“You think we’ll survive the election?” MTB asked.
“This is a good city,” I said, and MTB gave me a skeptical look. “We only see the worst of it. But this city is full of normal people who eat breakfast and do their nails pretty and buy black socks. Not everything is a murder-robbery. Bah, no more work talk.”
A dancer approached MTB. I saw her glance briefly at me from the corner of her eye, but otherwise she completely avoided me. It wasn’t just that I was hideous. It wasn’t just that I was the Supreme Kommilaire. It wasn’t just that people didn’t like stripping for folk legends. It was also that everyone knew how clumsy and heavy I was and she wasn’t going to jeopardize her career by getting her hip shattered dancing for me.
Here were women whose job it was to pretend they were attracted to men and they still weren’t attracted to me. I didn’t blame them or feel sorry for myself. It made sense and I understood it.
You can only feel sorry for yourself if you don’t understand the problem or if you understand and don’t do anything about it—and in the second case, you’re just whining.
“Fifty thumbs if you give him a good dance,” I told the woman.
MTB seemed like he wanted to arrest her. Arrest everyone here. But he put up with it.
“So should I be looking to recruit more Valias?” he asked.
“If they’re qualified, sure. You got to admit, we’re an ugly bunch of people. It doesn’t hurt having someone pretty around, even if she can’t punch someone to death.”
I stared off wistfully into the club.
“Besides, Valia reminds me of someone I used to know a long time ago. Before she locked herself in her tower.”
CHAPTER 18
“This is going to end badly,” I said.
A few weeks later Hobardi and his multi-colored, many-robed disciples were setting up tables and stalls in a western part of Belvaille. It was a horrendously poor area, rivalling Deadsouth for poverty.
But while Deadsouth was junkies and drunkards, this area was where the feral kids lived. Though they weren’t all technically kids.
It was a hardscrabble existence out here in the best of times—and there were no best of times.
It was filthy. No one came here except feral kids. They lived off our trash, so you can imagine that their trash, which they left everywhere, was pretty damn trashy. You couldn’t even see the street.
But the Sublime Order of Transcendence cleared out a space for their little festival. They all looked so happy and purposeful as they prepared.
The Order had finally rescinded the Brotherhood Commandment. Since Hobardi stole some of my Kommilaire he probably figured he better not push his luck. As repayment, I agreed to lend my Stair Boys as security for this event. The Order had their own special forces on the roofs of nearby buildings. The ones up there did not look as transcendent as their counterparts on the ground.
Hobardi and his Order served food, offered counselling, provided some small medical services, and gave a bit of entertainment to keep the ferals occupied.
Of course the real reason for all this was public relations.
Hobardi was still angling for the Governor’s role and everyone on the station was concerned about the feral kid problem. Even the residents of Deadsouth, when they came out of their drunken stupors, cursed the wretched children.
Hobardi had about thirty members of his Order with him. His mutant wasn’t here. Maybe he was finally taking a shower. A half-dozen Order security guards and my twenty Kommilaire were providing protection.
There were some reporters present. Hobardi wouldn’t have bothered otherwise. He had obviously invited them. Rendrae was not here. That either meant he felt it was too dangerous, thought it wasn’t news, or thought it was staged news. In any case, lack of Rendrae or one of his employees was very telling.
A female reporter came up to me. She held her clipboard to her chest like it would shield her from everything.
“Is it safe here?” she asked me.
“Does it look safe?”
Several dull hours passed until some feral children finally eased out into the open of the festival. Probably every instinct they had told them to avoid this area, which was clean, surrounded by Kommilaire, and had weirdos in bright robes.
Hell, I’d avoid it if I could.
Some while later a confident Hobardi approached me, marveling at his own handiwork.
“You didn’t think we could do it, did you, Hank?”
“No, I didn’t.”
I had to give the Order credit. The feral kids were eating and at least pretending to listen to the various lectures and speeches. The puppet show was by far the most popular attraction, however.
“That’s your problem, Hank, you lack a basic understanding of people. They’re simple creatures. Just meet their needs and they will be placated. If they don’t have needs, create some.”
“And what are your needs, Hobardi?”
Before he could answer, we heard a shrill screaming and a swarm of feral kids descended. There must have been hundreds of them!
They galloped over and under and through each other like rivulets in a stream—a dirty brown, stinking stream that was currently shrieking at the top of its lungs.
The tables were overturned. The displays ripped apart. Soon, we couldn’t even see the festival as it was overcome by the mass of feral kids.
The Order manning the booths got a few steps before they too were swamped.
Hobardi turned to me and grabbed hold of my jacket. Not in a pleading manner, but as if he were commanding me.
“Do something!”
“No.”
“Look at them!” He screamed.
“You look at them. You came here. You brought your people into this mess.”
“You’re the Kommilaire.”
“And you’re the Sublime Order of Transcendence. Go bless them or something.”
Hobardi looked up to his soldiers on the roofs and he started to raise his arm. I stopped him.
“Why did you even bother putting out food if you were just going to gun down some feral kids? You’re running for office, right? Shooting them isn’t going to make you popular.”
“Why are you all even here? You said you would protect us.” he yelled.
“I said I would protect you. And so far it’s working, isn’t it?”
Hobardi watched in horror as the feral kids tore through his festival.
The ferals were awful coordinated, in my opinion. The first, tentative ones who had participated reservedly were more what I expected.
Not this.
They were communicating with each other in their half-Colmarian street tongue.
“That one,” I said, turning to my Kommilaire. “Capture him and bring him here.”
“Capture?” Valia asked, frightened. “There’s a lot of them, Boss.”
MTB smacked her.
“They’re ferals. The problem won’t be fighting them, it will be chasing them. Come on!”
The Kommilaire took off at a dash and it was like throwing a bucket of sobriety at the denizens of Deadsouth: they scattered in a panic.
“Why didn’t you do that to start with?” Hobardi asked.
I didn’t answer. But the reason was probably because I wanted him to know what power we truly possessed, versus the power he only thought he had. And I was also still mad about him poaching some of my men.
It was twenty minutes later but my Kommilaire came back with a handcuffed and exhausted feral kid.
“Put him in a car,” I said.
Hobardi was off checking on his injured Order members.
“What do we do with the kid, Boss?” MTB asked.
“Starve him for a day then Valia comes at him all nice and motherly, and gives him some food. This,” I said, pointing to the ruined festival, “wasn’t feral kid behavior.”