Neon Sands Trilogy Boxset: The Neon Series Season One

by Adam J. Smith

  She liked being around the other brothers. It was as if her father had never left her. Maybe this was why she felt closer to him than she ever had her mother, whose face sometimes could only be remembered in her dreams.

  The real grief, she knew, would come should she ever win the Liberty Trials.

  ***

  Elissa proceeded to the central courtyard, the heart of the town. The three towers rose from the straight edges of the triangle, their breadth almost creating a fully enclosed plaza. A single lamp glowed in the centre, where benches were set out for the various train-girls to intermingle as they crossed paths, heading from one tower to the next, or catching up on gossip. This was an area not really on display, so it showed signs of wear and tear, particularly in the dislodged and wobbling brickwork pathways and the render up the walls. A total contrast to the frontal facades. And easier to sneak into.

  She went from window to window, checking the catches, until she found one that was open. It squeaked as she lifted it, and she froze, listening for the sound of footsteps. She had to assume there were guards or some kind of patrol system, but truth was, she didn’t know for sure. She hadn’t really had to think about it before. Men weren’t allowed on site as staff, only as guests, so if there were any guards they’d just be train-girls, and nothing she couldn’t handle.

  She lifted the window the rest of the way and pulled herself inside, throwing her legs over. The only light was the illumination from the plaza lamp. Shelves lined the walls, all empty, and crates were stacked up against one wall. These were the same crates the city representatives brought in on their convoys filled with fresh fruit and vegetables. Elissa’s mouth watered at the thought of a crisp, green apple.

  Keep your eyes open for something tasty while you’re here.

  At the door, she peeked out into a corridor. Dim neon striplighting illuminated the walls, and she could smell perfume on the air. Lingering lilac and floating forget-me-not. Gifts from the city reserved for the train-girls. All felt still, and silent, so she stepped out, no idea where to go next.

  “Who’s there?” said a woman’s voice.

  Fuck.

  Elissa stepped back inside and pushed the door almost closed again. She could hear footsteps now, echoing off the walls. She turned, saw no hiding space, and so stood against the wall beside the door hinges, pressing her back to it and holding her breath. Heart thundering. She reached down for her heavy boots.

  The footsteps ceased, and she heard the creak of doors opening and closing, getting nearer.

  Her door swung open, and light arced into the room. It lit a line down her face from the crack between the door and the jamb, and she turned her cheek to the wall. A shadow passed across the line and footsteps entered.

  “Who left this open?” said the woman. “I thought I could feel a draught.” She crossed the room, her square shoulders making Elissa re-evaluate her confidence in being able to deal with any guards.

  In three quick motions, Elissa stepped forward, to the side, and back, before turning around and walking quickly to the end of the corridor. Boots in hand. In socks, she hadn’t made a sound.

  Around the corner, she was confronted with a staircase. Where are they keeping you, Calix? she wondered. It seemed unlikely that he’d be on the ground floor. More likely to be on one of the higher, residential floors, where train-girls in training lived, and where someone could attend to him quickly if necessary.

  She went up.

  This staircase was less opulent than the main one in the foyer, serving a more functional role with light strips set into the curved wall every few feet. The perfume scent grew stronger as she rose, erasing any doubt that she was heading where she intended.

  The landing opened out into a receiving room with another staircase at the far end to continue the ascent. Corridors lead away. She could also smell soap quite strongly; a chemical undercurrent too; an array of plumbing must converge on this floor for washing and cleaning. She checked one room to confirm her suspicions, keeping an ear open. Inside, draped over a clothes line, were thin, white scarves bleached iridescent and hung like uncut pasta. She stepped inside, grabbed one (possibly the softest, silkiest material she had ever held) and wrapped it around her head.

  The jacket. She couldn’t remember a train-girl ever wearing a leather jacket.

  She dumped it in a basket behind the door, hopeful of retrieval later.

  Back on the landing, she went to the original staircase to listen for rising footsteps, heard nothing, and headed for the opposite steps. Rising, the lights flickered on – not one blinking or extinguished strip, she noted.

  The next floor featured heavy decorations; lots of plastic flowers in ceramic vases painted a variety of colours; and paintings in frames of bygone generations. Quintessa herself adorned the latest one.

  Elissa tip-toed along the wall, hoping to create the fewest creaks and groans as the floorboards beneath shifted. She passed sideboards and noted the fruit in glass bowls, those big, green apples. Something else to retrieve later.

  The autolighting continued to follow her, and she hoped it wouldn’t give her away. She wasn’t sure if she wanted the girls and women to be restless sleepers who frequently took bathroom trips, so that the creaks and lights were nothing extraordinary (but run the risk of bumping into someone) or regular dreamers who would be roused by the slightest irregular sound.

  She stopped at closed doors to listen. Heard light snoring behind most. Each had a blackboard and at least three names scrawled onto them. That should make things easier, she hoped.

  The corridor curled gradually to the right. The polished floorboards glimmered. Art continued to decorate the walls; portraits, abstracts, landscapes and still-life all represented. It was encouraged as part of the train-girl culture. She’d seen groups of them before with their light dresses trailing out behind them, swerving through the markets to find an interesting vantage point, or sitting at the edge of the plains studying the hoverbikes and the way the heat shimmered so drastically the distant mountain could barely be perceived.

  It was ‘cultured’ and anything that was seen to be ‘cultured’ was encouraged by the matriarchs, in the hope of impressing the visiting city politicians. For a while, Elissa had thought maybe the matriarchs wanted to make a good impression for the hope of an invitation. You’re so cultured, it would benefit the city greatly to have you join us. And don’t forget your lovely girls. But now, she understood they only wanted to rule and gloat, and would never accept an invitation, even if one were offered.

  At a new corridor, she peered around the corner – it was unlit, but she could see that one of the doors was ajar. She moved towards it and the sensor turned on the lights – damn it – then put her ear to the gap. ‘Who knows?’ was chalked on the door-board.

  There was a light snoring, like stones in a children’s rattle. And a soft, orange glow on the walls. Elissa pushed her way in and silently closed the door.

  Calix lay on his back on a corner bed. They’d stripped him to his vest and underpants and washed him – it smelled of soap in here too. It was quite cool in the room, so they must’ve wanted to keep his fever down. Stepping closer, she could see through his skin to the ribcage bones beneath, and swore she could almost see the red of his rising lungs. She could imagine his heart in there too. He was thin, sure, but it was his translucency that stood out. So white and pale – she knew for certain now that this was not someone who regularly saw the sun.

  The others would notice that too.

  His eyes moved beneath the skin of his eyelids, and she leaned down to feel his forehead. He was warm, but not feverish. He actually seemed to be shivering slightly.

  He groaned. The sudden sound was probably quieter than it seemed, but after the silence felt like an explosion. She clamped her hand over his mouth and whispered ssshhh into his ear.

  His bloodshot eyes popped open, and he grabbed her wrist to pull her off, but Elissa barely noticed the force. Instead, she put her finger t
o her lips and gently lifted her hand.

  “Don’t say anything,” she whispered, falling to her haunches.

  He turned his head to meet her, into the glow of the gentle lamplight, and she saw how his skin was less red than when she found him. It had peeled in places in scabby white patches, across the brow and his cheekbones, but elsewhere the red was deepening to a tan brown. His lips were scabbed.

  “Water?”

  He nodded. His eyes darted around the room for an instant, distant, seeing something or someone else perhaps, before refocusing on her. “Where,” he croaked.

  “Ssshhh. Here,” she put a glass of water to his lips.

  Calix gulped at the water with a wince, and closed his eyes.

  Elissa watched him for a few moments before realising he was falling back to sleep. She shook him, and he startled. “Listen, Calix.”

  He raised his head then, and pushed his hands against the bed as if to rise, but Elissa put a gentle hand on his chest and shook her head.

  “Just listen. I know all about you. I know about Annora. I was the one who found you on the plains. You have to listen to me, because this is very important. Have you told them who you are yet?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Voice like the echo of rats scrambling at the bottom of a well.

  “Good. Don’t. Do you know where you are?”

  He shook his head.

  “You made it over the sand mountain. You’re in the only town on the plains. You’re the guest of Quintessa, one of our queens. She’s not likely to treat you favourably if she finds out you’re an outsider. There’s a certain... status quo, which she would rather not upset. You have to pretend to have amnesia, or be too ill to talk, something to give you the time you need to get out of here. Then, come find me. In the south of the town there’s a place called The Crank. Ask for me if I’m not there.”

  “The... Crank.”

  “That’s right. My name’s Elissa.”

  “I’ll...” he pushed up on his elbows. “I’ll come now.”

  Elissa stood, hand on hips. Could he? She hadn’t counted on smuggling him out, not tonight or any night. She’d done her bit – warned him – it was up to him now to get out. But... “I don’t know, you’re probably too weak. There’s guards, steps, I mean... if you were better.”

  Calix sat up further, head vertical. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  “You’re still not well. Head spinning? Throbbing?”

  He moaned assent and his head flopped to the pillow.

  Elissa threw her finger to her lips suddenly and poised to move. There were footsteps in the corridor. She turned her back to the door and her whole body tensed with fear, sweat breaking out on her palms and heart pounding.

  Calix closed his eyes.

  The handle turned and the door opened and a voice asked “What’s going on? Why was the door closed?”

  Elissa turned sideways and kept her face in shadow, looking down. “Just checking on him,” she said, pitching her voice higher than her norm. “Didn’t know I’d closed the door.”

  “Who are you?”

  Elissa glanced sideways and then back down to Calix. She didn’t recognise the girl, which meant it was someone else who had brought her to Quintessa earlier. “New here. He looks so peaceful.”

  The girl moved further into the room. “I wouldn’t exactly say peaceful. And I’m not aware of any new girls. And why do you have your headscarf on? They should all be washed and drying by now.” The girl’s arm reached out and Elissa blatted it away and bolted for the door. She swung it shut behind her, hoping for a lock and a key conveniently sitting within it, but there were none.

  She ran back the way she had come, finding the stairs and heading down. Funny how it had all seemed further on her way up, but then she’d been treading cautiously, and unsure where to go. Now she had only one thing on her mind: escape.

  The steps disappeared behind her three at a time, and were slippery in her socks – she had to hold the banister to keep from falling. Outside. When I’m outside I’ll put my boots back on. They swung from the laces in her grip.

  Down one floor, one more to go. Across the landing – she looked back but there was no one chasing her. She had pushed past the girl quite roughly. Hopefully she hadn’t hurt her. The final flight of stairs lay ahead, and she grabbed the banister there and threw herself down them, four at a time now, growing with confidence, until she ran head-on into the broad-shouldered guard.

  “Hey,” she shouted, gripping Elissa by the tops of her arms. “Where you off to in such a hurry?”

  I’m still wearing the scarf. You can do this. You can do this.

  “Sorry, sorry, gosh, so sorry. I forgot I had to do an errand for our Grace, and I don’t want to get in her bad books.” She kept her head tilted down.

  The guard relinquished her tight grip. “An errand? At this time of night?”

  “I messed up, I forgot, I’d rather do it now then have to get up extra early to do it.” Don’t ask me what. Don’t ask me what.

  “Well I guess you better get on with it then. But don’t forget your place. No running! Always with grace under Grace.”

  “Always with grace under Grace,” Elissa parroted, easing past.

  “Stop her!” shouted the girl from the room, racing barefoot across the landing above.

  “Fuck,” muttered Elissa. She swung her boots at the guard’s head and then ran. Ran as fast as she could, without looking back, jumping the final six steps to the ground floor and then sprinting around the curved corridor until she found the open foyer. Nightlight cascaded blue through the wide glass frontage, and she headed for it. She tried to stop as she neared the door, but slid in her socks on the marble floor and slammed into it, rattling it in its frame. There was no lock near the handle, but a simple bolt at the top and bottom kept it closed from the outside. She unlocked it, heard voices from behind, and sped out into the night, boots swinging in crazy arcs.

  Whispe

  r

  “Who was it?” demanded Quintessa.

  Whisper bowed her head. “I don’t know, your Grace. She had one of our headscarves and I didn’t recognise her. Least not in the light. Before I knew it she was gone.” She hoped she wouldn’t be punished for this – it wasn’t her fault Gilda allowed someone to get in past her.

  “I want a guard on his door at all times and I want a guard on every floor. We cannot allow intrusion like this, it’s just not acceptable. Where is Gilda?”

  “Sleeping, your Grace.”

  “Wake her up!” Quintessa stood up from the bed, arms out.

  Whisper pulled the nightgown off over those arms. She looked into her queen’s eyes and was envious of the clear-sighted glaze of her whites. She herself had not returned to sleep again until late – if only she hadn’t woken up to use the bathroom she would never have spotted the closed door, found the intruder, and ended running barefoot down the streets chasing her. Beyond the High District she didn’t know the streets that well, and whoever it was had darted down alleyways she dared not enter.

  “On second thoughts, I’ll deal with her later,” said Quintessa, waiting to be clothed. The sun shone through the bedroom window reflecting off her manikin body. “What exactly did she say? Was she talking to the stranger?”

  Whisper turned to the wardrobe to find something to where.

  “Quickly,” urged Quintessa.

  This would do, she thought, and pulled a flowing silk dress of white and blue with a V-neck from a hanger. “She was just pretending to be one of us. ‘New here’ was what she said. And that he looked so peaceful. Then she knocked me out the way and ran.”

  “He was still asleep?”

  “Yes, your Grace.” She lifted the dress over Quintessa’s arms and let it fall into place.

  “What did she want? What did she want?” Quintessa moved past Whisper and paced around the bed, repeating the mantra. “Is he awake now?”

  “He wasn’t.” Whisper got tired of saying ‘your Gr
ace’ all the time and allowed herself to ‘forget’ every now and then.

  “Your Grace.”

  Now was perhaps not the best time. “Sorry, your Grace.”

  “I want to see him.”

  ***

  Whisper stood in the stranger’s doorway, watching. Quintessa hovered over him, reaching down to poke him in the shoulder. She kept poking until he stirred, moaning, and Whisper noted how she rubbed her fingers between the material of her dress, ‘cleaning’ them.

  The light from the lamp painted Quintessa’s long shadow on the wall.

  “Wake up.”

  He groaned.

  Quintessa pulled the sheet away from him. “Scrawny man. Wake up now.”

  He buckled his legs into the foetus position.

  “Do not ignore me!” She poked him again in the shoulder blade.

  He flinched.

  Whisper said, “He might still be–”

  “–Quiet! Scrawny man. Scrawny man!”

  “Water,” croaked the stranger.

  “Whisper!”

  She rushed the five or six steps to the bedside table and grabbed the glass of water. Quintessa stood in her way. “Your Grace.”

  Quintessa moved aside and Whisper bent to her knees, putting an arm around his neck and helping him lift his head. He wasn’t as red as even twenty-four hours ago, though he was still patchy with peeling skin and the sunstroke seemed to have faded. The moustache of his beard filtered the water as he drank, and then he grabbed the glass from her and splashed it on his face, wiping with his other hand. His eyes locked on to Whisper’s and she felt as though he was unlocking her; like her thoughts were being pulled from her mind as she stared. Those eyes were sharp despite being slightly shot with blood, and had a warmth that made her feel uneasy. She had undressed him and washed him, all over – she had to, he would have stank the whole palace out – and she somehow felt that he knew this.

  Feeling the blood rush to her cheeks, she stood quickly and turned in deference to her Grace. He said “Thanks” and turned his gaze to Quintessa.