Robert Barlow

         Aaron looked down to avoid her eyes.  The one time he looked up the eyes had pulled at him while her thick gray tongue licked wide lips. He felt a shiver and wrapped his gloved hand tightly around a support rail.  The old transport lift shuddered on the way down.  It jerked wherever the worn shaft was slightly out of alignment.  The lurching drops worked on his stomach and the big woman's eyes worked on his mind.  Maybe this wasn't the best idea.  Yoka wanted him too much and Sebastian didn't want him at all.  But they were the biggest and the best of the cliques.  Nothing less seemed worth the effort.

         When the lift came to a final halt Aaron felt some relief.  He tightened again when Sebastian shoved him and the other initiate out past the recessing door into a long dark corridor.  Here was one of the lowest of the undercities.  A small chemical glow panel fended off extinction in the distance.  Sebastian's voice came out at them raspy, a sure sign of too much smoke.

         "I don't think an upper tower boy like you is going to make it." He faced Aaron and then turned to the other initiate.  "And this isn't the shallows.  It's the deep end."  The tattoos on his thick arms rippled in response to the muscles flexing with each jab of his finger.  His arms, false sun coated in bronze like the rest of his exposed flesh, remained bare.  The warlord never covered them up like he did his bird legs with baggy silk pants.

         "I can make it," said the other initiate, his voice rising shrill.  His dark chin jutted out with a defiance that almost seemed desperate.  "I'll show you."

         Sebastian laughed.  "Jomo, you're a weak fatherless puke.  I suppose that's what comes from a dad who can't handle his juice."  Aaron wasn't sure if Jomo was going to make a suicidal rush at Sebastian or break into a cry.

         "Let's get going already," said Aaron.

          "Shut your hole, money boy!"  Sebastian jerked toward him.  The forehead that began the complete baldness furrowed and his brown eyes turned hot.

         "Now, now, Sebash," said Yoka.  "I like this one.  He has such adorable blue eyes and such nice blonde hair and young, so young.  Delicious, simply delicious."  Again Aaron wondered what he'd been thinking when he applied to Yoka's clique.  He could barely stand the sight of her with all those skin folds spiked with pierce strips.  She kept her arms bare like Sebastian but the rest of her ballooned outward in a neo-nylon body wrap that seemed ready to burst at the first wrong twist.  But she was the Momasan whether he liked it or not. "Did you search them?" asked Yoka.

         "Done it already.  They got nothing, except little Jomo had a shuriken in his pocket."  Sebastian pulled out a dull gray cross, sharpened to a point at each end.  "The sub-rat might have more pokers hidden in his grunge.  I can strip him, Momasan, if you want."

         "That's very tempting, Sebash.  But we don't have the time.  Tito is waiting for us.  Just give them the sticks so we can leave."

         Sebastian pulled the tazbats out of a bag slung under his arm.  Aaron caught the one flipped at him, and he examined the black surface, noticing a few scuffs on one end.  The other sixty centimeters ran straight and smooth, including the side handle in the middle.  The shock button recessed deeply into the handle.

         "Hope you little ones can use these better than the cops we took them off of." Sebastian offered a wicked grin.  "You got three days to make it to City Hall. I'll be there at midnight, end of third.  If you're a no show after ten minutes I'll lock out the other transport like I will this one and then you'll have to climb up the other subs.  Lots of sickos that way, but that doesn't matter.  You don't meet me on time and the Tokyos want nothing to do with you.  Right, Momasan?"

         "Yes, those are the rules.  But I don't want you to fail me, boys.  You both are simply too good looking for me to pass up.  I need some fresh spice and you two look like salt and pepper next to each other." 

         The old transport whirred upwards and Aaron shook off the dirty feeling that Momasan left behind.  He turned and focused on the glow panel, an oasis in the ink.  Aaron pressed on the light attached to the fabric of his left forearm.  The thin stream burrowed the darkness barely enough to walk by. 

         "You should save it for when you really need it," said Jomo.  Aaron looked sideways and saw how the boy's dreads were long enough to fall inside the high collar of his puff jacket.  The dark blue puffed from a collage of pockets.

         "I'd rather not trip over something.  Break a leg and my initiation would be over before it started."

         "Just give it time, rich boy.  As long as we can see a glow light your eyes should change enough to walk by it."

         "I'm not a rich boy!"  Aaron turned fully toward Jomo.  "What makes you think that I'm rich?"

         "Don't get your blood up, pinky.  It's just that a head to toe wrap like that one costs plenty, unless you fought in one of the wars.  I read that the walker-jockeys had outfits like that.  It sure is mighty nice being all water insulated and slash resistant.  I'm lucky to have this puffer and slick pants."

         "It belonged to my grandfather.  My father was going to save it for when I turned older.  It's just an early inheritance, all right?"

         "Okay.  It's just nice. That's all."

         "And don't ever call me pinky again.  I don't care what shade you are."

         "It's all right, man.  I didn't mean a thing.  It's just something that I say.  You're right though.  Shade doesn't mean a thing." 

          "Fine." Aaron released his breath.   He held out a hand and Jomo shook it with a fingerless glove.  "My name is Aaron, Aaron Volo."

          "Please to know you.  Jomo Ngozi is my given."  Jomo paused for a moment and looked intently at Aaron's eyes as if he were searching for something before continuing.  "We need to stay together this far down in the subs."

         "Even tower tops know that.  But other than that I don't know anything about the subs except for the scare stories from my gramps and what they teach in school.  If I heard Sebastian right, it sounds like you've been below before."

         "Yeah.  I've never been this deep though, just a level or two down.  Sebastian called me sub-rat but that's a dirty predge name.  We call ourselves sub-runners, cause that's what we do a lot of.  There's a lot of scum in the shallows."

         "Is that where you got the shuriken?"

         "You know it.  We have to keep the chasers back.  It's easy to find something to sharpen with all that stuff falling apart.  Some get real good with their designs.  Almost like art.  Don't you worry though.  Sebastian didn't get all of mine."  

         Aaron pressed off the sleeve light and was surprised that his eyes adjusted to see where his boots shuffled.  They walked for a while until they reached the fickle glow panel.  Aaron saw that it was one of a long row that ran along the ceiling.  He noticed Jomo covering one eye whenever he looked directly at the panel and realized that he was salvaging his night vision.  Despite feeling foolish, Aaron covered one of his eyes also. 

         Looking around, Aaron realized that this undercity wasn't so different from the one he knew, except no towers and no bubble dome. This place had a lot less plastic, making the buildings seem more organic, like the tiny garden plots he saw on rooftops.  Most of the surfaces around him wore their age with cracks, splinters, and the slow sag of time.

         They walked a while in silence before Jomo broke in again.  "That's the way." The sub-runner pointed toward another shadowy cast of light that leaked around a distant corner.  "So how do you use this?"  Jomo held up the tazbat.

         Aaron pulled his bat out from where he'd tucked it under his belt.  "It's not too difficult.  Haven't you ever seen the cops use them?"

         Jomo barked a short laugh.  "I've felt one being used on me with a full zap too.  But that doesn't mean that I know how to use it."

         "Well," Aaron hesitated while thinking about it.  "You can hold it by the handle like this."  He held the handle up like a flight control stick.  Half of the bat channeled under his arm with the rest jutting forward past his enclosed vertical fist.  "You jab like this and the shock works out either end when you push the button and when either of the contact pads touch something."  He demonstrated the jab by pumping his arm forward as if he were rowing with it.  Aaron lightly fingered the shock button without activating it and wondered how many charges were left.

         Jomo copied his example.  "Not bad.  How you know so much about tazbats?"

         "There're based on the tonfa I've used in martial training."

         "How could you afford martial training if you're not rich?"

         "My dad is one of the teachers.  I used to take free lessons before I got tired of it."

         "Your dad teaches it?  That's beyond luck.  Must pay pretty good."

         "Just drop the money thing.  He volunteers at night.  Okay?"

         "What's his regular job?"

          "He's a minister." Aaron expected to get laughed at though Jomo surprised him by not reacting like the others used to.

         "Wow, a minister and a martial teacher.  You don't see that often."

         "What do you care?"

         "It doesn't bother me what your dad does.  Before she died my momma always taught me to respect preachers.  What I can't believe is that you quit the martial training if it was free.  Why'd you get tired of it?"

         "My dad pushed too much."

         "Better than not pushing you at all."

         Aaron shrugged though the gesture was covered by the darkness.  "I don't know."

         "I do know."  Jomo raised his voice like when Sebastian had mocked them.  "You heard stick legs right.  My dad was a juicer, a bad juicer.  Most days he didn't care for nothing except straining it past his teeth.  If he did care about something, watch out!  I learned to be quick if I didn't want to get knocked around."

         "That's horrible."

         "Don't feel bad over me. Feel bad for yourself, walking away from a dad who gives a care."

         "Now wait." Aaron's anger drained with the darkness when they rounded the shadowy corner.  Light. It wasn't a lot, but the spacing in between sources transformed a stumbling path into a panorama of varied shadow.  They walked a street that must have once been a continuous row of stores, a mall way of specialties.  They were far different from the current conglomerate outlets.  Most of the windows were gone, either that or the plastic was shredded with isolated strands curling down over time.  Aaron's history classes cracked him with relevance.  Here was a level of the City where his ancestors had lived and then abandoned with new construction.  How old was this sub?  He couldn't even guess so he asked Jomo.

         "At least a hundred years."

         "You remember more from your classes than I do."

         "Nah.  I quit too early, but the public archives don't care how poor you are.  Look there."  Jomo pointed to a transparent print page adhered to a window. 

         The print was fading but decent enough when Aaron activated the sleeve light.  It was a remembrance. Some kind of memory event had taken place at the java shop they were standing in front of.  He was hard pressed to pronounce the name of the group that played for a fiftieth anniversary commemoration, but the date print, 09-11-51 allowed him to make the one hundred and seven year reference.  "Jeez," Aaron muttered.

         "Yeah," said Jomo.  "This is the oldest undercity that I've ever seen."  Dread locks twirled when he whipped his head around.  "What was that?"

         Aaron looked in the direction Jomo faced but the dark mask around them was too concealing.  He shook off the dozens of different invading imaginations. No movement could be seen or heard.  "Jomo," he said softly, "I don't know what you saw, but I know that we need to get moving.  Do you have any idea which direction we should go?"

         "Uh, huh," came the reply after a pause that made Aaron uncomfortable.  "Every sub is different that's for sure, but they all build City Hall in the same place.  I know that the center is that way."  Jomo pointed at the darkness.  "When we get close enough we can just follow the signs, same as on top.  If there are any left."

         The apprehension would have been bad enough, without the extra noises.  A scrape, a creak, and a clatter could all be explained away as the gradual destruction of time.  That explanation was harder to accept when coupled by Jomo's suspicious sighting.  Jomo told him that he didn't know what he'd seen, but that didn't settle Aaron's mind.  Then he too saw something, an outline in the light that receded behind them.  Then came a noise, but not a creak or the groan of deteriorating structures.  It was the slap and shuffle of many feet.

         "Run!" The other initiate pulled at his arm with a strength born of fear.  And run they did, ever dodging the dark obstacles in front of them.  The hisses increasing behind them gave Jomo a name.  "Kanees!" 

         At some point during their mad dash Aaron realized that Jomo was pointing them toward an industrial building with a partially closed main entrance.  Aaron followed him inside and watched tools coming out from an opened puff pocket.  There followed a release of compressed air that petered too quickly to close the door.  It squealed to a stop far short and offered a sizable gap. 

         "We have to go," Aaron urged and they were up and running, first through office corridors and then into an open bay that expanded into a latticework of ladders and balconies jutting out from the front of a huge dormant machine.  The echoes from behind told them that there was nothing to it except to go up if they hoped to avoid capture.  Hand over hand they progressed reaching the first of a series of catwalks that seemed to zigzag endlessly.  Aaron stopped when he realized that Jomo paused above the ladder they had just ascended. 

         "What are you doing?" he asked just before Jomo pitched several objects downward.  Aaron focused his light on the lead pursuer, a half toothless, dirty face wrapped by shaggy hair.  The kanee couldn't have been more than a few years senior to either him or Jomo.  It was the slash of scars that gave false age to that face.  Now the face would have further scars from the palm sized disks encircled with spikes.  The kanee uttered a hissing shriek before pitching away from the ladder in a cascade that took the second and third climbers with him.  Aaron heard more cries but didn't see anyone else fall.  He turned away to catch up with Jomo.

         They thundered along the catwalks, the metal grills creaking and groaning in a most discomforting manner.  Aaron followed Jomo through a skeletal maze, climbing each new short ladder and racing across a clanging, sagging switchback until they reached the next ladder.  Eventually, they came to the area above and behind the mammoth machine.  It contained a row of gaping conduits large enough for them to run through despite the accumulation of power cables, each as thick as a leg.  Jomo hesitated before the tubes.  It gave Aaron a moment to look back and see the vague outline of pursuers on the last leg of the climb.  They were pressing hard until the mewling snarl echoed out from the tubes.  It didn't seem quite natural to Aaron, almost like the wail of a baby gone feral. 

         "No, it can't be."  Jomo's voice quivered.  There followed a snarl, all feral and ferocious, this time without a hint of infantile mockery.  On its heel erupted a howl as unlike the snarl as could be.  The two nerve ratcheting cries seemed to be a confirmation for Jomo.  "A mutant," squeaked the sub-runner.

         Aaron looked all around but couldn't pinpoint the sound that bounced about the concrete tubing.  He could verify the metallic creaks below and he looked down surprised that the forms were going back down instead of up.  He felt Jomo push past him to descend the top ladder. 

         "What are you doing?" Aaron spun him around and looked into wide terrified eyes.  Jomo returned an almost incomprehensible stammer that must have referenced the wild thing mewling louder now.  He shook Jomo.  "We can't go back down with them.  We should go on.  Whatever that thing is, it can't be in all of those tunnels at once and they can't all lead to the same place."  To his own ears Aaron's conviction sounded weak.  He yanked at Jomo's arm and the other followed woodenly into one of the concrete tubes.  Aaron waited for one additional howl and chose the tunnel with the slightest echo. 

         Soon enough they were both running again.  He kept the tazbat ready under one arm with the other arm pointing the sleeve light straight ahead.  Each twist and dip in the tunnel brought fright and then relief like alternating cold and hot.  For a long time the fear kept them going until they collapsed amongst a disarray of containers where the tunnel narrowed and seemed to have a number of smaller access hatches.

         Out of nowhere a compulsive thirst addicted Aaron to the hydration tube protruding from the front of his collar.  He didn't suck on it too long before offering Jomo a drink.  Aaron felt the gradual dissipation of the segmented bladder lining his survival wrap.  At the moment all of his plans to ration the water were shrinking.  For a long while he listened amongst the crates, regaining strength yet hearing nothing but the decreasing rage of his own breathing. 

         "Maybe it went after the kanees."  Jomo's low voice sounded hopeful.

         "What is it?" Aaron eventually asked.

         "I'm not really sure," Jomo replied slowly.  "For a long time I thought it was a fright tale used to explain some of the sub-deaths.  You know what I mean?  Just another scare story of mutilated bodies to keep the kids from exploring.  Some talked about failed experiments that escaped or were set free to clean out the subs." 

         It was a little too much for Aaron to accept and he let the subject fade.

         "Jomo, why do you want to join the Tokyos?"

         "Truth is," Jomo seemed to hesitate.  "Sebastian caught me stealing and I think that he would've pounded me good if Yoka hadn't stopped him.  She gave me this as an option rather than Sebastian tenderizing me first."

         "So she just wants you to be her toy?"

         "I think that they actually want me to steal something for them."

         "What?"

         "I don't know.  What about you?  Why are you trying to join the clique? I think that Momasan likes you too."

         "You can have Momasan all to yourself.  I'm only doing this to prove that I can. I don't plan to belong to any clique.  They're just a bunch of criminals anyway.  The sort that my dad always warned me about."

         "What?  You think that you're so much better?"

         "No.  I just got tired of my old man thinking that I couldn't handle myself.  If they're forcing you, why do you care about belonging to the clique?"

         "Yeah they're forcing me, but at least it's something important to belong to.  Sub-runners can't be picky like you family boys."

         "Some family.  My mother's been dead since I was little and what good is a dad who's too busy?"

         "You're so blind that I could slap you three times and you wouldn't know who did it. I'm going to ask some questions and you just stop me if any of the answers are no.  All right?"  Aaron nodded in the crimson glow of an old maintenance bulb.  "Did your dad ever read to you?  Did he ever come to your school?  Did he ever talk to you about girls?  That's right.  You just keep on nodding, because I've got you figured."

         "What's your point?"

         "Don't interrupt me. I've got more questions about your dad.  Did he ever take you on special trips in the City?  I thought so.  Did he ever talk to you about your growing up plans?  Did he ever hold your hand or tell you that he loved you?"

         "Yes, is that what you want to hear? He did all of that.  Big thing.  What's it matter to you?"

         "What's it matter?  I'll tell you.  My dad never did any of that.  Not when I was young, not ever.  You think it mattered to me the day he juiced up and stepped in front of the transit?  It shouldn't have, but it did matter because after that day there was no chance to make up for what I missed out on."

         "I'm sorry, Jomo.  How could I know?"

         "I told you before.  Don't be sorry over me and what I don't have.  I'm sorry for what you had and gave up."

         Aaron didn't know how to answer, except that he wanted to explode at Jomo.  But inarticulate fury wasn't the reason he couldn't answer.  The real reason crept about thirty meters away and closing.  The furry outline was wrong, all wrong.  The thin legs and rotund body were as wrong as the large pointed ears or the purring growl.  The dull red light sparkled off large eyes and maybe that's what drew Jomo's attention, because Aaron heard that familiar squeak.  He spoke slowly to Jomo out of the side of his mouth.  "Open one of those hatches." 

         He had to say it twice before Jomo reacted with a backward slide until he could reach back for the locking mechanism.  Jomo's movement triggered the beast, creeping stalk transforming into striding pounce.  Aaron moved to intercept, stabbing out with the tazbat, indexing the shock button.  The weight and momentum of the glancing paw knocked him skidding.  Worse still, the tazbat's contact point contoured off of the bladed shoulder.  The creature flattened Aaron down with its crushing weight.  Claws dug into the wrap across his chest even as the paws stiffened and ceased to rake. 

         The tazbat's handle, nestled still in Aaron's hand, came up to make full extension to the hairy underbelly.  The legs staggered off of him, returning breath and revealing Jomo jabbing and shocking from above.  Nature's twisted combination slumped against the floor but didn't stop moving.  Aaron scrambled up, pulling Jomo through the open hatch, minus the sub-runner's tazbat.  He had to shut the door without any help from a dazed Jomo.  Down the narrow corridor Aaron's attention turned away from the scratches against the door, distracted by the stinging that penetrated the slash guard across his chest.

         Despite weariness and gnawing hunger an unspoken decision pushed them as far away from the factory as exhaustion allowed.  Blurry awakenings in dark rooms flowed into desolate parks, empty pools and office buildings long abandoned.  Time increased and nearly ran out.  Somewhere in the midst of it all Aaron thought of home and decided that he was bound for it, despite the consequences, despite the clique.

         They found City Hall with plenty of hours to spare and instead sought out a nearby tenement building for a safer place to sleep until the rendezvous with Sebastian.  It took them a while to find a second story flat with a workable door and an intact window that leaked the weak illumination of a fading ninety proof juice advertisement.

         Jomo turned away from pinning the slide door in place with the twist of a manual lock.  "It will take both of us to push it open later," he said, putting some small oddly shaped tools back into a puff pocket.  "Too bad that there's no more pneumatic pressure left from the release."

         "Sometimes you don't sound like a drop out."  Jomo smiled in return to Aaron's comment, though the expression could barely be seen. 

         Aaron set his watch for a few hours later, though it wasn't the alarm vibration that woke him, rather the reverberation of a metallic tube against the plastic window.  With a jolting realization Aaron came fully awake with Jomo a close second.  They still hadn't moved, as if struggling to break the hibernation of sleep and adjust to unfamiliar darkness, when the tube struck the window for a second time, bowing it inwards like bending a plastic gambling card.  Whoever was on the balcony had arms like a slugger. 

         Both Aaron and Jomo were standing by the time the third swing crashed.  Aaron drew the tazbat and was further distracted by the pounding that coordinated at the door as well.  The next strike tore the window into multiple ripping fissures.  A head and shoulders climbed onto the sill, pushing through the now floppy shards.  Aaron stepped forward, thrusting the tazbat while indexing the button.  A dirty three-fingered hand grasped far short of him when the contact point sealed enough to discharge its electrical load.  The body stiffened and the mouth emitted a stuttering cry like an audio recording cutting in and out.  Then the form fell away from the sill, and Jomo tugged at Aaron's arm whispering, "Bathroom, bathroom."

         They wove through the apartment, sleeve light jabbing a narrow path through the dark, the sound of scraping plastic shards behind.  Into the narrow bathroom they fled with Jomo producing a pen sized light that he clenched between his teeth while working to close the sliding door. 

         "Cursed kanees," he muttered under his breath.  "They won't make meat of me."  There was a slight dissipating pneumatic hiss in response to his efforts. The hiss accompanied the sliding door along with the thunder of feet coming down the hall.  Then the slide stopped a horrifying four centimeters short of the recess.  Jomo released a frustrated groan that converted into an alarmed squeak.  He scrambled backwards to avoid the hands pushing into the crack and pulling against the door.

         "Let us in," a hissing voice initiated the chorus of echoing yeses and further repeats of "Let us in."  A mob of whispers assailed the door as if they'd spent years never raising their voices.  Aaron stepped forward, worried about how many charges were left in the bat even as he pressed one end against curled fingers and transferred a full jolt.  The hand froze momentarily with the mortification of electrified muscle followed by a hasty retreat.  Likewise, he jabbed another hand without the electricity.  The hand jerked back, bluffed.

         Aaron heard a noise behind and looked back long enough to see Jomo cracking the hatch on a window in the back of the room.  Out of a puff pocket came the same kind of thin green rope that Aaron had seen the professional wall climbers use.  He turned back to jab at more hands and felt his stomach tighten when the hands pulled the slide door open another centimeter.  Through the wider opening came a waft of intestinal stink.  It was the sort of smell expected out of the kind of room he was in and not into it.  He jabbed the tazbat through the opening, feeling hands grasp the shaft even as he zapped the first body the bat came into contact with.  He freed the tazbat with a sharp backward pull.

         "Can you hold them while I rappel down?" Jomo asked.

         "I hope so, but what about me?"  Aaron saw that the rope was anchored around the toilet and now he knew why Jomo had guided him to this room.

         "Do you see how I have this looped?"  Jomo's penlight illuminated the knot meant to slide down the rest of the descending rope.  Aaron had seen the climbers do it many times.  When they reached the top of the wall, they would rappel down pulling the knot with them until the anchor loop expanded to a full circle touching the other end of the rope.  Then they would pull it away from the end so that the rope would fall free without having to be unhooked from above.  "When I get to the bottom, I'll pull the loop back up to you.  I'll anchor it as best I can. Understand?"

         "Yes," said Aaron jabbing into another arm that managed to squeeze through supported by a background of affirmative choral hisses. 

         It seemed forever while he waited for the loop to return; all the while he jabbed at appendages and spent precious charges.  He kept glancing back until, at last, the knot arrived.  Spending two more zaps the bat went under his belt and with more than a little trepidation he squirmed out the window feet first.  His sleeve light flashed away from the bathroom so that his last memory of the cramped compartment was sound and not sight from the creaking door and scraping bodies. 

         The line remained tight, making his bounding pushes away from the exterior wall far and fast.  The rope burned a hot friction line across both gloves.  The convection transferred some of the heat to the bare flesh beneath.  A sudden swaying motion provided an unwelcome surprise and he knew that Jomo no longer anchored the rope.  Aaron shortened his bounds but kept up the speed, transferring even more heat through his gloves.  He heard the scuffle long before his feet touched bottom. The freed rope fell down beside him.  Three vague forms in tattered clothes pinned Jomo.  Aaron moved in and gagged slightly from the full body reek.

         He immediately kicked into one of them, his front leg snapping straight ahead followed by a rear leg that had more thrusting momentum.  The front kicks sent the figure sprawling along the ground.  He didn't have time to draw the bat with the other two figures within arms reach and Jomo mixed in between.  He sidestepped so that only one faced him; the other forced to move around Jomo in order to engage.  Fists flew in his direction that he blocked and broke to each side of his head. 

         Inside the kanee's arms Aaron thrust a series of palm heels against his assailant's face, rocking the kanee's head backwards.  He thundered combinations of punches into the exposed torso and didn't have time to watch the kanee sink to the ground because the third jumped at him, past a downed Jomo.  Aaron had a second to realize that his opponent's outstretched arms blocked the head and as such he made no attempt to strike.  Instead, he twisted in the same direction of the leaping form, hooking his right arm under the kanee's left armpit and rolling the body over his hip.  The movement took very little effort with the momentum provided by the kanee who skidded head first onto the street. 

         Aaron had a brief respite that he used to draw the tazbat and he was ready when the other two kanees recovered their feet.  Neither of them moved as fast as they had before.  They moved even slower when one folded over the bat thrust against a stomach and the other staggered from a spinning blow of the shaft to his head.

         Aaron looked down and pulled on the high puff collar encircling Jomo's neck.  The sub-runner groaned, now on his knees.  "We've got to get going."  He pulled Jomo onto his feet.

         "My rope," said Jomo swaying a bit before regaining balance.

         "It's right here," Aaron said stuffing the fist full of coil into one of Jomo's pockets.  He kept his left arm pointed down at a forty-five degree angle so that his sleeve light gave at least a few meters view to place his feet. 

         The volume of footfalls told him that pursuit was not far behind.  He worried that the stumbling Jomo would force him to stop and fight, but whatever the ill effects, they seemed to leave his companion, and shortly Aaron raced to keep up with Jomo's full sprint.  The all out race slowed to as fast as Aaron's hammering heart would allow, and soon he regretted abandoning the conditioning offered by the martial classes.  Over his rushing breath he could still hear the chasers, though the pattering of feet didn't seem to be closing.  Backward glances both confirmed that they were keeping pace as well as revealing more chasers.

         Aaron checked his watch, causing hope to resurface again at 11:55 p.m.  They picked up their sprint toward the transport shaft near the old City Hall, and they gave it up just as readily at the sight of those blocking the way.  Sounds from behind reminded Aaron that the circle around them would soon be complete.

         "We've got to bust through, Jomo, or they'll swarm us."

         "I'll give ‘em all I got."

         Spiked shuriken flew out before Aaron's charge as Jomo emptied his puff pockets.  Dark forms bent double or pealed away from the pack, hands reaching for that which pierced them.  Aaron made the best of it by barreling in full tilt.  The tazbat jabbed, chopped and spun to clear the way while his feet worked likewise front, side, and heel.  Stinky bodies buckled or bent from his force and still others joined to replace the fallen.  Aaron's planned breakout refused to breach.  He knew that it was desperate when the kanees got close enough for him to use more elbows and knees.  Then he heard Jomo shriek and saw him collapse beneath his attackers.

         For a moment Aaron's struggle paused, held immobile by grasping hands.  He needed to break free or suffer Jomo's fate.  Then he heard another sound, yet no shriek was it.  This voice bawled venom and hate, rage and malice.  Aaron recognized the rasp and used it to rip free from the distracted ones trying to take him down.  In every direction he kicked, palm heeling forward and elbowing backwards.  The tazbat pumped forward and aft, soon empting of all charges save blunt force.

         Aaron gained space and sight to watch Sebastian on a rampage.  The warlord wielded a wooden beam as a club. It swept kanees away until it broke off piece by piece.  Sebastian replaced it with gloved hands that pounded punches or hefted one to be thrown into another.  Aaron used the momentum of changing fortune to clear away those pinning Jomo.  When both of them were back on their feet they had opportunity to witness the retreat caused by Sebastian's savage onslaught.  He came back toward them heaving and seething.

         "Move it!" Sebastian repeated until the initiates wobbled after him toward the transport lift.

         "I knew we could do it."  Jomo held onto a feeble smile.

         "Put your tongue back in its brainless box, darky.  Momasan is the only reason you're still alive.  I would've left you both to the scum down here."

         "There's no call for shade talk," Aaron said and immediately regretted his fatigue filtered mouth.

          "Pinky and darky.  Quite a pair." Sebastian's voice went fearfully quiet again.  His jabbing eyes eased with a smile.  "Momasan will have fun with you."

          Aaron's discretion strolled toward oblivion.  "That nasty hag isn't going to have fun with either one of us.  We don't need your clique."

         Sebastian didn't explode as expected.  He moved in.  "Momasan will be disappointed that you didn't make it." 

         Aaron moved in as well, watching Sebastian shove Jomo down.  Aaron used the distraction to ram home the tazbat and trigger a charge to Sebastian's sternum.  The zap never came but Sebastian came on with barely a grunt.  Aaron didn't have time to regret forgetting that he'd used all of the charges on the kanees.  It was all he could do to sidestep Sebastian's course and flex his wrist against the side handle until the other end of the bat spun toward the warlord's temple.  A leather-padded hand intercepted the spinning tip and splintered the composite shaft with a flex of Sebastian's meaty arm.  The remainder of the tazbat parted from Aaron's comparatively child-like grip.  He let it go, trading a vain tug of war for kicks to Sebastian's chicken legs. 

         Three sidekicks landed above and below the targeted joint.  The fourth barely sliced the moving knee.  It moved the wrong way, arresting some of Sebastian's drive.  For the second or two that he made contact Aaron thought he felt something give, maybe even snap.  He doubted that Sebastian would've been able to grapple him if he hadn't been so tired. 

         They fell tangled with steely fingers working his throat.  Aaron's mind fought a losing battle against oxygen deprivation.  The whispered words came harsh to one ear.  "You don't deserve a warrior's initiation.  Time to die, pinky."

         The green climbing rope constricted around Sebastian's neck.  The slipknot cinched despite Sebastian's efforts to release it.  Aaron's own strangulation eased and he coughed violently.  A moment later he rolled the unconscious warlord off of him and helped Jomo to tie Sebastian's arms.

         "You think the cops would like to get a hold of him?" asked Aaron.

         "Oh, yeah.  They'll lock him up for a long time."

         "Good.  Let's leave him where they can find him."

         "What about us?"

         "I thought about what you said, Jomo.  You can come home with me.  My dad will take you in.  I bet he'll even take me back."

         "That sounds like my kind of dad.  But what about when the clique comes after us?"

         "Oh, we're not done with the Tokyos yet."  Aaron wondered how many other boys were being taken advantage of by the cliques.  "I have something in mind for them.  This initiation has just begun."

 

 

Copyright 2005, Robert Barlow

Robert Barlow has sold short fiction to Alien Skin Magazine, Far Sector SFFH, Dragons, Knights and Angels Magazine and The Sword Review. Robert works as a police detective in Oregon.

 Links to Robert's other works of fiction can be found at www.spoiledink.com/Robert_Barlow

 

Cover: "Double-Edged Sword"

Copyright 2006, Double-Edged Publishing, Inc.

"Double-Edged Sword" is an original illustration created for The Sword Review by staff member, Bill Snodgrass.