1. Ghetto
Replaced chapter one, thought I needed to get some things edited.
There are no seasons on Solbrecht; sometimes it rains for an hour or so, but much of the year is filled with a warm glow, the feel of a sun forever hidden behind clouds, its rays diffused and weak. But today the flagstones are slippery and wet, the air saturated with dew. The windows in my room are frosted with condensed droplets of water.
It has rained again during the night, and we know the time of the year. To everyone else on Solbrecht this day holds nothing special. But to us, in our calendar, it is the 25th of the twelfth month, the day of plenty. The day the elders call Christmas.
Somehow I feel a day of not going to school feels awkward. It's true we only have one teacher and all we learn is human history and language, but I find myself longing for my friends. I find that all this longing is making me soft; I cannot play now, especially when all I can think of are the people closest to in my life, when all I can think of is Iain's smile. If this was just a normal day, we'd be sitting together at the back of class strumming, his chords accompanying mine until we get so engrossed in the music that all we can do is sing. People say it is a gift, for us to make such beautiful music. Now, I strum but I produce screeches and nothing more than a useless din. Mother shouts at me to come down to help.
We are one of the lucky families to have a hearth; it is blazing with warm today, casting moving shadows on the wall opposite. Rainy days on Solbrecht can be bitterly cold. I rub my hands together and enter the kitchen where mother and Aunt Cheng are preparing the food. As they see me enter, Aunt Cheng never fails to praise me. She comments on how I've grown since I was little; then she will complain I am not feminine enough, and will hassle my mother about my slacks and my tank-top. True girls should be dressed decently, she says. She will tell of how she and Uncle Cheng used to dress, until Uncle was mobbed and killed – because he was human.
I make it past her pestering into the backyard that we have. The overnight rain has left tiny crystal drops on our plants. Michelle likes to grow them; since she is too young to help father, she grows all sorts of herbs in our small grass patch: rosemary, basil, pepper. All morning she has that sparkle in her eyes, a look of pride. I know because tonight her herbs will garnish our food and spice this special dinner.
But she isn't at home now, and Mother's voice calls shrill from the kitchen, "Iris, what are you doing out there? Are you so free, ah, that you can lounge around?" She makes mistakes like all mothers sometimes. For the dinner I have been clearing the table and preparing the plates, borrowing wine from Jonathan and dough from Ershed.
The smells of the food are tempting. But my mind is playing tricks on me, there'll be no food for tonight. It's a festive occasion! I wouldn't want to ruin it by eating it ahead of time. The smell of basil is drifting from the kitchen as Mother cooks the seasoned game meat. Years ago, when Earth was still around, people used to eat chicken and turkey and pork and veal.
But we do not have such luxuries on Solbrecht; instead, the game meat is sizzled with basil, the timkin flavoured with gravy and rosemary. But most importantly of all, is the family dish. A leg of jhowel is roasting on a spit, with a smell enough to make any mouth water! We have cloves, cinnamon and pepper to make it taste even better, while Aunt Cheng is tying wildflower buds and chopping Solbrecht parsley to garnish the dish. Truly, Christmas is the best meal of the year.
Peering through the kitchen door I can see Aunt Cheng doing our dish, and at the same time tending to the soup. On Solbrecht it is uncommon to find two families living in the same house. Aunt Cheng and my younger cousin Liwei live with us; they moved in shortly after Uncle died. Father bought this house long ago, so long that I can't even remember.
Aunt Cheng's actions come to a pause abruptly. She turns to Mother and asks, "Have you seen the youngsters?"
"Did you send them out for an errand?" my mother responds, not knowing what to say. The day is still bright, and even without looking at a meter I know it is in still in the afternoon. But nowadays, you never know.
"Iris," Mother orders, "Iris, go find the youngsters, and make sure, ah, you don't wander too far. Bring them back at once!"
She always calls Michelle and Liwei 'youngsters'; I don't know for what reason, because Michelle is fourteen and Liwei a year younger. As for me, I am thankful I have graduated from my being a plural noun in Mother's vocabulary. Everyone know calls me Iris. They say I am old enough to help in Father's business. Everyone refers to me as Iris, daughter of Michael Lui, the moneychanger, and not Iris, the instrumentalist or anything like that. Though deep down I can play better than I can help my father.
As I reach the door, I don my jacket, not because I think it's cold, but because Aunt Cheng will reprimand me again about modesty if I don't. The brush one of the sleeves against the christmas tree at the door and I walk out onto the street.
Our street is narrow, not anything like the broad avenues downtown lined with trees. The flagstones are slippery indeed; I fight hard to run and stand upright. Flanking both sides of the street are dwellings and doors, while clothes hung out to dry drip water down from above. The street curves several feet ahead, into the square, where you can see a main lane. I follow the path; there is an open door to my right: Jeffery's house. He used to be an engineer, until humans were forbidden to serve in the public service. He is a mechanic by nature and outside his door stands his polished, emerald green hover scooter.
Further down I pass the apothecary, where herbs and spices and flowers have been laid out on canvas sheets across my path. Alvin, the old herbalist, hardly lifts an eyebrow as I walk past. I stroll past Ershed's bakery, where he is still hard at work kneading dough and making bread. His pastries are so good, even the other, non-human inhabitants of Zyjushem buy from him. But the magistrates keep a close watch over his enterprise. They regulate our businesses: one baker, five other food-sellers, one teacher, two pilots, one medical physician and as many moneychangers as possible – best if they kill each other off with rivalry and competition.
Doug Whiteman greets me from his perch atop his house; we all know Doug was once a soldier – long retired – who fought the Drej during the attack. He still wears his medals of bravery as a fond memory.
"Good evening, Iris," he calls out; I suspect he whistles at me behind my back, "Nice weather for a holiday, isn't it? But you never know…"
"Yes… merry christmas," I say, putting on my most elaborate shrug.
Outside the other homesteads I catch glimpses of the others. Rusty and Spike, both pilots, are frying a pan of greasy-looking liquid outside their father's store. They haul cargo three times a week to nearby planets but at home they are extra hands at the meat store. My teacher, Edric Niel, is talking to one of his sons at the porch of his house. Iain is not with him. A day without seeing him is sometimes unbearable for me. He smiles, and I give him the holiday greeting.
On the other side of the square are apartments which belong to the wealthier of us. Keane Greening owns a cargo ship and a reprocessing business; he is young, so he walks with a strut and wears dark glasses almost wherever he goes. Then there is the apartment of Marcel Perez; I know his daughter, Vanessa, as a tough, determined girl who wants to follow in her dead mother's footsteps and become a pilot. She built a shrine for her when we first got here. It's been in the cemetery ever since.
At the end of the path, I peer down both sides of the road. Several crafts and nothing else. Beyond the road are the other neighbourhoods, Michelle wouldn't lead Liwei there, would she? Upon seeing they are nowhere in sight, I am compelled to cross the road and enter a different world.
The Solbrecht natives live mainly downtown, so the outskirts are the less desirable places. These natives are a shrewd, cunning bunch, and I do my best to avoid them at all costs. But we are thankful, though grudgingly, for their tolerance. Here in the outskirts, we are just a race among a flood of other races, seeking Solbrecht as their home and hoping to make the best out of it.
I hurry through the choked streets. So many races live here that it is impossible to count them all. In this area, the street is paved with concrete and asphalt; street lamps line the shops where mechanics, engineers, warehouse keepers have set up their businesses. The dank stench of liquid fuel is in the air. It empties into the canal behind. Here I find a crowd, milling around a dark-skinned, well-built alien.
His eyes are learned, and he wears a suit, so I expect he is a pilot. The neighbourhood will badger anyone who travels for news, for we are so isolated from everything that goes on around in universe, in Fauldro, in D'Armara and all the systems in the skies. They are just hungry for reports and gossip of any kind. This pilot, it seems, has obviously been places.
"We saw them, I tell you," he gasps dramatically, "ships of pure energy and sizzling blue! They screech as they move, surround you when you try to evade them. Yes! They are the Drej! They destroyed a cargo ship near the Black Fields, I heard, but for what reason it still remains a mystery to us. Then were sighted near several slave colonies a few thousand flares from here!"
The crowd stirs nervously. They are as afraid of the Drej as everybody is. I try to blend in unnoticed, where I spot Michelle and Liwei, on the other side, listening to the stranger.
"What are you two doing here?" I demand, cross and urgent at my effort.
Michelle sees me. "Hey, sis," she says. "No need to get angry, we were just listening to news and information from the pilots."
"Friends, fellow inhabitants, it is not too late," he continues, his voice stilling the crowd, "Don't provoke the Drej to anger or cross their path! They offer little kindness, even to those who fear them! We must watch whom we deal with and what our dealings are! Who knows? Maybe they will spare us if we follow these guidelines."
Michelle frowns. "What that alien says is true, but nobody truly knows that the Drej want."
"Whatever," I hiss at them hurriedly. "We have go home, now, before dark. Mother is worried."
"Do you think the Drej will come to Solbrecht?" asks Liwei. "I mean, Black Fields seems so far way. And all of us are living so peacefully here."
"You never know," Michelle answers him. "Frankly I don't want to know."
I know Michelle's got a wise answer. I heard Mr. Niel say she is working very hard in school and she understands great deal about why things work. I, however, was never good in economics. Mr. Niel says we all have different talents; I tend to be more music-inclined.
"Come on, don't drift behind."
We stroll past the huge offices of companies, the neighbourhood school, which is a hang spot of the younger ones here. I do not know many of them, and as Michelle has already said, I don't want to know. At the corner there is a restaurant, and as we walk past I hear a brawl and one huge, burly alien comes out. His face is red; he has been drinking.
At the sight of me in front of him he lets his choking breath exhale, as it hangs around him like noxious fumes. This is someone I know. He is Arhleus the Juniraxian; his species are built for strength, size and agility.
"It's you again, that human girl," he mutters, advancing towards me.
"Michelle, Liwei, run NOW!" I command them. They dart past him and the wall, he is too focused on me to stop them. A crowd has gathered, watching, leering, waiting for some fun. I know why he looks at me this way. His friend isn't with him. Glein the Akrennian. I call him Glein the beast.
"Isn't this your night of blood?" he questions, staggering. I stand my ground, not daring to move.
"Perhaps she's come to spy on us," comes a voice from the crowd behind me, "they are the cause for all our suffering anyway."
A mistake; I keep myself focus now. Cautiously I step forward, and he lets me through, only when I pass does he seize my jacket and throws it to the ground.
Suddenly the wind is cold and my face is flustered. As I bend down to pick up my jacket I see his foot over it, poised triumphantly.
"Please sir," I say. "My coat."
I don't even see his other arm. It comes down as I bend to pick up the jacket, square on my back. I feel my heart in my mouth, my face burning red. And mud on my arms.
Laughter echoes. But I get up and retrieve my jacket. Slowly, I walk out of his reach.
"Vermin!" a voice yells.
"Good riddance!"
"Don't look at her, young ones, you will lose your sight."
"They are the blood-drinkers, you know."
Dusk is almost upon me and I am thankful for it. As I walk towards my house, I know that nobody will see the mud on my arms, the dirtied jacket and the redness of shame on my face.
In the house all is warm; a cackling fire is burning in the hearth and the aroma of spice fills the air. Father has returned from his day's work at the docking port, tired but glad for the feat we will have. Before Aunt Cheng notices, I brush the caked mud from my arms, warming myself near the fire as the skies outside darken for the night.
At last, the family gathers. I have never seen such a feast, such a banquet meant for this occasion. The season of plenty, Aunt Cheng calls it, to remember all the good times we once had on Earth. The Timkin and Jhowel are spiced and flavoured, the stew is bubbling and thick with stock, our bread is soft and spongy and wine, diluted, is waiting on a pitcher. The family sits and talks, all six of us, as we await Father's permission to begin.
Just as we are about to begin, a knock raps on our door. Father looks up, still and silent; the knock comes again, harder, more impatiently this time, and he ascends to see our visitor. My eyes dart around the table, being eldest, I follow Father to the door.
He opens it. A fat, puffy alien man stands outside, several of his teeth shine with silvered enamel and he possesses a certain air of importance around him. All his four hands are covered with sleek, shiny gloves. He is Tairpar, mayor of the neighbourhood adjacent to ours.
"Michael, I have a piece of business to settle with you," he says through his puffy, bloated lips, "I am here to collect the exchange amount for the cargo I received from Fauldro yesterday. I trust that you have not forgotten."
The timing is unlikely, but to Father business is business. He hurries off out of sight, leaving Tairpar and myself at the doorway. Aunt Cheng avoids his gaze, Michelle tries to hide her worry. Our visitor is drawing all attention to him and I know, too, that by meeting his gaze, I will grant him even more power.
His eyes are narrowed, glancing towards the table. Even Michelle knows, even Liwei knows, what he is looking for. It is spread in rumours across the neighbouring communities, any youngster living near humans is taught this secret when young and chastised by his parents to take it to heart: on this night, the human night of plenty, humans drink the blood of a non-human child. But where is the blood? Where?
Father returns, his journal with him to ascertain the true amount he owns to this trading partner of his. He holds out several cards, all Solbrecht debit plates. But our visitor is dissatisfied, he looks down at our offerings with disdain and mocking.
"You
are short," he replies coldly, "of some three hundred debits."
"But Sir Tairpar, the
entry in my journal doesn't show a higher amount," Father indicates, pointing
to his book filled with scribbles and ledgers. "I owe you six thousand, no
more, no less."
"Interest rates have increased, the Solbrecht rates have fallen," he eyes me with utmost disgust. "Haven't you taught your daughter to take note of these things? Or are you training her to be as incapable as you?"
I stutter, my hatred balling my hands into fists. To accuse a daughter of being unfilial!
My father finds several other pieces of plates, but he still protests: "The journals cannot be wrong…"
"If there is a problem you can bring this matter up to the magistrate of Zeraatel, I'm sure he would be happy to settle this for us," he taunts triumphantly, snatching away the plates from my Father's hands. "And might I remind you I am up for election as a magistrate as well… I will forgive this little error on your part, but next time I expect better service, from both you and your spawn."
He retreats into the night. My hands, red from being balled together, now desire to tear the liar's throat apart. I taste hatred on my tongue, my spite for this four-armed bandit as I slam the door.
"How dare he say that right in our faces!" I burst out. "The pig!"
"There's no need to get angry," Father reproaches me. "What's done is done. Let's enjoy this dinner now."
It's true, I do enjoy it. But within the chatting and the eating and the tang of spices as I taste them with the savoury meat melting in my mouth, something seems to taint the mood. My eyes constantly wander back to the doorway where the mayor once stood. I am consumed with loathing each time I think of it, and I cannot get it out of my mind.
Written by shelter