Neon Sands Trilogy Boxset: The Neon Series Season One

by Adam J. Smith

  Rylan walked past a nonchalant guard with his foot resting on the wall behind him, arms folded. The guard looked half-asleep. Taser-baton hanging from the hip.

  Beyond the guard were others in various states of awareness, boots polished black and trousers blacker as they reflected no light. They wore blue waist-length jackets, unzipped because of the heat. Dark blue shirts beneath. On their heads hung a patrol lens that floated before their left eye with a scrolling bar of information, updated every time it scanned someone new.

  This was why the guards appeared so sanguine. That scanner picked up on anything suspicious; from the way someone walked to the weight they were carrying. If it thought you were heavier than your profile, and perhaps carrying something you shouldn’t be, it checked the system for a record of when you became that present weight. Maybe you left a bakery ten kilos heavier than when you entered and went straight to work, and it was Hiro’s birthday, so that was deemed okay. Maybe you leave a strip club in the Dakar Exchange and your blood pressure is unusually low, but you’ve got thirty kilos on your younger self. What were you doing in there? it might wonder. What weighs thirty kilo? Best pull him out and ask.

  Just to be on the safe side.

  Rylan nodded to the guard and smiled.

  He hated that the guard’s device eliminated any right to privacy. That too, though, was just an illusion.

  There was no privacy where the authority was concerned.

  Or Clarisse.

  She dangled from the high handrail in the trainlink, bony elbow jutting out, head tilted, lips pursed in a smirk. She wore her favourite jacket over her work clothes.

  “Twice in two days. You might give me the wrong idea,” said Rylan as he grabbed hold of the rail and stood next to her.

  Others pushed their way past, mouths chattering.

  “Maybe I’m trying to give you the right one.”

  As the trainlink became packed, bodies squashed together. Rylan got so close to Clarisse he could smell her shampoo and the work she had done that day. “Just finished too?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  If she was breathing through her nose, he’d smell a million times worse than she did. “I wouldn’t get too close.”

  The trainlink eased away with everyone nudging their neighbours. “Too late for that.”

  “The answer is still no.”

  She clenched her jaw. There it was; the old familiar look of disappointment. She looked away, to the outside and the strobing spot lit night above the pits. The mist hung particularly low out there and the more he looked, the harder it was to see out. All he could see was his own reflection surrounded by strangers. Perhaps it was the mirror-image, but even Clarisse looked like a stranger; someone who shared her penchant for biting her lip and tightening her jaw when she was disappointed or sad.

  That happens when you’re apart from someone long enough, he thought. You unlearn everything you know about them until you no longer recognise them.

  The ride seemed to take forever, and then they were easing to a stop. As one nearest the door, he stepped out first onto the solid hardtop. A whole day later but the exact same spot. A whole year later... he looked up at the tower facade and the cross-cross gangways reaching between it and the other towers. Items hung like shadowy ghosts in mid-air, their shapes all blurring into homogeneity; perhaps one was a chair flung in anger, perhaps another was a body: both caught by the electronic net.

  Home, he thought. This is where I’m meant to die.

  There was something to be said for the familiar.

  “Wait!” called Clarisse, taking his elbow and swinging him around to face her.

  “What?” She held him close and urged him towards the trainlink shelter. He felt no urge to resist. Beneath the shelter light, he could see her dappled face clearly, raindrops on amber, red lips wet, dark eyeliner-rimmed eyes on him. She smelled like chlorine and sweat. He reached out and eased the hair from her eyes, and she flicked his hand away.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, shaking her head. Not getting a response, she grunted and asked him if he’d thought over what she’d said.

  “How could I not?” he stated.

  “So?”

  “So I could do with a drink.”

  “What about the, you know...” she looked around. “Submarine?”

  “Who knows what it was, Clarisse. It could’ve been some broken machinery fallen into the reservoir. Fuck, it could’ve washed down the pipe; a relic from the old wars. Our past, before everything got so messed up.”

  She shook her head. “No, no, no, no. You don’t believe that. You saw exactly what I saw. Some heap of metal ain’t suddenly gonna wash all the way down through the pipes from out there, not after all this time. This was something new.”

  “Speculation.”

  Lips pursed, fist balled, she looked like she wanted to hit him in the chest, and then she did. Only lightly, but still. “Ry, come on! Someone came into the city from the outside.”

  “And where are they now? You think a stranger could survive two minutes in this city without being detected?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know. Maybe in the pits. You know, we searched, Corbin and I, we did. But, you know, people move on. There are ways, you know that.”

  “If you know what you’re doing.”

  “Look, just come tonight, yeah?”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll send you an invite.”

  “The link?” he shook his head and began turning away, laughing. Clarisse held him fast. He’d forgotten how strong she was.

  “Just give it a chance.”

  No more laughing. No more games. Rylan grabbed her wrist and squeezed, heart breaking for a second as her face broke down into etchings of pain. With a yank, he thrust her arm back at her and turned to leave.

  “Get yourself a new mark, Clare.”

  His hand shook and his pulse shouted in his ear for alcohol. The world became a blur of lights and noise, the only clarity existing in his footfalls and racing heartbeat. His feet splashed lightly in puddles before stepping up onto dry concrete littered with the discarded wrappings of burritos and cartons empty of noodles. He kicked them aside, hit an empty bottle he hadn’t noticed which skittled across the ground until it smashed against the wall. He saw the shattered pieces as they exploded in his periphery, but ignored them. Someone shouted after him. Maybe. It could’ve been anyone, right? He wasn’t the only asshole down here in the butt of the city. The pits. Down there, up here, what was the difference?

  The light dimmed and he realised he’d made it to the Dakar Exchange. He angled left, away from the XXX delights, and found his favourite supplier. Skinny kept himself to the shadows; his skin colour and weight aiding in that department. Rylan offered his wrist and Skinny charged him without saying a word.

  “Make it two,” said Rylan.

  Skinny nodded, the piercings in his lips flashing in some light caught from some place, and handed over two bottles of Sin-th. Rylan clutched them in one hand and headed for the lift in the central column. It appeared, gradually, a tower within a tower; one that faded away as he looked up.

  Up there is my abyss, he thought. He kept his arm tight to his side, conscious not to swing. Conscious not to offer temptation to someone on their way down to the pits or some other dark corner.

  My abyss.

  As he waited for the lift, he closed his eyes. Clarisse’s face was there to greet him, frozen in pain. Her dark eyes ablaze. Her lips bleached of blood and open in a silent scream. That scream pierced his temple and set it afire, and his heart raced some more.

  Shut up! Shut up! For elite’s sake, shut up! shouted his father.

  He hadn’t been naughty, had he? Just playing.

  Your father’s got a headache, dear. Play a little quieter if you can.

  “I’m sorry, father,” he thought.

  I’m sorry too, son. His father looked at his mother and it was then that Rylan noticed the black eye. See, now that’s h
ow you apologise.

  “Hey there.”

  Rylan’s eyes snapped open.

  “You okay?” asked Caia.

  “I’ve been better. You following me?”

  She stood a couple metres away in the spotlight from the lift, arms folded, waiting. She smiled over at him. “I don’t know if I’d call it ‘following’. ‘Stalking’ perhaps.”

  Between his front door, Misty’s, and now the ambient glow from the lift lights, Rylan was piecing together an image of Caia as someone who was at ease with her beauty. She was fairly short at maybe five-foot-two or thereabouts, and had no need to feel taller. Standard boots and dark jeans, with a white tank top that accentuated her hips and breasts. No coat or jacket; in Misty’s, very little make-up. Same seemed to apply here though he was at a fair distance. Hair a little wet as if she’d just come in from outside. He half-smiled and said “We’re neighbours. It would be weird if we didn’t bump into one another.”

  She pointed down at his date tonight. “Party?”

  “Party for one, you could say.”

  “Little heavy for one.”

  There it was. He shook his head only slightly, and stopped when he realised she’d probably be watching. It was a bubble in his stomach. It would float up through him and into his lungs and before the ride to their floor ended, it would be right there on the tip of his tongue. A little walk down the hall to his door. He’d open it and she’d walk past, slowly, not yet having said the words “Good night.”

  He’d feel the tightness of his trouser-belt. Probably wonder if he still had it. The bubble would burst and he’d ask her if she’d like to make it a party for two.

  Clarisse had pushed him and pushed him and it wasn’t his fault if he’d snapped. What did he care anyway? She only wanted him for one thing, and it was something that had nothing to do with who he was.

  ***

  “I finally cut the ties today, you know, to my old life. My ex is nothing but a waste of space, and a bully at that. I thought he was changing but I was just being naive. You ever been in that kinda situation?”

  Rylan, who had suggested Caia’s apartment, busily picked clothes and plates up from the floor, all too aware of how much Clarisse would be laughing right now if she could see him. Caia had said hers was still empty; that she needed to populate it with more things, cushions and such. “I’d be too embarrassed. Your apartment is just your typical bachelor pad though, I’m sure – nothing to hide!”

  For a brief moment he almost reconsidered. Was this woman really so eager for company she would drink with a stranger, in his own apartment?

  Apparently so.

  She looked like she could handle herself; he’d noticed the strength in her upper arm and across her shoulders. Maybe she was just that confident.

  He wasn’t going to argue.

  “Umm, sure,” he said, only catching the end of the question.

  “Look, just sit, honestly I don’t mind.” Caia brought up the apartment controls and dimmed the heavy lighting and turned it a deep purple colour. “I studied chromotherapy: purple is meant to relax you.”

  “Is that right?” he poured some synth into two tumblers. “Already sorted in that department. Want anything on the screen?”

  “I hadn’t really given it much thought. Company not enough?”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about. Bit of a rough day and I just wanted to, I dunno, forget it.” He shared the sofa, sitting at the other end.

  Mist climbed up the window wall, painting everything beyond with an opaque brush of distant colours.

  “Well we can drink to that.” She leaned over and took her drink, clinking them together before leaning back.

  “You, umm, were saying something about finally moving on.”

  “Oh, yeah, bla bla. The ex is in the past. His friends and family. All of them. Where he lived: everything.” She took a deep whiff of the synth, closed her eyes, and Rylan caught himself watching her, his own breath held. Finally, the top of her chest deflated and she took a gulp of the drink.

  He followed suit.

  She laughed. “Good job you got two bottles.”

  “Always have a back-up. That was my father’s motto.”

  “It’s good stuff. I mean, I’ve had worse.”

  He stood, grabbed the bottle, and poured them another drink. He set the bottle on the coffee table and excused himself. “Put something on, maybe. I’ve just gotta use the bathroom.”

  There, he splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth, not needing the toilet at all. He ran his fingers through his hair and was glad of the shower he’d had after work. The stubble needed some work but he wasn’t about to shave now.

  He heard music through the closed door, and it didn’t sound that bad.

  What do you think? You gonna make it happen?

  Stranger things have happened than someone loving this mug of mine before.

  Back in the apartment, he kicked his boots off by the door – next to hers – and sat back down.

  “Something for the mood,” she said.

  “I actually don’t mind it. And that’s saying something.” On the screen, a trio of aged rock stars played guitar and a mean beat on the drums, while one of them sang, all on a slow, psychedelic background. “They real?”

  “They’re real. You wanna see them live though, you’d have to go in the link. They don’t come belowground.”

  “Not quite ‘live’ but I get your point.” That’ll do it – keep correcting her all night. She’s sure to find that attractive. “Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  He took a sip. Enjoyed it this time as it spread throughout his mouth and burned its way down his throat. “For correcting you.”

  “One drink and you forget all your manners,” she shook her head, and then laughed. “That was a joke. You’re not wrong. What was it you said? ‘It’s not really your thing?’ The link, that is. You wouldn’t be the first, or the last, who didn’t like linking.”

  “I just... I’ve never got on with it. It’s an out of body experience. You lose your body, you don’t go back. It takes a lot for me to trust someone enough to link in their presence, for starters. And then, once you’re linked... well there’s the whole security issue, you know. Someone getting your address. Tracking you down. Breaking down your door. You’re defenceless.”

  “True,” Caia nodded. “I mean – that has happened. But is it really all that common?”

  “Call me paranoid.”

  “Well I hope you trust me enough, maybe, one day. You miss out on so much.”

  Rylan felt the seeds of aversion getting a watering, or perhaps it was sorrow. He flicked so much between feeling sorry for those with a link dependency, and detesting them, that it often fell somewhere between.

  That was his state of apathy. Neither joining them, or feeling anything particular for them.

  And then there were the Caias of the world: sweet, warm, friendly – more than he had any right to receive – and normal. They were the straight arrows. They had done nothing to earn his anger, or his sorrow. They probably looked at him as Caia was right now: with sympathy. Sadness that he refused to pretend.

  “I’ve never escaped the artificiality of it. Try as I might. I’d be there, on a beach or on top of some mountain, the sun fixed on the horizon in an ever-present sunrise or sunset, sky as red as blood, and I’d get to thinking how this wasn’t air I was breathing. And I’d panic. Inside the link, outside the link; my two bodies didn’t feel linked. They’d breathe uncoordinated and together, they’d result in me hyperventilating or some shit. I’ve never been able to detach myself from reality.”

  “Maybe your implant wasn’t done right.”

  “A little miswiring perhaps, but they’re designed to adapt. Probably all psychological.”

  She shuffled across the sofa and placed a hand on his shoulder. A gentle touch, in sharp contrast to Clarisse just an hour or so ago. “I wish I could help.”

  He placed his ha
nd above hers and felt her heat.

  Silence filled the room as the song ended, the next one yet to begin.

  He traced her from the bend in her leg right up to her eyes, startled to see them staring at his lips. She leaned in, and so did he, and they kissed while the new song began. They shared saliva and the embittered taste of synth. A little mint from the toothpaste. He thought, oddly, if she appreciated the effort he’d made to brush his teeth. Or perhaps she thought it presumptuous of him.

  His hands were static, like a nervous teenager, but then so were hers. They were connected by lips alone.

  Then she pulled back, half her face purple and the other half a splash of colour. She grabbed the drink from the table and drank, then squeezed his knee. “I’d better be off.”

  He tried speaking but the words caught in his throat. After a cough, he said “You’re leaving?”

  “Always leave ‘em wanting more. Isn’t that how it goes?”

  He knit his brow so tightly it sparked a small fire behind his eyes. She leaned into him and kissed his forehead, dousing it.

  “I know what you’re thinking: don’t I want more?” She stood and headed for the exit. “This is a good start, Rylan.” She began pulling on her boots. “Not too much too soon, yeah?”

  He felt a little stunned, unsure if he’d even be able to stand, but he did, his back popping. “At least let me see you out.”

  “I’ve got it,” she said, opening the door. “Hey, if you do attempt the link again, I put my details in your address book.” She blew him a kiss. “See you soon.”

  What the fuck was that about?

  The fire in his temple blossomed as though someone had blown on it. “Not tonight,” he said, arched over the breakfast counter with his head in his hands. He unscrewed the bottle and put his nose to the neck, inhaling. Then he grabbed a couple aspirins from one of the ever-present bottles sitting, all in a row, like trophies, on a high dividing shelf. Some still full, many empty.