Elites of Eden (Children of Eden #2)(36)

I know it isn’t enough. Now instead of looking like an inner circle girl who’s lost, I just look like an inner circle girl who’s crazy. But it will have to do. The big question at the moment is: can I trust the bum? He gave me glasses to hide my eyes, but what about that number he scratched into the dust? It must be a building number. Or maybe a code? But to what? In any case, I can’t stay here all day. I’m tucked away and unobtrusive, but with the sun coming up people will definitely notice me, and attention is the last thing I need.

To find shelter, I’ll have to venture out into the open.

Look like you’re not afraid. That’s what Lark told me when I was nervous about walking among the poor, the street people, the gangs in her home circle (which seems so civilized now). Walk like you belong here. Don’t make eye contact, but don’t look down either. Own the space you move in.

So I gather my confidence and step out. In the growing light of day, the place looks like a war zone. How can anyone live like this? The idea that has been nagging me for days suddenly solidifies. How can this poverty exist in Eden? The principle of this survival city has always been sustainability. They’re willing to kill me, and any second child, to keep the population in check so there will be enough food and water and other resources for everyone.

Why on Earth then do some people have so much, some so little? It makes no sense. The inner circle people don’t need exotic nightclubs, decadent food, and luxury clothes. If they had a little less, the people out here would have a little more. Around me I see broken windows, skinny children with empty bowls outstretched, begging for a scrap. There’s a crater in the road that looks like a bomb fell. There are no cleanbots, no securitybots . . .

Why doesn’t EcoPan divide the resources equally?

I’m distracted from my thoughts by a group of people moving purposefully along the street. There are six or seven, all dressed in bone-white decorated with a dotted pattern. They look so clean against the grime that I’m immediately relieved . . . until they come closer and I see that what I took for abstract polka dots are really splashes of blood. It is bright and fresh.

“Lost, little girl?” one of them asks in a tone of slimy concern.

“Found, now,” a woman says, and they all laugh at the weak witticism.

They start to crowd around me.

“What do you have in your pockets?”

“She doesn’t have pockets.”

“Must have something good hidden somewhere,” one says with sly insinuation. “Let’s have a look.”

I feel a hand on me and something snaps. I punch the closest one in the nose, sending out new decorative sprays of blood and hurting my own hand far more than I anticipated. An elbow takes down another one, and that method feels much better to me. For a second they hardly react. They must not expect an inner circle girl to be capable of much. Some of them are even laughing at their comrades’ injuries. They’re that confident that I’m not a threat.

I’m not. But neither am I their plaything to rob or torment. I do what I do best. I run.

They must have had a long night. I smell alcohol and synthmesc. They make a token show of chasing me down, but even with my ankle screaming, my gait gimpy, I lose them within half a mile.

I feel the tears starting again, only this time they’re tears of frustration. Is this my life now, being alternately accosted by Greenshirts and thugs until one of them finally wins? Isn’t this supposed to be a nearly perfect society, a preserve for the last of the humans? Why are humans friendly and happy and easygoing and rich near the center, and trying to assault one another out here?

Someone is approaching. “Get the hell away from me!” I scream, only to see them cower and slink away. It’s a middle-aged woman with a bundle under her arm. She wasn’t a threat (was she?) and I treated her like a monster. What’s happening to me?

I need to find the building the ragged second child told me about. If that’s in fact what he meant. Most of the buildings aren’t marked. A few have numbers with gaps where some have fallen off. Others have numbers spray-painted on them, half-obscured by graffiti championing one gang or another. That one says 5994 in dark green paint. I wander until I find another: 6003. I’m headed in the right direction, at least. It is a small victory, and my heart feels the tiniest bit lighter. But what awaits me there? An ambush from another gang, or Center officials, or the strange old bum himself? Maybe he makes a habit of luring lost girls . . .

People look at me, either in curiosity or hostility or evaluation, and I glare back. Finally, though, I see the building he must have been talking about. It is gray and squat . . . and crowded. I smell food, and my stomach gives a growl. How is it that my body still thinks something like hunger is important?

It’s a charity house, dispensing food to the poor. In other words, to every outermost circle resident who isn’t strong enough to take, or keep what they need. Barefoot children emerge with flatbread smeared with a bland but nutritious basic algae paste. I think of the huge variety of flavors available in my home circle. The food there tastes (so they assure us) exactly like pre-fail food, even if it isn’t actually made from fruits and vegetables. Here, it seems, taste doesn’t matter. The children wolf their bread and algae down as if they’re worried someone might snatch it away.

Then, on the periphery, someone does just that. A scrawny girl cries as a bigger boy yanks her dole out of her hands. She looks down miserably at the crumbs she managed to salvage in her fist. Suddenly the bum is there, moving swiftly through the throng, his motley rags flapping dramatically. No unsteady shuffling this time. He whacks the boy across the shoulders with his cane. The boy drops the bread and runs. It lands algae-side down. The little girl obviously wants to pick it up and eat it anyway, but the bum takes her hand and gently pulls her back toward the charity house. He’s gotten a new pair of glasses since our meeting. With his free hand he raises them, flashes me a wink of his bright golden eye, and heads inside. I’ll mingle with the crowd and wait for him to return. He has to be able to help me.