'The Rich'

“You a vagrant?”

He rounded on the girl and tried to straighten an overgrown beard that itched worse than ivy. Rosy cheeks. Dirty face to match his. He hadn't even noticed her amongst the scrapheaps that lined the road leading up and over a hill – husks of antiquated tech stripped of anything useful.

He ignored the question. “Yo’ daddy ‘round here?” he asked.

The girl said nothing. He realised she wasn’t watching his face and he followed her eyes down to his wrist; he pulled his tattered sleeve lower.

“You’re not s’posed to be here,” she whispered.

He sighed and looked up the empty road. “You like tech?” She turned to leave around a scrap pile. “Hey, wait.” He took a thin white tube out of his pocket and held out to her. “Here. I’ll show you.” He limped after her.

***

At the top of the road, eyes had watched the haggard grizz from the moment he appeared, and followed him now as he limped up the hill towards a row of houses. Houses. Back-before that’d have been a rich turn of phrase – nothing but shanties cobbled together, huddled together like starving children. But now, it was rich. Somehow they still stood as the largest structure for miles.

Iggy put down his work and shoved a revolver in his back pocket and went to wait on the porch.

The grizz took had taken his time coming up, and stopped well short of the porch, removing a mesh hat to reveal a matted mop of hair. Iggy mopped his own balding head with a rag, and then ran it round his neck, chest hair spilling out of his collar as if making a bid to join his sideburns. The man opened his mouth but little came out. He tried to work saliva round his mouth and only succeed in coughing a fit. He gestured for a drink.

Iggy watched a moment, then whistled. A woman eventually poked her head out the door, and came out further when she saw the man, offering a reproaching eyebrow.

“Vande,” Iggy said, keeping half an eye on the man. A grease-caked finger began mining his bulbous nose.

The woman disappeared and came back a couple minutes later with a brown-stained glass half full of water. Iggy gestured towards the man and woman’s lip curled in his direction before she stepped off the porch. She stopped well short and barely extended her arm. As he limped over she sniffed and scowled; once he took the glass she stomped back into the house.

“Cashmere,” the grizz uttered as he worked moisture back into his mouth. Much like the girl, Iggy said nothing. “I’m Cashmere,” he repeated. “Might we talk?”

Iggy splayed his hands. We’re talking aren’t we?

Cashmere glanced back the way he came. “Perhaps somewhere quieter?”

Iggy put his hand in his pocket and looked at a tree line of sparse pines in the distance. He spat. “Come.”

Cashmere followed him inside. A room full of towers and blinking lights, cables running from every direction and then out back. Not much space for anything besides walking, and not any cooler than outside, which was saying something. Iggy cleared a spot on his worktable by sweeping screws and wires and old silicon scrap into an empty box. He slid over a chair for his guest and sat. “Nowwut?”

Cashmere looked around the room at length, scanning the ancient monitors but careful not to touch anything. Programs spooled endless yellow text as fans whirred like a hive. “I think I’ve come to a man that can help me.”

“You need fix, I can fix.” Iggy said, a hint of pride breaking through his thick accent.

“Yes, well, help. Not a fix.” Cashmere turned to his host and took a seat. “What’s yer name?”

“Ignatius.”

“Then your hospitality suits you. My thanks.” He smiled as he set the glass on the table.

Iggy nodded.

Footsteps thunked on the floorboards and the woman stuck her head around a corner, sneering down her pointed nose. “Iggy! Kastu dar!?” What are you doing?

“Kalban” Talking.

“Sud! Astik ray yo, hosbond!” Shit! Get rid of him, Husband!

“Patience, sweetling, he’s asking for help.”

“We have helped. He had water, now send him!”

Cashmere sunk back into his chair, not daring eye contact with the woman. He couldn’t understand the conversation, but he knew the tone. He tugged on his sleeve and was thankful when she snarled and disappeared.

“Sorry ‘bout Retta.” Iggy offered. “She’s lovely – it’s just…outsiders. Which reminds me…”

“Old world wives,” Cashmere mused. “My grandfather lost his first wife and went all the way back to get a second. No wonder yer doin’ so well.”

It brought a wry smile to Iggy’s face. Before the Hostile Takeover, Retta had been his saving grace ten times over, and never complained. And now! – if anyone had ever been built for the chaos…. He leaned back in his chair and pulled a scrap from the table. “What you need help with?”

Cashmere’s face puckered. “I needa get to Georgia.”

Iggy laughed. “No corporate car here. Fuck. I hear rumour they’re not even bothering with education now. The moment you get near any city – Kaput! You might not have heard the CEO’s last decree – We’re all family now….” He snapped the scrap in his hands and flicked a piece across the room.

Cashmere swallowed and gestured to the computers. “I need something that can get me on a train.”

“Then go back to St. Louis and get your chip. Work and get passage.”

“My chances of being assigned anywhere near Georgia are squat. How many cities are left between here and there? Too much work to do rebuilding the north. If I can get to Georgia a free man, at least I have a chance of findin’ family.” He scratched his beard and some hair fell out. His eyes went wide and he shoved it in a pocket. Iggy was kind enough to ignore it.

“Surely you have somethin’ I can use. A non-associated chip… a way to forge tickets… anything.”

“All of that’s a death sentence. Rovers would come and there goes my family.”

“Rovers?”

“Travelling salesmen. The bastards that do favours for The Corporation hoping to get paid big.”

“A myth.”

Iggy snorted. “They’re real! You never see them coming, but BOOM!” He slapped the table. “Somehow they know. We had friends few towns over. Someone meddled illegally. Now, no town and fewer friends. I wonder if they even had time to hear the hiss of a bomb.”

Cashmere frowned. “Why would The Corp care what you do out here?”

Retta stuck her head round the corner. “Dieve! Astik ray yo! Dosnum skrit tertunga.” God! Get rid of him! Generosity is for the rich.

“Mes tergunga, Retta.” We are rich, Retta.

“No – we are survivors. We’re not those bastards with the banks and the tanks and the drones. Let them be generous for once.”

Iggy waved her away but shrugged at Cashmere. “Sorry. I can’t help you.”

Cashmere leaned forward and pulled a clump of dusty hair from his eyes. “Come now.” He pleaded. “You’re the wealthiest for miles. How else do you keep your tech and networks safe. You have to have some way to make old hardware compatible with new. You don’t need to get me there, just help me find a way to my family. Please.”

Iggy shrugged again and Retta stomped past to the porch. “Catarine!” she screeched out the door. She sat on an old rocking chair outside the window.

Cashmere pressed. “You must have some Corporate currency.”

“Unchipped, it’s illegal.” Iggy said flatly. “I could be arrested, or worse.”

He lowered his voice. “Yer daughter told me. Please. Just enough to get me on the train. I’ll deal with the purchase.”

Iggy opened his mouth then shut it again. He scowled as he looked out the window.

“Before you say anything. Just look. Look. ” He reached in his fraying shirt and pulled a chain over his head. “Look. My last memento. My ticket home.” His eyes glistened. He held it up by the light of the window, a small heart-shaped locket swung. “A gift for my wife, if she’s still alive. Now for yours – for your sweetheart. It’s real gold! Bite it or scratch it whatever they do. Please.”

Iggy’s eyes went wide. Real gold. He could turn it into a fortune if he melted it down. But no. That alone would call a firing squad if found. He was about to decline when he saw Retta out the window. She’d kill him. But not if it was on her neck. He let small smile slide out the corner of his mouth as he thought about surprising her once the sun went down. Besides, the man knew already. “How much?”

Cashmere smiled wide, straight bright pearls behind his lips. “Merciful lord, thank you!” He cried. “The locket is worth three hundred, but the train is only one-thirty-five!”

Iggy snorted. “And how much for clothes? You’ll never ride dressed like that.”

Retta came in. “Iggy, kur musk miela durtur.” Where’s our daughter?

He gave her a smile. Bottom of the hill, my love.

Iggy disappeared out back for a minute and returned with a small black rectangle. “I put $175 corporate on it for you, but you need to transfer it to a real chip to spend it. I hope you have a friend or someone you can bribe.”

Cashmere jumped up and took it eagerly, and slipped the locket in Iggy’s shirt pocket, pulling him into a hug. “You’re a saint, Ignatius! May the gods bless you in this life and the next!” He positively bounced his way to the porch and shook Iggy’s hand one more time before striding quickly up the road.

Iggy watched his wife walking down the hill and grinning ear to ear, pulled the locket from his pocket. He held it up to the sun, fine etching on the outside, faded initials of lovers. He tried to pry it but found it stuck. He went inside for a razor and began to wedge it.

"AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!” Retta. Iggy sprinted out the door and down the hill towards her screams. “No! Catarine! No! No!” Retta sobbed, clutching their limp daughter in her arms, a small burnt hole at her temple, vacant eyes staring up.

Iggy cast the locket down, and cradled them both. He shook and pleaded. No. No! It can’t be. He’d watched the man! He’d only disappeared for a moment. His limp. His clothes. His beard. His teeth. His teeth! No. no. no! Not a vagrant! Not a traveller… a.. a.. He let the word slip over his lips. “A rover.”

It couldn’t be. He scrambled around to find the locket in the gravel and took up the razorblade, slicing his finger as he forced the locket open. His blood poured into it. No pictures. No family. Just a tracking chip. He let out a sob and raised his eyes to the sky, unable to hear the hiss.