"Come on. Get dressed. I'm Bet."
As he stepped into his clothes, she dumped his "harvest" out of his shirt and handed it to him. She began picking through the vegetables and fruits, tossing some away as too green, stuffing others into a sack.
"You're lucky I came along," she said. "Most runners are caught after the first month."
"You a Delinq?"
She gave him a disgusted look.
"I wouldn't be alive if I weren't. We know how to duck the sweeps. We know the places to hide, where they almost never look. A good Delinq can last…maybe five years."
Sten was shocked.
"How long since you ran?" he asked.
"Three years now."
She shouldered the Sack and headed for a ventilation duct. "Come on. I'll take you to Oron."
She slid into the duct, motioned him past her, then replaced the filter screen. Then she pulled what appeared to be a tiny headband from her coveralls, flicked the light on, and wriggled by Sten to take the lead. The soft brush of her body against his turned Sten's mouth dry. He took a deep breath and crawled after her.
The Delinqs paid no attention to Sten and Bet as they dropped from the duct into the long-abandoned warehouse.
About thirty of them, dressed in the stolen finery of Vulcan's warehouses, were celebrating a raid on a particularly rich warehouse, and most of them were drunk or drugged. It was one of the strangest things Sten had ever seen: a party in almost absolute silence. Whispering—even in the safety of home base—was second nature to a Delinq.
Stranger still, they were all children. The youngest, he estimated, was no more than twelve—a girl rubbing oil on the body of a boy about thirteen. The oldest person Sten saw, as Bet led him through them, was in his late teens. Sten felt like an old man.
Oron was sprawled in the office section of the warehouse. At first glance, he appeared to be in his forties. A closer look showed that the white hair and withered arm belonged to a man only a year or so older than Sten.
His face was the worst. Half of it was mobile. The other frozen like a deathmask.
Beside him sat a pudgy girl, busily working her way through a pile of fruit. Behind him, on a fur-piled bed, were two naked girls. Both beautiful and sleeping—or drugged.
"This is Sten," Bet said. "He's a runner."
Oron turned to the fat girl and pointed at Bet. "Who is she?"
"Bet. You sent her out last shift to the hydroponic farm," the girl said, not missing a bite.
Sten froze, arced his wrist, getting ready to spring out his knife. If this was Bet's gang, why didn't Oron know—? Oron caught Sten's expression. Half his face smiled.
"Fadal is my memory," he said, gesturing at the pudgy girl. "I am—am a…" His brow furrowed. "Brainburn," Fadal answered for him. "Yes. I did something wrong when I was young, for which they…brainburned me. But something went wrong. It didn't…take. Or rather…it only partially worked."
He motioned at his face and withered arm. "My body. And part of my mind…So I am an…amnesiac."
"Then how do you—?" Sten began. "All that happens this shift is very clear to me. But the next shift, I do not know what went before. I remember how to talk. That I am a Delinq. That I am Oron. Although sometimes I forget that. And that I am the leader of these people. But…I must be reminded of…of…yes…of their names. And what I asked them to do."
"He's the leader," Bet said, "because he can always figure out where to raid. And when to move just before there is another sweep."
"Oron has been a Delinq for twelve years," Fadal said.
She seemed to think it was a compliment. Sten guessed it just might be.
"So you are a runner," Oron said. "And you want to join us?"
Sten hesitated, looked at Bet, and then shrugged.
"Sure. Why not?"
"Do you vouch for him, Bet?"
Bet was surprised. Usually there was a test—and questions. Why was Oron willing to rely solely on her word? She glanced over at Sten, who was waiting for her answer. Then she could see it. The look on his face. He didn't care about the Delinqs or Oron. He was obviously confident in his abilities to survive without them. He was here for…her.
Sten felt his heart jump as she nodded.
"Do we team him?"
Bet met Oron's eyes. Suddenly she laughed.
"Yes."
"Bet will be your team partner," he said to Sten. "Do what she…shows you…and you will live. Now, sit…have wine. And tell me…your story."
Sten accepted a glass of wine and sprawled on the floor. He began his story, glancing over at Bet now and then as he spoke.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"I WANNA WATCH livee, mommie, I wanna watch livee."
The Creche nurse hustled over to the boy, a warm smile on her face. She hugged him and palmed a button; the wall flickered, became a screen, and cartoon characters scampered in across it. The fourteen-year-old boy giggled in delight.
Bet's parents had sold her to the Company a few cycles before. The price: Their contracts were torn up and the Mig couple was free to leave Vulcan. It was considered a remarkable bargain on both sides.
Normally the Company preferred Mig children to grow up into Mig men and women. But there were exceptions officials constantly sought. The Company psych who tested Bet whistled at her raw intelligence scores. Company reps approached Bet's parents, who told her she was going away to a much better place. They kissed her and put her to bed. Bet woke up in a Company Creche, surrounded by mostly younger children. The Company usually started with children of five, but Bet's score had been impressive. It decided to take a chance with the eight-year-old.
For the first time in her life, Bet was smothered by love and attention. The Creche Mothers hugged her, kissed her, and gave her toys. Very few things brought punishment or harsh words. Still, Bet never trusted the Mothers for a minute. No one ever discovered this, because Bet had learned very young to keep quiet, give answers only when asked, and always do what she was told.
It took Bet a long time to figure out what was terrifying her. It was the other children…her playmates.
Sten crowded past Bet and looked down into the warehouse. It was exactly like Oron's model. Towering stacks of crates and shipping tubes filled with everything from clothing to luxury food items for the Techs and Execs. It was a place that a human—on legal business—never had to visit as all functions and work were handled by bots, from tiny inventory clerks to giant, idiot-brained skip-loaders.
Bet and another Delinq began looking for the alarm system.
Oron had gone over the plan with him and then asked for suggestions.
"No, Sten," he had said after listening. "That way…there is no…escape. Look."
His fingers traced the model of the warehouse's interior.
"Block the exits with crates. But even if you know they are blocked, you must still…think someone will come through. You must be prepared to…counter that. To have another…"
He fumbled for a word.
"Tactic…To be a Delinq, you must know tactics. Even when your plan is…perfect…you must assume it can go wrong. You must never get in a situation from which there is no…escape."
Sten nodded. And Oron began showing him how to protect their backs.
"We will make a backdoor here…station lookouts here…and here."
Bet had found the first alarm and disarmed it. Another Delinq was already unbelting the duct screen. A rope slithered downward and moments later they were on the floor of the warehouse.
Bet motioned for Sten to follow her to a computer terminal. The other three Delinqs began checking for other alarms.
"We can't leave any sign that we were here," she whispered.