From “Moonlight and Starfish”
Introducing Rainbow.
Rainbow T. Dugong ran messages and deliveries for mid-wealth swells in the Lower and Middle Market. She was a Naiad who wore a dirty green and fraying sash over her lowers. Filth caked her legs and covered a blotchy leg pattern that was, by turns lovely, crisp, and bright with browns, oranges, and yellows; and sickly with puse, scabby brown, and fecal green. She never wore a top wrap; the “girls” flew free.
The tawny brown/cream colored skin of her neck and face made it down to the top of her bosom and down the tops of her arms. Blue ink stained the palms of her hands and her shoulders were patterned with blue handprints. A single blue handprint covered each bare breast. Anyone who talked to her could tell quickly enough that these blue handprints were self-inflicted. She didn’t hide it. She was clearly – aggressively, in-your-face – bonkers. She wore goggle specs up at the top of her forehead. Her eye makeup was blue and pulled out to the sides. With her nose, face, and lips pierced to the nines, she most notably wore eight silver-dollar sized metal circles; each painted a different color, each pierced centrally, and each attached in an off-set row atop her bald head. If she shook her head, she clinked. If she sneezed, she clanked. Two-centimeter-high sprouts of dark hair popped up like weeds between the multicolored circles. She took her nomenclature seriously.
Rainbow peed in public. Everyone peed in public to one extent or another, true, but Rainbow peed while in conversation with folks.
“Naiad! Every time I talk to you, you got piss running down your leg! You got a condition or something?”
“I just gotta pee a lot, is all,” she said in a low voice. “I worked it out that if I’m runnin’ I can fit in a whole couple extra runs, per day, if I don’t take no toilet breaks.”
“What do you do when you have to crap?”
“Same dif.’” She put a finger along-side her nose and blew snot out one nostril for punctuation. “I drink a metric ton of water. My pee’s clean. Cleaner than yours, you gigantic screw. I can smell your kidneys and they reek.” Rainbow wasn’t the smartest naiad to graduate out of the lower Roller Tunnels, but she ran messages fast and lugged equipment, supplies, and food like a merman. Her necklace was thin and held pass plates for the ins and outs of the lower levels – and that was it.
“Where do you keep the rest of your rods, runner girl?”
Rainbow smiled, showed her fangs, and said, “Wouldn’t you like to know.” She wore a belt cobbled together out of other belts. She wore sharkskin strips wrapped around both forearms, with a filet knife sheathed and strapped to her left – the handle just above her wrist. On her runs into the display arena, she frequently took shots from ick-ball throwers. She didn’t mind. Temple Eight didn’t have a giant poo-producer like Big Mica, but they had a ples-pit layout similar enough, supplemented with warm fermenting algae. She had a good sense when they were winding up and pitching. She would just as likely duck, take a shot (Smack on the back!) pretending to ignore it, or bat the projectile aside. This, many times, followed by a tongue-out two-fingered flip-off. The questioning generic merman huffed, made a sour face, and decided to stay away from the Nai’d whose every indication screamed both “Look at me!” and “Stay away!”
***
A more specific Guard stopped Rainbow at the Lower Market gallery uptubes as she was on a delivery.
“I haven’t seen you around much. Where are you going and what are you transporting here, Nai’d?”
“Three lots of sharkskin bundles, ‘man.” He eyed her wares, he eyed her knife, her plates, her piercings, the colored circles stuck to the top of her head. She had come to realize that Merfolk liked to horde before long crossings. As Pointe Miqmack and the Atlantic Bridge approached, outdoor crews began moving inside. Runner business increased proportionally with population desperation. The Guard had his thought-blocking helmet on, but Rainbow didn’t need to have it off to see the gears turning in his head: “Vandalize this Naiad or let her go?”
“Where you headed?”
“Fifty-three Dugong Six.”
“What? To a sharkskin party?”
“I don’t ask, I deliver.”
“That area is residential, not manufacturing.”
“Tell that to the Coleoids what paid me to take it there.”
Rainbow searched herself internally for reserve urine. Nope. The guy wouldn’t budge and wouldn’t stop looking down his nose at her. She cut to it: “’Man, whaddaya want from me?” She began rethinking her delivery route and looking for exits. This great-white doof was moving in close – her nose was a foot from his sternum. They didn’t otherwise recognize each other.
He clacked his spear down and moved fluidly – reaching around her to put a (surprisingly well practiced) hand on the center of her back. His thumb touched the back of her skull. “Follow me this way, young lady.”
With the uptubes in the fore and the crisscrossing downramps behind, these vertical thoroughfares were positioned centrally on the Temple’s North wall. An alcove pushed forward on either side of the ramps. They each had a large stone-arched overlook window that had a view down into the ples stables. It was a place where, once upon a time, generals or even royalty could come watch the Ples Riders mount up, roll into the forward pools, and charge out into the wild heroically. A large portrait fixed to the wall commemorated one such old historic scene. These days, no one used the little balconies for much anymore, the smell of the stables tended to waft through and make one’s eyes water. Unfortunately for both of them, it was just past midnight, the tube traffic was nearly non-existent, and the big dude didn’t mind leaving his post unattended.
***
They found his body the next day floating face down in the upper ples stables. Each of six ples had a nibble at him. They’re trained not eat merfolk – mermen especially but they couldn’t resist a warm fresh dead body. The stable crew figured the fall must have killed him: there was a shattered stable divider with what appeared to be a “U” shaped impact area. The corpse had a broken back.
Plesmaster Boris had to explain to each of the four riders who showed up for their shifts that day (included among those: Officer Herringbone) that, of course, he didn’t mean to do it, but each ples received ten whips with a cane as punishment for snacking on the dead Constable. Katy Ka was one of those reprimanded.
Joy went to her stall with a pail of fresh water, a sponge, and some clean wraps. She kept herself together for the most part as she rinsed the broken skin on Katy Ka’s hind quarters. Katy sighed a high-pitched sigh and shook her withers with a tremble that traveled back to her haunch. Though not an exact translation, her thoughts went:
“Ouch… … …ouch,” and, “Tender… … … tender,” as Joy put the wet wrap on her broken and welted hide. She let a tear run down her cheek, then said soothing things to Katy. She had further trouble keeping it together hearing her fellow riders soothe their ples in the same manner:
“Easy there, Pearl, it’s not your fault. Easy.”
“Shh, fella, shh. It’s not so bad. Not so bad.”
“Ma-arp!” a ples yelped painfully.
“See there Stretch? That’s why you don’t eat mermen. They disagree with you. Right?”
“Sorry… … … sorry.”
“Ouch… … … ouch.”
“Hey Joy? How’s Katy?”
“She’s a big girl. She can handle it.” Joy returned to Katy stroking her head gently with a chunk of sponge dipped in a pail of fresh water. Katy closed her eyes and enjoyed the attention.
“Who’s a big girl? You’re a big girl. You can handle this no problem. You’re a big girl.”
Copyright (c) 2023 Matt Schumann