Ben tapped the battered oxygen canister on his hip as they jogged back to Waverley.
Waverley, formerly known as Cambria Heights, was a double-walled neighbourhood containing mostly high-rise blocks and a few single and double-storey buildings. A large rectangular clock hung off a stone arch above the gate. An hour and ten minutes remained. At precisely 10pm, the clock would stop. Anyone caught out of their homes after curfew would be arrested or shot: it all depended on who found them first—the military or the criminals. At 10am the next day the clock would count back from twelve hours, during which the residents would be free to go about their business.
Out of breath and almost out of air, Ben and Kevin joined the queue for the smaller gate designed for foot traffic. Three guards manned the tall reinforced steel gate meant for vehicles. Only one scanned identity chips, a remaining feature of the old World Government reign.
‘The vehicle just went in,’ said a man in the queue. ‘I swear to you. I saw one of them sitting in the back.’
Kevin swore while Ben looked around for evidence to support his claim. He saw fresh tracks in the dirt road.
A woman asked one guard about the new arrivals.
‘Expect an auction in Central Square tomorrow,’ the guard said to her. The square was the shared meeting point for the four Compounds.
A second guard shivered. ‘Glad I don’t have to be there. Those Indigenes give me the creeps.’
Ben reached the gate and pressed his thumb to the plate held up by the guard. The surface flashed green. He remembered when Albert had first brought him to Waverley. Back then, autobots had manned the gates. That continued until supplies ran low in the neighbourhood and the residents attacked and dismantled the bots for spare parts. In the years that followed, a physical ‘police’ presence replaced the bots.
Just past the gate, a road ran straight. Old, red-bricked houses and new, grey multi-storey apartment blocks hugged the edge of the pavement cracked and broken in several places. The road was in a similar state of disrepair, with a single crack along the length of its tarmac punctuated by smaller fissures. The overhanging lights brightened the streets enough for Ben to see the continuation of the fresh tyre tracks.
They reached a junction branching off into two roads for the East and North Compounds. The Germans lived in North. The road to Ben’s left headed to the English-speaking district in an area just east of Central Square. Four more roads surrounded the Square; one led South to where the Italians lived, another went West to where a mixture of Spanish-speaking residents lived and a third swept behind East Compound to link with North Compound. A small fourth dead-end road ran northwest to a disused factory/school.
Ben started for East, but Kevin stopped.
‘Wait. Don’t you want to see where they’re taking the Indigenes? It’s probably to Central Square.’
‘No. We should get back. If Marcus is around, I’d rather he didn’t catch us out here.’
Kevin blew out a breath. ‘You’re such a giant kiss-ass, you know that?’
‘How could I forget when you remind me every other day?’ Ben walked on while a muttering Kevin followed.
A mile down East’s winding road, barely wide enough for the military vehicles, they passed by several occupied houses. A light up ahead illuminated the front of a two-storey red-brick property with a sign that read Lee’s Tavern. The tavern was the only place in East Waverley that sold alcohol, supplied by Marcus.
Kevin shook his head and smiled. ‘Shit, I still can’t believe they’re in Waverley. I can’t wait to get a closer look at those bottom-feeders.’
Ben ignored Kevin’s vitriol, and pushed through the force field protecting the tavern’s environmental controls. He removed his gel mask and turned off the oxygen feed from the metal canister to breathe in cleaner, environmentally-controlled life support. But the AIs no longer managed the supply. That control belonged to ‘the Kings’ now, a name the Agostini family had given themselves because Gaetano Agostini—the head of the household—had some distant connection to Italian royalty. He closed the steel door behind Kevin.
A wooden bar on the right ran half the length of the room, with a dozen round tables with upended chairs on the left. Several glasses had been washed and left to dry on towels laid out on the bar; Albert hated untidiness.
Old Pete, East Compound’s resident drunk, sat alone at the bar amid a room filled with upended chairs and washed glasses. But clearly Albert’s visual attempts to close up had fallen on deaf, drunk ears.
Footsteps alerted Ben to the set of stairs at the back of the tavern that led upstairs to where they lived. Albert Lee gripped the railing tight as he descended the stairs. He straightened up when his feet found the flagstone floor.
‘Where the hell have you two been? I told you to be back well before curfew. You know how Marcus likes to toy with the late arrivals. Do you want to be at Marcus’ mercy?’
Albert was in his eighties; average height, grey-black hair and weathered pale skin. His posture was stooped from years of manual labour. He wore a cream flannel shirt with black trousers and braces. Belts were hard to find in Waverley, so the men used braces to keep trousers up.
Ben was about to reply, but Kevin beat him to it.
‘Relax, Granddad. Marcus is only interested in one thing tonight. A new shipment came in. New bottom-feeders. Two were brought to Waverley.’
Albert frowned and approached the bar. ‘Is that so?’
Old Pete swirled the contents of his glass. Ben stayed downwind of the smell from Pete’s dirty clothes. ‘Well, maybe they can get to fixin’ a few things around here. We ain’t got nobody to fix the machines. Sal’s doin’ her best but she ain’t no damn mechanic.’
Pete was regular at the tavern with the highest unpaid tab. The self-confessed alcoholic and gambler had an arrangement with Marcus that gave him a free pass on payment. Ben was sure Pete did jobs on the side for Marcus—why else would he let Pete off the hook for payment?
‘Who cares if they can fix anything?’ said Kevin. ‘We’re doing just fine without their help.’
Ben and Albert said nothing. Old Pete and Kevin were too easily influenced by gossip. While Albert had always been a fair man, Ben knew that fairness did not stretch to trusting the Indigenes. He wasn’t alone in his thinking. Most, if not all, of the residents didn’t trust the Devolved.
Albert pointed a weathered finger at Ben, his eyes narrowing. ‘You’ve been awfully quiet on the subject. What’s your opinion on these new arrivals?’
Ben shrugged.
‘Come on now, don’t be shy. Tell me what you think. Would you greet them with open arms or should we be wary of their motives? Even in their devolved state, they are still fast and strong.’
Ben stared at the floor. It was eight years ago. He should be over it. But one of them had ruined his life.
He looked up to see Albert waiting. Kevin wore a hard expression. Old Pete focused on him for a while, then his eyes slid back to his drink.
Ben wondered what they’d say if they knew what had happened on Exilon 5. He went with his gut.
‘I think we should give them a chance.’
Kevin laughed and ran a hand across the back of his neck. ‘Yeah? And what the hell would you know about them?’
Quite a bit, actually.
‘Come on, boy,’ said Pete. ‘Speak up. Your granddaddy here hasn’t got all day.’
‘I...’ Ben pressed his lips together and shook his head. ‘It’s nothing.’
Old Pete drained the last of his beer. ‘Spit it out before I die of waitin’.’
Ben ruffled his messy black hair. ‘I... Uh... I had a personal experience with one of them.’
Old Pete laughed hard, his throat rattling. ‘Oh yeah? One take advantage of ya, did they?’
‘Shut it, Pete.’ Albert looked at Ben. ‘Go on. What do you mean, personal?’
‘I met one already.’
‘Where? Here in Waverley?’ Albert’s brows drew further over his eyes.
Ben shook his head. He ignored Pete and Kevin, and focused on Albert. ‘No. It was a long time ago.’
The room was quiet except for the hissing sound of a beer tap. Ben had never told Albert about how he’d come to live on Earth, and Albert had never asked. He could see him trying to work it out.
Old Pete scooted all the way around on his chair, fresh drink in hand. His glassy eyes bore a hole straight through Ben.
Ben looked away. This was a mistake. He should have kept his mouth shut.
‘Well, when the hell was it?’ said Kevin. ‘Spit it out, brother.’
He focused on Albert again.
‘It was eight years ago while I was on Exilon 5. His name was Stephen and he was the reason I was sent to live on Earth.’