FORTY-SIX

The old woman didn’t have to instruct Razor to walk with her through the main checkpoint at the outer wall. Both knew that if they stopped walking, it would draw the attention of Enforcers. The rules of departure were very simple—three lines of single-file pedestrians.

Given that Industrials were already screened for theft at the secondary walls that surrounded each neighborhood, the departure checkpoint was not as carefully guarded as the entrance checkpoint the old woman would have used at the beginning of the day to get inside the city wall for a trolley to take her to the Swain neighborhood. Here the point was simply to get the Industrials out of the city as efficiently as possible. If they wanted to loiter and form groups beyond the city wall, that was not a concern for the Influentials. Because they were weaponless—death to any Industrial and the entire family if anything beyond a knife was found during a random raid—they were no threat with a guarded wall to scale to reach the inner core.

Razor stayed in line, face straight ahead for the cameras, silent like everyone in front of and behind him. He passed through the checkpoint with no incident, nor did he expect any. His face was tattooed like all the rest.

The checkpoint gate had a turnstile where the cameras scanned the bar code tattoos for each of the three lanes of pedestrians. Computers tallied the number of Industrials who had entered the city at the beginning of the day and compared it to the number who left. There was an allowable variance because, unofficially, some Industrials, especially the young and attractive, stayed behind at the whims, or abuses, of Influentials. But the comparison number—just like the difference between the in and out for each neighborhood—was still watched closely for any large difference that might indicate that Industrials were staying inside the city for a possible nighttime revolt.

Finally past the outer wall—which was thirty feet tall and wide enough for the two-soldier patrol at the top—the old woman turned to Razor.

“Food.” She nodded her head toward a street vendor, who had a cart with strips of fly-specked cooked chicken hanging from wires.

Razor bought two pieces, using crumpled bills of small denominations. Only idiots allowed themselves to look wealthy outside the walls.

He returned to her, keeping one of the pieces for himself. He ripped off a piece of chicken with his teeth and deliberately chewed with his mouth open, essentially mimicking the way she attacked her chicken. She said nothing until all of the greasy meat was gone.

Then she spoke with weary hatred. “That man, the doctor, he keeps my daughter behind two or three nights a week. Who can stand against it?”

Razor nodded. He understood with far more clarity than he would ever share with anyone. Images tumbled through his mind, the images of his nightmares, and he took a deep breath to clear his emotions.

Because of those images, Razor understood hatred too. And how it could be used. This woman would not protect Swain. Chances were, no Industrial in the household would.

“How long have you been in his service?” Razor asked.

“Five weeks. Maybe six.”

“He is a surgeon?”

“Yes. But no one visits him for surgery. He doesn’t leave the house.”

“Old? Young?” Razor wanted a picture of the man in his head.

“Early fifties. Beyond that, I know nothing. No one in the household does.”

“No one?” Razor said it with disbelief. In most households, Industrials were given no more attention than an appliance. Valued as little as any slave. As a consequence, most Influentials talked or acted around them like they didn’t exist.

“We’re all new to the household. All of us joined when I did.”

“Why were the previous household Industrials all dismissed before you got there?”

“Maybe they knew too much. This man, none of us like him. We all fear him. He is abusive.” She spat on the ground.

“Still, I can’t believe in six weeks you know nothing beyond his occupation.”

“My daughter says he occasionally has a visitor. Late at night. A military man. And sometimes a woman, who comes there with the military man.”

Razor nodded. The old woman didn’t need much encouragement.

“My daughter is locked up when the woman comes and is not released until she goes. Like he doesn’t want her to know about my daughter.”

Razor shrugged.

“There’s nothing else I can tell you,” the old woman said. “Really.”

“If I need to find you again?” Razor asked.

“Do I look young enough to live near the city wall?”

He knew what she was implying. Industrials with the most status lived close to the gate that let them into the city to work during the day. The walk was shorter. She was too old to have status.

“How far do you walk?” he asked.

“Almost to the soovie camps,” she said. “And soon I’ll have to move there.”

Poverty slowly drove them outward, with the weakest and poorest at the fringes, to be preyed upon by the gangs that ruled the soovie camps.

“I have money for you,” Razor said. “From the person who wanted to ask about Swain.”

“No.” The old woman tightened her lips. “If I spend it, those around me will wonder where it came from and if I have any more. I don’t need that kind of danger. I don’t want money. But if what I told you harms this surgeon in any way, I’ll take my satisfaction there.”