~

Chapter Sixteen

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“Ya ever travel to the South?” Nuel asked.

“I went to university down there,” I said.

“Really?” she screeched.

“On the South Slope.”

She claimed that didn’t count, like she’s suddenly the master of categories. As though I’m shocked she has an opinion about that. “There are a lot of humans in the South, aren’t there?”

I gave her a long study. What was her point? “Some.”

“Not a one on this train.” As though she’d studied every soul on the thin’. “Could they have killed ’em all?”

I snorted. Had to wipe my upper lip. She’s gettin’ a little overly preoccupied with conspiracy theories.

“How in the world has—” she motioned around us, “this been kept quiet?”

I told her I supposed after generations, humans, the few who were aware, held more loyalty to the South than humanity of the North any more. She shook her head like I’m an idjit. She never has taken anythin’ I’ve said at face value. Automatically acceptin’ I don’t know enough to step out of a torrential rain if I had the chance. Why’s she even lowerin’ herself to speak to me?

I took a new opportunity to look about the train. I’d mostly been enjoyin’ the grand openness of the desert outside my window. Just as flat as the plains, without the unendin’ waist-high wild grass, herds of deer, or cattle. Forward, I saw nothin’ but the backs of seats. After all, they were shaped for trolls. So even if a human or orc sat somewhere up there, I wasn’t gonna see ’em.

Nuel was caressin’ the soft leather of her armrest.

Reminded me of the doodads there. I pressed the up button to raise my seat to the troll settin’. Couldn’t see anythin’ more up the aisle from my window seat. I pressed down twice. Probably to the human level, as my knees raised into the air.

Why, I don’t know, but I pressed it again. My tuchus headed for the floor, seat-back forward, my knees for my chin. Funny. Had to be the orc settin’. Level by level I rose the seat. My toes didn’t touch at the troll settin’. The edge of the seat would cut the flow of blood to my legs after a bit.

No wonder the smaller folk hate our ogre-style chairs so much in the office. Up. Human. Up. Ogre. Down. Human. Up. Up. Troll. As far as it would go. So no daemon would be usin’ the train. At least comfortably. What about goblins? They’re somewhere between us and trolls. What—

My hand clickin’ the doodad interacted forcefully with Nuel’s hand and I jerked and screeched.

“Stop it,” she hissed.

I rubbed the back of my hand. Ouch. I will kill this hen. Given the chance. I just have to figger a way to keep Ike from findin’ out. He’d be sore about it, maybe.

Wouldn’t be good for my health.

All I’d need is a moment of privacy out here in this desert. No one would find her body in a million years. I shouldn’t have left my pack with Grandpa Klow. That ten-inch knife would have come in handy.

~

Nuel

~

I couldn’t remember seein’ anythin’ but ogres and trolls on the rail platform. The South is known for its lack of homogeneity. Free spirits of all the races had headed there in the current era, post Covenant. Before, it was mostly populated by daemons and dragons, so the story goes.

The folk directly ’cross the aisle were ogres, business types. One row up, a troll in engineer-like attire. Boots. Take a while to get used to seein’ trolls and ogres wearin’ footwear—must be an OSHA thin’. Especially since my months on the Central Plain.

I wrestled around to spy on the rows behind me. Troll. Ogre. Ogre. Troll. A lot of ogres were in on this conspiracy. How in the dragon pooh did word not creep north?

Inspectin’ the ambiance of the car, had to admit this is nicer than anythin’ I ever rode up North. No graffiti. No gum soilin’ the floor. Leather accouterments all ’bout. No litter anywhere. Folk who ride this hold a level of respect unseen up North, where it’s a competition to make the city as horrid lookin’ as possible.

This train reminded me a bit of the Hamlet. Never see peelin’ paint or a loose plastic bag floatin’ on the breeze there.

High speed rail’s a political football with humans. Simply somethin’ to throw around durin’ the campaign season. Promises. Complaints about cost. Ecological impact. And here, the Southerners plunked one down here in the desert where I would never have expected to see one. In a level of secrecy that’s spooky.

Was only gonna take us ninety minutes to travel from the foothills of the Range to the sierras edgin’ the ocean. How many miles? Four? Five hundred? The speed the dunes passed by the window was a lot faster than I imagined high speed to entail.

The idjit was playin’ with the seat controls now like a ten-year-old. He is so embarrassin’ to be seen with. Imagine, someone assumin’ he’s my mate. How humiliatin’. If I ever get a chance one night to cover his face with a pillow, with vigor, I will.