57 - Met at the Station

Terry stepped out onto the platform and one of the ubiquitous porters, all of them illiterates in bright green uniform, took his bag and preceded him down the steps.   

“Just this way, sir.  Shall I call you a cab?”

“Wait a moment.  I might have transportation.”

The hot wind blowing across the earthan green was full of moisture and wet dust.  Terry pulled his filter out of of his cravat and settled it across his nose, set his top hat firmly upon his head.  There.  A familiar rickshaw.

“Ah, porter!  Over here, my good man.”  He led the way to where John stood next to the bicycle rickshaw with the family arms upon the door and canopy.

It only took a moment to drop the bag into the boot and for Terry to settle himself in the seat.  “Hello, John.”

“Good day to thee, Master.”

“Oh, stop it, John... you know me.  I’m not my brother and you don’t need to talk to me like that.”

He snugged his lap belt and snapped the canopy shut so that he could pull down his filters.  John, standing into the pedals behind him, spoke into his own filtermask and was clearly relayed to the passenger cabin.  “The family isn’t in residence, Terence, sir.”

“Oh, my brother took everyone out of my radical and dissipate reach, then?”

John braked to let a first class carriage by, the gilded hovercarriage drawn by a team of four Akhla-Tekes, of all things, each shining like a gold coin.  “Who in hell is that?”

“Oh... Lord Shaw testing out his new rig, sir.  Probably to see if it’s safe for his family, sir.” They waited till the dung-sweepers running behind, stopped to sweep up the clots of valuable horseshit. The port was full of people walking on this lovely day, even if they had to have their filters up.  There were even a few women, with their keepers walking, or riding behind them.

A few First Class women, that was.  Illiterates, doing all the work, didn’t require keepers, ubiquitous and anonymous as red dust.

Terry leaned back in his seat, almost feeling John strain to get them up to speed and out of the crowd.  That was when he realized that his seed was active... but in a passive way.  All it was doing, was recording.

He cleared his throat, gazed at a flower market, and a fruit market past that.  “John.  Thank you for coming to fetch me.  How’s Millie?  And the children?”

“Working hard, sir.  Everyone healthy enough.  We had to take the baby to the manor, though, sir.  Sickly he was... but he’s come back well, now that the First doctor saw to him.”

“Good... good to hear.” So dear brother wasn’t slighting people bringing sick infants to the First doctor.  That was good.  Some families were too careful of their status and wouldn’t let a third or fourth class baby anywhere near their priviledge.  Perhaps Gerry wasn’t as pompous a nitwit as he seemed in his letter.

Hmmm.  Perhaps it was supposed to be pompous?  Throw someone off?  His brother had never been stupid.  Under educated, father always said with pride.  When he and the family come back from town, I’ll have to have a private chat with brother dear.