Broken Page 8

  Michael was too far away to get a good read. He took the chance anyway. He was cold, and getting a little desperate. "Hey!" he yelled, waving his hands. "Hey!"

  "What are you—?" Monica had time to ask before Michael broke into a run.

  "Wait!" Michael called. "Please, wait!"

  The man would never wait. Who would trust a stranger these days? There was a war going on in the city. Thugs in black uniforms patrolled the streets. Refugees lived like animals, and treated everyone else the same way.

  But the man stopped and looked up.

  "Wait, please!" Michael shouted again, skidding down the embankment. Monica and Broken waited with Ian on the high road.

  Now he’ll go. Now he’ll cast off, and we’ll be stuck here, Michael thought. Now. Now. Now.

  He could have. The flickers of possibility Michael got from him suggested that he still might. But the man stayed put, patiently waiting for Michael to run up to him. "Wait, please. Please take us across. We have a baby."

  "Take you across?" The man scratched his chin. "Hm. How many?"

  "Four, including the baby," Michael said. "We have nowhere to go. We came from the city. Our house was burned."

  The man’s expression softened. "Come on, then," he said.

  Michael beckoned. Monica had to help a suddenly reluctant Broken down the slope, while Michael rushed back to take Ian. They clambered into the wooden boat, and the old man untied the rope and shoved off from the dock. The boat glided smoothly out into the river.

  "There’s no motor," Monica said.

  The old man grinned. "Boats aren’t allowed on the river unless you have a pass and a license and some other such. But they don’t see me if I don’t use any power but my own." He picked up an oar and handed it to Michael. "Help me out, son," he said. Michael took it and sat next to him on the bench. "I don’t usually have passengers, but put two at the oars and we go faster. We go on three. One-two-three. Like that. Put your oar in straight, and pull straight back. Got it?"

  Michael nodded, not sure that he did.

  "All right. Let me get us on the right track." The man put his oar in the water and pulled. The boat swung around to the right. They were facing the shore they had come from. The prow of the boat faced the far shore. "Okay, son, one-two-three. One-two-three."

  Michael put his oar in and did his best to keep up. He tried to dip his oar in straight and pull straight back, as he'd been instructed. He didn’t do it right at first, but got the hang of it about halfway through. Thankfully, the old man was very tolerant.

  "Ever pulled an oar?" he asked as they worked. Michael shook his head. "Too bad. It’s good for you. Put some muscle on you! People now never even think of it. Two-three. Good, you’re getting it down!"

  The old man didn’t ask them any questions as they glided across the river. It was eerily peaceful. The only sound came from the thunk-splish of the oars. Snow fell lightly all around them as evening deepened into night. Even Broken seemed transfixed by the silence. Michael’s muscles ached, his back was sore, but he found himself hoping the trip would never end.

  Eventually, though, they pulled up to a dock on the other side of the river; the current had pulled them far to the south, which seemed to be just fine with the old man. He leapt out onto the dock with astonishing spryness for his age and the amount of work he’d just done—Michael certainly didn’t feel like jumping out of the boat. "Toss the rope," he ordered Michael, who found it and threw it to the old man. "Now let’s get indoors."

  It took them a moment to realize he was offering them the hospitality of his home. Michael was too tired to refuse, too tired to even check possible futures. They trudged wearily up a hill towards an old two-story house, almost certainly built long before the Last War. The porch light was lit invitingly, and the house was blessedly warm inside.

  "Mary Ann!" he called. "Mary Ann, I’m back!"

  A plump old woman, her face framed by a halo of white hair, peered from out of the kitchen. "Who are these?"

  "Refugees from the city," he said.

  She made a face and sighed. "All right. You can’t help yourself. I’ll make some more dinner."

  "They can have mine," said the old man. "And yours, too. I’ll cook us up some beans."

  "But Will!"

  He whispered something to her, and her expression changed. She looked down at the floor, then back up at Michael and his companions. "I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me. Of course you’re welcome. Please sit. I’ve made a meat stew."

  Broken was looking all around the house, smelling the unfamiliar smells and running her hands over the wooden banister and table. "This place is so beautiful," she said. "Have I been here before?"

  The woman put steaming hot stew into three bowls on the table. She took Ian, rocking him in her arms.

  Michael sat. "Thank you very much," he said, trying to be as polite as he could. "You didn’t have to help us—"

  "Of course we did," the woman—Mary Ann—said. "In ’46, we were on the road, too. We were kids then, of course. But the Chinese and the Europeans bombed our town, then sent their soldiers. We had to run."

  "It was just the Europeans bombed," said the man. Will.

  "Right, right. But some of the soldiers were Chinese," said Mary Ann. "This was east of here, in Connecticut. So we know what it’s like."

  "How’s New York?" asked the old man. "We don’t turn on the screen much."

  "Let him eat," Mary Ann hushed him.

  "No, I don’t mind," said Michael, and related some of what he knew and had heard about the city’s uprising and quick fall. "Our house was burned. Black Bands."

  "Those dirty thugs," Mary Ann said sadly, shaking her head. "A neighbor of ours has a son with them. I never knew a crueler young man."

  "Times are hard now," Will agreed. "And they’ll be hard for a while."

  "Probably," said Michael, who knew.

  "Thank you for the soup," Monica said timidly.

  "You’re welcome, dear. And aren't you a pretty young thing! Such eyes. What’s your name?"

  "I’m Monica," she said. "This is Michael and B."

  "Bea," repeated Mary Ann. "Lovely name. I haven’t heard it in ages."

  "Baby’s Ian," Broken said. "He’s not any of ours."

  “Well, I figured that.” Mary Ann said. It was sort of obvious—Ian's skin was several shades darker than any of theirs. Michael couldn't figure out why people kept asking.

  "He’s sort of mine," Michael interjected hastily. "I agreed to take care of him before his mother died."

  "Oh, the poor thing!" Mary Ann kissed him on top of his head. Ian yelped in surprise. "Poor little orphan. Poor baby! Well, your Uncle Michael will take care of you, isn't that right?" She beamed at Michael, who turned red. "Well, we’re Will and Mary Ann Brown. You can stay here the night, until this snow clears up."

  "Thank you," Michael and Monica said together.

  Will held up a hand. "Don’t even mention it. You’re welcome here."

  Beside him, Michael felt Monica start to shake. She put her hands over her eyes and started to quietly sob to herself.

  "Her family," Michael explained. The old couple nodded. What more needed to be said? Mary Ann came over and put an arm around Monica’s shoulder as she poured out her grief.

  * * *

  They ate their fill, then went straight to the beds Mary Ann had made for them upstairs. Monica remained for a while, then came to join them.

  Michael drifted off to sleep thinking he had arrived in Heaven.

  * * *

  When he woke the next morning, the world outside had turned white. A dazzling blue sky capped the endless plains of snow. Mary Ann had cups of strong coffee ready for them downstairs. Will had already taken the boat across the river to sell some fresh eggs and knick-knacks they made at a local market—Mary Ann figured other refugees would buy them. "He’d better not give them away. But he will. I know him," she said, shaking her head, but smiling as she said it.

&nb
sp; "Tastes good," Broken said, slurping her coffee down greedily.

  "This is a nice place," Monica said wistfully. "I grew up in the city."

  "Oh, so did Will and I," Mary Ann said. "Had our children there. But we always wanted to move out here, so we did, thirty years back. Now Will has his land and his boat, and I keep chickens out back."

  "You’re lucky," said Michael.

  "No luck about it," Mary Ann replied proudly. "We earned every square inch. I was a veterinarian. I took care of people’s sick poodles all my life. He was an engineer for a large company, doing rebuilding work after the War." She took a long sip of coffee. "He even went to war against the Rogarians, when that came, because of his mechanical knowledge. They taught him a bit about starships. Fortunately for us, it’s all out of date, now. They can’t make him go back."

  * * *

  As they made ready to leave, Michael thanked Mary Ann again, and made her promise to thank Will.

  "No trouble." She had washed their clothes, and gave them some woolen caps to wear in the cold. Michael tried to give her some of the money Janeane had left him, but she refused.

  "Don’t mention it. But if we get a hundred like you, we might start to have charging. Now get going."

  She loaded them up with some food and other items, and sent them out into the snow. When they had trudged away from the house, Michael opened the envelope she'd pressed into his hand last. A twenty-credit bill was there.

  "Good people," Broken said. "Rare." She pulled out a clear glass bottle from her coat and took a long pull from it.

  "Broken!" said Michael, aghast. "Did you steal that?"

  She didn’t bother to acknowledge him, but smiled up at the sky.

  [CHAPTER 12]

  It wasn't easy going; Few surface roads beyond the main ones were well-maintained anymore, and even fewer than that were plowed. Worse, they had to constantly squint against the white glare of the noonday sun off the new-fallen snow. They chunked through the snowfields, feet and faces numb, until they reached the outskirts of a town.

  Its citizens were prepared for what they thought might be coming. Windows were boarded up, and signs reading "No Food Here" and "Keep Going to Next Town 2km" were hung over doors. Still, about a dozen aimless-looking refugees milled around on the street, looking for something to eat or do.

  They found only one building open; the town library. "Let’s go in and get warm," Monica suggested, seeing several other ragged travelers heading in. Michael agreed, and Broken followed wearily along.

  Michael and Monica took Ian off to change his diaper, which was beginning to sag ominously. Broken separated from the clot of other refugees warming up in the library’s main foyer and went off to wander the stacks.

  At once, she felt a sense of peace overwhelming her.

  Libraries were a thing of the past, and Sky Ranger had been fascinated by them. He had taken her to the New York Public Library, an ancient building miraculously left unscathed by bombs and neglect.

  * * *

  "Hundreds of thousands of books were kept in libraries in each little city and town, all across the continent," he said.

  "Wow," Silverwyng muttered, singularly unimpressed. She’d rather be flying than get dragged through a musty old library.

  "All of the greatness of the older generations is here," Sky Ranger intoned. "For us, it’s only a matter of finding and implementing it. Our society is so corrupt. We’ve become so close to aliens, to outer space and the future that we’ve forgotten Earth and the past."

  "Yeah," Silverwyng said, surprising herself by half agreeing with him. Suddenly the place seemed a little less musty—more peaceful.

  She had secretly come back to the library more than a dozen times before leaving the Union, and was often there after. She rarely read the books. She just liked the atmosphere.

  * * *

  Broken ran her hand along the spines of books, and plucked one out at random.

  Extrahumans: The 2091 Guide.

  What? There was a section on Extrahumans? She started to put the book back, then thought better of it. She opened it gingerly, and saw photo after photo of faces she knew.

  Crimson Cadet, so brave and funny. Duskman and Clatter, always together (probably lovers, Sky Ranger had said). Strong Rex and Mr. Invincible, lifting weights and posing. Triggerfinger, Armor Pete, Chainmail, Ladybird…

  Each member of the Law Enforcement Division of the Union had his or her own page, with a big glossy photo and "statistics," relating to cases solved, criminals captured, that sort of thing.

  She gasped. "Doctor Lucky Jane," the caption read. Jane smiled winsomely. "A new addition to the Law Enforcement Division of the Extrahuman Union, she has phenomenal good fortune. She is a wise surgeon and sure to make an impact."

  Dead, now. Broken tried not to think of that.

  Nearer the back was a listing of all the other Union members, those who hadn’t joined the LED. There was a little square picture of each one, with his or her name and the "extrahuman" ability he or she had.

  Yes. Near the end.

  "Silverwing: Flight, healing."

  She studied at the fading picture of a young, thin-faced girl with shockingly silver hair. How old had she been? Fourteen, maybe? It was before she had started spelling her name differently, so she had to be younger than sixteen.

  Even then, she couldn’t remember the year she was born, exactly, or what her parents had looked like. The Union had come for her at too young an age.

  She flipped back to Jane’s picture. "Poor Lucky," Broken said, and replaced the book neatly on the shelves. She found she couldn’t call forth the kind of grief that Monica had shown. Not right now.

  She scanned the shelves, suddenly hungry for more. Dozens of books flew into her hands, dozens more she cast aside.

  * * *

  She sat at a table, poring over the past, repeating sentences to herself out loud.

  "The Extrahuman Union was formed in response to growing public unease regarding the small population of Extrahumans or ‘superheroes,’ " she read. "They began to be noticed by the population and by world governments in the 2030s, but the trauma of the Last War and the formation of the Confederation precluded any action before 2053, when the Union was founded. A young hero named Sky Ranger was its first leader."

  The very first Sky Ranger, the great hero who had fought the Rogarians during their aborted invasion of human space in the 2060s.. There had been two more after him, including the one she had shared the sky with so long ago.

  She picked up a different book.

  "Superhumans or ‘Extrahumans’ are not trusted by the people as a whole," she read. "In fact, their powers are the object of great envy and hatred."

  She put that book down, and picked up another.

  " ‘Extrahuman’ is a nicer way of saying ‘mutant,’ although not so glamorous as saying ‘superhuman’ or, more popularly, ‘superhero.’ In and of itself, it is a word that means very little ."

  Yet another book.

  "The Confederation Government mandated that all ‘Extrahumanoids’ be members of the new Union. All those who did not wish to join were tracked down by those who already had. Many died defending what they saw as their liberty."

  She shuddered. She’d had to do that. There had been a man who could create fire. He had lived out in the woods, by himself. A hiker had seen him starting a small cooking fire, and had reported him to the Union.

  When they came for him, he stood his ground. They'd been forced to tear him apart to stop him from incinerating the whole team. It had been a ghastly business.

  She’d questioned that day whether or not she really belonged with the LED. In the end, though, it didn't matter.

  She let out a solitary, hollow laugh and picked up another book.

  "Why don’t Extrahumans have names? Real names, I mean. Why the strange titles? Do they even have regular names? What do they call one another?"

  Broken thought about that. She’d never had a “r
eal” name, not one she could remember.

  * * *

  "Hey, kiddo!" called the woman. "Come on, you’ll be late!"

  She poked the water, and the crabs scuttled away. Except for a big blue one, which drew nearer…

  * * *

  She paged to another chapter.

  "Extrahumans are not free citizens," she read. "They either chain themselves to their Union, or are forced into it. Many are brought to the Union as children. The Union is not supposed to be controlled by the government, but it is. How many times have the actions of the Extrahumans and the aims of the government neatly coincided?"

  She picked up the last book, which was far smaller than the others, nearly a pamphlet.

  "Extrahumans, supermen, mutants, whatever you call them: They are dangerous. Their very existence threatens humanity. Their shameless collaboration with a corrupt government and a corrupt party aligns them irrevocably with the oppressors of free will in our state. They are a danger that must be dealt with."

  In horror, she dropped the book to the table. Who would hate her so? She glanced at the author’s name and gasped.

  Damien Peltan, now President of the Confederation. He had written the book nearly fifteen years before, when he was just an angry young partisan.

  She shivered a little and reached inside her cloak. She’d drained dry the bottle she’d lifted from the nice people. What would happen now? She pushed the books away, leaned back in her chair, and, against her will, remembered…

  [CHAPTER 13]

  -PAST-

  A little girl sat on the steps of the vast skyscraper in which all the men and women who had some sort of abnormal ability were housed, crying bitterly.

  An older boy came to sit next to her. She knew him, of course. He was called Little Hawk now, but the rumors had started to fly around that he might soon be the new Sky Cadet. The old one had died in a fall only weeks before, much to his guardian’s distress. Sky Ranger hadn’t spoken to anyone since.

  The boy, perhaps soon to be heir to the entire Union, walked with the easy, confident swagger of someone who has never wanted for much.