Kris Longknife's Bloodhound, a novella (21 page)

“Hey, woman, want your windows washed?” a young voice piped.

“What?” Ruth asked, glancing around for the voice’s source.

“Want your windows washed?  They’re dirty.”

“What?  Where are you?  I can’t hear you very well.  This thing won’t cut off.”

In answer to her first question, a squeegee started waving outside the passenger side of the car. 

Ruth rolled the window down. 

The squeegee reached in and rapped the dashboard, “Shut up, you machine mouth,” the young voice snapped. 

The silence was delicious. 

“That’s better.  Woman, you want your windows washed?  I do a good job.  Only one dinar.”

Ruth checked her purse.  “I don’t have any Savannah money yet.”

A face, very dirty and horribly thin rose on tiptoes to smile at her from the passenger window.  “That’s fine.  I can do your windows for one Earth dollar.”

Ruth wasn’t sure what the exchange rate was, but she was pretty positive it wasn’t one for one.  She glanced at her windows.  They were clean. 

She studied the kid; his hopeful smile was hard to deny.  Ruth held up an Earth quarter. 

“You drive a hard bargain, woman, but you win,” and the kid quickly went to work smearing her front windows.

“Where you want to go?” the kid asked as he came around to her side of the car, giving Ruth her first good look at him. 

The rest of the boy was as thin as the face had promised.  He looked maybe six or eight, but allowing for a tough street life, he might be twelve.  His clothes were dirty, torn and way too big for him.  What passed for shoes were held together by string with used newspaper for soles. 

Following behind him was a girl, maybe a year or two younger.

“Are you his sister?”

“No, he’s my brother,” the girl piped back.

“Tiny gets confused easy,” the boy explained, not slowing down his work.  “Where you going?” he asked again.

“To the Society of Humanity Embassy,” Ruth answered this time.

“The old one or the new one?”

“The one with the ambassador, I hope.”

“Oh.  The traffic’s bad through town.  You could get lost real easy, ma’am.  I’ll show you a shortcut.  Get you there real fast.  Only cost a dollar.”

“I’m planning on following that bus.”

The boy studied the big vehicle ahead of them.  “You could lose it at a stoplight.  I can make sure you get there.  Only a dollar.” 

Ruth looked down into the pleading eyes of the girl . . . and weighed the chances that these two kids could hit her over the head and leave her body in a ditch somewhere. 

Concluding that neither or both could hurt her, Ruth nodded.  “You make sure I get to the embassy, and I’ll pay you two quarters.”

“You drive a hard bargain, lady,” the boy answered. 

But his sister was nodding yes. 

“Okay, we do it.  Just for you.” 

Sis let out a squeak of joy and clapped her hands.  A moment later, big brother opened the passenger door and helped sis into the backseat.  She ignored the seat belt and stood, leaning on the front seat.  Brother then settled himself down beside Ruth. 

“I can take you there now.  Why you want to follow stinky bus?”

“Because my husband’s on it.”

“He one of the jarheads?”

“Marines,” Ruth automatically corrected the epitaph she now knew to smile when she said, and better yet, not say.  “And since he may have to loan me an extra quarter for your tip, it’s Mr. Marine to you.”

“Yes, ma’am, boss lady.  Whatever you say.”     

The bus rumbled into life, and Ruth discovered why the kid called it stinky.  The engine let off a blue cloud of poorly burned hydrocarbons that made Ruth want to cough.

Sis held her nose and made a “Pee Euw” sound. 

Brother gave Ruth his “Whatever you say, woman, you’re paying for this,” shrug.  Thankfully, the bus quickly got in gear.

Ruth followed it out of the port. 

“It’s gonna turn left at this light,” brother told her.  It was a good thing Ruth had been warned; the bus did a quick left at the light without even slowing and nary a signal. 

Ruth hit her turn light and followed. 

“I told you so,” the boy grinned.

“That’s worth an extra quarter,” Ruth assured him, keeping her eyes on the road, the traffic, and the bus.

“It’ll take this on-ramp to the expressway,” the boy offered.

“Expressway?” Ruth cringed inside.  On Hurtford Corner, she’d never driven over forty, fifty kilometers an hour. 

She’d since learned that speeds on expressways . . . unless clogged with rush hour traffic . . . could be a hundred or more.  Swallowing her fear, Ruth followed the bus up the ramp.  Again, no turn signal. 

She listened for her own turn signal; it made happy clicks.  Yes, turn signals weren’t outlawed on this planet. 

But they did seem distressingly optional. 

At least for large buses.

And trucks and anyone else that wanted in her lane. 

Everyone behind the wheel on this planet seemed possessed by some urgent death wish.  Cars and trucks rocketed along at speeds that must have exceeded the
Patton
’s best, changing lanes with only inches to spare. 

The bus, not to be outdone, aimed itself for the far left lane as soon as it entered the highway and dared anything smaller to get in its way. 

Ruth started to follow.

“I know the way to the embassy,” the kid assured her, “if you want to go slower.”

The boy huddled on the seat beside her.  Sis was no longer hanging over the front seat; a quick glance behind Ruth didn’t show sis on the backseat. 

She must be cowering on the floor. 

Ruth started to ask if the two of them had ever been on an expressway before.  Then swallowed the question, unwilling to strip the boy of his man-of-the-world airs.

Ruth stayed in the slower right lane and let the bus disappear in traffic ahead.

“Where is the embassy?” she asked her guide.

“Near the river, a couple of blocks from Government Center,” he said through clinched teeth.

“Computer, show me the way to Government Center,” Ruth ordered.  A map appeared on the dash in front of her, showing the expressway in red.  The fifth or six exit ahead showed as yellow and a trail led off it to the right. 

“Thank you, young man.”  Ruth said as cheerfully as she could manage with a huge truck riding her bumper, eager to push her along.

“Ah, you are welcome,” the boy said, the words seemingly strangers to his mouth.

How often was the poor kid thanked for what he did?

As Ruth motored along at a stately speed . . . and cars whizzed by her on the left . . . the children regained their confidence.  Apparently, they’d never experienced the view the expressway offered. As they came over a rise and began the descent into the river valley, their excitement returned. 

“Oh, there’s the river,” the girl squealed.”

“Those tall buildings near the river are Government Center,” the boy offered.

Ruth risked a glance.  Several skyscrapers shot up in the center of town.  Whether all of them were Government Center or just a few, Ruth didn’t know or ask. 

No doubt, she would find out soon enough.

Don’t miss, Vicky Peterwald – Assassin, an e-novella, by Mike Shepherd, summer 2014

Kris Longknife killed my brother.  Kris Longknife must die!

Or Vicky Peterwald – Target, by Mike Shepherd, coming from Ace summer 2014

Vicky Peterwald has it all.  She’s a grand duchess.  She’ll inherit an empire.  Oh, and she has a stepmother three years old than she is, pregnant, and wants
Vicky dead.  Can a girl survive having too much?