by RD Hale
Sky City: The Rise of an Orphan
Written by R. D. Hale
© 2010, Author
Self publishing
[email protected]
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under international laws and treaties. Any unauthorised reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author.
Note to all readers:
Thank you so much for purchasing. I would be very grateful if you could leave a review on Amazon. This will help to increase the visibility of the e-book and boost the sales of a struggling father!
Intro
The Daring Raid
This relentless quest to avoid starvation has somehow led to climbing a drainpipe with an empty rucksack hanging from my shoulders. Shards of rust dig into my hands and crumble away as screws rattle like they are about to capitulate to a fumbling lightweight. Halfway up the building I lock fingers tight to heave my body and my knee rises until a support bracket provides a toe-hold.
'Bloody hell, this is higher than I thought!' I wheeze, thrusting upwards with simian DNA negating the fear of a crippling fall.
At last I struggle onto the tarmac roofing and gasp in the cool, scuzzy air as my trailing leg reaches transitory safety. Loosened moss falls into the narrow lane where three passing rapscallions stop kicking their tin can to point at the idiot standing atop this derelict housing block.
Anxious they could alert my acne-faced adversaries, I scurry past a maintenance cabin to face a taller building with a window left ajar. Sunrays penetrate the crimson haze that enshrouds Medio city so my sweaty forearm shields dazzled eyes. The sight of boxes and bags confirms the rumoured stash lies within the brownness of a cramped room.
'Perfect,' I mutter, but then I am unsteadied by a breeze and I wobble my arms as the boundless patchwork of rooftops appears to swirl like a debris-filled ocean.
Stepping back, I take a perfect run up to propel from the eave and soar until granite burns skin from my grasping palms. Toes cushion the impact against high-reaching masonry, ensuring my grip holds steady and I shimmy until my pointed foot finds the soft, rotting wood of the window sill. 'Whoa!'
Dangling one-handed, I prise the rusty-hinged window open, inch by creaking inch. A downward glance confirms these brats are still squinting, but I proceed to breach this thieves' den by swinging through an unconsidered weak spot.
Trainer soles meet floorboards with a dull thud and I approach piles of once-treasured possessions to open a bulging sack. Its contents seem to glow as though I have uncovered a pot of gold.
On top of this merchandise is a multipurpose watch so I roll my sleeve up to wrap the straps around my wrist. The crystal face glints in pallid shafts of light as I fix the watch in place and cram my rucksack with 'their' stolen goods. The sound of shuffling feet draws my gaze to the slightly open door and I knock something over with my out-swinging hand. 'Shit!'
A sleepy voice croaks, 'Who's that, up already?'
Skittish legs explode into action and with no time to attach my escape rope, I fling myself from the saturated wooden frame. The rucksack plummets towards puddles as my hands connect with the original roof and I crash against scorched clay, rapidly readjusting my faltering grip.
With biceps almost bursting, I haul my torso onto the asphalt-coated ledge and peer three storeys down to where those scamps are scrambling for scattered contraband in the depths of the alley. Damn it!
That same voice yells, 'Stop, you thieving bastard!'
'You'll need wings to catch me!' Clambering up, I thunder over unstable planks of wood from the unlikely possibility of pursuit. My momentum cannot be halted as a seemingly uncrossable gap emerges so I mutter, 'To the underworld.'
Propelled by adrenaline-charged calves with breeze assistance, I make the jump across. Ankles jar against corrugated iron and I roll over twice, scrambling to my feet to hurry on. Leaping between rooftops, I reach a two floor construction and drop onto muddy ground at the foot of Auster Hill. A semi-victorious smile warms my face but complacency could backfire so I glance back to check if the early-riser was agile enough to give chase.
As I fail to watch where I am running a clattering impact provides a shockingly cold soaking. Eyeballs stop bouncing in sockets to confirm I have knocked a water container from a ragged woman's arms.
'Sorry lady!' I turn a corner which has a lopsided street sign hanging on one screw. Wet clothing clings to goose-bumped skin as I slow down to walk home through the twisty-turny slums.
Chapter One
A Strange Experience
Back at our squat I feel disappointed with my almost fruitless effort as I recline in a brown leather armchair. A flickering lightbulb reveals a moth tangled in a cobweb as slumdogs below the rafters disturb my herbal recuperation by jumping to fast-paced music. Taking the last puff of a joint, I analyse the new toy on my wrist and say the words: 'Power on.'
The holowatch projects the time and date into the air above my left hand: 19:00 July 7th 2045. Like most devices with online access it defaults to The Stratus Report - a government-run news service. There is a list of headlines:-
1. Military to Recruit Genetically-Modified Gorillas?
2. Artificial Brain in Development. Scientists Believe Mind Transfer Possible
3. World's Longest Death Reversal - Forty Six Hours
'Headline number three,' I say and the holowatch brings up a ream of text related to the headline:
A recently executed prisoner had his death reversed after forty six hours. The prisoner - a Level Two non-believer executed for treason, had nanites injected into him forty hours after his death, which incidentally was the previous record. Six hours later, the nanites had fully repaired the cell damage and his heart was restarted. After a further forty eight hours of testing which confirmed he was in perfect health, he was promptly re-executed and incinerated.
'Back a screen,' I say and I am given further headlines intended to educate the faithful half of society, the hardworking freedom lovers, the go-getters, the war heroes and of course, the job creators with the reports of our fair and balanced media.
4. War Criminal to be Executed Tomorrow - Free Admission
5. Level Three Citizen saved by ang....
'I can't read this drivel,' I mutter to myself. 'Power off.'
Indifferent to the convulsing ravers in proximity, I drag my backside from the tattered recliner to grab a filtration flask from the bench. I screw the filter in place, fill the flask with orange water from our drinking fountain and tip collected silt down the drain. Several gulps of metallic-tasting liquid satiate my feather-mouth slightly better than our beer bottles would and I belch in satisfaction.
Amongst flickering shadows a faceful of ghostly foundation chokes the sapphire irises of Sylvie who is fiff-faffing hair whilst clutching a hand-mirror. She perfects her last, stubborn strand, flicks the lid shut and approaches Killow who has targeted a patch of bare bricks with his spray can. The street artist applies finishing touches to his mural of a skeleton wearing a baseball cap as I bypass his possible inspiration, Oscar, whose wasted body is hovering aimlessly. Continuing to the drying paint I catch Sylvie mid-sentence:
'...as if he thought he could break through a forcefield by running at it really fast! Dunno how many times he's been told, bottom levellers can't access restricted areas-'
'You talking about Scoop? He's always parading around the outer hub like he has a Citicard. You just need to take one whiff of the lad to tell he's riff-raff! The dozy
git's gonna get arrested one of these days and he wouldn't last two minutes in a workcamp,' I interrupt.
'We're talking about Scoop alright. Who else would be that dumb? Apparently, a hover droid came swooping through the crowd but he escaped by jumping into an RDS!' Sylvie catches a chuckle in her hand, before continuing: 'Come on, let's sit down over there.'
Sylvie leads us around legless louts on our makeshift dancefloor with arms pointed outwards as though she does not want anyone else to follow on, but Oscar decides to join us regardless and we slouch on bashed-up couches stained by an accumulation of drink spillages.
'So it looks like Arturo managed to escape Auster Hill without getting beaten to mush!' Sylvie turns in my direction as a grin appears between bloated cheeks. 'Did you really manage to break into their den all by yourself? I mean you've done some crazy things in the past but I have to admit that's pretty impressive if you did it. So did you?'
'Got caught in the act, dropped my sack jumping out a window. Anyone else would've fell and broke their neck, but not me! I was more worried about the stuff I had. There was a Natari 2200 in there - one of them space battle simulators - that I was definitely gonna keep, but I reckon I could've made about three hundred quid selling the rest at Bailey's.'
'You clumsy git, with that kind of money you could've bought enough drink and drugs to last for ages! I can't keep drinking that nasty homebrew every night, it makes me sick. And fat,' Sylvie moans.
'D-don't be silly. It's only your face that's fat, Sylvie! F-food is what we really need to worry about. All I've eaten today is a p-p-packet of pork snatchings and a bread crust. No wonder I'm wasting away.' Oscar frowns and scabby spots make him look every bit as pitiful as his words imply. 'When are we gonna sort ourselves out and make some real money?'
'Good question, Oscar, we're living like animals and we need to sort it out asap. We should box our shite up and sell it to anyone daft enough to pay us! When I get enough credits I'm gonna buy some dumb-bells and GEDs. I wanna have arms like a gorilla and Bailey reckons they'll make me grow six feet tall. No-one'll mess with me then,' Killow replies.
'Aye, those puny arms could do with some help, you look like an emaciated sloth! Anyway, if we get some credits we'll have to hide them from Sylvie. Ya know what she's like with money,' I remark.
'What's that supposed to mean? I'm the sensible one and I'm gonna sort this place right out. I want one of them 3D mirrors and I'm totally gonna redecorate. We can take the posters down and cover the graffiti with that paint that comes to life. Ya know? Like a movie or something,' Sylvie blurts without taking a breath.
'Animapaint,' I clarify.
'That's the one! And we can get a Sound thingy-ma-jig System to turn the wall into a speaker. And that flooring that doesn’t stain and can heal itself if you cut it or chip it or anything. We can get them plants, you know the ones that dance? And we can get a holoscreen to replace that crappy old thing.'
Sylvie points to our pitiful non-holographic compuscreen - a device which connects to the worldwide web. It was salvaged from a scrapyard and recycled by a local merchant. The touchscreen barely functions so we hooked up an even more primitive keyboard and mouse and of course, videogame controllers.
'Aminanapaints... Yeah, we could have mutants... or aliens... or robots... or di-dinosaurs!' Oscar muses.
'That’s all well and good but it'll cost a few grand to get everything you guys want and realistically where will we get that many credits? We need to do things one step at a time. First off, we need to lay down some ground rules. I think we should tear down the posters and have no more graffiti in the main room or upstairs passageways... Mr Killow. Animapaint is a good idea, but maybe a jungle theme. Sabre-tooths and titanaboas - that would be cool.
We need a fridge and a boiler. And I think we should make an effort to keep the place clean because I'm sick of living like an animal. I’m sixteen, you lot are kids but I’m a man now. I wanna live like one. I reckon we could get the place sorted for under a grand. We could get a perpetuator to supply power, some new chairs. This place doesn’t have to be a dump,' I insist.
Oscar, after stammering for a minute to get a word in edgeways, says: 'Y-You're living in dr-dreamland if you think we can keep this place tidy for two seconds! Whenever we get something new, somebody manages to wr-wreck it - normally Scoop! But we should still get a what's-it-called? I'm sick of cold baths.'
'Tell me about it. I have to freeze my balls off once a bloody week! We definitely need hot water. It's time to earn some real money people.' Killow lurches up from his slump as our prudent financial-planning comes to an end.
A wave of lethargy sweeps through my poisoned veins and I drift away, making a mental note to stick to our often ignored schedule to cut the power for a few hours tomorrow. Our battery will not last at the current rate of consumption and they are a pain to replace. The only problem is the party never stops.
A deep breath initiates an awareness of the ammonia-tinged odour which usually goes unnoticed. Lying to the side, I focus on the shapehifting images of the screensaver as the compuscreen receives a pirate radio broadcast. Bleeping, electronic music drifts from speakers to ear canals, further deepening my trance with a world-weary voice singing:
'Lost and alone, but I still keep proceeding on, with no sense of time, I don't even know where I'm going...'
My buttocks plaster their way into the seat padding and the weight of my eyelids increases as my liver-abusing friends rejoin the company I have disregarded: silhouettes shifting in response to the pounding speakers which my ears struggle to filter out. My sleepy gaze settles on the cluttered table.
'I bet the chillum's hidden under all of that.' I rummage through empty tins, a used can of air freshener, a never-used calculator, a few drawings of demon heads and a book entitled: Do you have to Read Up on Leprechology before Disbelieving in Leprechauns?
Sweeping everything off the table, I give up my search to laze across the arm of the chair with my melon-head dangling into free space. An orange firefly zigzags in my direction and on closer inspection it turns out to be carried by the shadowy figure of Lel, whose alien-esque eyes catch the light.
'Life's short, Arturo. Here, have the rest of this spliff. And please try to smile.'
'Thanks,' I reply as I grab the thoughtful gift between my fingers with my head still upside down. Careful not to burn myself, I twist like a contortionist and place the half-smoked joint between my lips, inhaling ectoplasm until I can physically feel every vibration and impulse in the room.
Beyond the compuscreen some cretin on unsteady legs grabs the microphone to spit a rhyme with predictably crude references to drugs and violence. As the music volume lulls I spot my forever wearisome sister chatting to someone beside a filing cabinet about the threat posed by outsiders who sporadically stare into our barred windows. Nearby Bex spins in disgust as a hopelessly optimistic hand brushes her arse and I squint as this rabble simultaneously distort like their bodies are liquefying amongst swirling musical notes.
The synaesthesia slows my brain to a near standstill and I cannot tell the difference between the strangers and the 'spirits' conjured by intoxication. Pouting and sneering faces form a sea of strange hairstyles, facial piercings and sloppily drawn body art.
Out of the half-lit crowd, a strangely familiar face emerges with a ring of flowers entwined into her long, blonde hair and this uninvited guest could be inhabiting any one of the multiple dimensions I am drifting between. Whether human, phantom or drug-induced hallucination, she approaches to fix my gaze angrily like she feels some grave insult has been committed. I remain immobile as her colourless face pauses close to mine for an uncomfortably long time and her whispering lips tremble.
'Number seventeen... Remember... When danger calls find her, then we'll find you.'
Her ethereal voice gives me a chill and the white robed foreseer walks away without anyone seeming to notice her distinctive presence passing through their personal space. Mid-crowd, she
vanishes into thin air without causing a single raised eyebrow.
'How random... These drugs, man... Whoa.'
The Heartbreaker and the Drug Dealer
Exhaling a bubbling purple cloud I lean over to dump the roach, scorching an ash mark onto the concrete floor/ bin. Thirty feet high walls are twisting and distorting with posters leaping out. Big, bold lettering with phrases like: Fuck the Elites! now even more indelibly imprinted onto my subconscious.
The soothing feeling dissipates as resin vapours settle into the crevices of my brain and I get the feeling they are watching, whispering... just waiting to exploit my enfeebled condition.
I never know when to stop... This is not nice... They're gonna figure me out... They'll think it was me... but it wasn't... They're gonna get me... I'm never taking drugs again... What's Mila gonna think? When is this gonna end? I feel sick...
I cower in an attempt to be rendered invisible and then, as if the chemicals were somehow able to control events in the room, she sways into my view at the exact moment that I do not want her to.
As she dances her way past these cavorting imps, they take a backwards step in response to her almost seraphic vitality. She thrusts her hand onto the wooden corner of a sofa and her swerving feet land with a thump which makes my left ventricle stop for a second. Her motionless pose transfixes me like a stoner in the headlights and my focus resharpens at her summit, where apricot hair sweeps at an angle which leads my eyes towards her button nose and morning sky complexion. A baby-like chin tucks away below an unfathomably joyful beam which causes the entire universe to fade into insignificance, but the sharp, yet delicate cheekbones framing her face are exactly equivalent to agony.
My teasing tormentor prods my insensate cheek and in my stupor I failed to notice her clamber onto my lap. This bond, which she does not value highly enough, feels unbreakable during any moment of shared physical contact but Mila forgets her intermittent soulmate the instant I am not around.