FORTY-FOUR

Caitlyn climbed a short ladder that ended at a trapdoor, following two of the men with spears. A couple were below her, in case she tried to turn around.

One of the men above her banged on the bottom of the trapdoor, a complicated code of raps and pauses. Seconds later, the door creaked open above her, and weak sunlight made it to Caitlyn’s eyes.

The men above her climbed upward and into the room above. The men below her pushed her upward into the light.

She had no idea, of course, where she was. The interior of the room above her gave no clues either. Tin-sheet walls, no windows, low, exposed roof made of the same stuff, where a hole had been cut to allow sunshine inside.

Then she was blindfolded. She had to trust that if they were going to harm her, they would have done so by now.

One of the men gently took her by the elbow. She heard the door open. The man led her outside, where the warmth of the sun hit her face.

The man spun her several times clockwise, then several times counterclockwise.

She began to count paces as they led her away. Began to smell the aroma of human waste and smoke.

At the hundred twenty mark, the man stopped her and pulled off her blindfold.

She was now out of the tunnels beneath the city, well beyond the city walls, in the center of a shantytown with no landmarks to guide her as to which one. Clouds had darkened the sky, spatters of rain finally coming down.

Six men still surrounded her, making it clear she was under their guard. As prisoner. And as protectors.

Walking went faster now that she could see.

Five minutes later, they stopped at a shanty, indistinguishable from any others. One stepped over a small muddy stream to open the makeshift door and pointed. There was a table inside. A chair. And a basket with a loaf of bread and a big chunk of cheese. Jar of water beside.

Despite the quickening of rain drops, the others remained in position outside.

She understood clearly. The shanty was hers. And she wasn’t going to be allowed to leave.

Razor was on a trolley with other Industrials, headed toward the address he’d secured earlier. Windows were open, despite the light rain. Windows were never closed in a trolly. Too much smell.

The car wasn’t full yet, as it was making a pass from the inner city to the outer wall and was collecting more passengers at each stop.

The street was essentially a canyon with high walls on each side—not as high as the city wall, nor patrolled by soldiers—and only the tracks for electric trains down the center. No sidewalks. Cameras with motion-detector software monitored the street. The software was set up to detect biped motion. The silent trains that whisked past every fifteen minutes did not trigger alarms. Only pedestrians came to the attention of Enforcers. Since it was impossible to scale the walls—strung with barbed wire and electrical zappers—anyone stupid enough to walk the streets was immediately put into custody.

It was a good system for the Influentials, as the entrances through the walls to their neighborhood consisted of two types. The first was for Influentials. Large, clear acrylic bubbles extended from the wall out to their trolley stops. Inside those bubbles, they were protected. From weather. From any interaction with Industrials. Their trolleys were air-conditioned, seats with leather trim, smoked glass windows. No chance for an Industrial to enter these trolleys. Transportation for Influentials only stopped at the bubbles, and access to the bubbles from the neighborhood needed a password and retina scan.

In contrast, the Industrials had to pass through a guarded checkpoint in and out of the neighborhood. Going in, they faced metal detectors and body-scanning devices. Suicidal as it was for an Industrial to attack an employer, the safeguard still existed. Going out, they faced the same scanners—this was protection against petty theft.

Their trolley stops—for trains without air conditioning and without any seating—had no protection. When Industrials were finished with their jobs for the day, they would each pass through the wall, then wait in clusters for the trolley that would take them to the outer city wall, where they would walk to the shanties and soovie camps.

Industrials around Razor ignored him. He was tattooed again. One of them.

As the trolley whisked down the street, he saw the trees and rooftops of the houses behind the walls. Each house would have wonderfully tended gardens—attended to by Industrials happy for labor-intensive employment. Other Industrials cleaned and cooked. Some even provided tutoring for the children of Influentials. Households might have eight to twenty Industrials at work during the day. But at dusk, the neighborhoods emptied, and only Influentials remained in the houses.

Razor became more alert as the trolley slowed for the stop he needed. Not to disembark, but to wait for new passengers.

The trolley door slid open, and ten Industrials stepped aboard. They had passed through the checkpoint and were now bound for a checkpoint at the outer wall. There was the usual jostling for position. These ten were no different than the other assortments the trolley had been collecting. Some young, some old. Some with defeated posture. Others not so bowed. All with the spider-webbed tattooing across their faces.

Razor didn’t hesitate and didn’t care who heard him ask.

“Any of you bondaged to the Swain household?”

Eyes swiveled his way. Then a woman—stout, old, hair bound beneath a handkerchief—quickly looked away.

But nobody answered.

Razor shrugged. Looked back out at the high, thick brick walls that passed in a blur. He swayed with the rhythm of the trolley. He waited until after the next stop, when another dozen Industrials boarded and pushed all the passengers in tighter.

Razor shifted, and it didn’t take much for him to get near the old woman.

When the trolley picked up speed and the murmuring of conversations began again, he leaned closer and spoke into her ear. He smelled bleach, knowing the scent came from her hands. She was a domestic cleaner then.

“I know someone who wants to ask questions about the doctor,” Razor said in a low voice. “You will be well paid for your answers.”

He knew he would learn a lot from how she responded. In households where Influentials treated Industrials with respect and decency, the ties became almost familial, with a shared loyalty. Influentials who abused their Industrials, however, were betrayed in as many unseen ways as possible.

The old woman gave no reaction. Her silence could have been loyalty. Or fear. It confirmed for Razor, however, that he’d guessed correctly. She was bondaged to the Swain household. Otherwise she would have denied it immediately.

The trolley windows were open, and air blew an assortment of passenger smells across Razor’s face. If it had been hotter, like the day before, the smells would have been worse. He was patient; there was no place to go anyway. He couldn’t exit at any of the stops. If he actually stepped off the trolley, he would have only two choices. Walk down the empty tracks and face immediate arrest. Or approach a gate, where the guards would likely deny him access, and possibly find out he was wanted by Enforcers.

He had to ride to the end of the line, something he had expected.

The old woman must have known it too.

She remained silent and ignored him until that final stop, just short of the city’s outer wall.

As the Industrials unpacked themselves from the trolley and began trudging to the outer gate, she discreetly tugged on Razor’s shirt.

“What is it you want to know?” she asked in a voice much softer than her appearance. “And how much is it worth?”