Sky City (The Rise of an Orphan)

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Sky City (The Rise of an Orphan) Page 5

by RD Hale


  Just when I become resigned to a bludgeoning, Sylvie pounces on his muscular back and sinks teeth into his trapezius. Loosening his death grip he tosses my companion through the air for the second time, providing an opportunity to break free but my escape attempt is thwarted by thorned branches.

  Both of these brutes are now casting shadows over my pygmy-sized frame and the fight or flight response is screaming FLIGHT! but I am cornered. Their ravaged victim is back to her feet so I yell: 'Just run!' but for some baffling reason she stands with clenched fists. What does she think she can do?

  A moment ago these monsters had a stray child sprawled in the undergrowth, but now she is focused and I could swear her eyes are glowing red. I scan the ground for a weapon. A rock, a stick, anything...

  Cudgel fists are clenched in readiness to splinter facial bones and broad shoulders are twitching one after another as though debating who should strike first. Tightly squeezed eyelids provide hope of being knocked painlessly into unconsciousness but my dismal surrender is disturbed by a wailing gust of wind. The shockwave reopens my eyes as our foes hurtle through the air and crash to the forest floor in the middle distance.

  'What the... Did you do that?' I ask the girl and she nods, her hair swaying.

  'How? Er, never mind. Let's get out of here, before those two get back up. You coming?' I ask.

  I take a disbelieving last glance at the attackers slumped against a trunk with heads resting together like a pair of sleeping lovers. Unsure if the waif can repeat her unfathomable feat, we flee without allowing these maniacs the opportunity to recover.

  Acidic streamlets hiss as we kick lumps of dirt into them, whilst swerving fly-covered leaves which can blister skin on contact. Our pace is maintained for a good half an hour with the girl following until we escape the jungle, emerging into peaceful mundanity - now a little closer to the city centre.

  A New Friend

  'Who are you?' I ask between gasps, bending over with forearms on knees at the roadside.

  The girl pauses for a few seconds to regain her breath and stands perfectly straight as though she is ready to address a military superior but ice-blue eyes imply a lack of world experience and her blonde hair frames a complexion which is near transparent bar a smear of blood.

  'I escaped... from the laboratory,' she mutters.

  From the immaturity of her gashed face I would guess she is about twelve years old, but her tall, slender frame suggests she is slightly older. Now she has collected herself, she displays no hint of body language or indication of pain. Her blue jumpsuit has been torn at the collar and as we fled I noticed the number seventeen printed on her back in bold yellow digits.

  'What did they do to you? Everyone knows you shouldn't pass through the jungle alone, but are you okay?' Sylvie asks.

  'I was walking along and they pointed at me, laughing. They approached and I ran through the trees, but they ran after me. I don't know why, but I can take care of myself.'

  'I'm surprised you ran, they should've run from you!' I laugh, light-headed due to a combination of endorphins and exhaustion. 'That moment we fought back was incredible. I softened them up with my right hand and then you went off like a super-volcano! Those poor steroid freaks didn't know what hit them. I have absolutely no idea how you did that, I mean… Wow!'

  The girl stands motionless. A relative speck against the wild backdrop which spreads over a humongous stone wall running in parallel, not too far from the riverside. Once a serene location of green grass and sparkling ponds, it has grown out of all proportion into a living, breathing entity devouring the surrounding area. The periphery of bushes emerging as if by instruction to demolish the small apartment blocks which sit nervously just fifty yards away.

  'I cannot believe the size of those filthbags. Couldn't get their own women so they pick on an innocent girl. People like that should be tied up and castrated by hungry pigs!' Sylvie gasps.

  'What did they want with me?' the girl asks.

  'Best not think about it, there are some bad men in this city and they tend to keep girls like you as personal slaves. Well, not girls like you. Ya know, defenceless ones,' I explain.

  We pass converted flats with pink and yellow bricks and angular roofs which have random bursts of steam emerging from pipes. Areas such as this are referred to as 'old town' and intermingle with the outer hub on the more civilised side of the jungle, but residents still deem it necessary to guard their properties with spiked fences and electronic gates. A couple of non-hovering cars are parked with two wheels on the pavement. Both must be at least twenty years old and a ginger cat darts out from below one of them, brushing fur against the girl's ankle then climbing into a garden.

  'What's your name?' I ask the girl, receiving no answer. 'Name? Do... you... have... a... name?'

  'Name?' The girl's lips sit apart but she seems distracted as tiny gasps of air are released from her mouth. 'Omicron Seventeen, that's my designation.'

  'What the… Were you created or something? You're not a robot are ya?' I blurt out, prompting Sylvie to subtly shake her head.

  'My designation is Omicron Seventeen. That's what they called me.'

  'Where are you gonna go? We can't leave you by yourself, do ya wanna come with us?' Sylvie asks and when the girl nods her head, my companion gently lifts her chin to examine the wound. It is more severe than it first appeared and may require stitches, but the girl seems unfazed.

  'You're bleeding,' Sylvie observes, tilting her head from side to side. 'It looks painful, we need to get you to a Medicentre. You'll need to keep pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding.'

  'Yeah, I need to go to the Medicentre as well. I broke my hand when I came to save you two!' I reply.

  'Hey, I helped,' Sylvie says and in fairness her effort was at least as valiant as mine. Now the adrenaline has settled my knuckles ache terribly but the battle-hardened girls compel me to maintain a brave face.

  Our surroundings become increasingly artificial as we follow a metallic road designed primarily for vehicles with magnetic-hovering capability. Most of the intersecting roads are made of crumbling tarmac, forcing hovercars onto wheels like their primitive counterparts. The older buildings initially appear pleasant, but despite their colour they are gaunt on second glance. The few modern apartment complexes are large bright blobs which look like UFOs that permanently took up residence. We pass a shopping complex with sloping roofs in circular plans - this park is called Luxulitas and has tight security so I will look for the easier target of a SuperMart on our way home.

  'Can you do that psychic thing again?' The suggestion rumbles from Sylvie's throat with unmistakable enthusiasm. 'Not on us, obviously, but we'd love to see a demonstration on a random drunk or something!'

  'Demonstration? Er, no…' Long, blonde hair envelops the girl's face as she stares groundwards. 'I-I can't do it all the time.'

  'What about parents?' Sylvie rattles off further questions before the girl can answer: 'Do ya have any? Are they superhuman too? That would be amazing!'

  'Parents? I don't know. I was raised in the lab, I never left.'

  'Oh, you really never left? I don't even know how they'd keep someone like you locked up!' Sylvie's chuckle causes the girl's eyes to widen as her chin guards her throat. 'So what was it like - in the lab?'.

  'Lonely,' the girl mutters as her line of sight follows condoms and cigarette butts in the gutter, leading up an electricity pole and along a power cable to a nest in a conker tree. No attention is paid to the imposing tri-towers of Sky City as she takes a mystifying delight in her grand tour of the mediocre.

  'The way you look at these things - you're telling the truth, aren't you? Staring around like you dunno where you are… and this is hardly the place to be lost. Have you seen any of this before?' I ask.

  'I have,' the girl's deepening voice adopts abruptness. 'Through bars.'

  'Oh, we'll protect y... I mean we'd be happy to let you protect us!' Sylvie puts fingers over lips. 'Through bars, y
ou say? Like in a cage? I dunno what to say.'

  'There must be government involvement, they'll want to keep her abilities secret. The military have cybernetically-enhanced soldiers with superhuman strength and rapidly healing flesh and next – telekinetic powers? How the hell did they manage that? You must be valuable, they'll be looking for you,' I suggest.

  'They will,' the girl says.

  As we near the futuristic centre of this thirty mile diameter, the contrast between old and new gets more pronounced. Less of the roads are crumbling and the potholes are fewer and further between, but centuries-old brickwork intersects gleaming streets, riddling cold modernity like metastasised cancer cells. Multiple levels of semi-transparent polymers stretch overhead with elevator tubules providing rapid access for those with Citicards. It is strange to see a millennia-old temple casting an intrusive shadow, stranger still given less and less people in these parts attend these things. Only the fanatics keep them going.

  'We better keep our eyes open. The STG will know what you look like. We should try to keep off the main streets, away from the cameras. If a security officer can pull himself away from his online porn long enough to spot us on a monitor, we'll be in trouble. And if we cross a hover droid, we're gonna have to run before it spots us. Those things are fast. If I say run you run, okay?' I remove arms from sleeves. 'Wear this, it'll cover the number seventeen on your back... and pull the hood up.'

  My hoody swamps the girl's skinny frame and this combined with the muddied knee of her jumpsuit means she is hardly inconspicuous, but no less well-dressed than most other bottom levellers. The girls in our group are a rare exception with their desire to put style before victuals.

  Sweat beads trickle down foreheads as we follow winding constructions of alloys and carbon fibres. The girls reel to the side of the pavement as a burly bad-ass emerges from around the bend and the manhole cover by his feet hints at the underworld from which he possibly came. Formerly an underground tube system and shopping mall which was overrun by ex-convicts - a place the security forces dare not enter.

  The man's bulging biceps and varicose veins obtrude from the ripped sleeves of a denim jacket splashed with oil and grease. Black facial hair is penetrated by a villainous grin and his metallic right hand carries a hefty kitbag, which is straining under the weight of its contents. Probably tools or spare parts for the old motorcycles that blaze up and down highways.

  The crook sniggers at the nervy girls as his shoulders dominate the pavement, but I pass without flinching. The pace of the girls quickens until we enter a pocket of town which is packed with specialist stores sharing sandstone buildings. We slip in and out of alleys and whenever we emerge onto the bustling modern walkways we are given a wide berth. I lose sense of direction as I repeatedly turn back, because the girl keeps stopping to stare at every pedestrian and window display.

  'Can we please go into one of these buildings?' The girl tugs my fingers.

  'No, we can't. You see the number two in the window? That tells you a Level Two Citicard is required to gain access. They cost ten thousand credits, that's way out of our league,' I snap.

  Passers-by bear puzzled frowns as the girl strokes an alloyed wall, looking up to the lofty walkways which allow the middle class to shop in a bubble, minimising their contact with the outside world. In the swivel of an eyeball she enters a revolving door, enticed by the pristine display of cosmetics and perfumes visible through the window. Mid-stride, the girl swings her arms to regain balance as she bounces off a force-fielded booth with the number two holographically displayed.

  'Security, the scum are attempting to enter again,' an ugly thirty something woman yells, swiping her Citicard as she scurries to 'safety'. A groan resonates from the girl's throat as she clenches fists and the barrier brightens and ripples like it is about to capitulate to her will.

  'Let's go, please. You'll get us into trouble,' Sylvie pleads and the barrier settles, returning to near-invisibility as the girl unclenches her fists. The three of us vacate these premises for the safety of the ignorant, briskly entering another alley where half-open shutters reveal cardboard boxes and the girl's dawdling continues to frustrate.

  'Whoa! What's that?' The girl strays off like a child running after a puppy, upon spotting an uni-wheeled pile of scrap metal cruising along the road. The droid is carrying a wooden crate on behalf of its human masters, forcing a pair of killjoys to once again rein the girl in.

  'That's a crappy old maintenance robot. Ignore it, we don't have time,' I reply.

  Pouting, the girl obeys my instruction and we emerge in a slightly upmarket district where I snigger at wedding dresses displayed in a window as gooey-eyed princesses peruse racks, willing to pay more than some of us will earn in a lifetime for the sake of one day.

  'Oh, they're so pretty.' Sylvie swoons at vulgar designs of green lace and silk and I clench teeth as the girl vanishes between shoppers with bulging bags. 'One day, I'll find myself a Citizen husb-'

  'She has my hoody!' I protest.

  'This way.' Sylvie points as the polyester-swamped girl scurries through one of the access tunnels which are used mostly by store workers and service droids. Giving chase, we scurry through a tight passage without touching dust-coated walls which contrast our pristine surroundings. We emerge in an alleyway, close to a parked delivery van and the girl trots through an open gate into a cafeteria kitchen.

  Sylvie and I catch up, jogging into an embarrassing scene as the girl stands gashed face to metal visage with the maintenance droid. Baffled staff members stand in pinnies, neglecting their pots and pans as they scratch their heads. Cooking oil spits and bacon rashers sizzle as the artificial slave and the human experiment socialise.

  'Nice to meet you Omicron Seventeen. I am R15-EL1-E28-G, but my human masters call me R-Fifteen for short,' the droid says.

  'Would you like to be my friend?' the girl asks.

  'R-Fifteen is the friend of all humans, Omicron Seventeen.'

  Sylvie snatches the girl's hand as she waves to her robotic friend, unaware we are on the verge of being arrested for social disorder - not that I am convinced the security forces have the capability to incapacitate her.

  'Goodbye R-Fifteen.'

  Upon arrival at a junction, I press the button of a digital guide post, saying: 'Medicentre.' Little beams of light construct a three dimensional map which highlights the nearest Medicentre with a red pulsating dot and the quickest route with a red line. Utilising this information we continue checking guide posts until we arrive in the general area but it is difficult to pick out individual buildings along the smooth alloyed terrace.

  As we search for our destination, my ever-watchful eyes identify a floating speck of danger turning a corner: an autonomous security droid which patrols affluent parts of town with glue-gun readied to apprehend strays.

  'Run,' I whisper, pulling the girl into the nearest alleyway and crouching behind a rubbish deposit system at the far end; only hesitant due to the need for medical treatment. 'If I say Now, you need to dive into this chute, okay.'

  My palms push peeping heads below the hover droid's line of sight, but I cannot resist watching the contraption cruising along as its twitching camera lens searches for any sign of what San Teria considers a crime.

  'Wha-' Sylvie covers the girl's mouth as I place a finger over my lips. My stomach twists as the hover droid makes a sudden turn, forcing evasive action because we cannot risk discovering whether our new bodyguard could prevail in a face off.

  'Get in the RDS, now!' I command and we drag the murmuring girl but she pulls skinny wrists free of our grasp. Sylvie and I flap arms to plead in silence and every second wasted reduces our chance of escape but we cannot just abandon the escapee who saved our necks.

  A robotic voice says, 'Identify yourselves,' and any movement may not be quick enough to prevent us being ensnared by a web of glue as I hope for an unlikely computation delay.

  Sylvie and I shove a leg into the escape chute but our new frie
nd steps back with clenched fists and again her eyeballs glow red as she opts for plan B. A blast of hot air hurtles my flailing body beyond the other side of the rubbish deposit system and I crash onto my coccyx with ears ringing. The disorientation is comparable to being punched by a fully-modded cage fighter, but I feel no pain as solid walls tilt and bend and the ground spins like I am being flung around by a waltzer.

  When the scene settles I notice the hoverbot has crash-landed, engulfed by its own rapidly setting glue web. One-handed and dizzied, I crawl over to a discarded newspaper which I pick up, toddling across to Sylvie to hand her a couple of pages.

  'Eurgh, I'm not touching that!' Sylvie protests.

  'We need it to cover our hands so we can pick up that thing and dump it in the RDS. It's either that or get your hands covered in glue. Come on, if anyone finds the droid it contains our recording.'

  Newspaper-covered hands grab the lightweight and rudimentary piece of engineering as we sidestep to the chute. Inhaling through my nose, I puff my chest and we dump the neutralised threat inside the rubbish deposit system with sensationalist headlines decorating its shell. As the wreckage is whisked away, I nod my head in acknowledgement of this minor victory over a weapon of the ever-present, yet surreptitious forces.

  'That... was... awesome...' Sylvie murmurs.

  The Medicentre

  At the next junction a lawn lies across a taxi-laden road with artificial trees lining the periphery, creating a vague illusion of pleasantness. Business signs stretch along an extensive row where diffused sunrays glisten in blues and silvers, no doubt concealing hidden cameras among blurring walls. 'Aha,' I mutter, identifying a small green Medicentre sign.

  Scurrying through traffic, our feet violate the flawless lawn and we circumnavigate a confused drunk slumped against a metallic wall. I hold my breath to avoid inhaling his faecal stench as he tries to speak but struggles to find the words.

 

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