Chimera
There'd been a lot of shouting at that meeting -- well, there always was shouting at the meetings Farnch took him to. Wasn't no use saying he didn't wanna go, on account the shouting hurt his head -- Farnch just called him an auntie, and shoved him into the nearest wall. Then Jewl would yell, and punch Farnch, too, if he wasn't faster'n her fist, which wasn't nobody faster'n Jewl's fist -- and Farnch'd get mad, but even Farnch knew better'n to swing on Jewl, so he'd just get madder'n madder, 'til Darby's head was like to bust with it, and either Farnch'd go out with his crew, or Darby'd go up to the garden 'til either he could hear himself think, or the tips of his ears started to burn in the cold, or Jewl sent one of the twins up to bring him back inside.
Jewl'd been feelin' bad these last couple days, and he'd just managed to get her to sleep when Farnch'd come home, growling about how there was a meeting and it was up to him and Darby help take Surebleak back. . .and all the other kind o'nonsense Farnch was on about lately, him having a grudge against the New Bosses. Farnch, he'd been ambitious, under the Old Bosses. He'd been working all the angles there was, and some that, in Darby's personal opinion, didn't really exist, looking to get onto Boss Goyan's staff. Farnch's big plan was to work his way up to insurance man.
He'd've prolly made, too, Farnch being just that mean, but then what should happen but Boss Conrad come to Surebleak, just particularly to ruin Farnch's life. Least, that's the way Farnch felt about it, and there wasn't any way at all that Darby could change what his brother felt about having his life-plan ruined.
So, for the sake of Jewl's rest, and his own fragile head, Darby'd come along quiet to the meeting, and sat through the yelling and the hating, and the wanting to do something-or-someone a lot of hurt and harm.
That last, that was the worst. He could mostly ignore the yelling and the hating. . .well, that wasn't so bad when there were lots of folks. The feeling got. . .spread out, somehow. Hate was a lot harder to deal with, when it was concentrated in one person.
The bloodlust, though, that got scarier'n a sleet-storm, real fast. Killing rage multiplied in a crowd, until it overwhelmed every sane thought in the room.
Hadn't been so bad tonight; tonight being a planning meeting. There was gonna be a shooting competition at Sherman's, and all the New Bosses were gonna be there with their 'hands. The Streeters for Taking Back Surebleak committee -- that was what Farnch's friends called themselves, though Darby didn't see that Surebleak'd gone anywhere. Sure, there was the new people come in -- Liadens and suchlike -- but Surebleak was still right there under the boots where it'd always been, far's Darby knew about it. . .
Anyhow, the Streeters for Surebleak, they was thinking maybe to disrupt that shoot, and show the New Bosses a thing or three, and put the fear of winter into 'em.
So that was the meeting, and he'd lasted 'til it was over, pretty well pleased to've come out in good order, with only the tiniest headache, and his ears ringing with the shouting.
"Darb, we're going on down to Rogin's and talk about this some more. You coming?"
No, no. He knew 'way better'n drinkin' with Farnch and his friends and talking some more about real 'bleakers and how the foreigners had taken every good thing that'd ever been in everybody's hand, like they'd forgotten the way it had been, with the Old Bosses.
Like they'd liked the way it'd been, under the Old Bosses.
Well, and that was just it. The way he'd understood it, the couple times he couldn't think of an excuse not to go with Farnch's crew, was they had liked the old ways better. They were strong, and liked violence, too -- that was the difference between them and Darby. He could hold his own in a fight -- wouldn't lived long on the streets after their dad died, if he hadn't learned that. Wasn't as fast as Jewl, nor not as big as Farnch, but he was quick, and he knew where to hit.
Didn't like to fight, that was all. 'specially didn't like to fight when there wasn't anything to fight about.
Farnch, though -- was waiting for an answer, and Darby was walking the thin line of making him look bad in front of his crew.
"Can't tonight," he said, managing to sound like he felt sad about that. "Gotta check on Jewl; see if she's any better."
"Right," said Farnch, who'd been pretty put out with having to make his supper outta twin-made soup and a handwich. "Tell 'er I expect to see her fresh as a new fall tomorra."
Jewl wasn't likely to be up tomorrow, but there wasn't any use telling Farnch that. Always worked out better with Farnch, if he just discovered things when they happened, 'stead of giving him to time to work up a mad.
So.
"I'll tell her," Darby said, and nodded to his brother's crew before he headed on down the street.
"Brother ain't real keen?" he heard Vesti ask. It'd be Vesti. Always making trouble, that girl.
"He's in," Farnch said, his voice getting thinner as the crew headed off in the opposite direction. "No doubt there. M'sister's been sick, is all, and he worries over her like she was our ma."
In point of actual fact, Darby didn't remember their ma all that sharp; she'd already been sick when he'd come along. Jewl'd been there from the first; Jewl'd had the raising of him, Jewl and Dad, 'til Dad got made a zample. Jewl'd got pregnant right after -- 'nother kind of zample-making, which was something he wasn't s'posed to know, and Jewl didn't never talk about. That got 'em the twins, and Jewl'd been first-minded to toss 'em out into the snow. He'd worked with her on that, just putting weight and warm on what Gran Delaros said when she come to check in, which she'd done three, five times a day, at first, when Jewl wouldn't get up, and turned her face into the pillow when the twins was brought to suck. It took some time, it took some work, but the talk about snowbanks melted away, and she'd cuddle 'em a little when they nursed, and started in to play with 'em, and to pick 'em up, instead of leaving that to Darby or to Gran -- Farnch, he'd been out with his crew, mostly, 'round then, him needing to stablish his space on the sidewalk. . .
"Alien! I'm gonna stomp you inta paste you little --"
The voice was loud, and slurred, coming from the street on Darby's left. There was the sound of meat hitting meat, and a soft cry, then another yell -- and Darby was running, not away from the fight, which woulda been sensible, but toward it.
#
Darby recognized the big guy -- Pablo Gerstein, who'd been Boss Goyan's insurance man -- the guy Farnch'd planned to throw outta his job. Now Goyan'd gotten retired, Pablo, he'd kinda retired, too, bullying the local bartenders into giving him drinks, and staying just a little drunk, and a lot belligerent, all the time.
Nowadays, he got his money by beating up 'streeters less able with their fists, or less willing to give -- or take -- damage, than he was.
Tonight, he had his mark pushed up into a corner -- Darby had a fast glimpse of a short, slender figure, ducking not quite out of the way of Pablo's fist, and then he was on it, grabbing the big man by the elbow, and spinning him around with a yell.
"You bastid!" Pablo shouted. "Better get the sleet outta here, or I'll --"
Darby swung, taking advantage of the big man's chancy balance, to land a good one on his jaw.
That sent him staggering, but punches weren't the way to take Pablo down. Even a hard strike to the skull didn't always do the trick; years of drinking had given him a head as hard as a paving stone.
The big man'd already recovered, and was coming in swinging with his ham fists. Darby ducked inside the other's reach, got a good chest punch in, and turned his head to yell at the mark, who was still standing in that corner.
"Run!"
Well, that was a mistake. Pablo's fist came outta nowhere, and the next thing Darby was seeing was snowflakes, in real pretty colors, and feeling the wall against his back.
Pablo was so mad, he didn't have any more words; he was still fighting, though -- roaring, too -- and all his attention on Darby.
Desperately, Darby pushed himself away from the wall -- and there was a flash of motion between him and Pablo, a short, slight figure that seemed to skate over the surface of the street, hand striking high, foot striking low. Darby heard something go crunch, Pablo screamed and -- fell over.
"Sleet and thunder!" Darby yelled. He dashed forward, grabbed the little guy by the arm and dragged him in his wake.
"C'mon! Run while he's down!"
#
Half a block away, Darby felt the little guy kind of stagger under his hand, and caught a spike of pain. He slowed, shifting his grip to give the boy some support under the elbow.
"Hey," he said, breathless, "you OK?"
The street was dark, but there was a little spill from the sign over Greenlie's Dry Goods, enough to see a thin face behind a long snarl of reddish brown hair, bruises already rising along a high, fragile cheek. Dark eyes looked at him straightly, brows pulled against that little burn of pain.
"You OK?" Darby asked again. "My place is just another block down. Can you walk that far? I don't think Pablo's gonna be chasing after us. That knee must hurt where you kicked him."
"Indeed," the voice was light, and somewhat unsteady. "If I remembered my. . .lessons, that knee. . .cap is crushed. Pablo will require a physician."
Something flickered over his face -- another sort of pain, Darby caught -- and that fast, it was gone.
"I am Kez Rel ter'Ista Clan Wilkin," he said. "I thank you for your. . .timely assistance." He paused, and Darby felt the shiver go through him. "What is your name, sir?"
"Darby Bajek, and I ain't a sir. Just Darby's good. You OK to walk down to my place?"
"There is no need for you to trouble yourself further. I will continue to my lodgings."
Darby eyed him, seeing the wobble in the knees, and feeling the flicker of pain, and something else, around the pain. He wanted a closer look at that, but first things first. The boy needed to sit down and collect himself, else he was gonna fall over onto his pointy little nose.
"'less your lodging's right next door here, you're better coming with me. Get you cleaned up, something to settle you -- my nephew made a big pot o'soup for our supper. Sure was good, and I'm betting there's still a cup left for you. While you're having that, we'll get you a taxi to the lodging."
Darby paused, considering. He didn't get the feeling that Kestrel Terista was afraid; sensibly wary maybe covered it. Still, couldn't hurt to say it out, plain.
"Won't hurt you."
He heard the sharp intake of breath, saw the eyes widen, maybe in insult -- and then a wry smile.
"Thank you. . .Darby. I will come with you, and call a taxi."
"That's the ticket. Just right this way."
He thought about offering an arm to lean on, remembered that half-gasp of insult and bit his tongue. He did set a slow pace, though, down the street, toward home.
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END OF SAMPLE
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