The Backworlds (3 page)
The bite of fire rocketed up his
spine. He spun about. A prodder had touched his ass and took aim again. Craze
yelped. His pace must have slowed as he reminisced over the sweet moments of
his now-tragic love. The pain of the electric shock swept Yerness from his mind
and heart. He lurched, running, sprinting, racing until he left the village and
entered the swamps.
“Damn bitches of Bast,” he cursed
the council between huffs. “Someday you’ll all be sorry.” He shook his fist and
made several obscene gestures at the elders.
The thick bogs burped and splashed,
covering Siegna’s earth under millennia of muck. The coziness of the forest
ended. The trees became fewer, spreading out with vast distances between them, giving
way to grasses and sludge. Fish buzzed and gnawers swarmed without mercy while
Croakmen harmonized with wild ricklits. The ricklit song spurred an interval of
self-pity.
“No
tellin
’
where I’ll end up,” Craze said. “Perhaps on a world without ricklits or
anythin
’ much.” The idea frightened him and he considered
hiding out in the swamps. Who would know?
“Leecher,” bellowed over the croaks
and burps and buzzes. Brilliant fingers of electricity lit up the swamp. The
council wouldn’t let him hide.
Craze picked up the pace, following
the trails through the wetlands. The elders persisted, wading through the muck,
drawing nearer. Their electrified clubs whistled, sending out shocks in
crackling arcs. Squishy things covered in hundreds of wiggly legs leapt screaming
out of the bogs, their tentacles reaching to pass on their agony. Shit. Sting
beasts.
Craze pulled three sting beasts off
his back and swatted away four more. He rushed on toward the city and the docks.
At the outskirts of the urban
limits of Siegna Landing, Craze slowed to a walking pace. He slipped between
crowds of Backworlders and ground transports. The vehicle treads chewed up the
earth and left soiled plumes in their wakes. Folks of a variety of Backworld
races bustled down the noisy avenues, engineered canyons lined with businesses
and homes.
Verkinn unaware of Craze’s twist in
circumstances waved cheerily. That warmed his heart some, until he detected
councilmen in cloaks at every other corner brandishing prodders under the drape
of their garments. They weren’t shy about exposing the weapon tips to Craze’s
notice when he passed by.
Hunted. He didn’t like it, needing
no other urging than being made to feel like an abomination to move toward the
docks. Hurrying along, he vowed to travel far away, far enough away to forget
this day. He hoped.
He trotted onward, heading toward
the center of the city. The darkening skies were blocked out by lights blaring
into the evening like a billion little suns. Gleaming beacons stretched on as
far as Craze could see, highlighting facades great and humble. Buildings forged
from alloy and reinforced ceramics spiraled taller than the
ganya
trees grew with the ones clustered nearest the docks towering highest. The shipping
berths that rose above them pierced the sky, spreading out in welcome, lanterns
calling in invitation to join the stars. The docking facility ascended like a
teardrop, mushrooming out into a flattened sphere at the top where the
spacecraft from Elstwhere landed and took off. Capsules rode up and down the
sides of the facility as people came in and departed.
Craze stared at the elevators, his
knees shivering. Once he entered the docks, there’d be no going back. He might
never see Siegna, Yerness, or a
ganya
tree again. He
wondered if his mother and sisters would wail. He hadn’t been allowed to say
good-bye to them. What would his father tell them? Craze hoped not that he’d
been run off as a leecher or worse. Worse brought to mind several horrid races
that dwelled out in the Backworlds, awful and despised. Craze didn’t want to
run into any of those, but he had no idea how to avoid them.
He’d never feel safe again. He knew
that. His heart thudded and he glanced back toward the forest appearing so
small from here. In the vast arm of the known galactic worlds, it was tinier
than a speck. Specks were easily overlooked, and Craze was smaller than that.
The village would lose its memory of him sooner than he’d forget them. The
realization made him stumble.
People knocked into him on the
street, rushing to unknowable destinations. He took pains to study the
travelers, who were easily picked out from the others by their demeanor and
dress. Wayfarers wore clothes many seasons out of fashion, appearing to belong
nowhere and not claiming to be from anywhere. Yet their eyes shone bright as
they ogled everything around them. Would he become like them? He couldn’t
imagine embracing other Backworlds with wonder. With him it’d be resentment,
because the place wouldn’t be Siegna.
He glanced down to compare his
dress to the wayfarers. The shirt and coveralls seemed generic enough. His feet
were wrong, however. Muck dried on his bare toes, and all the travelers he
could see wore boots. “I can’t go around the Backworlds like a Verkinn hick.”
He took a detour among the shops of
the trade district. Yellow and orange awnings set aglow by strings of lights
fringing their edges snapped in the humid breeze. The aroma of roasting
ricklits and the various spices used to flavor them filled the air. His stomach
growled.
A display showing off the finest
pair of boots he ever saw caught his attention. He stopped to finger the
thickly woven fibers rubbed and oiled to gleaming. Their inky surfaces
reflected the street and Craze’s wide eyes. He stared at himself, seeing a face
that matched his insides, harried and lost.
“Let it go,” he whispered. “Get on
with
preparin
’. Transport leaves soon.”
He peered past his mirrored self to
examine the goods more closely, searching for the price. He sucked in a breath.
“You got rubies woven into these things?” he asked the shopkeeper.
The
Croakman
belted out a few bass notes, clearing his throat. He stood soft and wide, his
jowls wiggling with his every twitch. “My sisters weave the finest boot cloth
on all the Backworlds. You’ll find no better. Not on Elstwhere. Not on
anywhere. And they’ll cost you more out there, too. Best bargain there is.
Right there in your hands.”
The merchant’s jeweled fingers
tapped on Craze’s red suspenders, on the insignia showing his father’s new
rank. The
Croakman’s
eyebrows rose and he sidled
closer to Craze. “Those look brand new. A rise in rank means a rise in
fortunes.”
Not in Craze’s case, but he didn’t
correct the
Croakman
. Craze’s fortunes had been
yanked out from under him, and he couldn’t figure out how Bast could be so cold
to his only son. However, any Verkinn would squawk about a rise in rank. Craze
had to figure out a way to explain his odd behavior, and quickly. “You
scammin
’ me?”
“No, my good Sir. Certainly not.
Merely business. On such an auspicious occasion as this, I’ll take twenty
percent off. If we can come to an agreement?”
Twenty percent off was still a lot
of chips, chips Craze needed to buy a new life. Taverns cost plenty. He
probably didn’t have enough to buy one. Positions in good bars weren’t cheap
either, but that was probably his best option. To get such a situation, he
needed the boots.
“What kind of agreement, Croaker?”
“You see I sell other goods.” The merchant
waved his hand around at the shelves in his shop: neatly stacked bolts of
cloth, trinkets crammed on tables and shelves, scarves fluttering on pegs from
floor to ceiling, travel bags mounded into beckoning pyramids, luxurious
clothing hung precisely on racks, and
bling
sparkling
under glass. Things for folks with money. More money than Craze had.
“All very, very fine,” the
Croakman
said.
A cloaked Verkinn councilman
slinked by the shop window, pausing to leer at Craze, fogging up the pane, and
pissing Craze off. Craze wasn’t a sludge, wasn’t a leech. He’d show them and
Bast. He’d show them just like Bast had taught him, taking advantage where he
could. The
Croakman
believed Craze was of higher
status, presenting a situation to exploit.
Craze tugged on the suspenders,
raising his chin. “Yes, I see.”
“Well, my Verkinn Sir, you buy from
me for the next year ‘n that twenty percent off is yours.”
Craze turned the boots around,
examining them from all angles. They weren’t glued together. Every stitch wove in
and out the same as the next. With such exceptional workmanship, he’d never
need another pair. He calculated the price versus the funds he’d been given to
start over on another world. “Make it thirty-five percent off, ‘n I agree.”
“Twenty-five.”
More Verkinn councilmen gathered
outside the window, peeling back their cloaks to shake their prodders at Craze.
They mouthed, “Leecher.”
Craze bristled, silently cursing,
“Assholes.”
He didn’t feel the least bit bad
for what he was about to do. Time to take advantage of the swiped suspenders
and take on the part the council should have granted him when raising his pa in
status. “Thirty-three. I’m about to gain another wife.” Damned Bast.
“Thirty-three it is then, Sir.”
An elder with a prodder stepped
into the shop. Two more joined him. The electrified clubs thumped against their
palms in a steady rhythm.
Craze faced away from them, shaking
the
Croakman’s
hand. He gave over the tavern’s
payment codes to the merchant for the agreement presented on the tab—a slim rectangular
card—binding his father to the terms. He grinned. Revenge did go down the
gullet like fine malt. His thirst for it grew. He imagined becoming hugely
successful on another world, the ultimate vengeance. A dram he vowed to sip at,
betting it would be more quenching than this small nip.
Craze sat down and slid the boots
on, lacing up the black chords strung through the thick black material that
flexed like soft kid leather. He stood, admiring them in the mirrors around the
shop. “They look good. Feel good, too.”
The
Croakman
preened. “They look very fetching on you, Sir. A superb bit of business. What
else you in need of?”
Craze could use a coat. He moved
toward the racks. “Some outer—”
The councilmen grabbed him, shoving
him out of the shop and into the streets. “Leecher, leecher.”
Heat rose into Craze’s face. He
gulped. Disgraced enough for one day and not needing to be shamed in front of
the whole of Siegna, he pulled away.
“I’m no criminal.” He spat, jogging
toward the docks. He would go on his own terms with his head held high, not be
chased out. “I’m not Backworlder dregs.”
He ran smack into two other
councilmen with prodders. They pressed the weapons against Craze’s sides. He
screeched, his knees buckling. Sizzles jumped from nerve to nerve, making his
skin burn. His head lolled and he lost his balance.
The elders took hold under Craze’s
arms, dragging him toward the docks, and screaming out his shame. “Leecher.
Leecher.”
Folks stared as Craze was hauled
down the avenue. The Verkinn hadn’t branded and ousted a leecher in more than
two years. The spectacle had always attracted crowds of onlookers. This time
proved no different. The day’s humiliations piled up. Craze wanted to
disappear, wished he were no longer a Verkinn.
“You don’t want to miss your
transport, Son,” a councilman said.
No, he didn’t.
Dock workers strapped Craze into
his seat as if he were some addled war veteran who never fully came home.
Struggling to push them off and do for himself, he could only drool and grunt.
He groaned loudly when an aviarman with spiky blue hair stepped on his foot.
“Sorry, mate,” the aviarman said.
His long sharp face came nose-to-nose with Craze’s. He spoke to the other aviarman,
one with red cresting his head. “I think we want different seats, Lepsi.
There’s something wrong with this guy.” Movements jerky and darting, he tapped
Craze’s shoulder.
Craze’s head lolled stupidly and he
moaned.
“What’s wrong with you?” the blue aviarman
asked.
The aviarmen put their heads
together,
chittering
excitedly. Their height was
impressive, jagged and gangly. Jolting and stuttering, they stood close
together, their sharp snouts almost touching. Their mouths cut deeply into
their faces, rigid dark gaps rapidly opening and closing, voices rising. The
sleeves of their overcoats flapped, reminiscent of wings as their arms
emphasized words with passion.
Their gray trousers had more
patches than original material, threads unraveling at the hems, and old dust
staining the knees. Threadbare khaki shirts poked out from under the brown
coats, which were faded and shabby with buttons missing. Their boots sported
more scuffs than shine, attesting to the many other worlds they’d tread. The
aviarmen could help Craze by telling him about those places. If only he could
speak.
“Conductor!” Lepsi with the red
hair said. “We want to sit over there instead.”
“You’ll take your assigned seats,”
she said smooth as
ganya
bark. Her skin had a purple
tint that clashed with the muddy green blouse, trousers, and cap marking her as
the transport’s conductor. “The shuttle is full.”
“But ...” The blue aviarman pointed
at Craze. “That, Miss. Look at that. What’s wrong with him? I don’t want to
catch a plague.”
Alarm went up around them, whispers
of disease and death filled the dingy white walls and rustled the faded blue
seats. Something smacked into the back of Craze’s chair, jerking him as if he
rolled over rocks, making his lips flap against one another.
