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Dazzling Darkness, Brightless Light by Sagista Warning: This story contains graphic descriptions of violence, and contains sex and other adult themes including sex change. If these things offend you, do not read this story. Note: This story is based in the same story world as my short story I wrote (as Cleo Kraft) called "Dash." ------------- "Water buddy? Water?" "Away from me you slothy beggerman!" Blue green light wave-flickered on then off then on over and over again in Pacific undertunnel number five. My gang of streetsmiths, the Eye, with members Gabe, Zak and I, were on our way to Persephone, or the Kore, to start up a bit of water smuggling, and perhaps take down a few rival gangs along the way. Water, you see, was scarce, at least drinking water that is. Plenty of salt water, though, but drinking water, now that was something worth more than money itself, and a gang like mine could clean up off stealing a bit from here or there and selling it on the streets to the highest bidder. The govlaws said only one litre of drinking water per person per day was the limit allowed by law. If you were caught with more than that you'd go to prison, or the slave camps, no questions asked. Oh there were risks alright, but also rewards, and oh how I loved to collect them. Yes, there's nothing like a good round of collecting to top off the night after a long and grueling day on the streets. The Kore train from Santiago sped us along through deep, deep Pacific undertunnel number five. We were on our way to Newzey Lane Station, gatehouse of the beautiful, wonderful Kore, my home and playground, Persephone. My friends, Gabe and Zak stood there with me in the L or left section balcony strip, that is, one of the side balconies that ran along the entire length of the train. Traveling along at nearly five hundred klicks an hour, riding in the balcony section was quite a thrill on routes such as this. Oh, the side walls were high enough, of course, to block most of the wind, and there were strips of metal mesh mezak above our heads which kept a nice chill breeze blowing down upon us as we stood there on the concrete outerstructure. Balcony trains, or wide berthers as these were sometimes called, were the best way to travel great distances across the globe as far as I was concerned. Take your old fashioned train and add a balcony strip on each side to triple its width, and you've got yourself a luxury train instead of an old can of sardines on wheels. Add your coffee and tea houses and a bar or restaurant here and there and tons more room for wider passenger quarters, souvenir shops, and the like and now you've got something more to do while traveling about than just sitting around in a crampt seat in some cabin the size of a tin can. No, this was the train of delights, and the guy that invented it is now the wealthiest man alive, and governor of Kore itself, D. L. Kappston, gazillionaire extreme. It was fun to watch the great blue and green strips of light zip past the balcony along the sides and above as the train zoomed along under the great Pacific. My gang and I just graduated college, believe it or not, as even gangs had to get their education in order to survive in a world like this. We decided to head out to the Kore in hopes of getting some good jobs there. You know, sneak into big business, then when the time was just right, make off with the crime of the century. Oh we'd still sell water, of course, and do what it was gangs like ours did best, that is, the dirty work that gangs must do in order to keep a good reputation and survive, but we were after some real jobs this time. That's what college was for after all - for gangs like ours to make our way into places the govlords would never expect in a million billion years. Gain everybody's trust, then stab'em in the back. That was going to be the plan anyway. Gain their trust, then bang! Easy water. We each majored in different areas of expertise, Zak being a train mortech, which came in handy nowadays as trains were more luxurious than planes, and also more popular lately. Gabe was skilled in siblore, or artificial intelligence, smartbot stuff, a skill highly sought out by employers now-a-days with more and more computers and robots doing the work, and I was skilled in streetworthiness, that is, I'm a streetsmith, which basically meant I could either work for or against the govlaw, either for or against the street gangs. Kore was the place my friends and I were sure to find jobs to suit our skills, for Kore was not only train central of the world, and the country also known as Hearty Arti, or Siblore Central, but it was also one of the most dangerous places to live with all the street gangs and govpols battling it out at nearly every hour of the day and night. A city full of wonders of both good and bad. A place of high technology living side by side with high crime and violence. They say crime doesn't pay but tell that to those with food, water, clothes and shelter, but especially tell that to those with water because those were the ones living up the good life while others live on litre rations, if you can call that living, and let themselves slowly wither and die as the govlords stand back and watch. Well if it's a crime to steal water then most of the population's already guilty, and if it's a crime to waste it, let me tell you, the govlords are keen at that game better than anybody else. They throw it away faster than they can get it. Oh, but they have to, you see. It's part of population control to see to it there's not enough to go around . . . and they call us criminals just because gangs like mine try and snatch up a bit of their waste water. What a shame that is, eh? Crime does pay, but you've got to be good, and you've got to be bullet proof, and you've got to have a gang. You can't do it alone, not with all the security, not with all the govpols, no, you've got to have a gang . . . and a gang was exactly what I had, and the finest bunch of three there ever was. Not too many, no, not enough water to go around, you see, but just as many as we needed to contain trust, ensure organization, fairness, and friendship to bind us and keep us focused on our wonderful work. Oh, I suppose I could have used my education as a streetsmith for the so-called betterment of society and joined up with the govpols, but after all, what good is a streetsmith running around killing and capturing other streetsmiths if the job doesn't have high enough rewards? That's one of the biggest problems with society today. You don't pay your govpols what the other side gets and here is what happens: Pay them less and they may just join up with the evil that society is so afraid to face. Pay them equal and it doesn't matter which side you join. Pay them more and that's the deciding factor. Never work for anything less than what you're worth. If they won't pay up for good, they'll pay up for bad. I've still got to make a living, just like the next guy, and with so many people in the world already in the workforce and with robots replacing more and more jobs, the decision is a simple one. Crime pays. Oh, but you'll see what I mean about that soon enough, my friends. You'll learn all that and more. There goes Zak again with his singing . . . "It doesn't pay to be a paladin. Paladins are poor." "The world will see crime every day, 'til denizens pay more." God how I loved trains . . . and the gangs like mine that rode them! ___-----___ Zak, my darkhaired friend, stood there in his tattered old moth-eaten blue windbreaker jacket. He stood there with a bottle of beer and looked up through the metal mesh mezak above our heads and watched the lights go by. His black slacks fluttered about and over his black boots in the strong breeze that passed through the L section. "Derrik," he said to me. "I was thinking about what you said." "About the gang?" I said that just loud enough so he could hear. I didn't want other passengers thinking we were talking about things we shouldn't be talking about. There were laws against certain things being said now, even in places like America there were laws like that now. What was it they called that? Freedom of pure speech, yes, that's what it was, pure and clean speech. That's what they wanted. Pure, clean, and unharmful speech. The L section was just noisy enough and windy enough, though, to make it difficult for others not in your immediate party to hear what was being said. God I loved trains! "Yes, about the gang. I think you're right. A mortech doesn't get paid what a good streetsmith does in the right gang, but what am I supposed to do? I know nothing about being a streety except what they broadcast on the waffle." He of course meant wall-flick, but "waffle" was the old streetsmith way of saying it. Quite a bit outdated in fact, but it was a good attempt at impressing me. We called those gazers or gazer boxes now. "You'll get laughed at, Zak, if you use outdated slang like that around the modern streetsmiths. They're called gazers. You'll get the hang of it though, just try and pick up words other smiths use, okay?" Of course I tried to hold back on using my gangtalk that much around crowds like there were on trains like this. It was dangerous to say the wrong thing. You might get arrested and brought in for questioning if you used fluent gangtalk in a place like this. He just nodded and kept looking up at the lights go by and he sipped at his bottle of beer every now and then. Gabe, well he was kind of a short, chubby guy, or at least he was until he started working out. Now he was a bit more muscular and tough looking and sported a blond crewcut. His eyes kind of darted here and there, but he couldn't help it, he was paranoid that spies were following him around. That happens to alot of siblores actually. They get locked up in enclosed spaces, programming and working with some of the larger sibs, or smartiputers, and they just go nuts when they're around other human beings. It's like machines are their real friends, and not too many people like the A.I. types anyway because those are the guys that steal jobs away and give them to the machines. So it's no wonder Gabe's a little fed up with people, and more than a little paranoid around them. You could also tell Gabe was a siblore from the silver brace about his neck that kept him from turning his head this way or that but also allowed him to work on the dropchips, you know, the machine tunnels that bore down straight into the earth for miles and miles. You had to keep your neck in a brace like that for such a job or your head would snap clean off on your first drop before you could even cast half a line of splicene tast, you know, the really thin stuff. Razor edged wire. Nasty stuff but the smartiputers needed some kind of defense built in or the commoners would tear those machines to bits. "What do you say, Gabe?" I asked. "Good idea for us to move on to the Kore, now? Want to finally get paid for what you're worth, now, or what?" "Huh? What?" he asked looking around, which was really kind of funny since he had to move his whole body this way and that to get a good look around. Kind of sad, too, because his paranoia kept him doing that strange little dance, looking this way and that, nearly every few moments or so. "That guy's been watching us. Shhh...Don't look. He's the guy in the tan suit over there. He's been watching us." "Gabe," Zak said. "Derrik asked you a question." "Wha? Oh yeah, the Kore," Gabe said. "Do I have to work outside?" "It's sort of part of the requirements, Gabe," I replied. He didn't like that. His face went all pale and ill looking and I thought he was going to puke his beer right here and now. He finally gave in, I think, because we were the only people-friends he could trust, and I think he'd go nuts if he was left without any connection at all to the outside world in a big place like the Kore. He nodded, but still looked quite ill about the idea of having to go in more public places rather than sit behind some desk in some cubicle in some office building somewhere, or work inside one of the big machines where he could be free of others, where he could be free of the spies. I left him be and didn't say a word to him on our voyage after that. He'd need time to recover from the illness that came over him from his decision. I felt really bad for him, actually, because he was raised in a fairly religious family. Some variation of Irrodipids, I think, and his name's from some angel in this book he read or something, or so he once said but I don't go in for that sort of stuff. He can believe what he wants though, but I still feel sorry for him because I know he believes street gangs are going though the path of darkness, and I know it must be at least partially why he got so sick just now. That and his strong belief in spies. I'd sooner believe in an angel than spies following a bunch of college grads around on a train though. "Spies," he said clutching his stomach and groaning in pain. "Spies . . ." What a great friend though, to set beliefs aside for the sake of friendship, to endure psychological pain for the sake of friends like Zak and I. Gabe's a great guy, that's for sure, and I'm always eager to kill anyone who says any different. I can remember the last guy now who said something bad about Gabe. Oh, he wasn't the first, and probably won't be the last, but he looked kind of funny all smushed up like he was after I sherzanged him with that crunchy-44, that is, a pressure gun. The train sped along an upward slope now as we approached the Kore. I could hardly wait to get others in my gang and get to where the water was. Oh yes, water, but also time. Time to do the things I've wanted to do for so many, many years. Time to make society learn the lesson they've needed to learn about good and bad and the pocket change they keep tossing out to the poor weak paladins in an effort to try and stop people like me. The work-smiths of our modern age. ___-----___ The air about me roared now as the train came up out of the tunnel and into the hot desert air. With the train network around the world now, and the ever increasing problem of rising sea water due not to the polar caps melting, but to the old icebox of twenty-o-nine, a comet that is. A great big one too, only not all of it vanished into fire and smoke, no, much of it survived as great blocks of ice. Because of this, the innerland and upperland regions are worth far more money now than ever before, and only the super rich, like the governor of Kore itself, old D. L. Kappston, could afford to own such places. Thick, tall, concrete sea walls surround the Kore, and trains from all over the world come up from just under these walls and dart here and there across the desert to Siblore Central, my home, the beautiful, wonderful Kore. It now being too hot to stand outside on the concrete L section, my friends and I, and other passengers went back inside the central section and enjoyed the wonderful air conditioning piped in though the overhead vents. It got too crowded for poor old Gabe's taste, so he had to step outside. I suppose if he can sacrifice for friends, so can I, so I went out there with him to keep him company. It wasn't that bad actually. The heat was still fairly intense in some regards but now in some balcony areas a few little vents opened above and sprayed some cool mist down. It was saltwater of course. Too expensive to waste freshwater in such ways. We stood under one of those vents and enjoyed the warmth of the sun, and the coolness of the mist, and the strong, fresh desert air that wafted by. Some girls that had obviously gone inside to change clothes, came out in their bathing suits and began sun bathing under the mist vents. One of them had a strange, thick, silvery bracelet on her left wrist and at once Gabe saw this and led me quickly away to another area of the deck. "What's wrong?" I asked. "She's not real," Gabe replied clutching at his stomach. "She's a spy." "What do you mean she's not real? Oh, the bracelet? The slave bracelet?" I knew about slave bracelets. They used them on convicted criminals to control convicts and reintroduce them into society as safer, more conformed, and obedient workers rather than keep them cooped up in a prison at the taxpayer's expense. "No, not that. I mean look how she's looking at us." "I don't see anything unusual." "The hate. Don't you see it in her eyes? The hate. She's a spy." She did look at us kind of like she was angry or something. "She's just mad because we're staring at her, that's all," I suggested. "No, it's more than that. She's - oh wait, she's coming this way. Be quiet." The girl got up from her lounge chair and walked up to me, bowed, and said,"I'm Tish. I am a slave." Those were the things most every slave was forced to say by the strange controlling devices they wore on their wrists. It was merely a standard introduction sentence every slave was made to say to every stranger they initially met or was ordered to talk to. She stopped bowing and stood up straight and held out her hand to me, like a man would do for a handshake. "Hello Derrik," she said as we shook hands. "I thought I'd never see you again." "You know her?" Gabe asked, shocked that I would have dealings with anyone he absolutely knew to be a spy. "I've never met her before in my life," I said in all honesty. Who was this person? How did she know my name? "I'm not allowed to say who I was, Derrik," she said. "But I do wish you would help me esc--- Hi! I'm Tish. I'm a slave!" She bowed once more and added,"If there is nothing more you wish of me, sir, I should ask that you please excuse me." I said nothing and instead focused my eyes upon her gorgeous body. She was a blue eyed blonde, and had skin far too soft and pale to be out here sunbathing. She stood there about a head shorter than myself, and she stood there in a white bikini which did little to conceal her beautiful body. She was fairly young for a slave, perhaps sixteen I think, and this fact suddenly struck me as being the most odd thing about her, save for her knowing my name, since to the best of my knowledge we'd never met before. "If there is nothing more you wish of me, sir, I should ask that you please excuse me," she repeated after the long silence. She looked really embarrassed now, but also like she was holding back a bit of anger and frustration over what she was made to speak and how she was made to behave. Apparently once a slave took it upon him or herself to talk to a non-slave, that slave had to wait for permission to leave again. She really was young for a slave. I thought it was illegal to have a slave be so young. "How old are you?" I asked. "Fifteen, sir." Even younger than I thought! They must have changed the laws or something. "Who is your master?" "My parents are, sir." "And where are they now?" "Inside, sir." "Why aren't you with them?" "They said I could work on my tan, sir," she said and quickly added,"Please, you must help me." "Get rid of her!" Gabe pleaded, his eyes darting here and there but never, ever right into the girl's eyes for fear she might spy right through him and into his mind (as he often claimed spies could do). "You may leave now," I told her and she bowed and went back to her lounge chair to resume her tanning. "She is a strange sort, Gabe," I said to my friend. "I feel like I know her somehow only I can't place where we've met." "She is only using her spy tricks on you," Gabe said. "Yes, Gabe, she is, isn't she?" I played along with his paranoia. It was the one reason Gabe even allowed me in his company at all. "Water buddy? Water?" "Away from me you slothy beggerman!" He was the same stooped over old man I'd seen before. He wore old army fatigues only I suspect the only war those clothes were in were with an army of moths - the moths apparently won. He had gray, frazzled hair and frail, bloodshot eyes with speckles of tiny, wild blue-gray blurriness in the center that gazed out in near blindness. His skin was tanned, wrinkly, and all leathery, and he trembled a little in the arms as he hobbled about dragging a green duffelbag along beside him. Real sad case but I've seen his type all too often to even bother anymore. "Away from me!" I demanded, slapping his outstretched arm back. "Away you slothy beggerman!" "Water?" "Away I said! Leave now if you value your life in the least!" What was in his duffel bag wasn't water, though, as you might expect, no he was coming to me begging for the precious liquid of life. He would get no freebies from me, that's for sure. I'm in the business of selling water, not giving it away to slothy beggermen like him. He had maybe three, maybe four more hours and he'd be dead anyway from either dehydration or a stroke from his begging out here in the desert heat. There once was a time when I'd help a man like him, but if I help one, I've got to help them all, and there simply isn't enough water to go around. If he drank his litre of water already today it's not on my conscience. It's his own fault, not mine. "You were issued your rations, old man, now leave me be," I said. He almost broke down in tears were it not for the fact he didn't have water enough in his body left to cry them. Instead his face just trembled there as he looked at me and gasped, falling to his knees and quickly collapsing the rest of the way onto the concrete deck. I pulled out my own bottle of water which was still full, and I opened it and took a good, long drink. Yep, I loved a good train ride like this one. "Filthy beggerman." ___-----___ We arrived in Newzey Lane Station and my gang and I eagerly walked out onto the concourse and down some steps and in through a wonderful indoor garden, all plastic of course as wasting water on plants in a place like this would only offer opportunities for people to greedily take the water right out of the sprinkler heads. It was still nice to see so much green plastic scenery. Most stations were just brick and concrete but Newzy Lane, now that's a station of beauty. I bet quite a few men had to put their heads together to come up with a place like this, what with all the saltwater fountains, plastic plants, and breathtaking statues of glass bottles and tin cans. Priceless statues, I'm told. Artifacts from the last century. Property of D. L. Kappston, of course, but he was generous enough sometimes to leave such works of art for his citizens to appreciate. "Oh, the Kore! The Kore! The beautiful, wonderful Kore! With water free, and jobs galore, my home . . . but wait . . . there's more!" My gang and I didn't bother to stop for the national anthem as other citizens did. It wasn't that we hated the govlords so much. After all, they're the ones whose wastewater keeps us in business. No, we just had more important things to attend to, that's all. You know, weapons hunting, water stealing, that sort of thing, and then stake our claim to another gang's territory. After that, who knows? Dinner, then a nice bed in hotel or something, then we'd go looking for jobs tomorrow morning. You know, clean and pure jobs, like good citizens. After all, it's all part of the plan. ___-----___ We wandered about the town for a little while, scoping out where all the new gangs were and checking out how things changed about my hometown since my friends and I had gone to college. The city air was kept at a cool forty degrees at all times, which was a great relief to me and my friends as that desert air was just a bit too much to contend with for more than an hour or so, even under the mistlamps. They added a new dome above the city. A green dome to replace the dark tinted one I fondly remembered from the days of my childhood. Now everything and everybody that happened to be out in the open streets in the city carried this eerie green hue about and the effect was quite disorienting at times. Sometimes you just never knew who it was you'd bumped into in a crowd. Might be an old man or woman, or could be a street thug, you just never knew until your eyes focused a bit. Poor Gabe bumped right into someone just as we rounded a corner. His paranoia was bad enough, and his tendency to keep far from people he didn't know or trust just as bad, but poor old Gabe was so overcome with fear that he just simply stood there trembling with his eyes closed. "Is . . . is it o-over?" he asked. It took me a moment to focus on who it was he'd bumped into, but my eyes certainly must be deceiving me because I'm still not sure what was Gabe bumped into. At first focus, it seemed Gabe had bumped into an old man. He wore a long cloak, with a shiny belt about it, and big black army boots, but it looked all green as far as anyone could tell under this awful dome's green glare. He stepped a pace or two back into the shadows, under an overhang beside a boarded up shop and his clothes and features came into full focus, revealing he wore no green at all, but a black cloak, white belt, and red, not black, boots. His hair was bright white and his eyes were blue. His image flickered once or twice and then an entirely different person stood there. A younger man. A man in a silver jumpsuit with multicolored wires protruding out and tangled about all over his body. He had dark black hair on his head and wore jet black goggles over his eyes. "If you rogues have anything to say, say it now, otherwise begone!" he said flashing us a streetsmith sign of one hand clasping the other in a fist. It was a sign for others in his gang to come to his assistance, only it was useless as we caught him all alone. There would be no gang to assist this fellow streetsmith tonight. "What's this?" I asked approaching him. "Keep away from me, you, or you'll be sorry," he said. His image again flickered revealing an old man standing there but then it flickered once again, and we saw the younger man there once more. "Look, if you don't back off I'll . . . I'll . . . I'll scream." "Oh really?" I asked. "What would that solve? Us three men against a defenseless little thing like you? Besides, you seem to have us all wrong. It isn't polite to threaten us by saying you'll scream, now, is it? I mean, we only just now met and we don't even know your name." His image flickered again and was a woman this time. "It's Melodie," he said in a female voice. His image again returned to male form and he added in a deep, masculine voice,"There. I told you. Now please leave me be." "Melodie?" I asked. "Well, that's a nice name for a girl." "Yeah," Zak said stepping forward now and reaching out and grabbing at the stranger's face, pulling off his goggles. "Problem is, you're no girl, are ya?" "Nice try though," I added. The image flickered once more and the old man stood there now, looking at us with a horrified expression of mixed guilt and fear. "Alright guys, salvaging time. Strip'm down," I ordered. "Wait!" the stranger cried. "Stop! You don't know what you're doing. This suit is experimental. It's not meant for streetsmiths to get ahold of." "Shut up!" Zak said punching him in the side. "It's ours now, so shut up!" Zak beat up the stranger good as he and Gabe stripped off the fancy silvery suit, leaving the poor man a battered up, bloody mess on the sidewalk. "Gabe," I said. "You saw it for yourself. This guy is obviously a spy. What should we do with him now?" Gabe didn't reply though, he was too sick to the stomach at the moment. "I say we make good and sure he doesn't do any spying ever again," Zak suggested. "Blind him." I nodded and said,"Gabe? You're thoughts?" "Y-yeah, yeah, go ahead. Go ahead. Blind'm." Zak picked up the stranger and took him around the corner into an alleyway. I heard the sound of glass breaking, followed by hideous screams of pain and terror. Gabe couldn't take it and puked in the gutter. This wasn't the first, and probably not the last guy we had to blind, but it was more than just jabbing out a guy's eye with a broken glass bottle or knife. It was the govlords fault, really. They started putting those life recorder implants behind people's eyes, you know, to playback the last few moments of a person's life so the courts would have direct evidence of how a person died and who killed who. So we had no choice, really. We had to pluck out the eyes and the life recorders of whoever might turn us in. Of course the govlords called streetsmiths like us barbarians for doing things like this, but if the govlords would have left well enough alone to begin with, and didn't require so many citizens to get the implants we wouldn't have to do any eye plucking. Zak came back around the corner dusting his hands of the whole business. "No implants in that one," he reported. "Ah, that's too bad, Zak," I said. "All that for nothing." "Well, what now?" he asked kicking at the discarded silver suit on the ground. "Gabe," I said. "You don't like spies, do you?" "N-no." "Well then, what's a good way for you to stop them spying on you?" "D-don't know." "It's simple, Gabe," I said. "They used disguises to fool you, now you use one to fool them." "Huh?" "Pick up that suit, Gabe, and put it on. Nobody will ever be able to spy on you again, just so long as you've got that suit on." His eyes glowed brightly, as if he'd suddenly come alive and free from his madness for the first time in years. His expression turned quickly to disappointment as he saw the tangled mess of wires at his feet. "But I think it's broke," he said. "Well, you're the freakin' siblore. Fix it!" . . . And that he did. Right there, on the sidewalk, with just a few tools he had in his beltpouch. The guy was a genius with sib junk. Too bad he carried a bad dose of paranoia with him all the time or he'd be the most perfect siblore I ever met. He donned the suit and tested it out. With the flick of a switch, Gabe now appeared to us as the white haired old man we'd seen the stranger pose as once before. "How'z this?" Gabe asked in an old man's voice. "That's perfect, Gabe," I said. "What's it like?" Zak asked. "I feel the same as normal, only I look and sound different. It's as strange to me as it is to you." "What about the spies? You still worried about them?" I asked. "Oh, no," Gabe replied. "That's the best part. I don't feel sick at all now. There's no way the spies will ever recognize me this way now! I think I'm cured! Isn't that wonderful?" "That's great, Gabe!" Zak said. "Well at least we got something good out of this." We headed along down the sidewalk again. Neon lights blinked above us, bursting colors out through the impossibly thick green haze that filled the air about us. Music thumped under our feet as we walked past some nightclubs. It was great to be back in my hometown again. I was afraid I was gone so long at college that the city would have changed dramatically by now, but it was the same old place, same old hangouts and nightspots. Wonderfully purified cool air surrounded us now, blowing gently down from some vents above the sidewalk. A garbage truck slowly ambled by in the street, squeaking along on its rusty axils, yet the only thing I could smell was the fresh air pumping through the vents above us. No rancid smells coming from the garbage truck, no rotting fish or stinky rotten diaper smell. No, the sidewalk vents kept those unwanted smells away from here, yet all one had to do to smell them was to step out into the street, away from the vents, and you'd be bathed in such wicked aromas coming from that garbage truck. The sidewalk vents blew down at a slight diagonal angle towards the street, so any smells from that direction were blocked out completely. This was the stuff of technology that the govlords loved to boast about. Clean, fresh air in cities choked with dirtiness. It didn't solve the problem, only mask it out to fix the symptom, as it were. We came to the end of the block and crossed the street, walking in through the neon purple gates to a park. A nicely illuminated skyblue pool surrounded by green and blue lamp strips divided the pathway in two. We headed to the right and walked down some stone steps and out along a gravel path into a darkened grassy field. It took no reminder at all from me for my gang to don their night vision goggles as I donned mine. They were well accustomed to this sort of routine. No wristlamps in conditions like this. That would give the other gang an unfair advantage. Oh there was another gang in this park right now, that much I was certain, the field usually was illuminated fairly well at night but someone had knocked out all the lights and I heard the distinct sounds of chains rattling in the dark off in the distance. "Ghosters," Zak said, obviously trying to impress me again with some gangtalk. Ghosters were gang types that carried about chains for weapons, and loved to setup their traps in the dark to capture wanderers like us. Depending upon the technology they had at their disposal, they would either be a minor nuisance to us or a definite deadly threat. Most ghosters were armature types. "Invisible," Gabe reported. "Phantom cloaks," Zak said, indicating the other gang probably wore infra-red resistant clothing, or coldsuits. We didn't have coldsuits though, so I knew immediately we were in big trouble here. "Back off slowlike," I said. "Shirks it," someone said in the dark. "There's only three." "Plug'em!" "No! Wait! Rajik's with 'em. Hey Rajik! What are you dozzling around with these nulls for?" Gabe looked at me and I shrugged. Click! One of them came into focus now, his coldsuit glowing bright white in the dark as it released all the trapped heat now that it was shut off. He walked up to Gabe, who still appeared as an old man, and he grabbed Gabe by the arm and patted him on the shoulder. "What's dezn' Rajik?" he asked. "N-not much," Gabe replied. "New 'cruities?" the stranger asked indicating Zak and I. "N-no." "Well get'm outa here, right Raj? You know better than to grule these nulls through our turf, so get'm outa here." "R-right," Gabe said turning to us and adding. "Alright you two. You heard him. Spin off!" I've never heard Gabe tell me to spin off before, and I was more than a little angry at him for telling me now, but I suppose he was only trying to play along with pretending he was a friend of these ghosters. "We'll talk later . . . Raj," I said. "You know where to find us." He clearly didn't though. He had no clue where to meet up with us again. I was good and ready to leave just then and there and let him figure out things for himself, but then Zak leaned forward and gave him a pat on the back and whispered something in his ear. Zak and I turned then and headed back the way we'd come. "I told him to meet us at the park gate in an hour, or if not, to meet us there tomorrow morning for job hunting," Zak told me. It was just and well that Gabe managed to get into that other gang. A gang like that needed an insider to help me plan accordingly on how to bring it down. That park was going to be my gang's turf, home of The Eye, and cleaned up of all ghosters once and for all. I won't tolerate ghosters in my home. They moved in when I went off to college. Now it's time for me to move them out again. ___-----___ Gabe didn't show up an hour later, so Zak and I headed through the alleyways looking for a pain-smith, you know, to sell us some swords and things. We found one in back of Julie's Nightclub. His name was Karrk, but people called him The Carcass, and I knew him well. He was an old friend of mine back before my college days. An old supplier of arms and ammo to streetsmiths like myself. He was a big bald headed fellow, and liked wearing black leather suits, not the kind old bikers wore but actual dress suits with lapels, only in leather rather than cloth. "Hello Derrik! Back in the good old Persephoni-Kore, are you?" "You know I can't stay far from home for long, Carcass, my friend." Laid out before me on a propbench were all kinds of weapons. Gululus, zars, plungs, ferom cannons, you name it, if the militia had it, Carcass had it. I picked up a stigil ranthopord and examined it. I clicked open the side mounted ammo tube and noted it wasn't loaded, but of course Carcass was no fool. I clicked the blade-toggler and out whooshed a bayonette which locked into place. "How much?" I asked. "Three fifty." "I'll need two more of these for my gang, plus ammo." "That's the only one I've got, Derrik. You know how difficult it is to get those." "Two more, Carcass. Two more. You know I've got priority." "Yes, yes. I know, I know, but it'll take me some time. Look, one is good. You can take out just about anything with just one. Why not a couple of harvester scythes? They're almost as good." "Not likely," I said looking at the examples he had laid out before me. "This one's got a rusted barrel, and the other has a broken scope." "Spin off! What do you think this is? Govlaw armory number four? You get what I got or get lost." "Fine, Carcass. I'll take the scythes after all, but if either of them malfunctions, you better hope you never see me again." "If either of them malfunctions I can pretty much guarantee that, Derrik." He chuckled at his joke. A scythe-gun had the nasty habit of doing a swiss-cheese dance of shrapnel all over those in the immediate vicinity if it went into a malfunction. I paid for the weapons and ammo and Zak and I headed deeper into the maze of alleyways. ___-----___ Zak and I robbed some poor bums of their water bottles as we walked along the alleys. It was easy taking water from these low-life scums. Tomorrow we'd sell them back their water, of course, if they could pay, but then they always seemed to find ways of paying, now, didn't they? They'd just rob someone lower along the chain than themselves, if it were possible, and come up with the money, or kill-steal, or rummage through junk and sell it. They'd come up with the money all right. They always did. Water, after all, in this day and age, was life, and it wasn't like these street bums could just up and rob some other street bums to get more water because gangs like mine would have them all cleaned out before the night was done. They'd pay all right. They'd have to. After all, water, to gangs like mine, was money, and these bums knew who they were going to pay if they knew what was good for them. Oh they'd get their daily issuance of water from the govlords, but waterlines are messy places to be now-a-days with crooks everywhere looking to steal it from you the moment you got through the line and walked out the door and onto the street. They'd be waiting for you, and if you weren't tough enough you'd wind up dead over a litre of water. That's why people would rather deal with gangs like mine and buy their water that way. We were really doing these bums a favor, you know. We weren't just stealing their water to sell it back for them. We were minding it for them, sort of like a bank minds money, and if they wanted it back, they'd pay a fee, that's all. Otherwise they'd only waste their water or some other gang would get ahold of it anyway. We were water-minders. Nothing wrong with that, now, is there? Normally, no, but sometimes it got messy, and sometimes a few bums got killed for being too stubborn. "Your water or your life!" Zak cried gleefully, cocking his scythe-gun and gesturing for the bums to place their water bottles in a burlap sack. "It's mine!" an old man cried, hugging his water bottle to his chest. "It's mine and you can't have it!" Click-BANG! Dead man on daisy street. "Anyone else?" Zak asked, waving his gun about. "No, no! We'll cooperate. We'll cooperate," one of them said for everyone else, gathering up his companions water bottles and placing them in the bag. Thankfully I didn't have to do any of the killing tonight. Oh I used to in the old days but now that I was gang leader I got to make Zak do the dirty work for me. Made me sleep a bit better at night, you know, knowing it wasn't me pulling the trigger. Besides, a man's got to make a living, right? Water's the best way to do just that. The richest men alive controlled water supplies for entire regions. Some day I'll be that rich. I just know it. "Society will do you a wrong one day, you hooligan leader," one of them said pointing at me. His hair was gray and his beard white. His tan clothes all moth-ridden with holes scattered about. "The ground will open up and swallow you and your water. Just wait. Snakes will gnaw on your bones, ants will build nests in your skull, worms will crawl through your-" "Quiet, preacher!" Zak warned. ". . . and little birdies will peck at your behind while gnats will chew on your-" Click-BANG! "God, I thought he'd NEVER shut up," Zak said. This time, though, Zak had shown restraint and shot his victim in the leg instead of outright killing him. "You got our water, now leave us alone!" one of the bums said rushing to the aid of his bleeding friend, covering up the bloodied leg with a tattered rag. "You've done enough damage here, haven't you?" The wounded old man chuckled a bit between grimaces, and said,"So, you didn't kill me . . . You let old Preacher Jack live, did you? . . . If you didn't have weapons I'd learn you proper . . . Just you wait . . . I'll learn you proper . . . . . . you . . . . water hooligans!" "Come on," I said to Zak. "Let's go." That was it for tonight. I decided I'd had enough of this for one evening. In the old days I'd go on through half the night like that with my gang but I guess being away from this scene for a few years kind of made me stomach the killing a little bit less. Must be because it's been a busy day. Too much travel, too much going on. I bet a good night's sleep is just what I need right now. Just a little rest and I'll be ready to go at it again tomorrow. We headed back towards the park and stashed away our weapons behind some boxes in the back of an abandoned warehouse. Then we headed for a hotel. The rest of the the night was a blur . . . ___-----___ ". . . second disaster this week in the Persephoni-Kore region. Forty-three killed, and seventeen wounded. Crimelab four thinks this is the work of bomber who calls himself The Flying Dutchman, but may well be the work of a new killer on the loose." "That's right, Jane, The Flying Dutchman leaves behind a sword at the scene of the crime, but authorities have not yet discovered such evidence at this time." "Persons using the water lines are reminded to report any suspicious activity at once to the Krotzol Department." "Water is precious." "Oh, the Kore! The Kore! The beautiful, wonderful Kore! With water free, and jobs galore, my home . . . but wait . . . there's more!" "And now for Captain Cartie Bungalo! Whob-Whob-Whob!" Click. I hated wake-up calls, especially ones like that, but today I had to get up early and go find a legit job. Not something I was looking forward to in the least, but something that will help setup my gang for a bigger water heist. Zak had the next bedroom over and I heard his phone ring and waited for a few seconds for the inevitable . . . Crash! Sure enough, he'd thrown his phone across the room again and smashed it into a mirror or something. He did that alot only with his regular alarm clock back when he shared a room with me in the college dorm. "Creepin' Cartie Bungalo!" he screamed from the next room. "Can't they send me a normal wake-up call for farzil's sake?" Thump-thump-thump! Stomp-stomp-stomp! Slam! Thump-thump-stomp! Creeeeeeeek . . . SLAM! Well, he was awake anyway. ___-----___ I got ready and headed downstairs for a quick breakfast. Zak was a bit late but he eventually made it. I looked through the table gazer at the want ads and jotted down some leads. After breakfast we headed over to the park and found Gabe waiting for us there in his old man's disguise. "What happened last night?" Zak asked. "Bit of a gang fight we had," Gabe replied. "Ghosters won, or else I wouldn't be here to tell about it. I know their style of fighting now. We can beat 'em easy. All we need is some coldsuits of our own." "I'm not going to wear a coldsuit. I'm no ghoster. I've got another idea but we'll worry about that later," I said. "Right now we've got to get us some legit jobs." I handed them each a scrap of paper. "There's some jobs there to get you each started. We'll meet back here at four this afternoon." I handed Gabe a bottle of water from our stash, Zak and I already had ours. "Don't forget to carry that with you at all times," I reminded them. "Or you'll look suspicious." Only two types went without water bottles in this day and age. Bums and hard core streetsmiths who took water from bums, so going job hunting without a water bottle definitely sent out the wrong message. Oh gangs like mine had our water stash all right, so we didn't need to carry any with us, but it was a good idea to carry a bottle of water around during daylight hours so people didn't think we were bums or streeties. "Resumes?" I asked, and my friends held out their arms, showing me their identity bracelets, each with an imbedded borkidot (mine was platinum, ten googles, really nice hardware). "Ready to go," Zak said confidently. "Sure you'll be all right, Gabe?" I asked, concerned again about Gabe's paranoia. "I told you before I was cured," he said. "Once I put this suit on I was cured. I'll be okay." "Thing is, Gabe, I don't think they'll hire you like that," I said. "I mean, you look way too old for work in that getup." "I'll get work," he assured me. "I'm a siblore, remember? Machines don't care how I look." He got me there. That was the one job where a machine was likely going to be giving the interview. Probably a much easier interview than what Zak and I would have to go through. In some ways I envy Gabe for choosing siblore for his masters degree. ___-----___ Being a streetsmith I could easily have gotten into govlaw, that is, the Krotzol Department, but that was not what I was after here. The pay was terrible for one thing, and I couldn't likely work from both sides of the fence, that is, good and evil combined. My first choice, therefor, was to apply at the local Storm Harvesters Association. Storm harvesting in most countries was illegal, but places like the Kore thrived off controlling water so much that not even raindrops were permitted to fall freely from the sky. Storm harvesters were enormous blimps that swallowed up entire stormclouds whole, draining every last droplet of water for the govlords own private stock. Tactics such as this made deserts and wastelands out of a country almost overnight, but the Kore didn't need farmland. It was the wealthiest nation in the world and controlled the train routes, and could therefor afford to import food from other less fortunate nations whose people were slowly starved to death for the sake of the greater world powers. Oh, but the S.H.A., the good old S.H.A. . . . A man who got into the Storm Harvesters Association would never need fear thirst again. "Sorry, but all positions are filled right now," the receptionist said. "We'll contact you if we come up with anything." "But I really need this job . . ." "Oh, and like I haven't heard that one before," she said. "Look around you. Do you think just anybody can come and work for the Storm Harvesters? Most of the employees here worked for the govlords in the armed services. Even if we had a job open, we'd have to give a veteran priority over you. If you're really serious about getting a job here you'd go out and join the armed forces, do your term, and then come back and we'll see what I can do for you. Nobody gets near the main water supply unless they're a veteran or politician. NO-BODY." So that was it then. I'd dreamed about getting into a job like that since childhood. It was where a streetsmith stood the best chance of getting away with a mountainload of water. Wealth beyond one's wildest dreams, but now even the dream itself was shattered. Water beyond imagination just out of my reach because I wasn't good enough. I wasn't good enough to get close to the water supply. I wasn't good enough. I dreamed that one day I'd take over a harvester blimp and sail it through a thick, black stormfront and fill the sliptanks to the gills with water. Then I'd sail it off and away to a far off land and live like a king off my own private water supply. I'd make people slave and worship me, I'd make them build me a castle high in the mountains where no army could attack, where no nation could get at my water, and I'd stand alone, atop the highest tower and laugh a mighty laugh at the world, for I alone defeated it. "Rejected," she said handing me a printout of my resume with the words "employment denied" stamped in bold, red ink. So that was it then. I tossed the paper in a waste disposal chute, turned and headed out the door. ___-----___ The next place I went to was the nearest water line. Sure I didn't need to collect my daily one litre of water, but if I didn't my name would surely go on "the list" and then the govlords would be after me for suspected gang activity (most gangs didn't bother to go through the water lines since they stole plenty of water for themselves, but I learned in college that avoiding the water lines and getting on "the list" was the one way the govlords narrowed down who was and wasn't a suspected gang member). So I waited and waited and waited in line. Some goviemen setup a robotronic statue of a pirate slowly waving a broken sword over his head, while carrying a bowling ball with the word "bomb" painted on it in white lettering in his other hand. The sibdrone kept saying in a deep, slow manner "wa-wa-water" over and over again. After awhile it sounded almost like a baby's cry. The govlords idea of poking fun at the world's most wanted criminal. "Did ya hear tha'news?" an old man said to another. "They found a sword after all. It 'TIS the Flying Dutchman. He's up to him old follies in the Kore a'gin. I sure hope 'e doesn't strike 'ere, at least not for 'til I get me water." "Get your I.D. ready!" a worker called out one of the windows. "Get your I.D. ready! Water is precious!" "Water is precious!" some in the crowd called back in return. It was the same as saying "good morning" or "good day to you, sir." An old custom, but one which was so overused it annoyed me everytime I heard it. I got up to the window and held out my I.D. bracelet. A govieman scanned in my number and a little green light went off, meaning it was okay and that I hadn't already had my fill for the day. I handed him my empty water bottle and he handed me a new one filled to the top. "Water is precious," he said smiling and waving goodbye to me. "Spin off," I cursed, heading back out onto the street. ___-----___ I wound up in the office of an accounting firm known as Ymir. In the corner of the room stood a crystalline giant with icicles dangling from his outstretched arms and off his beard. A similar figure stood there in a painting on the wall behind the interviewer's desk. A tank of water as narrow as my water bottle stretched up to the ceiling off in another corner. The tank was divided up on the outside like a huge thermometer and days of the week were written in each section. Little paper cups sat in a stack at the base. The interviewer himself was a short, skinny little man in a gaudy lightblue suit, white shirt, and black tie. He stared out at me through thick red glasses and occasionally brought his hands up to run his fingers through his long brown greasy hair. He examined me for a few moments, taking note of the way I was dressed. I wore a dark gray and green flip-suit, which was four outfits in one and ran diagonal down from my left shoulder to my right knee so that it looked as though I wore one jumpsuit split in two. In actuality it flipped out and upside down, as well as inside out in such a manner that I could get four seperate looking outfits from one suit of clothes. On the inside it was black and yellow. Plenty of pockets lined the sides of my flip-suit, and yes, I had a small plas-knife hidden inside, that is, a metal-less knife, for strictly emergency defense purposes only. On my feet were a pair of shiny green boots with copper spikelets running up and down the sides. My gang-wear was the yellow and black version of my flip-suit, but now I wore green and gray. Neutral, citizenlike colors. "Mmmm-hmmmm," the man hummed to himself, nodding as he finished up his inspection of me. "Very well, then. No points for style, and you'll have to get some more professional attire if we do hire you, as some of our clients like to take tours around the workplace from time to time, you know. First off, Mr. Derrik Fargikle . . . " He did a doubletake at that fake last name of mine but then went on. "First off, my name is Mr. Grummson, and I run this company and I alone do the hiring, you see, because I want to personally welcome or kick out the door the new job applicants. It gives me a bit of a thrill either way, as it is some of the only power I have in this tiny, miserable world. Now let's get started, shall we?" He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a pen, tossing it towards me, which startled me a moment, but then quickly reaching out and grabbing it again. He jiggle-clicked the pen and deftly began scrawling out something on his notepad. "Question one: How well do you understand the mechanics of accounting?" "I-" "Too late. Question two: Keeping in mind bribing an interviewer with one's daily water supply is frowned upon, if after a time in the employment of this company a co-employee said he gained employment in such an unscrupulous fashion, what, by chance, would you do?" "Well, first I'd-" "Too late. Question three: Ah, good. A math one . . . How many liters of water, on average, does it take per year to sustain the population of the Kore?" "Seven hundred fifty-eight tril-" "Too late. No, I'm sorry go ahead." "Seven hun-" "No wait. That one didn't count. It was a trick question. Ah, here we go. Question three: Oh, this is a good one. If, in order to meet the requirements of fair hiring practices and hire just as many women as men, the position required a woman, would you: A. Get a sex change operation. B. Dress up like a woman or C. None of the above." "I would-" "Yes, yes? Take your time." Apparently he now expected an answer from me this time and waited patiently for me now. "C," I replied at last. "I think we're done with the interview now," he said obviously disappointed with my answer. He put his pen back in his coat pocket and set his notepad aside. "If we need you, we'll call." "No, wait. I thought you were kidding with that last question. I changed my mind. My answer is B. Dress up like a woman." I set my bottle of water on his desk and slowly pushed it towards him in a bribe. "I see," he said raising his eyebrows and taking out his pen again, scribbling on his notepad. "Very well then, you are hired." "Huh?" "I said you are hired," he repeated, standing up, reaching over his desk and shaking my hand. "Congratulations. You are our new accountant trainee." "Wha?" "The questions didn't count, you see, once you offered me that . . . . . . GIFT of water. Any good accountant knows keeping the books in the green is one of the main objectives, and by offering me your day's supply of water you put yourself into the green, as it were, by ironically putting yourself into the red. You are hired." "Huh?" "I know, I know. How can such corruption in a fine organization such as this be tolerated? Well, my boy, you can rest assured that any such evidence of this shall be done away with right away." At that, he took my bottle of water and drank it down right there before me and handed it back to me empty. "Now then," he said. "Take note that the correct answer to question three does, at times, get a man hired, so I warn you to behave yourself in front of the . . . women." He smiled and winked. "I will leave it up to you if you really wish to dress up as one around here, but if not I shall still expect you to get a proper suit and tie. I will not tolerate street clothes like that in the workplace. As you probably have no funds for purchasing new and proper attire, you may, at your option, take this note down to the front desk and some slightly used ones will be lent to you until at such time you can afford to purchase some for yourself. You begin work tomorrow morning at nine. One hour for lunch at noon to one, and off work at six. Weekends are optional, but recommended if you want the chance of promotion. Pay is three thousand an hour, that's five hundred more than minimum wage, so count yourself lucky. Water is precious." I didn't want to say it, but since he was my new boss I had little choice. "Water is precious," I managed with a faked smile, backing out of his office. ___-----___ That afternoon I met Zak and Gabe back at the park enterance. They each faired rather well, compared to myself, in their job hunting today. Zak obtained employment at Newzey Lane Station as one of the train mortechs. "So, wide berthers, eh?" I asked. "Nice, nice. Won't be long now before we hold up our first balcony train or smuggle in and out a good sized water supply." "That's what I was thinkin' too," Zak agreed. "I'd need to get promoted to head mortech in order to get the right security to pull a really good train holdup but I'll try hard to get promoted, Derrik. Then we'll have some real fun, eh?" Gabe got a job as general siblore for a company named Axis Mundi, the world's biggest supplier and manufacturer of smartibots. Gabe's job, quite honestly, blew us all away. Nobody but nobody got into Axis Mundi now-a-days. It was chiefly run and maintained by the smartibots it created. "Gabe, do you know what this means?" I asked. "An army, Gabe. An army right at our fingertips!" "Yes," Gabe nodded. "But even the best siblore can't control them all." "Then we'll have to do something about that, won't we?" I said clasping my hands together greedily. "This is big, Gabe. I knew one of us might make it. Zak will get us started with the trains, we'll still have to get rid of some of the gangs around town first, though. I'll work on rigging up some bookkeeping at Ymir so we can smuggle through water on the trains. Gabe, you work on trying to get a few smartibots as extra gang members, okay? We've done good today, friends. We've done good, but now it's time we set the gears in motion and cleaned up the park. I won't have ghosties running about in my backyard. I won't have it." ___-----___ Ghosters were the biggest bunch of losers since the grims and yonlemen came onto the scene. They all had one thing in common though, their deep respect and worship for the dark. Ghosters with their phantom cloaks and traps laid out in the pitch of night, grims with their love of destroying the smart-graves, and of course the yonlemen who hid out in dark abandoned corners of the world, performing their ritualistic evil deeds not for the sake of survival but for quite literally the hell of it all. Tonight we'd kill some ghosters. Gabe went on ahead, disguised in his old man's outfit, and Zak and I waited beside the pool just inside the park gates. A small explosion went off in the dark field up ahead, accompanied by a brilliant flash of light. It was, of course, the crunch-bomb I'd given Gabe. The ghosters screamed in agony both from the hot burning oil scattered all over their coldsuits, and from their now permanently blinded eyes from the light burst. Gabe, of course, knew to look the other way and cover his eyes as the crunch-bomb went off. Zak and I walked casually down the path now and easily spotted the ghosters bright red silhouettes with our night vision goggles. Click. Bata-tat-tat-tat-tat! Click. Bata-tat-tat-tat-tat! It amazed me how wonderful the blood looked through nightvision. It splattered about through the air like rose petals hurtling about a garden in a strong gusty breeze. Blobs of rose petals and spattering raindrops casted out from their bodies and one by one they toppled backwards and sideways this way and that on the grass in pools of glistening blood. A job well done. The ghosters were no more. "See what I mean, Gabe?" I said dusting off my scythe-gun. I hadn't even tried out the stigil ranthopord which I had slung over my back. I tossed Gabe my scythe-gun and readied my ranther. "See what I mean? Coldsuits are no match for a good crunch-bomb, are they? Now the park is ours, my friends, and let any gang dare try take it away from us and live to tell about it." A siren went off, coming from somewhere on one of the streets nearby. "You there in the park! Put your weapons down! You are surrounded!" a voice called out over a loudspeaker. "Paladins!" Zak cursed. "Stinkin' rotten no good paladins had to show up and ruin everything, didn't they? Well now what do we do?" I pat the side of my stigil ranthopord and grinned. "You're not actually going to use that thing are ya?" Zak asked taking a few steps back from me. I flicked on the main power switch and the ranther hummed loudly as it built up a nice and good charge. "Plug your ears, boys," I said putting on some earplugs. "This is going to hurt . . ." "Lower your weapons! You are surrounded!" the krotzol said once more over the speaker. I brought my free, left arm up to give my gang the warning signal, then brought it down again and pulled the trigger. WHOMP! ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRT! BOOOOOOOM! Several trees vaporized along the path of a blue lightning bolt which streaked out and collided into the front of a building across the street from the park. The building front crumbled in a heap of dust and debris. I paused for a moment to see how the paladins might react to that. I pulled out my earplugs now, as did my gang. "Back off, men! Back off!" I heard one of the paladins yell. I heard all kinds of screaming and shouting now as paladins scrambled to get away while hundreds of citizens came running out into the streets in a panic.