Davis Aurini - As I Walk These Broken Roads

While he was thinking this, one of the younger Kshatriyas had been examining his motorcycle. “Hey,” he asked, “that’s some steed you’ve got there. What do you call it?”

“Call it?”

“Yeah, man, I’ve never seen one of those before.”

“Oh. It’s called a motorcycle. It’s pretty good fuel wise, I hardly ever need to fill the tank, but you can’t haul much.”

“Jeez, that’s what they got out in Steeltown, ain’t it?”

Wentworth shrugged. “Couldn’t say; I got mine out east.”

Before the conversation could continue Vince and the Sergeant finished their business. “Alright lads, we’re good to go,” said Vince, getting into the truck.

The Sergeant walked over in between the two vehicles so that he could address both Wentworth and Raxx at the same time. “Alright, I’m going to get you guys just to pull these vehicles into the parking compound down the road on your left as soon as you go in the gate. Any motorized transport is prohibited in Mississauga, so you’re going to be foot-bound until you leave. Don’t worry about security, we take care of that. All the merchants use the lot for storing cargo. Vince here knows the drill. Just make sure you go down to the far end, all motorized transport has to go down there, ya got that?” They both nodded, “Alright. There’s no smoking or drinking in Sauga, except in the visitor’s quarters, south-west corner of the Erin Mills Centre, and the Hospital grounds are off limits unless if you’re one of the Brahmin, a patient, or a guest. Rajah, get the dragon’s teeth. Sunoco, the gate.” He looked back over to the two drivers. “Enjoy your stay, gentlemen.”

Two days later Wentworth was feeling pleasantly bored. He was sitting at a bar’s patio with his feet up, sipping on an imported brew, while the light from the sun played across his legs, warming them despite the nippy air.

Mississauga was known for two things: having the largest market east of Petrolia, and the best medical technology anyone knew of. The Brahmin’s administered the latter, treating patients as well as exporting medicines and physicians, while the former was kept secure by the large force of Kshatriyas who guarded against theft and violence. A patrol was maintained on the parking lot where they’d left their vehicles, along with a number of other caravans. There were even a few other motor vehicles present. After they finished helping Vince set up his booth in the Erin Mills marketplace Raxx and Wentworth were free to roam. There was no need to guard his booth as they had in the smaller towns.

The Erin Mills Centre was a massive concrete building two stories high and half a kilometre long. As they’d entered the gate it had stood majestically in the distance, three giant grey blocks connected by slightly smaller corridors, forming a flattened ‘T’. The interior was open and spacious with the occasional flower garden along the center of the pathway. Sunlight shone in from above through empty skylights; the interior was open to the elements. There were still puddles on the floor, evidence of the recent rainstorm. About half of the rooms bordering the pathway were occupied by permanent merchants and businesses, the others were empty, awaiting tenants. The sounds of humanity and the voices of merchants hawking their wares echoed through the corridor.

The steward came by and brought Wentworth a fresh beer. He nodded his thanks. The beer had an odd taste to it, almost spicy, with a full body; he liked it. The bar he was sitting at was set by the main thoroughfare, where it crossed a pair of service corridors; it looked like it had been a bar before the war. The furnishings were well made, and aged. From where he was sitting he could just make out the fountain plaza down towards the centre of the crossroads and watch the locals go about their business.

During their first day wandering the Centre Raxx had discovered a store selling scavenged tech, stuff that was still serviceable. He’d looked over the different items while excitedly talking to Wentworth about what they did and what they could be used for. He spoke without realizing he was going over the man’s head. He’d ended up buying a number of pieces and heading back to his truck to work on whatever it was that he was going to do with them.

Left on his own Wentworth had stuck to people watching, reading, with a bit of window shopping mixed in. The day before he’d spotted some items for sale in a weapons store and he’d returned the next morning with an empty duffle bag to purchase them. It was now full and under his table. The odd skin pigmentation he’d noticed earlier, while not universal, was prevalent amongst the Vedas. He also noticed that most of them were carrying Kukris, not just the Kshatriya. After thinking for a while he’d decided that this must be a cultural norm rather than an attempt at self-defence, given how few people were carrying sidearms

Aside from the shopkeepers — the Vaishyas — who were overly friendly, the locals ignored him. The culture here was not just unique, as Vince had suggested, but powerful as well. They had a strong identity. If you weren’t part of their family unit you just didn’t register with them. It wasn’t hostility, just indifference born out of a strong sense of self.

His meal arrived, causing him to reflect on the idiosyncrasies of the Vedic culture. While he’d picked out the Indian roots, the Vedas were clearly a postwar development. ‘Chicken Curry with Tomyum soup’ was just one example.

He’d finished eating and was debating with himself over the wisdom of having a third pint when he heard the voice for a second time.

“Hey, you!”

The first shout had failed to register. With the second Wentworth realized that they were speaking to him. Annoyed, he took a sip of his beer and slowly looked over.

“Yeah, I’m talking to you!”

The gangly youth had a scruffy beard, and he carried a Vedaic kukri. Dull eyes and open mouth suggested low intelligence, while his furrowed brow made it seem as the world left him perpetually confused. On top of this he appeared to be well into his cups even though it was only mid-afternoon. Thinking back Wentworth remembered seeing him when he first arrived, arguing in a barking manner with a group of similar individuals. His friends had left him alone at some point, and now he wanted to share his ideas with the rest of the patrons.

Wentworth waited a beat before replying.

“Yeah?”

The response seemed to confuse and anger the youth even more. The kid’s eyebrows knotted as he searched for a response. “Doncha know this ain’t no derelict bar?”

Wentworth spent another few seconds examining him before responding, wondering if he should point out that this was Visitor’s wing. “No, I didn’t.” He turned back around, hoping the idiot would leave.

It took the kid a while to respond but when he did it was clear he wasn’t going to let things lie. “Hey, donchou turn your back on me, derelict!” There was the sound of a chair scraping against the floor as he got up.

Wentworth turned his head around and the youth stopped in his tracks, halfway between their two tables, staring at him, chest heaving as he breathed through his mouth. Something in Wentworth snapped.

With the sudden burst of adrenaline he stood up, hearing the table and chair clatter and the cutlery shatter. All of his pent up frustrations exploded at once. Maybe it was the kid’s vacant gaze. Maybe it was the ‘derelict’ epithet. Or maybe it was just the mouth breathing. Whatever it was he found himself standing with his pistol drawn and pointed at the kid’s skull before he had a chance to think.

He immediately regretted it. He’d upped the ante when he should have been talking his way out of it. He was only helping this idiot cause trouble. But it was too late to back down. In the background he heard the rest of the patrons as they caught on to what was transpiring. He held the pistol in a firm grip, willing the kid to back off, watching his eyes through semi-polarized lenses.