Gravity's Force

Tel looked up, startled. "Beat it, kid. I'm working here."
Kaeman grumbled, searching through the slate, unaware that Tel had just checked his watch for the fourth time. Then, as he was about to turn the slate off, something new uploaded. It was a story about an exploding thermal unit in the Dregs, the ironically affectionate term given to the slums surrounding them.

"This can't be right! They say a heating accident levelled a whole block."

Tel quickly gave change to another customer, and glanced nervously at Kaman's slate, his flinty grey eyes racing back and forth across the lines of type on the screen.

He shook his stubble-covered head and returned his attention to his customers. As long as Kaeman could remember, this had seemed to be Tel's answer to everything.

"Do they really expect us to believe this, Tel?" Kaeman complained. "An exploding heater might cause a bit of damage--maybe even a fire--but it wouldn't destroy a whole block."

Tel scratched his weary head wordlessly and fetched a protein bar and a mug of stimulant for another customer, his worn expression matching Kaman's worsening mood. The hairs on Tel's stubbled head seemed to be standing on end (although perhaps, Kaeman thought, this was from the cold), and his thin mouth creased into his formula smile. His eyes were sharp and bright as he kept track of the rapidly exchanging goods and credits.

Kaeman tucked the news slate under his arm. Thermal heating units didn't explode and destroy city blocks; he wasn't stupid enough to believe that. But what about somebody inexperienced with explosives? What if this was the first sign that the stockpiles were growing again?

Tel checked his watch, looked up and noticed with a slight shudder of misgiving that Kaeman hadn't moved on. "Isn't it time for you to be getting somewhere?"

Kaeman resisted the urge to grind his teeth at Tel's increasing rudeness. "Tel, I'm not a child any more. I finished classes last year, remember?"

Tel smiled serenely. "Then you're old enough to go and get a job, aren't you?"

That was the other side of Tel--the snide remark. If they hadn't been distant relatives, Kaeman wouldn't have given him the mould off his cheese. He turned on his heels before Tel had a chance to fire off any more insults. So what if he was unemployed? Wasn't everyone around here?

Two streeters were standing around a lit rubbish bin to keep warm. Kaeman took out his news slate, looking at it with fresh eyes. It was nothing more than a portable propaganda machine, designed to misinform and misguide. He felt angry and foolish that he had carried one around for so long; he'd been duped with every report he read. He turned it around in his hand, marvelling at how much rubbish one small unit could contain.

And then his anger made his decision for him. In defiance he threw the slate hard into the flames.

"Why, thank you, my friend," one of the streeters said, recognising a kindred spirit in Kaman's black eyes and scale-lined cheeks. Kaeman nodded. "It's all it's good for."

The slate's energy pack ignited, burning an iridescent purple, providing good heat. Kaeman shrugged and kept walking. For a fleeting moment, he regretted throwing his slate away. Then he felt a sense of freedom at its disintegration. He had never believed anything reported in it--and besides, there were other ways to get information.

As he turned the corner, he glanced back at the newsbar, but Tel was not there. Worried, Kaeman quickly scanned the street: only a few moments ago, the newsbar had been a hub of activity; now, it was practically deserted. An eerie silence fell over the street, and anxiety welled up inside him. Kaeman realised that there wasn't even a Tyber guard on duty--which was unusual, as there always seemed to be one or two guards in every street. He looked back to the newsbar and saw the backs of two customers as they walked briskly away. Tel should have been standing behind the bar, but it was empty. It wasn't like him to leave the business unattended. Kaeman was out in the open, yet everybody except the streeters had gone inside. Realisation slowly dawned on him. If he hadn't been so preoccupied with finding stories about the Tessera explosions on that stupid news slate, he might have paid more attention to Tel. Tel hadn't meant to be rude; he'd been trying to help, dropping hints so big that only an idiot would have missed them. Seized with fear, he turned on his heels and ran, his heart beating hard, his throat dry and rough.

Without warning, something buzzed past his head. He spun around to see what it was, but saw nothing. All he caught was a faint whiff of a smoky, lingering smell, like the remnants of burning hair.