walked, he thought about all the times they’d enjoyed together, how he’d wanted to marry her. He’d never taken her to bed. In retrospect he wondered if that had been a mistake. He kept telling himself that it was impossible she’d shacked up with Quirn. Blake would have brayed at him, he knew. Good old Blake the disembodied brain. He wondered if Tunnel Crawler Six was still operational. Blake had always told him, “Women follow the power, Marten.”
In his daze and without being accosted, Marten made it near the surface levels. The data had said Government House Three. He lowered his helmet’s dark visor, drew the shock baton and patrolled in front of the government house. He periodically spoke into his sleeve as if making reports and he watched the arrogant, giant Highborn enter and leave the pseudo-marble building. Tanks were parked in front. Fortunately, the Highborn Military Police ignored him as beneath their notice. They tramped around in their bulky powered armor, immune to everyone.
What kind of future did he have under the Highborn?
Marten shrugged, and prowled. Two hours later, he saw Quirn. The former hall leader still wore a military cap, but he’d shed his block leader cape. He wore a black uniform and limped with his old arrogance. On his arm chatted Molly, just as she used to chat with him as they’d ridden the conveyers. She wore a business suit and a military style cap similar to Quirn’s.
Marten stared, transfixed as they strolled near. He heard Molly say, “And then I told him, ‘but we must have the pits processing by nine tomorrow.’”
“Maybe they’ll send criminals to work the pits,” said Quirn.
“Quirn,” chided Molly, “that’s careless talk.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Quirn gave her a quick kiss on the lips. Then he looked up to see a black-visored policeman staring at him.
The former hall leader stopped. Molly did too, also looking up.
“Trouble, officer?” asked Quirn.
Marten simply stared at him, his fingers squeezing his shock rod so hard that his hand hurt. He wanted to beat Quirn to death. Then, minutely, he shifted his gaze to Molly.
“Do I know you?” asked Molly.
Marten had no idea what to say. He slowly shook his head.
“You seem familiar,” she said.
“Humph!” said Quirn. “Come, Molly, we don’t want to be late for tonight’s meeting.”
Molly agreed, and they moved on, although Molly looked back once with a worried frown.
Marten wanted to howl, to beat his head against a wall. Molly… despair filled him. How could she? Marten finally swallowed the lump out of his throat. What was left? Nothing in Greater Sydney. He stood there for five minutes, rooted. Then he turned abruptly and headed for the FEC barracks. He was going to slip back among his friends.
10.
In the morning, training began. Marten viewed the training as the descent of man, even though Highborn theories proved antithetical to Social Unity. Marten’s awareness of the change of basic assumptions didn’t come right away. First, the volunteers from Greater Sydney took a medical examination. Marten endured the probes and pinches, but he hated it.
He donned his clothes afterward and exited through the door the doctor told him. Marten walked down a hall and entered a small room. A huge, uniformed Highborn, an angry-looking giant without any front teeth, scowled down at him. Like all their kind, this man radiated intensity and a heightened vitality. He seemed an auto-trash compacter, eager to crush and destroy. This close to him and in such tight confines, Marten grew tense and worried.
“You believe yourself capable of combat?” the Highborn rapped out angrily.
Marten nodded.
“Speak up, man! Don’t cower!”
“Yes,” Marten growled.
The Highborn sneered. And he rapid-fired a bewildering set of questions, edging closer the entire time.
After the first few questions, Marten refused to be drawn into a debate. He answered as best he could, and he tried to ignore the superior attitude and the too-close proximity. The giant made it difficult. He was towering, and he was probably three times Marten’s weight and was undoubtedly four or five times as strong. His uniform, some type of synthetic leather, crinkled at his movements and showed his lethal muscularity. The snow-white skin seemed much too bright, the face formed of sharp angles and rigid planes. Decidedly inhuman, Marten thought to himself. He didn’t like the arrogance. It was more than just the giant’s position and power. It reminded him of Major Orlov. The Highborn exuded superiority, as if he, Marten, were simple and cowardly. Despite his best resolve, Marten found himself getting angry at the man’s attitude. The Highborn giant loomed closer now and practically yelled down at him.
“No, no!” the Highborn shouted. “Wrong!” And he slapped Marten across the face.
Marten reacted before he could check himself. He lunged at the giant. Then he found himself grabbed by the arm, flipped and slammed onto the floor, hard. It knocked the wind out of him. As Marten struggled to rise, the Highborn picked a marker off the table, held Marten’s right hand firmly and stamped the back of his hand. Then the giant picked him up, set him on his feet and propelled him stumbling out of the room and into a new corridor.
The door slammed behind him as Marten’s lungs unlocked. He blinked in bewilderment and thought about going back. Then he heard the Highborn holler a question at what sounded like the next recruit. What had just happened? Marten checked the back of his hand. A large number 2 had been stamped there. He touched it.
“Move along,” a voice barked through a hidden loudspeaker.
Marten scowled, but he followed the arrows painted on the floor. He came to a holding area, looked for and found Omi, Stick and Turbo. Before they could say much, Highborn herded them toward a parking lot filled with sealed vans. They were hustled onto the vans according to familiarity. Thus, Marten found himself packed with a hundred odd slum dwellers. But not just any slum dwellers, but the gang-members that lived by the fist, blade and gun. Stick and Turbo greeted several old friends. Two drug-running gunmen shook Omi’s hand.
Aboard the bus, most of the talk was about the numbers on the back of their right hand. Turbo wore a four. Stick a three. Omi also had a two. They couldn’t see anyone with a one. Of fives, sixes and sevens, well, that’s what the majority wore.
“What’s it mean?” Turbo said, as he rested his head along the side of the van.
The huge vehicle hummed smoothly. The benches on the sides and down the middle were packed with gang members. Each wore the clothes he’d joined with and nothing else, no suitcases, no personal items, nothing.
“Yeah,” Stick was saying, “is it better to have a low number or a high one?”
“Marten and I have twos,” said Omi.
“So?”
The bullet-headed Korean regarded his hand. At lot of other people were doing the same things. So far, no one had been able to rub out the number, even though many spat on the back of their hand and scrubbed vigorously.
“It’s under the skin,” growled Marten, who hated the tattoo.
“Seems like most people have higher numbers,” Stick said. He’d scanned those around him and across the narrow aisle at those in the middle.
Turbo grunted and rubbed his cheek. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but that guy sure clocked me a good one.”
“He hit you too?” asked Stick in surprise.
That’s when they discovered they’d all been face-slapped.
“Do you think that has anything to do with our number?” Marten asked, wondering if the Highborn’s anger hadn’t been at him but merely routine. Had it been a test?
