swirly ampersand the same one that curled along the gate guard’s radios and electric sticks. I frown, just in time for the tone of the radio hosts’ conversation to lose its joviality.
“Aye, MacNair, looks like we’re getting the final confirmation in now.”
The bar goes quiet. The child whines and his mother shushes him. Both hosts swear.
“Sorry, folks, looks like tomorrow’s reopening will only allow in upper-city workers with permit level eight or nine. Until further notice, only permits eight and nine, folks. Nothing seven or lower.”
At least it’ll be open. I’ll deal with just how to get through it without a permit when the time comes. Right now, my brain feels about as hazy as the lower-city streets.
A collective groan rises from the bar’s occupants. One of the cardplayers slams his hand on the table, and the woman beside him hollers for another beer.
“Like you can afford that now,” her companion grumbles.
The bartender begins preparing the drink, but a stout man, with white peppering his deep-auburn curls and faded freckles so prosperous that they form dull blotches, takes the beer and adds another five to the lot, delivering them with a mutter of “It’s on the house.”
“Don’t go nowhere, you scunners, there’s more news coming in soon. Seems our dear old and ugly mum, Bubble Entertainment, has deigned to grace us with a press release.”
I shift off the wall and brush the rust from the back of my shoulders. My hand lingers near my neck.Guess we’re stuck here for the night.The warm presence of the parasite makes a sweltering mark against my already moist skin, but it doesn’t reply.
The soup kitchen attendants serve me a bowl of something watery and pale. Its fishy tang goes against my taste buds’ every longing, but I sit myself at the bar and force some of the food down.
When the bartender comes by, I filter through my pockets. “Got any booze worth two spare buttons, a wet ball of lint, and a crushed leaf?”
I receive a half-assed eye roll in return.
The older, stouter man sets his last clean glass to the side and shoos the bartender away. He slides me the same beer as the cardplayer’s. “You look like this might do you better than the soup.”
“No offense, but I’ll need about ten of those before they start to help.” I give him my best grin with the jest, though right now my best is a pathetic grimace of a smile that catches in my jaw and makes my teeth feel wrong.
