For the Win - Cory Doctorow (read novels website txt) 📗

class="calibre1">Or, I am a warrior and I am not ashamed.

There. There was the thought, though it wanted to slip away and hide behind He was going to hurt me, that was the thought she needed, the platoon she needed to bring to the fore. She marshalled the thought, chivvied it, turned it into an orderly skirmish line and marched it forward.

"Mrs Dibyendu's idiot nephew tried to assault me last night, in case you haven't heard." She waited a beat. "I didn't let him do it. I don't think he'll try it again."

There was a snort, very faint, down the phone line. A suppressed laugh? Barely contained anger? "I heard about it, Mala. The boy is in the hospital."

"Good," she said, before she could stop herself.

"One of his ribs broke and punctured his lung. But they say he'll live. Still, it was quite close."

She felt sick. Why? Why did it have to be this way? Why couldn't he have left her alone? "I'm glad he'll live."

"Mrs Dibyendu called me in the night to tell me that her sister's only son had been attacked. That he'd been attacked by a vicious gang of your friends. Your 'army'."

Now she snorted. "He says it because he's embarrassed to have been so badly beaten by me, just me, just a girl."

Again, the silence ballooned in the conversation. He's waiting for me to say I'm sorry, that I'll make it up somehow, that he can take it from my wages. She swallowed. I won't do it. The idiot made me attack him, and he deserved what he got.

"Mrs Dibyendu," he began, then stopped. "There are expenses that come from something like this, Mala. Everything has a cost. You know that. It costs you to play at Mrs Dibyendu's cafe. It costs me to have you do it. Well, this has a cost, too."

Now it was her turn to be quiet, and to think at him, as hard as she can, Oh yes, well, I think I already exacted payment from idiot nephew. I think he's paid the cost.

"Are you listening to me?"

She made a grunt of assent, not trusting herself to open her mouth.

"Good. Listen carefully. The next month, you work for me. Every rupee is mine, and I make this bad thing that you've brought down on yourself go away."

She pulled the phone away from her head as if it had gone red hot and burned her. She stared at the faceplate. From very far away, Mr Banerjee said, "Mala? Mala?" She put the phone back to her head.

She was breathing hard now. "It's impossible," she said, trying to stay calm. "The army won't fight without pay. My mother can't live without my pay. We'll lose our home. No," she repeated, "it's not possible."

"Not possible? Mala, it had better be possible. Whether or not you work for me, I will have to make this right with Mrs Dibyendu. It's my duty, as your employer, to do this. And that will cost money. You have incurred a debt that I must settle for you, and that means that you have to be prepared to settle with me."

"Then don't settle it," she said. "Don't give her one rupee. There are other places we can play. Her nephew brought it on himself. We can play somewhere else."

"Mala, did anyone see this boy lay his hands on you?"

"No," she said. "He waited until we were alone."

"And why were you alone with him? Where was your army?"

"They'd already gone home. I'd stayed late." She thought of Big Sister Nor and her metamecha, of the union. Mr Banerjee would be even angrier if she told him about Big Sister Nor. "I was studying tactics," she said. "Practicing on my own."

"You stayed alone with this boy, in the middle of the night. What happened, really, Mala? Did you want to see what it was like to kiss him like a fillum star, and then it got out of control? Is that how it happened?"

"No!" She shouted it so loud that she heard people groaning in their beds, calling sleepily out from behind their open windows. "I stayed late to practice, he tried to stop me. I knocked him down and he chased me. I knocked him down and then I taught him why he shouldn't have chased me."

"Mala," he said, and she thought he was trying to sound fatherly now, stern and old and masculine. "You should have known better than to put yourself in that position. A general knows that you win some fights by not getting into them at all. Now, I'm not an unreasonable man. Of course, you and your mother and your army all need my money if you're going to keep fighting. You can borrow a wage-packet from me during this month, something to pay everyone with, and then you can pay it back, little by little, over the next year or so. I'll take five in twenty rupees for 12 months, and we'll call it even."

It was hope, terrible, awful hope. A chance to keep her army, her flat, her respect. All it would cost her was one quarter of her earnings. She'd have three quarters left. Three quarters was better than nothing. It was better than telling Mamaji that it was all over.

"Yes," she said. "All right, fine. But we don't play at Mrs Dibyendu's cafe anymore."

"Oh, no," he said. "I won't hear of it. Mrs Dibyendu will be glad to have you back. You'll have to apologize to her, of course. You can bring her the money for her nephew. That will make her feel better, I'm sure, and heal any wounds in your friendship."

"Why?" There were tears on her cheeks now. "Why not let us go somewhere else? Why does it matter?"

"Because, Mala, I am the boss and you are the worker and that is the factory you work in. That's why." His voice was hard now, all the lilt of false concern gone away, leaving behind a grinding like rock on rock.

She wanted to put the phone down on him, the way they did in the movies when they had their giant screaming rows, and threw their phones into the well or smashed them on the wall. But she couldn't afford to destroy her phone and she couldn't afford to make Mr Banerjee angry.

So she said, "All right," in a quiet little voice that sounded like a mouse trying not to be noticed.

"Good girl, Mala. Smart girl. Now, I've got your next mission for you. Are you ready?"

Numbly, she memorized the details of the mission, who she was going to kill and where. She thought that if she did this job quickly, she could ask him for another one, and then another -- work longer hours, pay off the debt more quickly.

"Smart girl, good girl," he said again, once she'd repeated the details back to him, and then he put the phone down.

She pocketed her phone. Around her, Dharavi had woken, passing by her like she was a rock in a river, pressing past her on either side. Men with shovels and wheelbarrows, boys with enormous rice-sacks on each shoulder, filled with grimy plastic bottles on their way to some sorting house, a man with a long beard and kufi skullcap and kurta shirt hanging down to his knees leading a goat with a piece of rope. A trio of women in saris, their midriffs stretched and striated with the marks of the babies they'd borne, carrying heavy buckets of water from the communal tap. There were cooking smells in the air, a sizzle of dhal on the grill and the fragrant smell of chai. A boy passed by her, younger than Gopal, wearing flapping sandals and short pants, and he spat a stream of sickly sweet betel at her feet.

The smell made her remember where she was and what had happened and what she had to do now.

She went past the Das family on the ground floor and trudged up the stairs to their flat. Mamaji and Gopal were awake and bustling. Mamaji had fetched the water and was making the breakfast over the propane burner, and Gopal had his school uniform shirt and knee-trousers on. The Dharavi school he attended lasted for half the day, which gave him a little time to play and do homework and then a few more hours to work alongside of Mamaji in the factory.

"Where have you been?" Mamaji said.

"On the phone," she said, patting the little pocket sewn of her tunic. "With Mr Banerjee." She waggled her chin from side to side, saying I've had business.

"What did he say?" Mamaji's voice was quiet and full of false nonchalance.

Mamaji didn't need to know what transpired between Mr Banerjee and her. Mala was the general and she could manage her own affairs.

"He said that all was forgiven. The boy deserved it. He'll make it fine with Mrs Dibyendu, and it will be fine." She waggled her chin from side to side again -- It's all fine. I've taken care of it.

Mamaji stared into the pan and the food sizzling in it and nodded to herself. Though she couldn't see, Mala nodded back. She was General Robotwallah and she could make it all good.

This

scene is dedicated to Forbidden Planet, the British chain of

science fiction and fantasy book, comic, toy and video stores. Forbidden

Planet has stores up and down the UK, and also sports outposts in

Manhattan and Dublin, Ireland. It's dangerous to set foot in a

Forbidden Planet -- rarely do I escape with my wallet intact.

Forbidden Planet really leads the pack in bringing the gigantic

audience for TV and movie science fiction into contact with science

fiction books -- something that's absolutely critical to the future

of the field.

Forbidden

Planet, UK, Dublin and New York City

Wei-Dong had been to downtown LA once, on a class trip to the Disney Concert Hall, but then they'd driven in, parked, and marched like ducklings into the hall and then out again, without spending any time actually wandering around. He remembered watching the streets go by from the bus window, faded store windows and slow-moving people, check-cashing places and liquor stores. And Internet cafes. Lots and lots of Internet cafes, especially in Koreatown, where every strip mall had a garish sign advertising "PC Baang" -- Korean for net-cafe.

But he didn't know exactly where Koreatown was, and he needed an Internet cafe to google it, and so he caught the LAX bus to the Disney Concert Hall, thinking he could retrace the bus-route and find his way to those shops, get online, talk to his homies in Guangzhou, figure out the next thing.

But Koreatown turned out to be harder to find and farther than he'd thought. He asked the bus-driver for directions, who looked at him like he was crazy and pointed downhill. And so he started walking, and walking, and walking for block after dusty block. From the window of the school-bus, downtown LA had looked slow-moving and faded, like a photo left too long in a window.

On foot, it was frenetic, the movement of the buses, the homeless people walking or wheeling or hobbling past him, asking him for money. He had $1000 in his front jeans pocket, and it seemed to him that the bulge must be as obvious as a boner at the blackboard in class. He was sweating, and not just from the heat, which seemed ten degrees hotter than it had been in Disneyland.

And now he wasn't anywhere near Koreatown, but had rather found his way to Santee Alley, the huge, open-air