The Loyal Ones

Chapter 8: Real Politics

Three months passed. Dally was a good spy, and waited.

He'd wait for Lyle at the office, or in the corner of the room as he dressed. Maybe they would go somewhere on the campaign. Those were the better days, because no one had time to drink or sit around. He saw the mine towns, with their slow-pulsing organs rooting into the ground, and a herd of cows being packed like thralls into a train car.
Once, they toured a factory, where cars and other machines came out hot and wet from their eggs. Dally had never seen something like that. The poor pillbug babies rolled steaming on the floor, smelling of solder and birthing fluid. Men had to scoop them up, and press their limbs straight before their shells could harden too much.

Gita seemed alright with his reports, maybe even happy. She answered her door, and she leaned in to listen. Sansi wasn't wrote on again, or any of the others. Dally and Gita said a lot of true things to each other, which felt weird, and wrong. Talking to a human all honest. Still, she didn't tell him to stop.

Maybe he was honest because he wasn't sleeping much. The feel of Lyle's hands lingered like grease, and not Gita or anyone else could really scrape him off.

When Dally did sleep he still saw Seth Greenlees, and woke up flinching, drenched in sweat. In his dreams the poor bastard died over and over, and then came back alive as Dally ate him. Sometimes Seth asked quiet questions, mostly he screamed. When Dally woke up he could never remember the questions. It nagged him. What did Seth want to ask?

It was fine. Dally just had to wait; eventually the dreams would fade, like the other times something stuck in his head. It would be better when he got sold.

Until then, though, his eyes were dry and red, and he looked pale when he saw himself in reflections. When people asked if he was okay he answered real slow, or not at all. He coughed. And he did take some of his cigarettes back from Red, one by one, until she moved the bundle somewhere and wouldn't tell him where.

Winter closed around the house like a crushing fist. One morning Dally woke up in the dark, and saw the windows were blacked out with snow.

He brought Lyle the paper, and in return was given a slice of bread from the table. Dally was finally getting used to that - scraps of human food. He only hesitated for a second before taking it, retreated to a spot by the door to eat. The bread was warm from the oven, steaming, and smelled fresh and good. Lyle's food was all like that.

Gita made a sound of faint disgust.

"Why do you sigh like that?" Lyle asked her.

"I'm not sighing."

"Well, you have something to say, then, don't you?"

Gita tapped ash from her cigarette, eyes narrowing. "It's... ridiculous to give him food from the table," she said, finally. "He has his own food. You'll only make him fat."

"Fat?"

"You'll spoil him. I hope you won't act like this in front of Jona."

"I'll feed him whatever I like," Lyle said. "Besides, he likes it, don't you Dally?"

"Ye-" Dally had already crammed most of the slice of bread in his mouth, had to pause to chew. "Master."

"He's a thrall," Gita said, "he'd like garbage just as well, or a rotting corpse."

In answer Lyle just held out another slice to Dally. "Here."

Dally snatched it, and didn't look to see what Gita thought. Bread was easily better than garbage, so she was wrong there. It wasn't as good as meat, but you couldn't have everything.