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?
Omi arched his eyebrows. “What did you do after he hit you?” he asked Marten.
“Attacked the bastard.”
“You’re kidding,” said Turbo. “He was huge.”
Marten shrugged. He was still a bit bemused by what he’d done. “I didn’t really think about it. I just found myself lunging at him.”
“Not me,” said Stick. “I figured he was just waiting for me to do something stupid so he could beat me to death. I figured he was testing for obedience, whether I could take orders I didn’t like.”
“So what did you do?” Turbo asked.
“Hey, what could I do? The guy towered over me, and he was deciding my future, right? I told him give me my knife to even the odds and let’s try that again.”
“What did he say to that?” asked Turbo.
“Nothing. He just grabbed my hand and stamped a three on it.”
“Huh.”
“What did you do?” Marten asked the lanky junkie.
“I told him that was a lousy thing to do. Here they wanted me to fight for them and first thing they did was abuse me. How did he expect me to go all out for them if that’s what they were gonna do?”
“And he stamped your hand with a four?”
“Sure did,” Turbo said, restudying the big number four on the back of his hand.
“Omi?” asked Stick.
“I tried a chop at this neck.” Omi asked Marten, “What did he do when you attacked him?”
“He flipped me onto my back.”
The ex-gunman nodded sagely.
“He do the same thing to you?” Turbo asked.
Ignoring the question, Omi regarded his tattoo. He looked up. “It would be interesting to know what a number one did.”
“If there is such a number,” Marten said.
Stick scanned the crowd. “Might be dangerous to try to find out.”
“How come?” Marten asked.
“Couple different gangs in here,” said Stick. “Kwon’s Crew is over there. And I see Slicks and Ball Busters.”
“Yeah,” said Turbo, jutting his chin toward the front, “and over there is Kang of the Red Blades.”
Marten saw a massive Mongol with black tattoos on his arms. No one sat too close to him. He had flat, evil-looking features, with eyes almost slit shut.
Omi stood and started walking there.
“Idiot!” hissed Stick. “Come back before you start a rumble.”
Omi ignored the advice.
“Them gunmen are all alike,” Turbo whispered to Marten. “They think they can do whatever they want.”
They watched Omi wade past the other gang members, who glowered uneasily. Omi ignored them, moving slowly and deliberately toward Kang of the Red Blades. When he reached the forward area, Omi bowed his head. Massive Kang simply stared at him with his almost closed eyes. His flat, blank-looking face was unreadable. Omi showed him his hand, and then he bowed again and seemed to ask a question. Everyone in the van watched what Kang would do, some in anticipation. Finally, the huge killer showed Omi his hand. Omi bowed his head again and turned. A sigh, a release of tension, drained from everyone. Soon Omi took his place back between Marten and Turbo.
“Well?” whispered Turbo. “What was his number?”
“One.”
“What he do when slapped?” asked Stick.
“He said he waited. And when the Highborn reached for his stamp he slapped him across the face.”
“You’re kidding?” Stick said in awe. “Then what happened?”
“Then Kang said the Highborn set down the stamp he’d picked up and chose another one, the one.”
“Did the Highborn flip him?” asked Stick.
“I didn’t ask.”
“Yeah,” Turbo said, “that was probably smart.”
Marten thought about the numbers and why they’d been given different ones. He spoke to several other men sitting nearby. They had sixs and sevens. He found they hadn’t done much of anything when slapped. What were they going to do to a killer giant anyway? Marten had agreed. A two, was that bad or good? He glanced at the huge, flat-faced Mongol Kang who held court in his part of the van. A two was almost a one. So the Highborn thought he was a lot more like a vicious gang leader than the more harmless sixes and sevens. He wasn’t sure he liked the implications.