by RD Hale
'Okay, what's the plan?' Mila swivels on my lap. 'You keep telling me that you have a plan to get us out of here, but you never say what it is.'
Mila's arm hangs loosely around my neck, not so much as a sign of affection, but rather ownership and her teasing glare demands an answer that my sluggish brain has yet to formulate so I take a breath to summon the strength to improvise.
'Well, I haven't worked out the exact details but I've been thinking we could set up a store of sorts, not that we'll be paying taxes or anything. We could scavenge stuff to fix up and sell. Me and Killow are good at that kind of thing but the others will have to stop being so lazy. This place would make the perfect location with all the people that come and go. It's just unfortunate they're mostly skint,' I belatedly reply.
'Actually, I like the sound of that. If others can do it, there's no reason we can't, but we'd probably be trading stuff more than selling. We'd have to be careful too, because we'd become a target for thieves… like us.
The lifestyle I deserve is just so damn expensive, but if we do things properly... Anyway, it's down to us to take charge. When we make some money we can get out of here, visit Sky City and all those other places that are off-limits,' Mila dreamily suggests.
'Sky City. Imagine a place where walls and ceilings can change shape and colour. That's exactly what this place is like for me right now!' A barely audible laugh ends my sentence.
'Yeah, but this place is real. And there's androids and we can go shopping and to nightclubs where sports stars and celebrities hang out. And the theme park with those variable gravity rides...'
Our fervent musings disband my paranoia and the dread I was experiencing only moments ago, which can only be the result of excessive recreational indulgence, now seems peculiar and embarrassing.
'Ayyeee, we can take the tram to wherever. The zoo has sabre-tooth tigers, how cool is that? I wanna go to the hover races as well. The MLCs go at nearly four hundred miles an hour. Pilots are killed all the time, it's amazing.' I sigh.
'Sounds good, but have you thought about how long it would take us to buy Level Two Citicards? They're ten thousand credits each and we can't just forget about them lot. It would take us years…' Mila laments and our hearts are concurrently sunk by the thought of prolonged desolation.
'Hellooo Arturooo!' a voice bellows and I jolt in my recliner, turning around to see an old friend strutting through the yellow-tinged door as if he owns this overgrown hovel.
It is Smig, a prime example of a barely evolved hominid. On one hand he can be a likable enough fellow, but he who would pick a fight with his shadow if he did not appreciate how it was looking at him.
The hairy lump tugs the collar of the trenchcoat concealing his wares and tramples to the armchair where Mila's backside is cutting off the circulation in my legs. His friendly grin is betrayed by a thick, white scar which blazes from his dimpled chin, straight through his lips to the point where his upturned nose joins his podgy face.
'Hello son. I've got these pills, they're amazing. They make you stronger and enhance your senses, they'll be right up your street. Nobody can mess with ya when yer on these,' Smig declares.
'EVS pills? What do you think I am, a cage fighter?' I reply.
'They're not dodgy, are they? The last time we got some gear from you, Smig, it wasn't the best,' Mila interrupts.
'What ya talking about? My stuff is grade A. I provide a service to the community. One hundred and fifty satisfied customers. That's why I'm making money and Arturo isn't,' Smig insists.
'You fail to mention they can make your brain swell till it's ready to burst out of your skull. Last time I took this stuff I did not stop itching for a week. That's why I stick to good ol' healthy weed now,' I reply.
'The risks of these drugs are totally exaggerated, they hardly kill anyone.' Smig rummages through the inner pockets of his trench coat.
Body parts twitch and eyeballs bulge towards Smig as though they are being pulled from sockets by narcotic magnetism. 'Let me try one,' they squawk, but the master salesman informs them he has 'something even better' and he pitches his favourite new drug:
'It makes ya skin change colour and ya feel like ya whole body is made out of jelly, but in a good way. The whole world twists and turns and everything sparkles. Ya hear people's voices in a higher frequency. It's the maddest thing I've ever taken.'
Smig raises a diamond-shaped pill to the light with a deranged half-smile and the gang lean back at once, making silent O's in nervous excitement like cavemen around a bonfire. Then they finger-peck the carefully wrapped plastic packages, asking if they can pay another day.
As Smig stands in the middle of this mini-crowd with arms, hands and fingers at full stretch, with them hanging on his every word, I think if there was a college for this sort of thing, that despite lacking a single shred of academic prowess he would undoubtedly be top of the class.
The hustler spins around with an almost messiah-like confidence in his stance and his brow slurps upwards as if to ask: 'Are you sure you don't want any?' But I pre-empt him, saying, 'Not interested, thanks. I've been smoking so much Devil's Knot today that I ended up having a supernatural visitor! And I don't wanna feel like shit tomorrow.'
'So you'd rather feel like shit now? Who you kidding? You've got nowt special planned and it's not like a hangover's gonna stop you shop-lifting. Or were ya just gonna pretend to burgle another criminal's den?' Mila says.
'Hey, I thought you were on my side!' I jerk the knee Mila is placing most of her one hundred pounds on, grunting. 'And I almost lost my life trying to earn money to feed you guys. Show some respect or next time I'll keep my credits to myself!'
'Arturo, will you agree to stop being boring if we say we believe you? Let's face it, there's nothing else to do in this place. Nothing. Even fun things are boring unless you're high! Take dancing for instance. Have you ever tried dancing when you're on a straight head?' Sylvie yaps.
'Arturo doesn't even dance when he's high, he just sits and pouts!' Mila remarks.
'Good point. You wouldn't know, but everyone else does.' Beetroot rashes become visible through Sylvie's makeup as she grins. 'Dance when you're high and it's like you're flying through the stars! Try dancing when you're not high and you feel like a total idiot. It's like your feet can't remember how to do it!'
'She's right. When the drugs wear off, we descend into hell. These little pills are our tickets to paradise,' Smig suggests.
'So what you're basically saying is: We can't function without them.' I hiss, not bothering to reopen my eyes midway through blinking.
'Arturo's alwayysss ssthoo serious,' someone pipes up in a barely coherent slur.
Yawning, I turn slightly to see the approaching Scoop - a beer-bellied cretin with permanently hunched shoulders, whose tongue tangles with his protruding teeth. He is incapable of thinking before he speaks and his brain has an eye-squinting delay before computing the most trivial pieces of information. In roughly five seconds you can expect him to realise he expects a response, but in the meantime his complex thought process is rudely interrupted.
'I've gotta proposition for ya, Arturo,' Smig bellows and I puff cheeks at the coming idiocy. 'Ya know me cousin Turbo who's in the army? We're stealing some guns the day after tomorrow. If ya wanna help we can make a killing, mate.'
'I hope you don't mean that literally. No offence, but when you're involved things tend to go wrong. Remember the time we tried to hijack a money van by taking out the security droid with a dodgy EMP grenade? The glue that splatted my arm ruined my best coat!' I reply.
'That was a simple oversight! An EMP grenade and an explosive grenade look pretty much the same and how was I supposed to know those droids were silicene-plated? We're not about to make any silly mistakes this time, we have it all planned. Just here me out,' Smig insists.
'Okay, sit down, chill out and we'll talk later.'
Mila strums her fingers on my head as the ever-ambitious crook disregards my instructio
n and barges through the drunken mob, leering at every unattainable girl he passes. Smig's overflowing nuts compel him to takes clumsy, but powerful swings at the sandbag slumped in the corner, invoking memories of our boxing days and I sneer at his attempted display of physical supremacy.
At this point Scoop's eyes light up like a naive puppy believing he is ready to pick a fight with a Nyberun mastiff and his split-personality snaps from its default state of cowardice as he strides over to our visitor. 'Let's spar,' he pants, slapping Smig's battle-hardened skull as he darts back and forth, causing bystanders to backstep out the way.
Smig is never one to shirk a challenge so he hangs his trench coat over a plastic chair and eyeballs the over-confident pretender. Then he rugby tackles Scoop to the ground where they roll around, 'play-fighting' as facial features contort and t-shirt fabrics tear. The lads grunt in between bursts of forced laughter and ribcages creak and crack as they are slammed onto vomit-stained concrete.
'Howay boys, this'll get out of hand. Calm yourselves down, there's ladies in the room.' I curl my lips, clenching and unclenching my fist.
As if to deliberately undermine my disapproval the girls laugh, which only encourages these friendship-jeopardising rivals. After all they are not doing this for the health benefits. Encircled by spectators, they struggle with growing intensity and bone fractures seem inevitable as the drug dealer attains dominance. Smig's veins bulge as he restrains the unruly weakling in a headlock, giving the appearance of a predator ready to devour his prey, before opting to show mercy.
'Aw, don't stop now. Chin him, Scoop!' Mila shrieks as the loser is released from a chokehold and rubs his neck, looking over his shoulder to check whether their 'game' is finished.
Smig jumps to heavy feet, his attention diverted by Mila who climbs from my lap and swaggers into the scene of this dick-sizing contest. The victor now stands face to face with the target of his attention-seeking as Scoop skulks away to the couches in acknowledgement of his idiocy.
'Wow Mila, you've grown!' Smig remarks as though he believes this to be some sort of great compliment.
'Ya like my new outfit?' Mila smirks in my direction as the drug dealer nods with tongue sticking out from scarred lips. If I could summon the energy to trawl off to my bedroom I would gladly escape this charade but these legs have lost their walking ability.
'Looks designer. Where'd you get it from?' Smig tilts his head, scrunching one eye as though this will enhance his powers of observation.
'Straight off the back of a lorry and into my wardrobe. Those delivery drivers really shouldn't leave their doors open. We were gone before anybody realised, suckers!' Mila flicks her hair in a deliberate manner.
Tight-fitting jeans and a blue vest top Mila is wearing are nothing special and although her perfectly proportioned shape can pull off any outfit, she suddenly looks as ordinary as she could ever look in my eyes. But I opt to withhold the opinion which would wipe the self-satisfaction from her face, because such criticism would probably result in mine being slapped.
'Keep away from her, man,' I protest in the naive hope Smig will comply in a tactful manner without Mila noticing I said anything.
'Sorry mate, is she with you now?' Smig drops the cockiness from his tone.
'No, he isn't!' Mila fumes and her sole intention is to belittle me, but she creates the impression she is interested in this oddly proportioned numskull when I know that scenario is implausible. She never shows interest in boys, which only confirms she is waiting for the day she is ready for the real deal. Shrugging, I recuperate enough strength to walk away from this patience test but Smig bounds over to cause further annoyance.
'Hey mate, I wouldn't be stepping on ya toes, would I? If I would just say so... Well, would I?' Smig asks.
'No, of course not,' I conceal animosity in my throat. 'Why don't you sit down and play cards with the lads?'
Smig puts his trench coat on again to negate the threat of any would-be pickpockets. Spindly chair legs wobble as the lads take our plastic orange seats, posturing like knights at the circular chipboard table; deepening our voices and overstating our body language whilst remaining laid back in a pretence of relaxation. Killow shuffles the pack of cards and we disregard Oscar who is jabbering away with eyes sticking and twisting as he swats his hand in the air.
'It's trying to st-sting me,' Oscar says - there is nothing there.
Nodding, I grimace as we leave madboy out the deal and Smig slurs away, ensuring to look across to the girls who are mostly seated on the couches:
'Heerrre, Arrrturo's the hardest lad I've ever met. Last year we were sitting on a bench opposite The Highwayman, drinking cider and Arturo said: How fat is she? I was pissing myself laughing. He was talking about some lass and her boyfriend heard. He was huge, but Arturo ducked as the bloke came swinging and he hooked him right on the chin. The bloke went skidding across the ground, knocked out cold. It seemed to happen in slow motion,' Smig reminisces.
'I can't remember much about what happened to be honest and he's probably exaggerating but then again, who am I to argue?!' I laugh.
'Sounds like you were being a bully to me, Arturo. Who do you think you are - calling a girl fat like that?' Mila yells over from the couches.
'I didn't realise she could hear me, I was drunk! Anyway, it was self-defence. Best change the subject. So what's the craic with Turbo?' I ask, knowing if Smig's military-trained cousin is involved this proposition is going to be for real. My eyes dwell upon the gridded window dividing the light of the twin moons as I try to anticipate the conversation flow because Smig's blather could lead a street rat into the jaws of the Samarian serpent.
'Well, he's got the key to an army weapons cache.' Smig grins unflinchingly.
'Ya think we're just gonna go straight in there and take them without any complications?' I ask.
'Well aye. We'll be straight in, straight out, sell the merchandise and party! It's time to make some money, Arturo. A man has a responsibility to provide for his family and I don't see any job offers coming your way. This is a real opportunity, do a good job and other opportunities will follow,' Smig insists.
'Sounds risky to me,' I reply.
'You've got to understand, the biggest risks carry the biggest rewards and slumdogs like us need to take any escape route we can. Do you wanna do a man's work or do you wanna be a small timer forever? Maybe you wanna work on the shipyards for a few credits a week. They're always looking for little apprentices to exploit.'
'But there's risk and there's stupidity. I can just see us driving to the base and when any guard, who isn't completely blind, notices juveniles unwilling to make eye contact, he point blank refuses to drop the barrier. Or worse, arrests us and takes us in for questioning. And if that happens we're not coming home.'
As I await Smig's reply, I notice our poker game has been suspended. Whether consciously or not, the other players have placed their hands on the wood-stained surface to focus on our emerging difference of opinion.
'Nah, ya don't understand. It's easy, man. He's in there all the time so no-one will suspect a thing. He's gonna drive us in there with his pass and we're gonna fill the jeep and drive out. Nowt can go wrong. Their security's lax cause they don't think anyone would have the bottle to take them on.'
Slouching in his chair, Smig whets his gaze with his spider-leg-fringed forehead aimed squarely at his verbal sparring partner. He has the infuriating knack of reducing the art of conversation down to its most basic form and persuading you, often with the laziest choice of words. He does not show a glimmer of doubt.
'That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. There is no way a bunch of teens are gonna drive out of there with a shitload of guns. You live in a fantasy world where you have super powers, everyone else is brain dead and every possible thing that can go in your favour, will. You do realise we're talking real soldiers and real guns? You know those things that shoot bullets? It tends to hurt when they hit you and contrary to popular belief, I am not bul
let proof. And neither are you! Sheez, you make me sound like the sensible one.'
My fingertips rest on a pair of kings as I stare at the lighter burn above my thumb; mystified as to how I am failing to express the shortcomings in a manner which will make Smig stop and think, despite being the only intelligent contributor in this exchange.
'We'll get caught, there'll be cameras and shit. The guns probably have tracking chips. I don't want seeker droids coming after us. If we mess with the military they won't be sending us to a labour camp. Have you ever heard of summary execution?'
'Nah man, he said ya won't believe how easy it is. Think about it. Hundreds of soldiers come and gan every day. The guard sees a pass and he'll wave us through without batting an eyelid. If anybody sees us at the weapons cache, it just looks like we're doing our job. They can't afford to track every gun and they won't realise until afterwards. We'll be long gone by then.'
'Aye and Turbo will be arrested and court-martialled.'
Smig takes a sip from his whiskey glass then grabs a chair leg to reposition his backside. There is a drop of tone in his voice as he responds with eyes wide open, losing that cheesy half-moon grin: 'Nah, he's leaving the army. He's seen too many of his mates killed. He's just gonna disappear, it's not hard in this city. He can make more money doing other things.'
'So he wants to take a bunch of kids along with him?' I ask in a final cynical response.
'Nah, just me and you because he knows we've got the balls to do it. Trust me.' Smig crosses his arms and sits back to signify he has nothing more to add, as if the thinly veiled compliment will win me over.
'Alright, ya know I'm gonna tag along if for no other reason than to keep an eye on you.'
I scratch my head, worn down by Smig's unwavering attitude as images of possible success flash before my eyes. Our empire-forging army is significantly oversized with a base near every major city and an uncountable number of weapons and ammunition. With that kind of surplus maybe their security is lax - I am going to have to hear Turbo out.