“Well?! Did I deliver?!” Mateo’s booming laugh echoed off the cafeteria walls. The boy proudly planted a foot on the table, put his hands on his hips, and surveyed the gathering triumphantly.
Drax could not read thoughts, but the greedy lunges of hands answered the question far better than words. The students who had finished their charity work had settled onto a semicircular leather couch, stained with blurry medallions of dried sauce. On the table before them stood a truly enormous skillet, filled to the brim with a traditional dish of the people of Pearl.
Pieces of meat gleamed white, like stars in a sky of seared greens and purple spices. The entire dish was sprinkled with a layer of finely chopped pepper and generously seasoned. Warm steam curled above the food, pleasantly caressing cheeks as the dining companions leaned in, shoving fat-slicked handfuls into their mouths. Forks and knives were not permitted; those coming for a bite were meant to sate themselves in the ancient manner, reminiscent of far-off days.
The food was magnificent! Iternian dishes were ruled by a strict balance of calories and benefit, sacrificing taste and character. Here, not even a hint of order was present: the meat rolled on the tongue, spurting juice; carrots and cabbage crushed by teeth released puffs of sharp liquid, caressing gums with a kaleidoscope of sensation; inside the meat lurked flavor bombs that burst upon biting and welled up as tears in the eyes. The stomach simultaneously demanded more and demanded cold mineral water to quell the fire in the throat. There were no napkins; instead, thin strips of cheesy bread called lavash were used. Soon they, too, were soaked in juice and sent into open mouths.
The meal seemed to grow, transforming everything it touched into an extension of the feast, rather than diminishing as it was eaten.
The eatery was located two streets from the factory, unremarkable, outwardly no different from an establishment with a similar name across the road from the property owned by the corporation. Nevertheless, this was where Mateo had led them, without even offering a menu. One side of the place was occupied by wooden racks bearing ready-made pastries that were already beginning to go stale. Behind the counter with the register, an open and relatively clean kitchen was visible. Lines of workers finishing their shifts crowded the registers, grabbing belyashi, meat patties in bread, and hot dogs, but few ate right there on the spot.
The adults chaperoning the children restricted themselves to tea and cast disapproving looks at Horatia, who had ordered for herself another cultural symbol of the tribes from the fringes of Pearl.
“Greasier than I’m used to...” Julia drawled, grabbing herself another portion. “Ah, whatever, I’ll give some extra during exercises. I was wrong about your knowledge, Mateo. Come on, spill it. What is this, and where’s it from?”
“Pot. Long before my great-grandfather loosed his first cry, our people arrived in the valleys north of Pearl, fleeing the raids that were laying waste to our cities. The path was not easy: the gorges of the shattered mountains concealed many dangers. For weeks, the stretched-out chains of the Impeho saw no sunlight, felt no wind,” Mateo began his tale in a ceremonial voice, with a faint note of sadness.
He pulled his jacket over his head, raised his hands, and wiggled his fingers, gradually withdrawing them into the darkness beneath the garment and mimicking the movement of tiny human figures in tunnels.
“The lanterns began to fail, and desperate whisperings arose of granting the children their last mercy. ‘Our ancestors are angry at us for fleeing! The brave perish but once; cowards are doomed to despair! We shall never find an exit!’ But the chieftain kept leading them forward. He was the sixth to emerge outside, and tears welled in his eyes at the sight of the spreading wealth of green under the cool breeze. Then he commanded them to bring the largest pots and throw into them all the provisions that threatened to spoil. For spices, the scouts used plants found nearby, and water for boiling was gathered from the freezing streams. The Impeho converged on the burgeoning feast, and the sharpness of the sensations of the first glimpse of our new home was forever etched into the palate of each, together with the sharpest of meals, overpowering the memories of suffocating horror!” Mateo laughed.
Claps of palms, spraying droplets of grease, served as a reward for the bowing boy.
“Thank you, thank you, you are very kind.” He adjusted his jacket. “Our chieftain showed wisdom, coming to terms with the rulers of Pearl: a tithe from farming in exchange for the right to work the valleys. Thus, two groups became neighbors... until the earthquakes.” He fell silent, not elaborating.
“You have a talent for storytelling.” Julia speared a piece of meat. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“A pot has no single recipe. If you were asking about ingredients, this one used poultry. The aim of the preparation is to create a palpable, memorable taste.”
“This one is very palpable,” confirmed a satisfied Drax. “Do all your eateries prepare dishes like this?”
“In a belchery,” Mateo corrected, and let out a belch, living up to the name. “No, friend Drax, not all of them.” The other children of the guest workers nodded along. “Never, ever go into our establishments without asking me about their reputation. Some have dreadful sanitation...”
“Worse than here?” Julia was horrified, wiping her fingers with lavash.
Mateo opened his mouth for a joke and immediately shut it. He pressed himself into the middle of the couch, his shoulders slumping and his gaze fixed on the table. His breathing quickened, and Drax, together with Horatia, looked around at the glass storefront. Walking down the pavement were four tattooed figures. Three men and a woman. Moving among them, whistling, was a lanky, bronze-skinned man toying with a gilded chain in his hand. On his face, above his left eye, was a single tattoo: a skull whose eye socket was pierced by a chain hook that disappeared into his hair. The foreign workers respectfully parted before them, freezing like game hoping to remain unnoticed by the hunter.
A quiet growl rumbled in the depths of Drax’s throat. When sitting down, he had wanted to take a spot on the edge, but Julia and Mateo had almost forcefully shoved him into the center of the couch, and until now everything had been fine. But now very real waves of worry were rising from the kids; Horatia had turned toward him, and irritation was mounting in Drax’s chest in response to Mateo’s clear, sharp fear. He did not know who these people were, but a dark desire within was begging to break free and dust the bones of the ones daring to spoil the mood of the sustenance provider.
They are not predators. I am.
“Friend Drax, your turn.” Mateo clapped him on the back as soon as the strangers disappeared from view.
The nascent aggression dissipated. Slightly embarrassed, Drax scratched the back of his head with his paw.
“My turn for what?”
“Since we’re not going to be permitted to celebrate the meeting properly...”
Mateo looked mournfully at the plastic tub in front of Horatia. Lemons had been squeezed into it, a mixture of lime and grapefruit juice had been poured in, sixteen bottles of soda had been added, and the whole thing had been buried in ice. Then a threatening amount of tequila was poured in, and Drax momentarily imagined the distended belly of the woman were she to drink this heady mixture to the bottom. However, the bartender produced plastic cups the size of a fist, scooped up the resulting brew, and handed one to Horatia. The remaining cups were distributed among the workers.
“...then tell us what the bracelets are for.” Mateo tapped the iron hoops on Drax’s wrists. “No offense, but I initially took you for an ex-con.”
“Who escaped from prison and barged into our class.” The two other Iternians gasped at Julia’s words. “What? What? I just said what everyone was thinking!”
“More like from Artificer’s ship,” Drax snorted. “I have a power...”
“Hold on, hold on, rewind it. You know Artificer?”
“Met him in person, once...”
He probably did something wrong. An avalanche of questions and requests to contact the Elite crashed down upon Drax. He was asked to arrange a personal meeting with the AI for a photo, to get an autograph, to find out whether the Elite could ask Redeemer to perform at Augustina... There was no end to the interest. Stumbling, he spoke about the internal structure of the cradles and about the robots, often distracted by interruptions and demands to clarify whether Artificer was seeing Eugenia Mylli or if that was just a rumor floated by the press.
The schoolkids were interested in everything: from the Elite’s tastes to his manner of speaking in private to any hobbies. His attempts to tell them about the treatment of his bisected father were cut short by a chaperone’s tutting, but the mention that Artificer had once worked as a policeman sparked a storm of discussion. Julia and Mateo tried to fish out more and were upset by Drax’s lack of knowledge.
He himself, however, enjoyed the conversation. Even sitting, he looked down at the other schoolchildren; his body was covered in a bony carapace capable of tearing Softskins apart with a careless touch, and at times the sated rumbling in his belly resembled the work of an engine. But in conversation, any differences became unnoticeable; the chaperones relaxed, and even the foreign workers and staff no longer filmed him with their terminal lenses.
Among his kind. Even if not quite like everyone else, still a part of society. One simply had to work, come what may.
Spilling out together from the belchery, they squeezed onto an evening bus packed with people. Two Iternians apologized for an accidental poke and paled when Drax turned to them. He assured them everything was fine and tried to strike up a small conversation. His questions, to the boy’s bafflement, embarrassed the people.
“Has Argus started making sentient scarecrows now?” a pale-skinned adult nervously swallowed.
“I don’t understand,” Drax admitted. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing, just a bad joke,” Horatia hiccupped. “Buddy, those kinds of hints are impolite toward citizens.”
“R-right. Forget it.” The man turned away.
Drax exchanged glances with the others. Julia spread her hands, and Mateo shrugged. Then the girl’s face lit up with understanding; she burst into ringing laughter, hiccupped, and clutched her stomach. Waving off questions about her health, Julia did not explain the reason for her mirth and only kept her fist pressed to her mouth, snorting undignifiedly. Drax did not bother her. Tomorrow, he intended to ask Mateo about the reason for his fear. If someone was bothering the boy...
Well, he could pound a face or two into their skulls.
The group parted ways at an intersection not far from the airport. The first bright dots flared up in the night sky, and red flashes raced across the white disk of the moon high above. A small flock of birds flew past, heading either for the park or, conversely, out of the city. Streams of cars hovered, filling the roads, and Drax couldn’t help but admire the holographic advertisements that together formed true paintings on the walls of buildings and the projected shop and restaurant signs. Above all this colorful splendor, a defense platform drifted by as an imperturbable dark shadow. At night, the blue glow of the power station was visible, rising above the buildings like a tender dawn.
Dad hadn’t arrived yet, and Drax was drawn by the noise of a crowd from a square south of the business quarter. Horatia grimaced but stayed behind, blending into the shadows and sticking to their agreement: she allowed him to explore the city on his own terms, stopped him from big follies, and let him get into small troubles.
Licking off the grease, Drax approached the crowd that had gathered around a set-up tribune from which a Normie in a black business suit without a tie was orating. A microphone stretched from his ear to his lips; his two-toned hair was slicked back so that gray strands intersected the blackness; his blue eyes, full of vigor, surveyed the assembled.
“...A violation of every promise made to us.” The orator paced before a placard reading “Safeguard the Future!” The crowd, stretching across the entire square, numbered several thousand Softskins. Drones flew above their heads, broadcasting his speech through speakers. “Their naivety endangers our children and every citizen of Iterna. Hungry for success, the greedy politicians have shoved the Malformed into our streets, into our homes, next to our neighbors and friends. Will the mayor pay for the risk of citizens coexisting with people incompatible with our way of life?! Of course not; he sits in safety while you and I exist in this Petri dish every day, not knowing what tomorrow may bring! The Conservatives, the Innovators, both parties are two sides of the same coin. All of them have ignored the directives of specialists! We are forever told, ‘Trust the scientists’ — and here our own government ignores them, sticking dangerous individuals right under our noses!”
“Hey!” Drax shouted.
He did not like the man’s statements. Eloria, Axel, and his parents were not some kind of “dangerous individuals”. How dare he call them that without even speaking to them? Drax tried to push through the crowd, but his way was blocked by a Normie in a brown coat. His black hair was neatly trimmed, but the sparse beard on his jaw was touched with gray, and through round glasses he fixed Drax with a discerning gaze that instantly assessed both his height and the bracelets.
“Piss off, maggot,” the Normie threw out.
“I want to correct a misunderstanding,” Drax said stubbornly.
From under the collar of the Normie’s sweater, something red emerged; it was coiling around a neck with bulging veins and cast no reflections on the man’s dark skin. He kept his hands in his pockets and looked up at Drax fearlessly, with disdain.
“The only misunderstanding that needs correcting is you,” the Normie shot back.
“Is that a threat?” Drax tensed.
More Normies surrounded him, and someone’s shadow fell on him from the side. A gigantic woman leaned toward him, smiling broadly with the folds of her red lips on her pale face. She wore something akin to an army uniform with a belt and patted him on the shoulder, tilting her head closer.
“Take it however you like, sweetie,” she cooed honeyedly. “But this is no place for you. Cockroaches shouldn’t come to human gatherings. Let’s walk you out...”
Feigned relaxation. Deliberate drawing of his attention to her face and the patting. Such close distance could only mean one thing...
A fist crashed into his upraised palm, failing to reach the ribs protected by a bony layer. Drax squeezed the woman’s hand, but her smile did not dim. She pushed her fist forward, despite his best efforts.
“Trust me, you don’t want me to take my irritation out on you,” Drax said. He was not afraid. He didn’t even think of calling for help. Nothing after Raoul would ever frighten him. Any opponent paled in comparison to the imprisoned monster.
“Hey!” the speaker shouted. “Leave the guy alone. Don’t crowd him.”
The pressure vanished. The man with glasses turned around, and the red thing slipped back under his sweater.
“We simply wanted to prevent your speech from being interrupted, Scipio. No one frightened the Malformed.”
“A real pity, because I would have crapped my pants if a crowd started pressing in on me, Reiko Vat Grahl. Our gathering is free for anyone wishing to attend, provided they behave politely. Step away from him.”
Reiko hesitated, clearly intending to argue. He jerked his head, dodging someone’s body that suddenly burst in close, and to his surprise, Drax found Nakula Marva standing beside him.
“You heard the command. Heel, Reiko.” The big man grinned.
“Watch your tone, Nakula.”
“Or what?” A hand stretched toward Drax and shifted to the right, forcing the two assholes to step back. Pierre winked at the boy and pushed his face up to Reiko’s glasses. “You gonna do something, sugartits? Show us a trick?”
“My tricks are seen only once.”
“That boring, eh?”
“We coordinated this demonstration for an entire week.” Shoving the enormous woman aside, Raghunath stood next to Drax and gave him an encouraging look. “Let’s not draw the attention of the police.”
“Thank you! Can I talk with you?!” Drax waved to the speaker.
“I can barely hear you from here.” Scipio smiled. “Make way; let the guest through.”
“Another time, softie,” the enormous woman purred. “Our conversation isn’t over.”
“Any time,” Drax whispered to her. “If you don’t piss yourself and dare to challenge me fairly. Coward.”
He headed along the corridor that had opened up toward the podium, not fully understanding what he was doing, but unwilling to retreat either. To his left, terminal lenses clicked, and Drax waved at them, preferring to flaunt himself rather than be embarrassed. The gathering wanted to film him? No problem, he’d even pose for them.
The presence of Nakula and his people bothered Drax. The settlers kept apart from Reiko’s group, looking at them with disdain and contempt, yet Nakula was here. His daughter was friends with Tigrin, so why was he supporting these people?
“Animal.” A woman in the front rows spat at him.
“Remove her!” Scipio’s angry voice rang out over the crowd.
The woman flinched and looked up at the speaker in fright.
“Escort her out of the demonstration! Let her think about her behavior. There is no place here for racism or bullying. We are all human. We will not continue until you leave, Miss.”
“But... I...”
Reiko seized the stammering woman and forcibly dragged her off the square.
“I apologize for what happened.”
Scipio offered a hand, and Drax took it, careful not to lean on the man, lest he send him tumbling down with his weight. The speaker gave him a napkin and set out a plastic chair. The boy wiped himself off and hovered over the chair, his backside not touching it, supporting himself on bent legs. His interlocutor seemed genuinely concerned but clearly had no idea how much a Malformed weighed. Scipio fetched an identical chair for himself and sat down next to him, extending a hand.
“Scipio Gnaes, at your service. I am the orator of the ‘Defenders’ movement in Baal. I assure you, we utterly condemn the behavior of our unwise supporter.”
“It happens. I’m not offended. Drax Vileheart. Schoolkid.”
“Schoolkid?” The confusion on the man’s face lasted no longer than a second.
“Yep! At Augustina. The best educational institution in the city.”
“Hm. I imagine the Barjoni would be upset to hear that.” Scipio smiled warmly, shamelessly looking Drax over from head to toe. “You’re not joking with me?”
“Not in the slightest. Can I use ‘you’?”
“I’d be honored. To what do I owe your visit?”
“You said we are incompatible with Iterna’s way of life. I know we don’t look like...” He nearly said “Softskins,” “...like most people here. But I’ve made friends with neighbors perfectly normally. Why can’t we be citizens?”
“You can! But not now!” Scipio wagged a finger. “Drax, you’re speaking to me through a translator. You don’t know the customs and way of life of our glorious country. Our language eludes you. And that’s normal! Would it be fair to demand the knowledge of all that from you after such a short introduction period? Of course not! Nevertheless, the fact remains a fact. Those living in the territories annexed to us undergo thorough training, fully embracing the values of Iterna, before receiving citizenship. Does cutting the line sound fair to you?”
But Nakula had also cut the line. Drax bit his tongue. He didn’t want to redirect hostility onto himself at the cost of putting others in an uncomfortable or dangerous position.
“No,” he admitted. “But there were circumstances. If not for Artificer, I would have died. And my father wouldn’t be with me.”
“Honor and praise to the Elite. You deserve life. A happy and long one,” Scipio said plainly. “Don’t think that anyone here wishes to exterminate you. No! And I am not against you becoming a citizen. Only later. You are purely physically incapable of not posing a threat to those around you. Instead of staying in a socialization camp, you found yourselves thrown out onto the streets, lost and posing a danger both to yourselves and to others. Drax, your tribe eats human flesh. Have you eaten it?”
“Yes. But I have never hurt a living person!” he hurriedly added. Gasps and shouts rose from the crowd. Scipio raised a hand, calling for order. “And... the Malformed have saved mutant babies left to die.”
“You’re speaking of Gregorio Belko, who let go a family with an infant,” Scipio nodded. “That was a noble deed, though it was not enough for his admission into the army so soon.”
Gregorio? Who was Gregorio? The name was unfamiliar to him. Drax correlated what he knew. Softskins thought Gaur had let that baby and her parents go. Gaur showed no aggression, looked lost when he was brought to the camp... Oh. Oh. F-f-fuck! Gaur is free, in the army?! I agree with the Defenders, the government is too reckless!
He tugged at the collar of his sweater, which had suddenly become too tight. Should he say something? What if Gaur had changed? No, what was he thinking, the former guard was scum!
“The danger is already palpable on the streets of our cities,” Scipio continued. “Yesterday, a Malformed failed to control his impulses and bit a social worker. The instantly developing necrosis led to the loss of an arm, and now we have two victims. The arm will be replaced, but neither of these two should have had to go through such trauma. That Malformed is as much a victim as the one injured: a victim of the government’s irrationality. Nothing would have happened had your people been in a calm and happy camp.”
The blood drained from Drax’s muzzle. Cold washed over him; his hands trembled. Bit.
“I... didn’t know about this.”
“He doesn’t even follow the country’s news! That’s how much becoming part of society matters to him!” a voice roared from the crowd.
“And do you follow? Can you name even ten kids interested in politics or the news?” Scipio countered, and the man who had shouted turned red. Chuckles followed. The speaker touched the boy’s hand. “What happened is not your fault. Do not blame yourself. You came with a question. Do you now understand our point of view? Our concerns?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I won’t get in the way,” Drax mumbled.
He rose, carefully jumped off the podium, and trudged back, his head hanging low. Bit. He himself had such tendencies within him, after all. What if he bit Nonus, or Julia, or Mateo? Did they deserve to be near him in constant danger? Halfway there, his forehead bumped into something, and arms embraced him. He didn’t even resist.
“Drax,” his father said tenderly. “How was your day?”
“Wonderful,” he answered. “Only I... I was stupid here. Tried to talk and... They’re right, Dad.”
“Who decided that?” William asked. “Mr. Scipio, would you mind letting me have a word as well?”
“We welcome all points of view, for truth is born in discussion,” the speaker replied. “Come up.”
“Thank you.” Father walked past Drax, climbed onto the tribune, and lowered himself onto the chair, immediately crashing through it with his weight. He was the first to extend a hand and shake Scipio’s palm, towering over the seated man even in such a position, and waved aside offers to bring a sturdier chair. “Then let us begin the dialogue.”