E (5 page)

This time, his cards are decent, but he doesn't know what to do
with them.  The others' faces are stern, set, but a glance here, a shift
of weight there, gives away their uncertainty.  He could bluff his way to
a win.  Instead, he folds.  Wrong again.  I'm sure now, beyond
all doubt, that I could have played it the right way, if those had been my
cards.  If.

My mind reels.  Some of Matthew's men appear around the
street corner and walk toward the saloon.  There's a pig trailing along
behind them-- wearing a silver necklace!  I do a double-take, get to my
feet and hobble away, but my thoughts are racing.  I have to get in on one
of these games.  There's no question of it.  I simply have to. 
But how?

The following days are filled with a sort of feverish madness in
which I'm consumed with the idea, plotting and planning, but never exactly
figuring out how to accomplish it.  I consider and discard a number of
plans.  I can't walk into the Rustler as a poxy beggar.  I can't
simply discard my disguise.  This struggle between who I really am, and who
I have to be, has consumed the whole of my existence since I woke up in the
Outpost that first day.  I begin to despair that I will never be able to
move on.  That I will always be like this.  Every plan I can conceive
of is full of risk.  Every plan could end in disaster.  I am frozen
by inaction.  Afraid, always, of being watched.

Then I remember the idea I once had.  I am far more afraid of
remaining like this than I am of losing my life.  Even the threat of
slavery does not seem all that much more horrifying than being like I am. 
Perhaps because I'm already a slave, in so many ways.  I feel relieved--
soothed, even-- when it dawns on me that I am not beyond doing something
desperate.

Embracing the madness, I form a plan.  It will take far
longer to enact than I would like.  I have to make myself wait, force my
own patience.  I will only have one chance, and I can't screw it up.

I continue to save my coins slowly.  Hanging around the
fringes of the marketplace, I price a new set of clothing.  It will take
me at least a month more to save for the cheapest thing I can find, and I'll
need some stake money on top of that.  I feel sick at the thought of
waiting so long, but what can I do?

Then one afternoon I'm collecting trash as usual when I hear a
scream from an adjoining alleyway.  I can't stop myself from peeking in to
see what the source of the scream was.

As I look into the cross-alley, I see a dark figure running
away.  And lying with her head in a growing pool of blood, a woman's
body.  My eyes go wide as I gape at her.  Her own eyes are open and
staring, lightless, dead.  I want to turn and run away.  I know I
should.  If a Sentry comes now, drawn by her screams, it would kill
me.  But my feet move toward her, seizing the opportunity Fate has granted
me.  My hands tear her leather jacket unceremoniously from her dead
body.  She doesn't need it anymore, I tell myself.  It doesn't
matter.  She flops out of it, her face dropping into the blood.  I
yank off her boots, peel off her pants, stuffing it all into my bag as I
do.  Her shirt is soaked with blood, so I leave it.  I only just have
time to take these items before I hear the clank of metal on pavement-- a
Sentry's footsteps in the street beyond.

Instinct screams at me to run.  Logic laughs that I am too
late.  If I run, the Sentry will track me by my heart rate.  If I
stay, I am as dead as the corpse I've just robbed.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and stride away, forcing down the
urge to bolt.  My heart throws itself repeatedly against my ribcage. 
No.  No, no.

Ninety-nine.  Ninety-eight.  Ninety-seven.  I make
the corner at the same time the Sentry makes the alley.  Did it see
me?  Ninety-five.  Ninety-four.  Sit on the curb. 
Ninety-two.  Breathe.  Ninety.  People walking by. 
Eighty-eight.  Deep breaths.  Slow heart.  Is it coming? 
Eighty six.  Movement from the alley.  Oh god, it's coming. 
Eighty-four.  Heat shimmer tickles my back.  Eighty two.  It's
behind me.  Scanning.  Taking in everything.  Eighty.  I
can't stop myself.  I look.  Seventy-eight.  Void face.  My
fingers clutching my bag.  Seventy-five.  What if there's blood on
the clothes?  Can it see through my bag the way it sees through me? 
I'm going to die.  Seventy-three.  No.  I will not allow fear to
be my killer.  No.  Seventy-one.  Slow.  Seventy. 
Heart.  Sixty-nine.  Even.  Sixty-seven.  Breaths. 
Sixty-five.  No.  I did nothing wrong.

Sixty-three.  Sixty-two.  Sixty-one....

It walks past me and moves away.

Fifty-nine.  Fifty-eight.  Fifty-seven. 
Fifty-six.  Fifty-five.  Fifty-four.  Fifty-three. 
Fifty-two.  Fifty-one.

I throw my head back and laugh.

Fate, it turns out, is not an entirely merciless bitch.  As I
kneel by a puddle scrubbing blood spots from the collar of the jacket, three
coins tumble from its pocket.  They are not like the ones I have earned,
but are thick, shiny silver.  I spirit them into the folds of my beggar’s
clothes, not that there's anyone around to see.  My heart races.  I
am ready.  I can do this.  Every moment I wander the streets with
these coins in my pockets is a moment that someone could take them away from
me.  I dive headlong into my scheme.

The evening sun sinking away, I walk into the heart of the
Outpost, toward the Rustler.  My eyes search through the windows, down the
street.  They never come.  I stand in the shadows, lingering until
the darkness is far too deep, and then, hopes dashed, I scurry off.

Disappointed and relieved, I wander toward the beggar
encampment.  Someone scuffles in the shadows of an alleyway. 
Footsteps sound on the pavement, but I cannot tell if they are following me or
just headed in the same direction.  Paranoia grips me.  I need to
find safety.  The encampment is too far away.

A pool of light looms from an open window in an alleyway, warm and
inviting.  Around the window's base are a mass of huddled bodies, hunched
against the walls on both sides.  I hurry to join them, and sink down a
few paces from the nearest beggar.  Whoever was behind me goes on
by.  Quiet faces are touched here and there by the yellow lamplight. 
A voice from inside the building rings strong and clear into the alley through
the wide-open window.  It's a sermon.

The Third Law of the New World Covenant states that any organized
religious or spiritual practice is banned, with the exception of those within
the confines of a private dwelling.  This open window is set in someone's
house.  Inside, they may practice whatever religious rites they
want.  If their window happens to be open, and beggars happen to gather
outside, well, it's not like the one has anything to do with the other. 
There is no preaching going on here.  Not that a machine could see.

I’m content to have a place to sit, within the safety of
numbers.  I relax against the wall and think of my failed plans.  A
temporary setback.  I'll try again tomorrow.  I close my eyes and
rest, the words of the sermon drifting in and out of my consciousness. 
Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, eating the forbidden fruit, discovering
their own nakedness.  The voice, thick and heavy, drones on....

The Lord God
made garments of skin for Adam and his wife and clothed them. And the Lord God
said, “The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must
not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the tree of life and
eat, and live forever.” So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden to
work the ground from which he had been taken.

I feel myself slipping into the dark drift of sleep, but for a
moment there is an in-between space, not here nor there.  The words of the
sermon spin in my brain, and though I've never given it thought before, in the
space of one breath I know my name.  My new name.  Not Eve, who was
cast out for her sin.  I may be an outcast, but I refuse to accept that
fate.  I will rebuild my world, reclaim what I have lost.  I am
Eden.  Everything I need is within myself.  I will become my own
garden.

***

The next night, I drop enough coins into the haggard old woman's
claw-- enough to keep from arousing suspicions.  I head again to the
Rustler.  Tonight I'm not disappointed.  Just as evening is settling
into darkness, the two young men I’ve been waiting for appear and go inside.
They will not stay long.  They never do.  I'm working on a time limit
now.  I hurry into a nearby alleyway-- one with a puddle. 

In a frenzy of movement, I peel off the rags that have become my
second skin.  I scrub myself violently with a rag dipped in the puddle,
erasing my painted-on blotches.  My face, my hands, my neck, my
arms.  With my fingers, I comb some hair over my face, then take a piece
of glass from my bag and cut off the locks at the level of my eyebrows. 
It's not exactly straight, but it will cover my mark.  Quickly donning the
clothing and boots I looted from the dead woman, I stuff my rags into my bag
and stash it in the alley.  I straighten and adjust myself.  The
shoes feel strange on my feet.  They are a touch too big, and they press
on the gash in my foot uncomfortably.  The other clothes don't fit well
either.  The woman who wore them previously was proportioned like a child,
and I am not.  The pants are snug on my hips, and not long enough, but the
boots make up for the missing length.  The jacket fits in the shoulders
and waist, but the buttons across the chest have to be forced.  I would
prefer to have a shirt underneath it, but I can't wear the rags, and I dare not
wear the shift I woke up in.  I double-check that all my coins are safe in
my pocket, then I step into the world feeling completely, nakedly exposed.

I stay in the dark parts of the shadows and set my feet down
quietly.  There's a place under the stoop of the building next to the
Rustler, where I think I can stand outside of the light and no one will see
me.  It is here that I take up my watch.

Every minute drags out endlessly, every small noise making me
jump.  My nerves are twitching, my foot silently tapping out my anxiety in
code.  How different I feel in these clothes.  How foreign it is to
stand up straight.  But it also feels right.  Liberating.  I
grind my teeth, and wait.  How long could they possibly take?  I
begin to second guess myself.  What if I took too long?  What if they
came and went quickly?  I've missed my chance again.  Acid rises in
my stomach, burning, eating at me.  Maybe I’ll never really do this. 
Maybe I really am just a street rat.

Two men step out of the Rustler into the crisp night air.  I
narrow my eyes, peering, trying to focus.  My heart skips at least two
beats.  It is them.  I gulp air, try to steady myself.  It is
them.  It is time.

They walk toward me, not seeing me.  They're silent except
for footsteps on the sidewalk.  The scrape of dirt and glass between boots
and concrete.  The even thud, thud, thud of solid steps placed confidently
into the darkness.

When they're a few paces off, I clear my throat and say as calmly
as I can, "Want to make some money?"

They stop short and squint into the dark shadow where I
stand.  There is a long pause, then at the same time they answer.

"Doing what?" asks the blonde.

But the dark-haired one says, "Who are you?"

I swallow, press on before I give away my hesitation.  I'm
thankful for the darkness that hides my face.  "No one," I
answer.  "I just want to play some cards and I need someone to watch
my back.  I can pay you fifty each."  I want to let this sink
in, but I don't trust them.  Hastily I add, "I'm not stupid enough to
carry it on me, so don't even think about it." 

The blonde one makes a noise in his throat.  Arms crossed in
front of his chest, cocky stance, he looks amused.  The other one has not
moved.  His face is in the shadow, and I can tell nothing of his reaction.

I shift my weight, nervous despite myself.  My offer is an
absolute lie at the moment, but if all goes according to plan, I will pay them
as advertised.  I only hope that they will not see through me. 

"Sure," the blonde says lightly, surprising me with the
ease of his agreement.  "Just so long as you don't do anything
stupid."

His companion's face turns toward him, but I still cannot make out
his expression through the darkness.  There’s something in the movement
that is not entirely approving.  I brace myself for his protest, but he
remains silent.

Seizing the opportunity, I say, "Deal then?"

"Deal," Blondie says. 

Neither of us make any move to shake on it.

He nods his head toward the Rustler, the corners of his mouth
tugging sideways as if it is all very entertaining.  "Lead the
way."

I step out of the shadows and make a wide circle around him,
heading toward the entrance.  Glancing back, I see the dark-haired one's
head is ducked, hands tucked in his pockets.  Blondie is looking at
me.  His smile has gone, and his eyes are a touch wide.  He looks
almost startled.  My breath catches as I realize I've missed one of my
blotches.  I force my eyes toward the door and wipe surreptitiously at my
face with my sleeve. 

Before I can walk inside, he steps in front of me, displacing
me.  "I'll go first," he says, and he does, before I can answer.

The inside is a wash of lamplight and tobacco smoke.  Amber
liquid glints in shot glasses and round-bellied bottles.  A few patrons
slump on stools at the long wooden counter. A man sleeps in the back
corner.  Arthur Adner, the balding barkeep, wipes water and crumbs from
the bar.  The action is around a single table.  A scatter of silver
and gold fills the center, like a pirate's treasure chest spilled open. 
My eyes fix on it hungrily.

My body guard leads me toward the table, where the cards are
thrown down and one man is raking in the pot.  The others glare at him
murderously.  "Gentlemen," my companion says, his hand clamping
down on my shoulder, "my friend would like to play.  Do you have room
for her?"

They eyeball me.  It's an unpleasant feeling, being looked
over by these men.  They're trying to decide whether I'm worth their
time.  I'm a bug.  Should I be eaten, or squashed, or ignored
entirely?  But they grunt, and move over, and pull up another chair. 
I'm in.

As I sit down, trying not to shake, Blondie walks away toward the bar
where his friend has already taken up a seat, watching.  I glance back at
them.  Blondie pulls off his hat.  His companion has already thrown
his hood back.  My eyes freeze on the marks on their foreheads.  The
dark-haired one catches me looking and returns my gaze steadily,
expressionlessly.  His eyes are green, like oak leaves, like
alligators.  I've never really gotten a look at his face before, and now
that I do, I find myself staring.  I think I'm drawn by his mark-- by this
thing that names us kindred in some way-- but I am not looking at his
forehead.  It's his eyes.

I turn deliberately back to the table and study the faces
surrounding it.  The men are not really strangers to me.  I've been
watching them, and others.  I know the names of a few, and the faces of
all.  There's Pete Sumter on my right, who owns the cannibalistic butcher
shop.  And across the table is Lloyd.  He forges metal tools in a
stall on the east side of the Outpost.  Jacob and Taylor Lane are brothers
who sell odds and ends in the marketplace, and supplement their income through
gambling.  They're probably the best players here.  But the man who
won the previous hand is definitely to be watched.  I've not seen him here
often.  When I have, he's usually had plenty of coins in front of
him.  Other than that, he's a mystery.  I don't like the unknown, so
I'll be watching him closely as we play.  The others are nameless. 
I've seen them come and go.  They may be decent players, but nothing to
worry about.

The ante is a full silver.  I toss mine in quickly,
carelessly, because I want to hide the way my hand is shaking.  Jacob Lane
deals the cards.  I scoop mine up and fan them discreetly.  They're
not what I hoped for.  I study the faces around me, place a small bet, and
exchange three cards.  The replacements are no better than the
originals.  I toss my cards down rather than call.

The second hand is equally discouraging.  I fold right away,
after noting the glint in Lloyd's eye.  A few moments later, he takes the
pot with three bosses. 

Parting with another piece of silver makes my stomach turn over,
but I keep my face passive and toss it in.  My cards are still terrible,
and I'm getting desperate.  I bluff and raise the bet, but apparently
everyone got bad cards this time.  No one takes the bait.  I end up
with the pot, but there's not much in it.  Enough to fund a few more
rounds.  I press on.

My luck continues in this manner.  Fate must have used up all
her goodwill on me already.  I'm on my own.  For quite some time I
manage to just scrape by, only winning enough to stay in the game.  I'm
worrying that I won't be able to maintain it.  And what will I do when my
two lovely assistants demand to be paid?  The rest of this night could be
a fight to stay alive.  I'm trying to make an escape plan in the back of
my mind.  Then the right cards come up.

I almost choke on my own saliva, but somehow manage not to. 
Not to even make a face.  Deadly calm takes over my body.  I cast my
eyes around the table and feel good about what I see.  When I have a
chance, I raise the bet, putting the last of my coins in the pot.  Sadly
it’s not enough to yield a dramatic increase, but it is everything I
have.  The problem comes when the nameless man-- the one I have been
keeping my eye on-- sees my bet and raises considerably.  I’m almost
certain he’s bluffing, but it doesn't matter.  I don't have any money to
stay in the game.  The world lurches around me as my heart jerks into a
run.  I feel the color drain from my face.  I feel like I'm going to
vomit. 

"Did you need the rest of your money?" says a voice from
behind me.  I take a slow breath, turn, and look at Green-eyes, still
perched at the bar.  His eyebrows are raised, questioning.  But there
is something else on his face that I can't read.  All I know is that he's
seen through me like I'm made of glass.