Astral Tide (The Otherborn Series) (27 page)

“There are no tunnels here,” London said as she scrubbed at her hands, letting patches of white flesh shine through. Her swelling was practically gone now and the itching had ebbed considerably. There was little that remained of the stings, except a few patches of pink. “So we’ll have to find the Scrappers elsewhere. They’re not going to be out in trucks like the Tigerians. They’ll be laying low, an underground network of traders that the people of Mesa City know about and protect. The best place to look will be somewhere low key, like a bar.”

Tora nodded and Kim looked up at her but didn’t speak. They both knew what was flooding their minds at her final word, images of Pauly and
Dogma
, of days when learning to string a guitar and copycat a few chords was the most challenging thing in their lives.

London looked away. “We can’t seem too anxious, if we ask around. Pauly used to get suspicious easily. Barmen are notoriously wary,” she cautioned. “Just play it cool and stick together. We’re drop-outs from Pillar City looking to make it big as Scrappers. We headed west in order to avoid penalty for skipping out on our assignments. Got it?”

“Got it,” Kim said as he raked his finger through his wet hair to untangle it.

London eyeballed Tora as she rinsed the last of the mud from her angled blond bob. “Tora?”

The Seer looked up at her casually.

“Try not to look so
different
,” she suggested.

Kim sniggered and Tora frowned. “What do you mean? I’m not different,” she whined.

London stepped forward and tucked Tora’s hair behind her ears until the unusual cut wasn’t so noticeable. Then, looking her over, she plucked a mismatched button off one sleeve and rolled them both up. The Seer glared at her, both eyes burning like twin flames. “That is exactly what I’m talking about,” London exclaimed. “Can you turn those eyes down a notch?”

Tora huffed.

“Just try not to read anybody’s mind, okay? And slouch a little, for crying out loud. We’re Wallers now. Wallers lead bland, monotonous lives. All nice and neatly arranged for them by the Tycoons. We don’t need you looking like you grew up swinging from trees and getting lots of fresh air.”

Tora scowled at them both, because by now, Kim was doubled over in hysterics. “I thought we were Scrappers,” she snapped.

“Same difference,” London said. “More or less. We still can’t afford for you to show so much…vitality.”

“Fine.” Tora threw down the piece of jacket she’d been using to clean off and dropped one shoulder low, affecting a limp as she stalked away. “This better?” she called over her shoulder.

“Maybe not so pathetic. Think, crippled inside, not outside,” London threw back, taking Kim’s arm as they headed toward the flimsy gates of Mesa City.

THE TAVERN WAS seedy enough to be a Scrapper haunt, with its single, heavy metal door in dark, scratched paint, and its broken lantern. A painted sign in faded lettering read,
The
Front Porch Tavern
, just over the door, though there wasn’t a porch of any kind in sight. But what really gave it away was the ironwork awning, the black curls and scrolls were obviously scrapped from something else, an old balcony railing perhaps? Just the sort of place people who like to do business under the table would hang out. Not exactly where they might expect three kids to stroll in off the street for a drink, but London didn’t care. They were all hungry, tired, and pretty desperate. Hopefully that, and something in her bag, would be enough to convince the barman to give them a hot plate, a cold drink, and an empty chair.

Sneaking into the city had been a walk in the park. They waited until dusk and simply walked up and ducked between the bars of the aluminum gate, the same kind Capital City employed. The streets were empty, which struck London as odd, and by the time night had fallen, Mesa City felt more like a ghost town. No one was out after dark. Except them. She wasn’t sure yet if that was a good thing, or a bad thing. Either way, this would be the real test. They needed a place to stay while they were here, and she was hoping they could find someone in this bar who could help them out. Scrappers always knew where the city’s hot and cold spots were. They knew where to hide their stash, where to sneak in and out of the walls, and where to find good trade.

London took a deep breath and gripped the handle, pulling back on the heavy door. A rush of stale smoke and spilt beer wafted out at them, making her smile, the tension easing out of her every pore.
Oh yeah,
she thought, grinning.
I’m home.

There were round polished tables inside, their thick coat of varnish dulling like wax from years of wiping. Mismatched chairs circled each one, some with three, some with four. London made her way to the back of the room, moving slowly between the tables, careful to look each customer she passed in the eye. You couldn’t show fear with these types, you had to be confident to be accepted. She’d been practically raised behind the bar, she knew just what she was doing.

They took their seats at an open table far enough back to look like they weren’t afraid to enter, but not too close to the corner. They didn’t want to look like they had anything to hide. London slung her pack, which was at least free of the thick cake of dirt but now permanently stained a mottled brown, over the back of her wooden chair. The cracked black vinyl seat
whooshed
when she sat down. A red plastic ashtray stared at her from the center of the table, giving her an idea.

Casually, she leaned over to the heavyset man at the table next to them, his scratchy red beard practically swallowing the cigarette in his mouth, and gave him a nudge. He turned, a little surprised, but didn’t need long to take in her pouty lips and dark, wavy hair. “Bum some smokes?” she asked.

He nodded and proceeded to pull a crumpled pack from his front shirt pocket. “Sure, sweetheart,” he said with a voice that sounded like someone had thrown his larynx out on a gravel road and run it over a few times. “Take these. I got a whole ‘nother pack right here,” he said, patting his other pocket.

London nodded and smiled sweetly. She tried to act like she didn’t notice that he was staring at her chest like he had x-ray vision. “Thanks,” she said, taking the pack, letting her fingers just touch his as she did so. “Appreciate it.”

She turned back to Tora and made a disgusted face. Tora just glared at her. “You’re not really going to smoke those?” she whispered.

London leaned in. “Course I am. Everybody smokes behind the walls. Gotta fit in.”

Tora looked shocked. “But you know what’s in those,” she whispered from the corner of her mouth.

“Relax,” London said, tossing one to Kim. “I won’t really inhale it. Here, take one, too. Look the part.”

The fat man passed her a lighter and she pretended to take a long drag, holding the sedative laced breath in her mouth and blowing it back out in a thick trail of smoke. She gave the lighter back and lit Kim and Tora’s off her own.

But Tora, as it turned out, had no experience with smoking. She took one drag, sucked it down, and spat it out in a hail of sputtering coughs. London clapped her hard on the back and quickly stubbed the cigarette out in the plastic ashtray.

The fat man turned to look at them funny and London made a point to push out her chest and grin. “She’s had a cold,” she said hastily to cover Tora’s cigarette debacle.

The man shrugged and tried to grin at London, but most of it was swallowed in thick red facial hair. “Long as it’s not the sleeping sickness,” he joked.

London laughed easily, like she knew just what he was talking about, and turned back to Kim. His eyes were wide and he shrugged. That was a new one to him, too.

“I thought you knew what you were doing,” she said to Tora once the Seer had recovered herself.

“How would I know what I was doing?” she retorted. “Besides, it doesn’t look that hard.”

London sighed. “I thought maybe Harlan taught you a thing or two. Guess not.” Harlan had been the Camp Elder outside Capital City when Tora was growing up with the Outroaders. He was the one who told London and Kim about the sedatives the Tycoons put into most everything city-issue, especially the smokes. He grew his own tobacco, drug free, to use in a pipe he liked to smoke. Before he died and Abigail took over.

Kim, like London, was coolly puffing on his cigarette, like he hadn’t quit almost a year ago. But she could tell he wasn’t letting it past his throat. They needed their wits about them tonight.

“Well, maybe she can handle a beer,” London said suddenly, and stood, raising her pack. “Be right back.”

She made her way to the bar where an older man with a thinning head of yellow, baby duck, hair and a long, sour face was handing off three overflowing mugs of foamy ale to a portly woman in her mid-forties. She was wearing too much lipstick and a reprocessed skirt that looked like it could have been made from old tires. The woman eyed London as she passed and London simply nodded and slapped her pack on the bar. She turned to the sour-faced barman. “I’ll have what she’s having,” she said.

The barman’s tight-lipped mouth lifted in a barely repressed smile. “Will you now? You have the proper rations for beer? No one too young for an assignment gets drink rations. Tycoons’ orders.”

London leaned across the bar on her elbows. “Pretty hard to get those when you done skipped out on your assignment two seasons ago.”

He smiled at her, the light winking off a gold chain around his neck where a pre-Crisis watch face hung, the glass cracked and split. Clearly, the barman had a soft spot for Scrappers. “That bad, huh?”

London sighed. “I would have worked anywhere but the plants. All that reprocessed garbage. They smell like moonshine and burnt rubber. I just couldn’t do it.”

He patted her wrist and leaned down on his own elbows. “Now what would they be thinking, sticking a pretty little thing like you in the plants?”

London shrugged. “My daddy was a pit worker. Guess they figured it was a step up.” The truth of it stung, but at least he was some use to her.

The barman studied her for a while, his eyes sweeping hungrily, making her cringe inside. “Tough break. You got some place to stay?”

Wouldn’t you just like to know?
London thought, but she kept it to herself. “Not as yet. We uh, we just got into town as it so happens. Couldn’t hang around where we would be missed, if you catch my drift.”

“Come a long way?” he asked.

She dared not let on where they were really from. “Felt like it in the back of that Ag truck, but Pillar City isn’t really so far.
And
,” she added with a jaunty rap on her pack, “we picked up some fair goodies along the way. Looks like it’s a Scrapper’s life for me.”

The barman laughed. He extended his hand and London gave it a deft shake. “I’m Linus,” he said, fiddling with his gold chain. London was instantly reminded of Ernesto, but she pushed back the urge to club the man to death with a barstool.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Linus,” she cooed. “I’m Kitty,” she added with a glance at the scar peaking out of her shirt sleeve. It was the best she could come up with, spur of the moment. She wished they’d taken some time to figure out names. They really couldn’t afford to use their own. “But you can just call me Kit. Everyone else does.”

The barman eyed Tora and Kim at the table where they were talking, their faces close to one another. “Traveling companions of yours?”

London shrugged, affecting an air of ambivalence. “Oh, yeah. We’re all skippers. It’s not real hard to convince someone that scrapping beats plant work any day. Better than goin’ it alone. Even if it does make me the third wheel.”

Linus chuckled again and picked up an empty mug. “Tell you what, Kit. This one is on the house. Seems like you could use it. I got a guy coming around later, maybe we could take a peek at what you got in that pack of yours. These parts are picked pretty clean. Scrap all the way from Pillar City would be a welcome sight. I bet he could even arrange a place for you to stay. How does that sound?”

Perfect
, London thought. She beamed. “Thanks, Linus. That’s very hospitable of you. I promise you won’t regret it.”

He shrugged, a small flush pinking his cheeks. “I like to see a woman with a little enthusiasm for her work.” Then he leaned forward and whispered with a wink as she slid her fingers into the handles of the mugs, “
The Front Porch
is always friendly to Scrappers. Remember that.”

THEIR MUGS WERE nearly drained when Linus’s man finally made his appearance. He entered the tavern in a pair of real jeans, not the reprocessed lookalikes with thin cuffs and shiny seams, and a black felt hat pulled low over his brow.

Kim’s eyes nearly puffed out of his skull when he saw it. “Holy crap…that’s an actual
cowboy
hat.”

The brim was wide and dusty, darker on bottom where the suns rays couldn’t leech the color from it day in and day out, and a crop of mousy brown hair escaped it, curling around the neck. His shirt was full city-issue, Tycoon gray, but the buttons had been replaced with a series of glass beads, swirling blues and greens, the size of London’s pinky fingertip.

Showy, this one,
she thought.

He wasted no time, but made straight for the bar, where he waited patiently for his beer. Judging by the sight of the booze bulge growing beneath the front of his shirt, this was a regular visit. He and Linus chatted quietly over the bar, and London realized they were talking about her when the barman’s eyes wandered over to her table and the man in the hat turned to look over his shoulder.

Quickly, she turned back to Tora and Kim and pretended not to notice. “By the way,” she whispered as the man made his way, drink in hand, to their table. “My name is—”

“Kit,” the low voice said, interrupting her own, and London looked up into the clean-shaven face of Linus’s Scrapper.

London just blinked mutely, her fingers gripping the mug.

“Kitty from Pillar City, right?” he asked again, his eyebrows knitting under the dark rim in confusion.