The Information Thieves

A PERMUTED PRESS book

Published at Smashwords

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-407-3

The Information Thieves copyright © 2014

by M.L. Katz

All Rights Reserved.

Cover art by David Walker

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

The Information Thieves takes place in the same general universe as Raft People, about a generation later.

You can enjoy any of these books by ML Katz as a standalone novel.

Raft People tells us an apocalyptic story of the Big Flood.

ML Katz might very well be on to something here with this series and I know I can’t wait to see where she goes with her work. This book would make for a great movie. Thanks ML Katz for a very thought provoking read!

Raft People II – What happens when some raft people don't ever want to come back to shore?

"Great disaster book. Apocalypse/disaster books are one of my favorite genres, and this book doesn't disappoint. The concept behind the book, a huge flood, is really interesting.

The book is well written, and a good continuation of the series. I highly recommend this book."

Find Me Online

Please learn more about my books at RaftPeople.com. That site also has connections to my social networks.

Please connect with me on Facebook here:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/ML-Katz/271025419694831?ref=ts&fref=ts

Thanks for stopping by. I appreciate you more than you know!

Stay Safe!

ML Katz

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Find Me Online

Book 1: Beginnings

The Hero Men

The Storm

Birth

Tomoe the Samurai

Book 2: The Road to Fat City

The Information Thieves

Fat City

The Ivory Tower

Loyalties

Bird on a Wire

The Penthouse

Reunion

Julia’s Party

Book 3: Convergence

Surprises

Family

The Comfort Café

Russian Cousins

Rats in the Walls

Calvary

Terriers

Checkmate

Platform

In The Parking Garage

The Fat City Free Kitchen

Author’s Note

Book 1 – Beginnings

Author's Note: The first three chapters cover the origin of key characters. After that, we leap to the story's present time. Of course, that is really our future. In a way, all stories are time machines.

The Hero Men

(About 32,000 Years Ago In Western Europe)

The last Azazel stood on a low ridge, above the disgusting and ramshackle Skinny People village. He rubbed his wide nose to block out the odors of wood smoke, rotted garbage, and poorly covered sewage. It was always the same around a Skinny People village. The flimsy false caves that they constructed from mud, brush, and leaves took them too far from nature. They did not grasp their spears like men, and instead flung them like animals tossing a bone.

Worse yet, the Skinnies had short memories. They did not remember the dreams of their fathers and mothers. They remembered what they wanted to remember by passing on half-truths and convenient truths through their chattering speech. Azazel and his people did not have the luxury of forgetting anything.

At night Azazel still dreamed of marvelous castles carved from ice and stone. Azazel treasured the night. He could huddle under warm furs and picture complex machines derived from the materials that nature generously provided. The grizzled old hunter could almost taste the birthing, mating, and death feasts made from the bodies of the huge and worthy four-footed creatures that his forefathers had fought, brow to horn, and then released into the spirit world.

Daytime was more ruthless. He spent some time foraging for the lean pickings left here after Skinnies had carelessly plundered most of the resources. He tried to keep himself busy in an attempt to assuage his loneliness and wounded pride. During the day he tried not to dream, because under harsh light those memories reminded him of his own gnawing hunger, poverty, and chronically aching limbs. The son of gods had been reduced to scavenging.

Azazel had buried his wife last year, and then the last of his daughters had succumbed to disease along with the unborn child in her belly. After his daughter died, the two young men, his son and his daughter’s mate, wordlessly left to offer their strength to the Skinny village in return for a warm bed, a woman’s comfort, and a communal fire.

Now, as Azazel watched the village, he saw his own son emerge from his shack, leading a full-bellied Skinny woman. The young man had let his hair grow untrimmed in the rude manner of the skinnies. Where the others’ hair mostly grew dark and straight, the Hero Man’s mane grew out in wavy tufts the color of flames. To the old hunter, his son seemed to pass through the Skinnies like a powerful fire coursing through the shade. His shade of a Skinny wife walked behind him.

Azazel’s ancient mind rebelled at the thought of this pair. At the same time, his true memories reminded him that this could be borne. The Hero Men had taken Skinny women before. They had made sure the hybrid products of these unions had meat and a fire. He could still accept his son back if only he could convince him to leave the village.

Just now, Azazel hefted the comforting weight of three fat rabbits and a bundle of roots. He would show his son and son-in-law that he could help them feed their women and their babies. They just needed to come with him to look for more Hero Men. Azazel had liked the comfortable burrow by the river and had been loath to move. He had taken too much comfort in his memories, and he needed to tell the young men that he had been mistaken.

Azazel limped down the dirt mound to confront his son, speaking loudly to command attention and respect. Several Skinny women worked around a fire, watching a couple of their young pups who played with sticks in the dirt. The group looked up in alarm. Azazel glanced at them, discarded the women and children as a threat, and focused on his son. These Skinnies could not understand the ancient language, but they certainly could feel an ancient threat. They froze as he approached.

Azazel had no interest in the Skinnies. He just wanted to reclaim his son and, if he had to, his daughter’s mate. With their assistance, he could attempt to find more Hero Men. This was how it should be, and it was how it had always been done during the down times. Why couldn’t the young men understand the message of the ancient songs?

His son stood in front of his woman and waved Azazel away. Go away, old man, he said. I can eat here. I can even have a wife. You go on and live in your head if you like. Otherwise, I can feed you and find you a place to sleep. These folk will tolerate an old man, but not if he acts crazy.

Now the other member of Azazel’s family, his daughter’s old mate, marched out to join his son, alerted by the ringing shouts of the old language. The son in law’s mate also followed. At least, she did not look large with child.

Mating with the Skinnies was a chancy thing. Azazel remembered this from the dreams of his fathers. In the old days Skinny chiefs would offer up their daughters in exchange for knowledge, furs, or meat. The Hero Men did not find the Skinny girls any more attractive than their own women, but some men had been known to enjoy variety. The young women were usually awestruck by the Hero Men and did not seem to be repulsed.

However, the seed seldom took. When it did, chances were good that the product of the union between Hero Man and Skinny women would be born dead or deformed. Once in a while, the mating would produce a viable child with the better qualities of both races.

The Hero Men dipped into the past while the Skinnies tried to predict the future. The ability to remember more of the past than the average Skinny, combined with stronger predictive skills than the average Hero Man, could produce the type of creative genius that moved mankind further ahead. These hybrids were treasured, but they usually gravitated towards the Skinnies. The Hero Men considered the hybrids as something less than themselves, while the Skinny people admired them.

You can take the woman if you have to, Azazel told his son. Better yet, wait for her to give birth and take the child if her family will not. Our People have tolerated mongrels before, and I am sure the new People we find will not kill it. But we have to find more of the People, make a dream camp and wait for better days.

There are no better days, said the young hunter who had been his daughter’s mate. He frowned darkly and blew out a big breath through his wide nostrils. Better days died with your daughter and my unborn child. We will stay here. We are hunters, and we can eat and give food to our wives here. If we have a bad hunting day, the others share. If we have a good hunting day, we share. Nobody goes hungry for long. I support your son. If you wish to stay, we will make sure you have a bed and a fire and a share of food. You will have to accept your place as an elder and not a leader though.

You will come, Azazel insisted, glaring at his son-in-law. He turned back to his son. So will you. If we can find another clan to join, you can find real wives. You can keep these girls as second wives or leave them here, as you please. I think you should leave them without a thought. Their brothers will care for them, and they can probably find other mates. He gestured to his son’s mate. She has already shown she is fertile. If she produces a viable mixed child, they will treasure it.

The two young men just stared at Azazel with set expressions. Their women stood a pace behind, protected by their husbands’ wide frames. Azazel grew impatient and lunged for his son’s pregnant wife, thinking to grab her and take her along. His son and the other young hunter would surely follow. Azazel held the memories of generations, and it was unheard of for young hunters to disobey such a powerful dreamer. These were extreme times; the young ones just did not understand, and he needed to show them he was serious. He had always been too lenient before, and now he needed to make them understand the urgency of his request.

The young woman, frightened by his lunge, tried to step aside. Made awkward by her pregnancy, she stumbled and almost fell. Azazel’s own son, protective and full of rage, struck his father with the blunt end of the heavy spear he carried. The older man fell to the ground stunned. His carefully caught clutch of food fell in the dirt.

A dozen Skinnies emerged from their huts, alerted by the cries of the women around the fire. Dazed, Azazel could not make out their piercing cries and chattering language. He shook his head, and climbed slowly back to his feet. His head throbbed. His heart raced. Now he was confronted by the two angry Hero Men and an excited and chattering group of Skinnies.

These are the brothers and uncles of my mate, his son said angrily. Now they believe you have struck her. You have to leave now or they will surely kill you. They are calling for me to drive you off. They have not already killed you because they can see you are a foolish old man. I would rather not strike you again, my father, so you have to go.

Azazel tasted blood from his son’s blow and his head ached. He knew he could not gather the strength to face down his own son, and he certainly could not defeat the whole pack of young Skinnies either. However, Azazel suspected he was too old and weak to strike out on his own for long. Besides, if he left his son, and the husband of his poor daughter, they would forget the memories. He needed the younger men and they needed him. He stepped forward to try and explain one more time. One of the Skinnies, a particularly tall and rangy bushy bearded young hunter, misinterpreted his movement. In a burst of movement the young man’s light spear left his hand and buried itself in Azazel’s chest.

Oh, he killed me, Azazel croaked out before his vision dimmed and he sank to the ground.

Azazel’s son frowned, examining his own mixed feelings of regret and relief. He wanted to stay here with his pleasant young wife, and he did not want his father to make trouble. The young hunter had understood his father. He also had dreams, and he wanted to guide the son or spoil the daughter his new mate had in her belly. He had figured he could get the old man to leave now, and then wait for a calmer day to make amends. He knew Azazel would not really hurt a defenseless woman, and he did love the old man despite his obstinacy. Still, he had a wife. Soon he would have a baby. What was done was done.

A Skinny chieftain, about the same age as Azazel, stepped up to the body, nudged it with his foot, and shook his head. He frowned. He knew throwing the spear had been impulsive, but he wanted to end the matter now.

You bury him, the chieftain told Azazel’s son. You help him, he said to the other Hero Man, the former mate of Azazel’s daughter. He looked at the small group of hunters who had gathered behind them. He glared at the tall young one who had thrown the spear. Maybe some of you will help too, and that ends it. He turned back to Azazel. You agree?

Azazel’s son nodded firmly and he struck his chest with his fist in this clan’s ancient gesture of loyalty. He should have stayed away, the young man said grimly. Most of the other Skinnies dispersed to their own huts. The young spear thrower frowned, a bit regretfully, but then he stepped over to the fire. A younger woman smiled and handed him a crude wooden bowl filled with stew. A couple of the hunters, brothers of the pregnant woman, glanced at the young spear thrower and shook their heads, almost apologetically. They remained behind to help the two Hero Men drag Azazel to the rocky pit where they normally threw their waste. The two women gathered up Azazel’s food to add to the pot. There was no use wasting some fat rabbits and rich tubers.

Should we burn him in the old way? Azazel’s son asked his brother-in-law as they dragged the body towards the garbage pit. He spoke quietly in the old language.

The chief said to bury him, the other Hero Man said. "I don’t think we want to disobey right now. Maybe we can bury