At the comer of Brissard and Schliemann he climbed to the second level. Far, far down the walkway he saw a small, plump girl-shape running for exercise, her hair the color of mahogany. A far cry from the veils and litters of the upper decks, thank God. Will smiled. She slowed to a walk, clearly exhausted, rubbing sweat from her forehead. She ran, slowed, and ran again, determined, but with an endurance level somewhere near ten or fifteen seconds. A young man was strolling the walkway ahead of her, and as she passed him, she speeded up and kept on running. Put on a good show it if kills you. Will’s smile grew into a grin. Would exhaustion overcome dignity and force her to slow again before she reached the end of the walkway? As the plump figure drew close, pouter pigeon breasts pumping, he said, “Jeez, Bemie, don’t say hello.” She blinked at him disorientedly, then screamed “Willie!” and threw herself into his arms. When she’d gathered enough breath, she said, “I knew you’d come, I knew you’d come, I told them all, Willie’11 be here.” Then when the litany ended, she drew back and stamped on his foot. “You missed every rehearsal!”
“I’m sorry, I was on duty.”
“You should’ve gotten off!” She glared at him, then threw her arms around him tightly, and he grabbed on, too. Their heights were so dissimilar that they overbalanced, doing a little involuntary dance over to the edge of the walkway. They’d lived all their lives together in the same two rooms until Willie joined the Guards, and here it felt to him like ages since they’d hugged, as though that had all been in some ancient era of mankind.
“Anyway,” he said, “I’m not late.”
“Lucky for you,” she said. She took his hand and pulled him along. “Come on, Jack’s upstairs, and Johnny Black and Antonia are here, too.”
Will resisted the pull slightly. “Is anybody mad at me?”
“What for, dummy?”
“For being in the Guard. For going to the Diamond.” For not being dead or drafted.
“Shithead,” said Bemie, whose language was pure Sangaree. “Nobody cares if you went to the Diamond. And you’ve seen Johnny and Antonia since you joined the Guard.”
“No, I haven’t. I saw Johnny once, but I didn’t have a chance to talk to him. And I didn’t see Antonia.”
“Really? You haven’t seen Johnny for two years?” She stopped, as if calculating the time. “But you’ve been here a few times since then.”
“Just to see you, Hell-on-Wheels. And I never had long.”
“Well, never mind. It’ll be okay—you know Johnny.” As for Jack, there was no need to mention him. Bemie’s fiance came from the middle class, and wouldn’t look at the Guard the same way a born Sangaree would.
He let his sister lead him up to the third level above die street, where she took out three keys and opened the door to their compartment. Odd, he thought; he’d gotten so used to voice and print and combination locks. And yet he’d grown up with these rusty metal keys. He could still feel their ghosts hanging around his neck under his shirt, pressing into the skin. It was a game at school to try and take kids’ keys away … he must have had ten thousand fights to keep his set. Thoughtfully he ran a hand over the square seal at the side of the door. The connections were still there, he could get it activated again for Bernadette, record her prints and voice in the Security banks. He had the money now.
It was a sudden feeling of double vision, looking at something like the keys that were so normal they needed no thought at all, and seeing instead something that said poverty and inefficiency. Then the door opened onto the small room beyond, where two young men were sitting on a makeshift sofa, and he was enveloped in a cloud of rowdy welcome.
They were off the sofa in a minute, and one of them grabbed Will in an embrace. “Willie-oh,” he called as he did so.
“Johnny!” And another hug came, followed by mutual punching on the arms. Johnny was black-haired and black-eyed, with pure Sangaree good looks and a gentle spirit. The initial euphoria of meeting over, he ducked his head shyly. “Willie, welcome back.”
Jack Freylinger stood beside Bernadette, and Will reached out to shake hands with his sister’s fiancé. “Jack.”
“Hello, Will.”
Jack was tall and well-muscled, as though he’d come out of City Guard training himself; but he was a silk trader and tapestry merchant from deck F. He brought together buyers and sellers, both Inside and Outside, and took a cut from each transaction. His grandparents had been Sangaree. Will liked him, even if he did pronounce his name “Freelinger” instead of “Fray-lone-jay,” the old Sangaree way.
Once there had been Freylingers all through this part of the Opal. But families died out in Sangaree all the time.
“Where’s Antonia?” Will asked.
“She had to get back to work,” said Johnny. “We didn’t know you were coming—”
“He didn’t send a message!” accused Bernadette, hitting him in his upper back with her small fist. Willie grinned; he’d missed Bemie’s little love taps.
“What’s in the package?” asked Johnny, pointing to the parcel Will had managed to hold onto through this series of affectionate displays.
“Wedding gift,” he replied.
“Can we see it?” said Johnny.
Johnny was interested in everybody and everything; if he weren’t so empathic, he’d have made a great spy. “Try and open this,” warned Will as he pushed it into a comer of the wall shelves, “and alarms will go off at the nearest guardstation.”
Johnny
