“If it even was loaded, I wouldn’t have given him a chance to use it. He would have taken my first bullet. He wasn’t watching me so closely, because I had my gun on someone else.”
“You didn’t like seeing someone touching me like that,” she said.
“Of course not. It’s disgusting.”
She shrugged. “One man’s disgusting is another’s champagne. I’ve learned that much in my years roaming around the zones.”
“You okay?” Pistols asked, as he checked his guns before putting them back in their holsters.
Why is everyone worried about my condition? I’m not a pregnant fifteen-year-old. I’m a goddamn Cat with over a decade in the KZs.
“Better than ever,” she said. It was nice of him to ask and not make a big scene about it. She shouldn’t have been so quick to judge. He seemed to like playing cards with Sime. Maybe they could switch from pinochle to poker one of these evenings and bury the hatchet. Valentine might even join in. She’d heard from sources in the Wolves that he was a pretty good cardplayer, too.
Their guide got them back in line and they struck out between the fields.
“We’re being followed,” Ahn-Kha said. “Some of the kids, I think.”
“Tell the guide to stop,” Sime said. Pistols loosened his weapon in its holster.
It turned out to be a couple, both in their early teens, a boy and a girl. They had a brief conversation through the translator.
“We want to travel with you. Just far enough to get out of the state. We’ve had enough of that gutter-pack.”
“We’ll be no trouble. We want to try to make it to the North. The Arctic.”
Sime shook his head. “No, our arrangements—”
“Were for two more than we actually have with us,” Valentine said.
“It’s too dangerous.”
“To whom? I doubt the Kurian Order took two kids out of Youth Vanguard training, or whatever they call it here, and inserted them into a gang of starving hooligans in the hope they’d be able to penetrate one of the Refugee Network’s lines. They don’t waste their agents hanging out with kids.”
“I’m in charge of this delegation.”
“You are in charge of Southern Command’s delegation,” Ahn-Kha said. “The Kentucky Alliance is willing to have these kids with us. For a little way.”
“You’ll have to forgive him, Sime,” Duvalier said. “He’s always picking up strays. It’s easier this way—believe me. Otherwise he’ll bitch all the way to the Baltic.”
In the end, they let “the kids” follow along. They shared their simple provisions with them. The kids produced some chocolate of their own, disgusting stuff that Duvalier recognized as KZ ration chocolate. If anything, it was worse than the American brand. She was a little surprised at that; she’d thought Europeans were connoisseurs of luxury goods.
They were passed over to a bike gang for transport to the Baltic, the Funkrad.
They were willing to take the kids along as well. They’d been expecting seven travellers from the North American delegation.
The phrase “bike gang” brings to mind leather, boots, and roaring motorcycles. This gang had the leathers, certainly, but they were leaner-lined, almost like sporting wear. The motorcycles were all electric jobs, slower but infinitely quieter. There were a few true bicycles in the group as well, pedaled by Germans with thighs like tree trunks. Along with the two-wheeled vehicles, there was a subcomp
act car and a van with cargo containers strapped to the roof and a rear hatch that held spare bike equipment, a camp stove, and other necessities for life on the road.
Most of Germany was well organized, by Kurian standards. Every person carried an identity card with home city and state. You needed no special authorization to move about your town or city, and within the state itself a pass was fairly easy to obtain. To leave your state, however, required approval from one of the regional security centers.
There were special exemptions, of course, and one of them was sporting teams and sports trainers. The Funkrad competed five or six times a year in Pan-European contests; the rest of their time was spent “training.” The men and women on the bicycles were “supported” by “coaches and trainers,” all riding the electric motorcycles, thirty all told, a group large enough to raise a cheer from sporting fans in the towns they passed through, but not so large it required much notice from city police or security forces.
Sometimes sports photographers rode along with the team, or journalists, or athletic candidates for membership on the team. Young fans who won entry into contests by participating in scrap metal or rubber drives could spend a week with their bicycling heroes as well. And sometimes they shuttled a handful of refugees from the northern foothills of the Alps to the North Sea.
Their pair of young lovers was dropped off at a junkyard near Itzehoe. One of the coaches knew the owner; the owner saved bike spares for the team, and they were always looking for help on their pickup routes. Even if the kids didn’t like Itzehoe, they might discover a new location while searching through scrap piles and demolished homes.
The only tricky part was finding an out-of-sight spot for Ahn-Kha, who was sure to excite comment.