RUINED CITIES
EDITED BY
James Tallett
Published by Deepwood Publishing, Inc.
First U.S. Edition: November 2013
Cover by Jared Dennis
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Copyright © Deepwood Publishing, 2013
COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The City Over Hell, copyright 2013 by Jennifer Povey.
Crossing, copyright 2013 by John Biggs.
Freaks, copyright 2013 by Steve Rodgers.
The Last Empress of Atlantis, copyright 2013 by Jay Litwicki.
Escape from 1133, copyright 2013 by Tom Howard.
We, the People of the Clouds, copyright 2013 by Simon Kewin.
In the Shadow of Paha Byrat, copyright 2013 by Dale Carothers.
Juarez Square, copyright 2013 by D.L. Young.
A Hero’s Only Request, copyright 2013 by Daniel Kason.
Cobbler and Minion, copyright 2013 by Brent Knowles.
Our Lady of Pain, copyright 2013 by Robin Wyatt Dunn.
In the City of No God, copyright 2013 by J.S. Bangs.
The Redmond Tomb Raiders, copyright 2013 by George Walker.
In the Shadow of Vesuvius, copyright 2013 by Daryl Wayne.
Son of Bones, copyright 2013 by Joel V. Kela.
New Synchrodan, copyright 2013 by Elizabeth Macdonald.
FOR MY FAMILY
Always there
INTRODUCTION
It is an iconic image, the empty city street, run down and overgrown as Nature reclaims what once belonged to it. But that is only one possible take on what a city can be. Here, we have sixteen visions of a future gone wrong, of lands that have seen their glory days collapse into the distant past, of decrepit space stations, lost islands, and failed countries.
At the core of each of these stories is the human element, that singular character who brings to the surface all of the trials and travails that civilization has suffered, the light and the culture lost in the collapse. Some are kind, working for the betterment of those around them. Others are cruel, cowardly, and greedy, out for themselves and no one else. But each has a story to tell…
And here, within Ruined Cities, those once great civilizations and the creatures who inhabit them will unfold themselves for the delectation of the reader, each tale a new vista into mankind, what it can do so well, and what has gone so wrong.
THE CITY OVER HELL
by
JENNIFER POVEY
A cleaning bot scurried along the floor of the still-grimy corridor. Padrik kicked at it idly. It dodged, and kept working.
As best it could. Nothing ever quite got to “clean” these days. Padrik shook his head, walking away. They were, he supposed, lucky not to have been reduced to the use of brooms. The soft hum of life support reassured him. It wasn’t rattling today.
On such small things did life here depend. The planet below was no refuge, a hellworld of lava and sulfur and microbes just compatible enough with Earth life to make a man sick. Not to kill, him, no. The kind of sickness they brought made you wish you could die for quite some time.
In any case, nothing grew down there, nor was ever likely to. They’d started terraforming, but cut it short before it achieved anything. If anything, it had made sure of that unpleasant compatibility.
There was only the station, and no ships came. None had come in years. The children, station-born, did not know there were ships.
Padrik was old, and Padrik remembered. He remembered when the corridors swarmed with traders. Humans from old Earth, neo-humans from the Bright Rim. Felinoid savikians and velociraptor-like kareen. People of all species.
Survivors of all species. Except the neo-humans. They had died, died or devolved into the fae mutants who clung to the lower corridors. Died with the machines that lived within them. Padrik remembered that.
He shook his head, heading back to what they still called the City — the main residential area of the station. Few worlds had a city in space, few ever had, but El’s World had been a major transit hub. A convenient beacon and waystation.
Once.
That once was no more, but Padrik remembered. He no longer, however, spoke of it. Nobody had heard him speak in many years.
***
The alleyway was narrow, lower roofed than the street. Rat huddled in it, her knees held up to her chest. She’d seen the old man again, the one who never spoke. He supposedly remembered the glory days, the time when there had been ships.
Rat had never seen a ship. Rat had no name except rat, which meant vermin, which meant something nobody wanted. It was an Earth word.
Rat didn’t care. She was only a human, which was to say a member of the species that populated the Station the most. She did not even know it circled El’s World.
To her the planet below had a simpler name. Hell. It was where your ghost went when you died, eternally trapped in the brimstone and the heat.
It was the place of fear. But now, Rat turned her thoughts away from that and to a much more immediate problem.
Food.
She needed food, and Rat had no money. Hence the turn she took, down the alleyway that led behind Restaurant Row. It was wider here, wide enough for delivery bots. Not that she saw many of those any more. No, these days, she saw hand carts. Occasionally electric carts. Most of the energy, though, went to keeping them breathing. Rat knew that much. She knew that no matter what, no matter how scared or desperate she was, she didn’t block the life support conduits.
And there it was, a cart of waste food to be carted away. That day’s, and good enough for a Rat. Nobody was watching it, and even if they were, most of the lads who took it away wouldn’t do anything to somebody who snagged a bit. They probably raided it themselves, in their own way and their own time. It was still good food.
She grabbed some bread and some deli meat, and ducked back into the side alleyway. She made herself a sandwich, quickly, and ate it almost equally quickly. Ate it before anyone could take it from her, which had happened before. Some people would rather take from others than find their own. Some people just wanted fights. Rat ran from the people who wanted fights.
Once you had food, you could think. You had that time.
She thought about the old man who never spoke. The rumors about him. That he was the last to remember the glory days, the last to remember the Empire before the fall.
That he had been a cop or a soldier or, more darkly whispered, a spy. Rat could believe spy. He lived in the past, she thought. Rat lived in the present, knowing there wouldn’t be a future.
Life support was rattling again, the breath of the station coming uneven through the walls. It was more noticeable back here, in the alleyways, where kids like her lived. Kids with no parents, no family, no name. One day that breath might stop. Even Rat, who could not read, knew that.
The ships had to come before then, or so the adults said. Not in despair but in hope. The ships would come. They would come and they would bring with them knowledge or, at least, an escape that wasn’t to the surface of Hell.
Rat sometimes wondered if there had ever been ships. To her, the Station was a living thing. It breathed, it might some day die. She lived off its breath, but if she died? She was just a rat in the walls, that was all.
&nb
sp; Once her sandwich was finished, she faded back into the back alleyways.
***
Padrik walked across the park. They’d tried growing crops here, but the soil was too shallow for anything but the special grass bred for stations. Which, unwatered, had turned brown and then died. Now the park was metal paths across mud.
There had been birds. He wasn’t sure what had happened to the birds. Starved or eaten, he supposed. Likely eaten. There were more than enough desperate sentients on the station.
He ignored them. If the ships did not come, they were dead. If the ships came, then… most of them were still dead.
There would be no ships. He knew that, but he could not remember the true source of his certainty. He only remembered that last flight. Fleeing here, landing here, touching down on the station’s metal, knowing his ship would go no further, would fly no more. Dimly, his memory spoke of war.
There was a street brat sitting on one of the benches. She’d found what looked like a stale bagel and was munching on it. They lived out of dumpsters, the poor people, from what those that still had something threw away. The have nots and the have littles, a thin line dividing them. Padrik ignored the child — a girl, her breasts starting to bud just a little.
It didn’t matter. The lungs of the station wheezed. The ships would not come. The implant in his head had died, had taken most of his memory with it. He had been lucky. The neos had died screaming.
The girl, though, watched him. Her eyes tracked him. Then she opened her mouth.
“When are the ships coming?”
That was the rumor. That he knew when they would come back. That was why he did not speak. He shook his head, started to hurry, then she offered him the second half of her bagel.
That was enough for him to stop. She needed it more herself, surely. This was a street rat — undernourished and ill-dressed, likely bruised under the rags she wore. He shook his head.
She held it out, insistent. Something in her eyes reached through his barriers.
“No.” His own voice was rust to his ears.
“No?” Hers was high, but not as high as a true child. Adolescence was reaching out to claim her, and to pull her into a world she would never escape. Except via death.
“They are not coming.” He looked at her. Don’t ask again, he tried to say with his eyes.
She pushed the bagel into his hand anyway, walked away from him. Brighter, somehow. Perhaps because the man who knew had talked to her. He watched her go. Just a kid, just a doomed kid. People kept breeding, too. People always did keep breeding, even when they were dying.
He walked away, out of the park and onto the Avenue. Wide and high, several stories high, windows looking out at it. Some of them were smashed, others inexpertly repaired. He remembered when this had been bright.
He remembered the lights, and he wished for them again. Or for that last escape of death.
***
The ship man had spoken to her. But he had spoken to her to tell her the ships would not come.
Life support rattled even more where Rat was now. Nobody went to the docks. They were full of garbage and worse… bones. The bones of humans, of aliens, of pets. Bones that had dried out, littering the floor. People had died here waiting for the ships.
The ships that would not come. Rat knew the grownups believed they would die if the ships did not come. That the station would die and they would all go to Hell. Or maybe going to Hell was how the station would die. Grownups were confusing.
Rat sat on what had been a cargo loader, on a worn metal barrel, staring at an airlock. It had a number on it, a number so people could find their ship again.
The ships would not come and they would all go to Hell. That was wisdom. That was what was known. The ship man did not speak because he had been leaving people their hope. But he had spoken to her.
If the ships were not going to come, then the world had to be saved some other way. Some other way. The blond street rat did not know what that was. She could not read, she could not write, she could barely count. The world could not be saved by her. Still, she came here, where nobody ever came.
Rattle. Wheeze. Dying. A maintenance bot trundled through the bones, but it did not pick them up. It was supposed to clean them up. She jumped off the loader and tried to kick it, but missed. It trundled on, past her. Ignoring her as it ignored the trash. And she heard life support rattle.
Don’t mess with life support. That was the only thing she remembered of her mother. And in any case, the fae mutants were in those back corridors. They were probably here, watching her. They couldn’t understand real people. They weren’t people. Not any more. They had been born without the machines, without what made neos neo. Rat shivered, glad she was human.
Only then did she realize she was not alone. A kareen peered around the corner.
A kareen no older than she was! A kareen child, a male starting to grow his sexual coloration. She reminded herself, firmly, not to grin. She knew not to grin at kareens… it was the same to them as shaking a fist was to humans. A challenge. A danger. Kareens, even young ones, could kill easily if they chose.
They seldom chose, but he might be that hungry. She found herself shivering, made herself stop. “Hello?”
The kareen tilted his head. “Heyo.” Kareens couldn’t manage the sound l, although they often managed the rest of Intnal fine. Better than humans handled their tongue.
“You came down here?” she could not help but ask.
“So did you,” the kareen pointed out, stepping towards her awkwardly. He looked about to tip over.
“It’s a good place to think.” He spoke good Intnal, and she was not above talking to him. True, he was a kareen, but he was still a person.
He rocked back on his tail. “Thinking doesn’t get dinner,” he pointed out.
“Only dinner you might find here… well…” He was a kareen, he ate fresh, uncooked meat. Maybe there were things alive on the docks that were edible, descended from people’s pets or something.
She wrinkled her nose. Uncooked meat. But it was what kareens ate. They weren’t human. They laid eggs, too. Kareens were weird. “I talked to the ship man. He talked. They aren’t coming.”
The kareen tilted his head. “Then we do without them.” A soft whistling sound echoed through the docks, and he set off at a run.
Kareen talked in whistles, she remembered as he left. He had a pack to run with. Maybe he even had a family, and for a moment she hated him for that. She wanted a family.
No, she didn’t. Instead, she turned back to the airlock. How did he know the ships weren’t coming?
She resolved to find the ship man again.
***
The docks were a place few people went. The control tower? Nobody went there. It was wires and cables and exposed chips, and Padrik stood in the center of it. No rattling here. This had been the core, the hub from which they had managed hundreds of ships. The screens showing the ships and the gates opening to admit them, or to release them beyond the sky.
There were no more gates, so there could be no more ships. He’d accepted that. He’d accepted his death and the death of all here.
Until he met that blasted girl. Part of him wished she’d fall out of an airlock. Another part…
She was just a little girl. A little girl who had asked him for hope, and he had not been able to bring himself to give it to her. What would a lie have cost him?
The gates blown, one by one, himself coming through the last one. A chain reaction, he believed, taking out the entire network. Humans and their allies could not rebuild. Each world isolated forever, held by Einstein’s limits. Held and bound by them, with no way to break out.
No knowledge that could free them. An image came into his mind. A blacker than black cube, spinning slowly against the backdrop of a sun.
A memory, but there was no context to it. He had been a pilot. He had seen that once. Some artifact? Some kind of weird satellite or probe? Blacker than black and
all he saw now was what lay past the windows… the glowing surface of El’s World. Of Hell. No refuge there.
Hell. No refuge anywhere. Or was there? He stared out at space. Einstein’s limits, years to travel between stars.
Years upon years and they had been here years upon years, and it would never work. Never, this city in space could not move.
Still. He knew which way to go. But the city would break up, bits of it flying off into space. Nobody knew how to build shields that would save it.
Yet, if they stayed here, everyone would die eventually. If he did this, a few people would die now. Maybe including that street kid, but she was… just a street kid. A symbol, at some levels. A dream.
He had not thought of moving the station. Why not? Because he had been waiting to die, wanting to die. Longing, even, to die. Yet, if he tried this, he would have to stay alive. He would be the only pilot they had.
And he would not live long enough. Despair flowed through him again. But with it came images. Of Electric Avenue as it had been and as it now was. Of the park when it was green. Of a woman placing her dead baby in the garbage disposal, her face streaked with tears, her breasts slack with the loss of her milk.
Of a woman… and he shook his head. There had been deaths, there would be deaths. He looked at the gutted control room. No map. He had to do this in his head.
And he could not do it alone. Slowly, he climbed back down the tower, out into the back of the docks, and from there to Restaurant Row. Some brave establishments were open. One of them was run by an elderly Greek. Somehow, he managed to offer food that was not half bad in a world where supplies were hard to come by and most dreamed of fulfillment. He did not charge Padrik for a gyro.
Padrik, in return, did not ask what the meat was. Or whether it was meat. You did not want to know. But Padrik was the ship man. Nobody charged him because they knew he was insane, could offer nothing in trade. Sometimes, though, he’d go in the back and wash dishes. He did not want charity.
He wanted, he realized, to find the street girl.
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