Neon Sands Trilogy Boxset: The Neon Series Season One

by Adam J. Smith

  He groaned, and immediately the throbbing in his temple began.

  “Sshh,” said a female voice. “You’ve got sunstroke.”

  It took a few seconds for his memory to catch up with him; how can he have sunstroke, when the sun never shows itself? And then he recalled the endless climb and almost sinking into his own grave near the top of the sand mountain. Only when the sun started blinking through the grit of his goggles did he find renewed hope. He’d never know such brightness. Such clarity. And when he removed his goggles and saw the sky; well, it was almost euphoric, but at the same time strangely shameful. To see an unclothed sky. How could there be no cloud here? What is wrong? Should I carry on? Briefly, he thought about the dome that had been destroyed and how Walker had described the appearance of the sky just before its destruction. Was this something similar?

  He’d scrambled up the embankment with renewed vigour, determined that if he should die, he would at least get to the summit first. The bag tethered around his waist kept sinking down, forcing him to tug on the rope to bring it back to the surface. He wanted to cut it loose, but he dared not; he may need the contents.

  As he climbed, the sun was constantly in his eyeline, until it wasn’t and the last of the crescent vanished over the lip.

  The lip.

  Above, it all looked the endless same, but right and left he noticed a slight curvature and as he climbed, the appearance of a peak. Just one final push.

  Lying in bed, that whole section was like a distant dream and all he remembered was the pain through every muscle of his body. Being hot but not able to sweat. Head throbbing just like it was now.

  Somehow he reached the summit; a near razor-sharp line of banked sand that fell down over the other end just the same way it did on the way up. He remembered breaking through the sand and sending it tumbling to either side, rather than climbing over; but then that view: how was what he was seeing even possible?

  Where was the sand?

  “What did you do with all the sand?” he asked, before passing out.

  Quinte

  ssa

  “How’s he doing?”

  “In and out of consciousness, your Grace.”

  Quintessa nodded. She shifted the angle of the convection fan so the cool, blowing air hit her squarely, after adjusting her position. Whisper, one of her train, stood waiting, head bowed in deference. Her white scarf, wrapped loosely around the top of her head to help protect her scalp from the sun, almost glowed with how clean it was. Quintessa smiled.

  She liked Whisper. Many of her train, and indeed a lot of the other train-girls, she’d noticed, had taken to the new trend of head-scarf. Kali and Frita, her compatriots, had decided to encourage this trend with the proviso that they kept to train-colours. Quintessa had chosen white because she knew it would be the best colour to keep her train cool, but at the same time the most difficult to keep pristinely clean. Whisper never failed in this department; and she was able to create elaborate patterns with the folds and turns of the scarf so that every day her one, two, or three ponytails protruded from her head in a new direction. Frita had favoured black, and Kali green. It was amusing to watch the different girls from the balcony, their house colours painting a furious road-map as they crossed avenues, paths and courtyards, carrying food, water or threats of punishment for disobedience.

  “Any words?”

  “He is delirious, your Grace. Talks of the sand. Mentions a few names; Barrick, Kirillion, Annora. But mostly, he just babbles.”

  “Only a fool would allow himself to get sunstroke.”

  “Yes, your Grace.”

  “This... male... no one lays claim to him?”

  “No, your Grace.”

  “How odd.” Quintessa stood from her throne of hardened glass and began to pace around the square of polished white floor. Further glass chairs, less ornate than her throne, flanked this square on three sides. All currently empty. The heels of her shoes, also hardened glass though flaked with squares of glittering colour, echoed around the antechamber; the tap-tap, tap-tap reached for the white-painted steel girders that hung high in the eaves of the pitched roof.

  She made quiet humming noises as she continued to pace, watching Whisper from the corner of her eye, and slowly combing her long silver hair between her fingers. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. She liked the sound of her heels clacking; it was the sound of action, of decision-making. The girls knew she was thinking when they heard the tap-tapping from their sub-chambers.

  “Yes,” she crowed. “Very odd. He’s definitely not a brother, you say?”

  “No. Too handsome,” laughed Whisper.

  “Very good,” giggled Quintessa. She let out a long sigh and returned to her throne. “Not a brother and not anyone’s born-son.”

  “Seeing as how he was found near the canyons, he must have come from over the sand mountain, your Grace.”

  “It would seem that way. How odd. Maybe it’s one of those adventurers who went exploring, but decided to come back. If so, we need to keep this quiet.”

  “But he’s so young, your Grace.”

  “Yes, yes; I’m just thinking out loud.”

  “Of course, your Grace.”

  “Frita and Kali have entrusted this to me. And in turn, to you.”

  Quintessa met Whisper’s eyes, who immediately turned her gaze back to the floor.

  “If anything, he’s an offspring of a far-gone explorer. Someone who made it over in the past and found pastures for a new home.”

  “But that, if so, your Grace, would mean women across the other side, would it not? For I’ve not heard of a woman going over the mountain, only men.”

  “By Grace, Whisper, I don’t have all the answers!”

  “Sorry, your Grace.”

  “Just go now. I need time and space to think things over.”

  “Yes, —”

  “– Go!”

  ***

  The sun always ‘set’ at the summit of Neon City’s dome. For a moment, the dome was a bright bubble of gleaming yellow, like a pus-filled zit that so many of her train had scattered over their cheekbones and brows. And then for around sixty seconds as its light was cast through the glass of the dome, the bubble burst and splayed out in glittering formations, and sometimes, depending on the condensation on the underside, the strings of a rainbow vibrated down the surface.

  From the vantage of the balcony, the highest point within the township (if there was only one town, why bother naming it – many had tried, no name had stuck) it was possible to watch the crescent shadow descend upon them. It was this, rather than wanting to be nearer the city, that drew so many to live in the north – or what they called the north – to catch the early dusk. She looked at the city for the thousandth time; impossibly high, the outline of skyscrapers crenulated beneath the overarching dome whose actual peak faded into a murky, wavy brightness. Lights would begin to flicker on within those skyscrapers soon; hundreds, thousands, millions? of lives going about their daily business. How to feed so many people? How to rule so many people?

  The great green canopies of foliage that devoured the steel and concrete in the bottom half of the dome was part of the answer to the first question, she knew; even up close it was impossible to see right the way through. The only hint of life was those peaking skyscrapers and the twinkling stars of the lives inside. She couldn’t rule over so many. Her town – that was enough. And why would she want to be at the mercy of such a freak of man-made architecture? Something that could fail at any time. Suffocate at any point. Collapse! Would they all be ready then? She smiled. No. They would die. Their skyscrapers would cease to function and they would die. Their trees would die.

  And so would we, she thought, for the millionth time.

  “You wanted to see me, your Grace?”

  Quintessa turned around. “You rode well, Elissa.”

  “Thank you.” Her dark hair was tied up in a messy bun, and from head to foot she wore some combination of black denim or leather. Her boot
s were tied up her calf towards her knees, covered in powdery dirt. No parasol, or protective headscarf; her face was such a deep brown that her freckles were almost completely hidden. Madness, how people could stand the heat and sunlight as much as they did, thought Quintessa, especially in such thick, black clothing. But then, what choice did she give them? No domestic air-co for most; it was roast in the oven of their homes, or find shade and hope for a breeze. There was a little of Kali in her, she noted.

  “Let’s sit.” Quintessa pointed to a row of chairs overlooking the view.

  They sat down, and Quintessa pulled her loose headscarf from her head and let it drape over her shoulders. Basking in the early dusk, she could afford to remove it now.

  “Have you been up here before?”

  “No, your Grace.”

  “One Grace will suffice or we’ll be talking here ‘til the stars come out. Wine?” She grabbed an ornate tumbler glass from a table decked with fruit and an assortment of bottles buried in a cooling trough. “We’re having pork slow-roasted in the solar oven later if you’d like to stick around.” She filled the glass with a deep-red wine and handed it over, with a smile. Could be fun to see how this girl behaves around the matriarchy, and how they’d react to her!

  “Thank you.” Elissa took a sip and pursed her lips, grimacing slightly.

  “Has a bite. Just how I like it.”

  “It’s nice.”

  No it’s not. Quintessa poured herself a drink of apple juice. “So tell me. Why did you enter the race? You must like this view?”

  “I think it would be more interesting from inside the dome, your… I mean, that’s why I entered, same as anyone.”

  “That city – it’s worth risking your life for?”

  Elissa licked her lips and bit her tongue. “Better to die trying, right?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it’s hard for me to imagine, what that’s like. Living as you do. I see the city and all I see is a prison. Those poor people. Out here, we have our freedom.”

  “We’re trapped, just like them. Even you, by the mountain that rings us. By the incessant sun and heat. What we want – those of us who live like I do – is comfort. I guess we hope we can find that in Neon City.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. I can see how your comfort might be important. But at least you are free to breathe the air. To feel wind on your face. To travel the plains, as I know you enjoy doing. What did you think of the winner’s celebration?”

  “I was happy for Leora and her family.”

  “And you cheered on from the sidelines?”

  “I was there,” she said, putting her glass down on the table.

  Quintessa nodded. “Next time, that could be you. Shame you only get three attempts – you’re a very skilful driver, it would have been fun to keep on watching you until you won, or died, whatever came first. But you might only need one more chance. Assuming you don’t collect any more strays along the way of course.” At the time, the screens had shown Elissa almost half a mile back from Leora, with the others punctuated at the end of long, cloudy streaks between them. Then she had stopped and turned around. “You might have caught up. It was very noble of you to turn around.”

  “I was too far away to catch up. Besides, I thought I was going crazy, seeing hallucinations or something. I had to go back and check.”

  “And there he was…” A body, crawling on hands and knees. The edge of the sand mountain a few hundred feet beyond.

  “He took one look at me and passed out, as though he had reached his goal and it was now time to rest. So I picked him up and finished the race.”

  “And he said nothing?”

  “Nope. Is he okay? They’ve not let me see him.”

  “He’s fine, Elissa. Sunstroke. He’ll come round shortly, no doubt, and then we can finally solve where he came from.”

  “Over the mountain – it has to be. He was covered in sand when I found him.”

  “And there was something else too, I think? Something he had tied to him?”

  Elissa turned her head from the view to make eye contact. “He had a bag with him, but it must’ve fallen off somewhere out on the plains.”

  “Shame. I would so have liked to see what was inside! You can’t be blamed though, these things happen.” Quintessa smiled and stroked her hair through her fingers. In her periphery, Elissa picked at her fingernails. For someone who knew their way around a hoverbike, her fingers and nails were surprisingly clean. “So Whisper tells me you work at The Crank?”

  “Yeah, among other things.”

  “I’ve heard things about that place. I mean, word gets to me on the vineline, so to speak.”

  Elissa stood and walked over to the balcony edge, leaning forward and crossing her arms. “I help with food and drink, nothing more,” she said, turning her back to the giant dome. “I also help the brothers who have become lost; those who stop coming; those who have lost friends, or never had any friends to begin with. I’ll visit them, take them something to eat or drink. Talk to them a bit.”

  “Aren’t you the sociable one,” smiled Quintessa. She didn’t like the girl’s demeanour anymore; steadfast of eye, legs and arms crossed, a stern glare. “Which of the matriarchal kin is your family from, again?”

  “I think the way we treat them – like lepers – is appalling.”

  “Well–”

  “And I think it’s wrong how some people can get away with murder.”

  “Murder?”

  “Rohen, of the seventeenth generation of brothers–”

  “Seventeen, gosh.”

  “–first murdered Georg–”

  “Ah yes, Georg.”

  “–and then murdered Joe–”

  “Now listen here. I think you’re beginning to forget your place. It doesn’t matter what you may think, what we say goes.” Quintessa stood. In her heels, she towered over Elissa. Carrying her hair as she combed her fingers through it, she continued. “And really,” she smiled, noticing Elissa’s deep and rapid intakes of breath, “murdered? Joe? We all saw what happened. That dimwit should never even have been put through the orphanage.”

  “IT WAS MURDER!” shouted Elissa, her face somehow redder than ever.

  Quintessa turned, taken aback and not wanting to give Elissa the satisfaction of seeing her quivering bottom jaw. Taking deep breaths, she walked calmly towards the door and opened it. Then she grit her teeth to regain composure. When she was ready, she turned. “If you don’t leave right now I’ll have this Crank place burned to the ground.”

  She could see Elissa had a lot more to say, but now no room in which to say it.

  C

  rank

  Elissa descended in the elevator. A soft breeze blew through the ventilation system, but it failed to cool her down. At ground level, she exited and headed straight for the palace entrance, through a clay-walled stucco corridor that opened into an ornately painted foyer. There weren’t many decorations, but the walls and ceiling were painted with curlicue abstractions of colour, and girls and women busied themselves with tasks. She felt sorry for them; slaves dressed in riches.

  She pushed through the heavy glass doors and was greeted with a blast of hot air, which she also pushed through, heading down the palatial steps, through the colonnade, and south along the street away from the dome. Deep into arcing shadow, the streets of the town were beginning to illuminate their gas and argon lights.

  The twelve-hourly alarm bleated from corner-placed soundsystems.

  She pressed on through the streets, trying to ignore the alarm, passing the adobe homes of the train-girls’ families, some three- or four-storeys high. One of the girls, dressed in a long, floating tunic with a black headscarf, pulled down on the street’s central electricity relay to cut the power, then stood waiting with her hand poised over the switch. Other girls and women headed for shelter, carrying pails of water, coils of wool and cotton, or overflowing toolkits around their waist.

  Elissa continued; out of the High Distric
t and into the Grid, where the schools, orphanages and dormitories, clad with a mix of metal and adobe and graffiti, blotted out the sky. They were mostly dull in the early dusk, but where the graffiti depicted the blood-lettings, with words like Drink the Blood of the Innocents, and Blood & Boil & Burn, and Bathe like a Pig in Blood – accompanying images matching those descriptions – red positively perspired through the murk. Dribbled down the outbuildings. Flowed with corruption.

  She tried not to look.

  Why weren’t the murals taken down? Painted over?

  Because they weren’t ashamed.

  No-one, it seemed, was ashamed. Brought up to accept this as the way things were. Was it really that wrong? She had been of the flock for so long, accepting the way of things, not questioning, but some essence within her had started to fight back. To doubt Determinism, the blood-lettings, the status-quo.

  She picked up her pace as she went past the orphanage where Joe had been raised, seeing him in the face of every boy peering from the windows, or playing outside in the street as she weaved between them. Impossibly pale and strikingly thin. Two boys kicked a football to each other, both with an arm in a plaster-cast. So brittle. How many remembered Gentle Joe? she wondered. Whose bones had cracked and lungs had squeezed out every last breath of air, unable to breathe back in. Who right now was pinned like a pig in an abattoir between the shock-clamps. She thought of his lifeless body wasting away and turned right at the end of the orphanage, heading through an alleyway towards the Brothers District.

  ***

  The Street of One Face was largely deserted when the ion blast struck, feeling like a gentle push on Elissa’s back as the shockwave pulsed from the dome to the crater edge, purging it of the sand. Small clouds of dust eddied down the streets, fell from rooftops, and her hair blew softly. Around her, the gentle hum of coursing electricity rose as it was turned back on, and with it; tinny voices from monitor-TVs and old, recycled music from one of the town’s many radio stations. A common sight atop the flat rooftops were transistor aerials and transmitter antennas perkily poking towards the skies, large awnings to protect from the sun set up besides them. And somewhere, perhaps leering off the edge of the roof, were the solar panels that provided electricity.