The Lost Colony, DM Arnold [ebook reader for laptop TXT] 📗

reached it too late. The driver stopped the bus at the next corner. Nyk jumped off and ran down the block. “Laida!” he shouted. He could see her ahead, clutching a fiber mesh sack.

Her walking accelerated into a sprint. Nyk ran after her but she was pulling away. She dodged into an alley. He heard a crash and a clatter.

She was lying on the pavement. The contents of her sack -- a half dozen cans -- were strewn around her.

Nyk leaned over, rested his forearms on his thighs and panted to regain his breath. “You're fast,” he said. “It must the extra strength in your muscles.” He looked into her face. “I'm terribly sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“Yes -- we all look alike to white eyes.”

“No. The resemblance is strong ... you are probably a couple of years younger, though.” He observed her left clavicle. “You don't have a registry mark -- you're not registered!”

Her eyes darted and he could see terror in them. “Please,” she pleaded, “don't turn me in.”

“I won't,” he replied. “I won't hurt you.”

Her eyes kept shifting skyward. “The noise,” she said. “It'll attract attention.”

Nyk's eyes followed her sightline and he saw what she had been regarding. Atop a pylon was a searchlight and what might've been a camera. “Hide behind those barrels,” she said. “I can't move -- I think my foot is broken.”

He lifted and dragged her behind some barrels and debris cluttering the alley. The spotlight from the tower probed the darkness. She grabbed his collar, pulled him to the pavement and held her finger to his lips. Her eyes darted to and fro.

The sound of an electronic chime reverberated off the buildings. “The warning bell,” the girl whispered. “Curfew soon -- if they find me here ... I'm dead!”

The spotlight continued to sweep the alley. Nyk got onto his knees and began to stand. “NO!” she gasped and reached for him. “DON'T!” She grabbed the hem of his shirt but lost her grip has he stood.

“They won't stop until they know what caused the noise...” He limped from behind the barrels, grabbed the fiber sack and began picking up cans.

The beam caught him and he looked toward the pylon. “Are you all right?” came a voice from the tower.

“I tripped and fell,” Nyk replied.

“Please stand and face us...” The beam focused on him, illuminating his face and upper torso, dressed in a Varadan one-sleeved shirt. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

“If you could...” Nyk pointed toward the pavement away from where the novonid girl lay. The beam followed his gesture and he picked up the remaining cans. “Thanks.”

“Make sure you're off the street by curfew,” came the voice. “The chimes have sounded.”

Nyk waved an acknowledgment and headed down the street, away from the alley. The searchlight switched off.

He returned to the girl's side. She looked up from the pavement. “Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you ... trust me.” He crouched beside her. “Let me feel your foot,” he said and palpitated her ankle. “Can you move your toes? ...I don't think it's broken -- just a nasty sprain. Are you hurt otherwise?”

“Some scrapes and bruises maybe...” She pressed her hand above her breast. “You SCARED me.”

“I'm sure I did and I'm very sorry.” He handed her the sack of cans. “Here.”

“I didn't steal them,” she said. “I'm not a thief. They were being discarded.”

“That thought never crossed my mind.” She tried to stand but collapsed when she put her weight on her left foot. “How far are you going?” he asked. “I'll help you.”

She pointed. “Over there is a gate. Through that and to the left about seventy-five metres. There's a doorway leading to a basement. In there.”

“Are you ready?”

She nodded. “We must keep to the shadows.”

“Okay, let's go.”

He helped her stand and supported her. He could see, dimly, the gateway in the glow from a blue light above a callbox. She limped with him through the gate.

“Now, where?” Nyk whispered.

“Ahead about seventy-five metres and to the left. Do you see it?”

“Yes... Let me carry you.” He crouched. “Hop onto my back...”

He hooked his arms under her knees and clasped his hands together. She held onto him around his shoulders with one hand and clutched the sack with the other. Nyk stood and worked his way toward the doorway. A door opened across the way and he ducked behind the corner of a building.

“That's all right,” she said, “just one of the neighbors.”

He reached the doorway, set her down and pushed the door open. Before him, a flight of cracked concrete steps led down into a dimly-lit room. “I'll carry you in my arms this time,” he said and picked her up. He negotiated the stairs and stepped into the basement. The place had a dampness he found disagreeable.

“Mother! Father!” the girl called. Nyk set her down and she limped to a bench.

An older novonid couple stepped from behind an interior staircase. One of them held a makeshift lamp fabricated from a discarded can. Nyk noticed they both had registry numbers on their shoulders. They stopped short upon spotting him.

“What is he doing here?” the man asked.

“Your daughter sprained her ankle,” Nyk replied. “I was helping her get home.”

“Don't hurt him, Father,” the girl said.

“I won't -- but he can take his chances out there.”

“No, please. He helped me. He could've pressed a panic button but he didn't. He distracted the constables and carried me home. I think he's with the BSS.”

“Are you BSS?” the mother asked.

“No -- but I'm sympathetic to them.”

“How sympathetic?” the man asked.

Nyk faced him. “I must apologize. I mistook your daughter for someone else. She was running from me when she tripped and fell. I take responsibility for her twisted ankle.”

“They were using a security cam,” the girl continued. “I don't think they saw me.”

The man regarded Nyk. “All right. You helped our daughter. We'll help you.”

“My name is Nykkyo. Please tell me yours.”

“I'm Rayla, the mother said. “My husband is Grott. My daughter's name is Lise.”

“Lise...” Nyk regarded the girl's mother. She and her daughter had the same face -- the same face as Laida and her mother. He could see their features in the father, too -- a masculine version of the same visage. The novonids did look alike to his eyes, and he surmised that five hundred years hardly had been enough time for anything but random differences to creep into each individual's appearance.

He turned to the girl. “You do resemble another girl I'm seeking,” he said. Nyk studied her face for a moment in the lamplight. Yes, he could see differences. Laida and Lise were not identical copies. He vowed to be more observant going forward... “It's why I followed you. I'm very sorry I frightened you.”

“I'll be all right...” Lise replied, “...now that I'm home, that is.”

“Do you know of a ... one named Laida?”

“We don't,” replied Grott.

“Why are you looking for her?” Rayla asked.

“She was an attendant at the guest house where I'm staying. She disappeared a few days ago.”

“Good luck finding her,” Rayla replied. “You will need it.”

“I contacted her owner -- Ms Ramina...”

“Ramina.” Grott nodded. “One of the better ones.”

“Better of a bad lot, you mean,” Rayla replied. “Guest house ... I didn't think you were a city native.”

“I'm a member of the diplomatic mission from Floran.”

“Yes,” Grott replied. “I've heard of the talks with the Florans. The rumor is you want some of us for your mines and fields.”

Nyk shook his head. “Do you mean...”

“Novonids,” said Rayla, tapping herself above her breast. “Us. It's a Varadan way of dealing with ... the problem.”

“The rumor is false,” Nyk protested. “We are in the earliest stages of discussions with Prefect Ogan's office Believe me, there has been no mention of ... you ... from either side. I can say that with authority since I am the translator. Now, if you'll excuse me -- I must find my way back to the guest house.”

Grott shook his head. “It is too close to curfew. The streetcars will have stopped running by now.” The wail of a siren welled up in the distance. “There it is -- curfew. You will have to stay here tonight. One of us will help you find your way home tomorrow.”

“Here?” He looked around the basement. Old bedclothes had been hung to partition the area into rooms.

Rayla took two of the cans from the sack Lise had been carrying and opened them with a hand opener. She divided the contents among three bowls. Nyk recognized it as the nutrient paste he had seen Laida eating.

“I'm sorry we have nothing to offer you,” Rayla said.

“It's all right. I'm not hungry... Grott -- I see your daughter is unregistered.”

The man's eyes narrowed. “I have little I can give you.”

Nyk tried to reconcile her father's response to his own remark.

“He said he's sympathetic to the BSS,” Rayla added. She turned to Nyk. “You won't turn her in ... will you?”

“Of course not,” he replied. “I knew her likely fate if I left her there. I felt helping her home was the least I could do -- considering my responsibility for her injury.”

“Do you see, Father?” Lise asked.

Grott glanced toward Rayla. She nodded. “Pull up a stool and sit with us,” Grott said.

Lise and her parents sat on benches, holding the bowls of nutrient paste on their laps. Nyk found a stool and sat on it. “Grott,” he said, “I was curious why Lise isn't registered.”

“You're right,” Grott replied. “She's of age -- she should be registered. No one wants her. She's a oneshot ... like her mother.”

Nyk glanced toward Rayla, who looked at the floor. “What does that mean?”

“It's a genetic defect -- a mutation that has found its way into some of ours,” Rayla replied.

“When Rayla gave birth to Lise, she was damaged.”

“The womb tears,” Rayla explained, “splits in two. As a result, I cannot carry another child. The word they use is oneshot. Undoubtedly Lise has the same defect.”

“Rayla nearly died.”

“She obviously recovered.”

“A kind surgeon on the farm took it upon himself to save me. An infertile female is of no value on a pomma farm,” Rayla continued. “A male is worth one, a female ten...”

“I've heard that saying,” Nyk interrupted.

“... but a oneshot is worth nothing. I was sold, along with my child, to the same broker who bought Grott from another farm. He paired us.”

“So -- Grott is not Lise's father.”

“I'm not -- but I love her as if she were mine.”

“The broker leases me to a towel and uniform laundry. I might very well have washed the sheets in your guest room. Grott works as a construction laborer. It's hard work.”

“Pomma farming is hard work,” Nyk replied.

“No -- pomma farming is easy. What's easier than standing in the sun all day? As a laborer I must lift and carry. Life is good on the farms, with comfortable quarters and regular meals.” He held out his palms. “These are the quarters our owner provides. He's banking our wages for us. When we have accumulated enough for the fee, he will register Lise, and find work for her.”

“So he says,” retorted Rayla. “I think he spends our wages on pomma beer and potteen. He holds Lise over us to keep us from bolting. There's not much work to be found for the likes of us. Pushing out baby after baby is what's considered a female's work.”

“If he doesn't register her by a year from now,” Grott said, “we will take her to the BSS and have them register her. We'll be punished for sure, and we'll probably lose her, but she can't be impounded if she has one of these.” He tapped his registration tattoo.

“The BSS,” Nyk remarked. “They do much to help you.”

“No they don't,” Rayla retorted. “They're a bunch of soft-hearted do-gooders.”

“They pass laws like the Termination Act.”

“They don't like to see us hunted and killed.”

“I can't imagine YOU like to see it.”

“It's not the point.” Rayla put her hand on Grott's shoulder. “We disagree on this. I think the BSS are as anxious to stay the course as are the breeders and brokers. The Termination Act makes it easier for an old and tired-out farmworker to live out his twilight years, all right -- as a servant to some mid-level bureaucrat. Why not give him a pension and a home, and let him live out those years in leisure, instead? That's what the bureaucrats expect -- and receive from this society.”

“Rayla -- I don't know what to say...”

“I'm sorry, Nykkyo. It's not my place to be spouting such.” She collected the bowls. Nyk watched as she lit more lanterns made from tins that had held the pink paste.

“What do you burn in your lamps?” Nyk asked.

“Discarded grease from fry shops outside the Zone,” Rayla replied. “There are a few