Well, she learned about him, too. But before either of them could pounce on the other’s vulnerabilities a couple of clients showed up with business for the mailman.
Frannie settled back in her chair. She finished drinking Rakesh’s whisky. Alcohol wouldn’t affect her, but she appreciated the burn of the stuff going down her throat. She watched the way he dealt with people, and was surprised to discover he had a ready smile and a charming manner toward someone who needed him. Interesting fellow, this Rakesh.
For the shy, arthritic elderly woman who was his last client he wrote a paper letter, and coaxed specific directions on where in London to deliver it. Frannie observed his behavior with all her sensors.
She didn’t know if the scholar who had commissioned her research would be interested in the routine of a mailman, but she wanted a record of this. She wanted a memory of Rakesh, she supposed.
When the old woman was gone he put away the letter then set out his tattoo equipment and rolled up his sleeve. His attitude had returned to grudging neutrality. “Continue,” he said when he was ready.
She returned to Charles Dickens.
It didn’t take long for a group of English speakers to gather around to listen to the story. Frannie felt the pressure of their attention on her. She felt hunger deeper than any physical hunger trying to eat her up.
The pimps and the bartender were the only ones who didn’t look completely enthralled with the storytelling. Why should they when it interfered with the entertainment they provided? She was certain the only thing that kept them from pulling weapons was fear of crossing a mailman, but it was coming soon.
Restraint was not a common virtue of this era. An itch between her shoulder blades warned her that this could get bad.
“I’m done.” She stood. “Let’s go.”
There was a collective disappointed sigh from the crowd, but they instantly turned away. Rakesh looked up in irritation, but he took her hint when she gestured her head slightly toward the pimps’ table.
He put away his gear and they went on their way. Their path led along a torn-up railroad track.
Frannie looked toward the refugee camp when a wisp of smoke drifted around them. A portion of the night sky was flame-lit and the roar of angry, frightened voices came across several miles’ distance.
Frannie just shook her head and kept on. Something as common as a riot wasn’t worth observing.
Frannie had hoped they’d be meeting a boat when they reached the coast at Pas-de-Calais, but of course it wasn’t going to be that easy. Oddly enough she recognized the ruins of the town because they reminded her of similar destruction she’d seen wrought on the French coast during a trip back to June 1944. She’d enjoyed that trip, even if it had been into the middle of a combat zone during a world war. At least it had been a war where right and wrong had had some real meaning. Good guys and bad guys were much harder to define most of the time.
Never mind nostalgia for the Allies storming the Normandy beaches, she guessed why Rakesh had brought her here and she didn’t like it. “You are not seriously going under the English Channel?”
“We are,” he answered. “Pirates have been busy in the Channel lately. So many boats have been captured or sunk, the Chunnel is the safest route at the moment.”
She knew very well that the partially flooded remains of the Channel Tunnel, while a gaping abandoned hole on the French side, were cordoned off and tightly guarded where the tunnel ended in Folkestone on the English side.
“It’s a two-hundred-and-fifty-foot-deep, thirty-mile-long dead end. A leaking one, at that. How can you possibly— ?”
“Are you coming?” He turned his back and walked toward a screaming mouth of a hole in the ground.
Frannie settled her pack more comfortably on her shoulders. “Yeah. Sure,” she grumbled, and followed Rakesh into the Chunnel entrance.
Frannie gazed into the heart of the tiny campfire, feeling wonder at the place she and Rakesh had ended up to get some rest. They were dry and warm, surrounded by other groups and other small fires. Several of the travelers seemed to be Rakesh’s friends. There had been smiles and nods and a few invites to join groups. Rakesh returned the greetings, but settled down at an empty firepit with her.
They’d traveled for many miles in the main tunnel. Frannie had been grateful that they both had genetically enhanced night vision. The way was dark and wet, vermin-infested, and crazies and cut-
throats lurked in the shadows. They’d had to swim in freezing, filthy salt water a couple of times. They’d fought off a trio of robbers, leaving bodies floating face down in streaming water and their own blood.
She’d appreciated Rakesh’s deadly speed and skill, and had considered it a compliment when he’d conceded she was damned good with a knife. Neither of them had commented on how good it had felt to be standing body to body, back to back. But the awareness had continued to sing through her long after they had continued on their way.
After a long, hard slog they had come to a blank spot in the wall that had seemed like every other blank spot in the wall. “This is the entrance to the Dry Way,” he had told her, and clicked the latch to a hidden door. After another long walk, feeling their way in darkness that was nearly complete even with enhanced vision, faint light had appeared ahead of them. Rakesh had led her into the side tunnel that held this encampment. There were working air vents near the roof, taking out smoke, bringing in salty air. She’d love to see a schematic of just how those worked.
“I guess there’s a lot about this world I don’t know,” she said now, still not quite over the surprise of the secret path and this protected place.
“Well, if you came out of your hole more often . . .”
She glanced up across the fire at Rakesh. He was toasting chunks of bread on skewers for them. “Give it a rest,” she advised.
“Am I just supposed to appreciate that you’re trying to find out about the world? Are you going to take the knowledge and use it against us, Elect?”
“Elite. And who exactly is us?” she asked. “I’m one of us. Besides, neutrality is one of the things that keeps the enclaves safe from warlords and crusaders. And their mercenaries,” she added, giving him a significant look. She reached out a hand. “Stop throwing stones and give me some food.”
He accepted her point and passed over some toast. “Ex-mercenary,” he said as their fingers briefly touched. A smile didn’t touch his lips, but she saw it in his eyes.
Frannie was considering moving closer to Rakesh when one of the other mailmen, a woman, actually, came over and took a seat in the area between them. The woman slapped Rakesh on the shoulder, so hard that he almost dropped his bread into the fire. He gave the newcomer a glare.
Which she ignored. “You’re on your way to the meet, aren’t you?” the woman asked. “I know you said you weren’t interested when the general’s call went out, but I knew you’d change your mind.”
And so it was that Frannie found out who she was going to New York to watch die. “General Dehn, the man who led the super-soldier mutiny. I thought he was dead.” Frannie just barely caught herself from saying already dead.
“He led our fight for freedom,” Rakesh said.
“Now he’s asking more from us,” the woman said.
“I already know his speech by heart, Salome,” Rakesh said.
Frannie wanted to say, “I don’t,” and find out more, but she had to keep out of this. Just observe and hope some useful data was forthcoming.
Salome grinned widely and clapped him on the shoulder again. “But you’ve decided to listen to him in person this time. A lot of us have. We’re beginning to believe. That’s a good sign.”