Steven Harper - Dreamer

Kendi looked away, then back, careful not to stare. He had seen the boy around the market several times. Something about him rang bells in Kendi’s head, but he couldn’t say what or why. Kendi doubted he was the kid they were looking for-that would be too much to hope for. The Children of Irfan had been planning to spend several weeks or months on their search. Finding their quarry in only four days would be a miracle. But the elusive Silent child wasn’t the only person Kendi was seeking.

Kendi studied the boy’s face as best he could in gathering dusk. It was the eyes that drew him. Utang, Kendi’s brother, had blue eyes just like them. They were rare among the Real People. Excitement gripped Kendi. His heartbeat sped up, and he found himself trotting briskly toward the boy. At that moment, the boy’s gaze met Kendi’s. Their eyes locked. Then a look of fear crossed the boy’s face and he bolted. The crowd swallowed him up.

Dammit! Kendi gave himself a mental kick. He’d been walking with too much purpose. The boy had probably mistaken him for guard. Kendi should have let the crowd carry him toward the boy. He sighed heavily and headed for Mr. M’s stall.

It was another entryway masquerading as a booth, though it was much plusher than Qasad’s. Thick rugs covered the floor, and people lounged provocatively on comfortable-looking furniture. Several were talking to customers. Sweet incense perfumed the air. The proprietor bore down on Kendi the moment politeness allowed, computer pad in hand.

“Something I can help you find?” the man asked. He was older, and as round as Ara, though she had more hair.

Kendi drew himself up. “I represent an…interested person. We’re looking to acquire a few things on a permanent basis.”

The man hemmed and hawed just like Qasad had. Kendi dropped more kesh and mentioned the other places he’d patronized. “Check with them and they’ll tell you I’m a good customer.”

The man tapped some keys on his pad and spoke to it in a low voice. Kendi let his gaze wander around the booth, feigning boredom despite a dry mouth and sweaty palms.

“Do I hear fifteen? Fifteen for this fine-fifteen, thank you, sir. Do I hear twenty? I have fifteen, will someone give me twenty?”

“I’d be glad to show you what we have, sir,” Mr. M said, breaking into Kendi’s memory. “This way, please.”

Kendi followed Mr. M through an opening in the back of the booth and into the tall, thin house behind. The round little man presented his thumb for verification, opened a heavy door, and descended a flight of stairs. Dampness mingled with faint murmurs from below. Kendi’s stomach churned. The urge to run welled up, but he bit the inside of his cheek and went down the steps.

It was like descending into the past. Mr. M’s words barely registered as he showed Kendi a long row of people. Each person wore a thick metal bracelet on wrist and ankle. On the concrete wall behind them glowed a series of disks. They were sensors that tracked the movements of the shackles. If any slave moved beyond a prescribed area, the shackle transmitted first a warning tingle, then a wrenching shock unless the slave immediately returned. If the slave somehow managed to stay mobile after a full shock, the shackles became electromagnets, instantly chaining ankle to wrist and hobbling the escapee.

The youngest slave in the basement was a girl of nine, the oldest a man of seventy. Kendi passed a teenage boy who looked up at him with frightened eyes, and memories rushed at him. He was twelve again, fettered near a damp stone wall near his mother. A procession of people probed and pushed at him with rough hands. Anger mixed with hurt, frustration, and fear, and all of it turned to terror his father and sister were lead away. His brother was already gone.

Kendi rubbed his wrists and firmed his jaw. He would find them-all of them. If he had to check every slave in the universe, he would do it.

“…can produce Silent children,” Mr. M said.

Kendi snapped his head around. “Say that again?”

Mr. M’s eyes gleamed briefly. “I said, this particular cow-” he gestured to a seated woman “-can produce Silent children. She has already born three.”

The woman looked up at Kendi. Her brown eyes were empty, vacant.

“Each one comes with papers that will stand up to the closest scrutiny,” Mr. M was saying. “Do you see anything that interests you?”

Any thing. As if they were discussing rugs or lamp shades instead of people. Kendi realized he was grinding his teeth. To cover his consternation, he bent down to touch the woman’s shoulder. She tried not to flinch.

Nothing. Her children might be Silent, but she was not.

Kendi moved down the line, ignoring the slaver’s chatter and touching the shoulder of every slave under the age of twenty. None was Silent.

“Nothing young enough for you?” Mr. M asked. “I do have contacts who-”

Kendi curtly waved the man to silence. “Nothing here interests me.”

“I’m expecting more next week,” the slaver told him. “Cows and bulls both.”

“Then I may return.” He strode up the stairs without another word.

Back in the busy, crowded market, he paused to lean against a wall. He wanted a shower, or a long soak in a tub. But there was Indri’s stall to visit. Kendi wondered how long it would take to find the child and if his sanity could stand up to repeated visits like this one.

Deciding to get it over with as quickly as possible, Kendi started off, and halted. The ragged boy was back, slouched against the same wall, scanning the crowd with those oddly blue eyes. Kendi ducked between a pot seller and a noodle merchant and peered cautiously at the boy’s face.

It wasn’t just the eyes. The boy’s skin tone and facial structure reminded Kendi strongly of Utang, the older brother he hadn’t seen in over fifteen years. Kendi couldn’t keep his excitement down. Was it possible? Had his brother escaped slavery and had a son?

Right, he told himself. In a universe of who-knows-how-many trillion people, you just happen to arrive at the one market in the one city on the one planet where a nephew you didn’t even know existed hangs out.

But the resemblance was undeniable. Kendi bit his lip. More astounding coincidences were common enough. Why should this one be so unbelievable?

Steam rose from the noodle merchant’s water kettles and the pot seller cried out to passers-by about the fine quality of his wares. It was almost dark, but the market showed no sign of slowing down. Here and there, street lights flickered to feeble life. The boy didn’t move.

Kendi wondered what he was doing. He couldn’t be hustling-the local houses didn’t put up with freelancers. Was he dealing drugs? Why had he run away when Kendi approached him?

A heavyset man in a blue jumpsuit approached the boy and engaged him in conversation. Kendi noticed two other sharply-dressed men drifting steadily toward the duo from different directions. The impending scenario was obvious from Kendi’s vantage point. Kendi cracked his knuckles.

You don’t need to get involved, he told himself. Just walk away.

But Kendi’s feet refused to move. After more conversation-negotiation? — the heavyset man cocked his head toward an alley. The boy hesitated. The other two men sidled closer.

Don’t do it, Kendi pleaded silently. You don’t need whatever he’s selling.

The boy nodded once at the heavyset man and trotted ahead of him into the alley. The man gestured to his compatriots, and all three swarmed in after him.

Shit, Kendi thought. Shit shit shit. That kid won’t even know what hit him.

The alley gaped like the space between a lion’s paws. This was none of Kendi’s business. For all he knew, the boy was a drug dealer or serial murderer who deserved whatever the men were planning to deal out to him.