Sky City (The Rise of an Orphan)

by RD Hale

  'The closer we get, the more amazing it seems,' Mila mutters as her eyes look spacewards. 'I can hardly imagine how nerve-wracking it'd be to take a lift all the way up there!'

  'The message was wrong, we are two seconds early!' I say as the tram stops and for a moment so does my pulse because we are entering the heartland of modern civilisation, the capital of this totalitarian empire. And despite the so often pored over online footage I do not quite know what to expect.

  Our faces swivel as we tread timidly from Ekko station with our arms spread as though we are trying to maintain balance on an alien planet of eye-melting beauty. High walls of semi-transparent polymers are covered in flashing signs and my gaze is drawn to brilliant electronic displays - an animated cat on rollerskates, a cartoon man eating a cheeseburger, a girl riding a unicorn over a rainbow, a nervous angel standing in a hostile crowd.

  We join the stream of organic and synthetic beings, passing a droid which looks almost human apart from ghostly white skin with blue squares on its rigid face. And I do not know where to go first, spoilt for choice in this shopping district where energised customers spend enough credits to feed a slum kid for weeks on superfluous items, but I can hardly blame them. Every window begs for attention and when someone walks up to one, a hole swirls open to let them through and seals shut in the same swirling motion, concealing them in caverns of near endless delights.

  'I am going to have so much fun here. Time to spend, spend, spend! And wait till the girls see all the stuff I'm gonna bring back... Hey, you reckon if I run out of credits they'll give me a store card?'

  'Settle down, we have mouths to feed!' I compose myself mid-laugh. 'Saying that, maxing out a store card or two won't have any ramifications as long as you have enough confidence in your literacy level to complete an application form.'

  'Erm, well… Just look at this place, it's so friggin' beautiful! There's just too much to see and do. I could stare around all day and I'd never get bored,' Mila gasps.

  'It doesn't even look real, it's like we're inside a videogame or something. Speaking of videogames, look at that,' I suggest.

  Spectating families stand before an ocean of marine creatures projected onto a film of water streaming down a wall. The words: Dolphin Adventure are formed out of liquid blobs shimmering mid-air and a child stands on a tilting platform, focusing on the display. She twists and turns like a surfer and I notice the tip of her left finger is missing, indicating she is either from a Level One or a particularly pious Level Two family.

  'I wanna check this out!' I say and we join a moderate queue for a wait spent gawping at aesthetic designs Citizens underlook. Minutes whizz until outsiders form the front of the line and as I step into position my feet are gripped by the rising platform. I fall to the side only to be nudged upright by nothingness and all sights and sounds fade into muffled blueness.

  Given the most bizarre of sensations, I am suddenly submerged amongst a pod of whistling dolphins. Turbulence reduces visibility but I make instinctive clicking noises to initiate X-ray vision. The bones of a foetus become visible in the womb of a pregnant cow and a nearby octopus turns transparent, swimming like an eight legged ghost.

  Bubbles rush against my skin as I manoeuvre with my tail and flippers through this tropical sea but the sense of joyful discovery is disrupted by surging jaws. The anatomy of my colossal attacker is intuitively recognised and my chest pounds due to the imminent danger of being consumed alive. ELASMOSAUR!

  Rows of daggers close in, but I surge from the water and those jaws snap shut in the waves beneath my cetacean body. Inhaling a quick breath via my blowhole, I dive into the depths and swim past the ghostly octopus. There is a furious thrashing as the elasmosaur seizes the cephalopod and disappears in a cloud of ink. The possibility of agonising pain arising from the monster's original pursuit makes me shudder as I leave the hunting zone behind and whistle to my scattered family.

  'Hi Zain, that was close. You seriously need to get yourself in shape.' The silhouette of a bottlenose dolphin paddles overhead. 'See if you can catch me, fatty!'

  I feel an indescribable connection to every droplet as we chase each other through currents, showing off our manoeuvring capabilities. The breeze tickles my skin as I barrel roll through waves with sunrays licking the splashes. My bottlenose cuts through the surface and I am back underwater, paddling towards a coral reef where sponges, echinoderms and starfish nestle amongst elaborate calcium carbonate structures. A shoal of tropical fish take evasive action but echolocation predicts the path of an unfortunate straggler which wriggles down my throat.

  The words: Game Over materialise and my reversion to reality is like switching between impossible dreams. The platform lowers to the floor and I struggle to control these weird leg things as I slip and stumble over glazed tiles. It takes a few seconds of re-adjustment to comprehend I am a land-dwelling human.

  'What was it like? I wanna fight the sea monster!' Mila shrieks.

  'Mind... Blowing!' I reply as Mila leaves shopping bags at my ankles and jumps onto the platform, squeaking like her jaw hinges need oiling. The scene projected onto the waterfall pans out differently to mine as cetacean Mila rescues a diver from a circling shark with a daring nose bash to the gills, resulting in applause from impressed children. When her Dolphin Adventure comes to an end, Mila seems just as unadapted to land-dwelling as I was a few minutes ago.

  'That... was... too... intense... I wanna check out Zealand Clothing now!'

  Mila waddles past the queue of riveted youngsters and we leave Dolphin Adventure behind. Floating arrows lead to a section of wall where a deep indentation forms with red and purple waves surging across the interior. A message says: Please step inside.

  As we follow the instruction a translucent layer encloses us within the cavity and we are swooshed up a level by a hidden elevator. The cavity re-opens and directional arrows lead to an orange window with the words: Zealand Clothing written in electric yellow lettering.

  Mila and I step cautiously forwards, unsure of how to proceed until two rake-like females enter a portal which twists open a few yards to our right. The entrance is indicated by an outline of flashing dots which my eyes had missed due to the many distractions. We sheepishly correct our approach in the hope nobody noticed our witlessness as we enter Zealand Clothing.

  Waves of light emitting diodes surge across the floor and indie rock music drones in the background of this exhibitionist's paradise. The female section contains an endless array of funky designs from shabby chic to futuristic. Mila touches a sequinned vest top worn by one of the dozens of mannequins which bizarrely springs to life.

  'You like this item, madam? If you would like to step towards this scanner, we'll confirm your dimensions and have the outfit ready for you within a minute or two,' the mannequin says.

  'Just a moment.' Mila leans into my ear and whispers, 'Dimensions? I don't want that thing knowing I've gained weight! Oh well.' She strolls along the row of mannequins that change poses with gusto as though they are competing to entice their customer who is selecting articles of clothing with abandon. 'I'd like to try that, that, that and that!'

  'This way please madam, just step here,' the droid instructs.

  A black device protrudes from the wall and a red laser scans Mila's sporty frame from top to bottom. Although this biometric recording could prove useful to law enforcement, it would be impossible for us to remain unseen and the rewards make it so easy to revert to blissful denial of the risk.

  'And if you could please turn in a three hundred and sixty degree motion... Interesting, according to this reading you've lost twelve pounds and shrunk an inch since your last visit five days ago! Maybe the device is malfunctioning. Oh well, if you go to changing room number three, I'll collect the items and hope they fit you!' the droid chuckles.

  'This place is incredible. How many credits did you earn on your last job? We'll have our own Level Two Citicards in no time,' Mila says.

  'Three thousand last time
and another two thousand will be five grand, I'll be half way there. We're gonna have to keep working for this guy,' I reply, keeping the true figure to myself.

  I sit at the end of a corridor lined with cerise curtains and contentedly admire the pretty girls perusing the aisles. The mannequin brings the chosen items and Mila skips into an empty cubicle, leaving me to wait in this comfy armchair, flicking through images of Sky City on my holowatch which do not do the interior justice. Hologram browsing fails to hold my attention for the brain boggling half hour it takes for Mila to finally emerge, her grin meeting my very deliberate look of exasperation.

  'I'll take all of them, thanks. Including these, I'm keeping these on,' Mila tells the mannequin as a spectacular makeover emerges. The words Rock and Star are randomly scribbled on her yellow top and her thumbs slot through sleeves. A pair of loose-fitting jeans have faded streaks and the outfit is accessorised with a pink bracelet, star pendant and a belt which is actually three belts joined together.

  'How do I look? Get this - the labels say they are stain-proof and crease-proof and if you rip them, you just have to push the edges back together and they heal up. And get this - change to colour scheme two.' Mila undergoes a chameleon-like transformation as yellow in the outfit changes to green and pink to white. She turns to the humanoid. 'How much for all of them?'

  'Three hundred and twenty credits,' the droid replies.

  'Bargain! I'll take them, thanks.'

  The mannequin rubs a finger over Ana King's Citicard and says, 'Now if you can kindly give me your hand.' Mila follows the instruction and the droid gently presses her trembling fingertips against its metallic palm. 'Fingerprint check complete, transaction authorised. Thank you, Miss King. Have a nice day and please come again.'

  'I wanna get my hair done,' Mila announces like her personal appearance is the sole reason for our visit. 'Where can I go?

  'Oh, we can do that for you here, madam. Please come this way and I can show you.'

  We follow the droid to a salon with a bunch of devices which look like upside down egg cups covering the heads of seated customers. One of them lifts up, revealing a girl with pouting red lips, a black dress hugging a figure to kill for and an over-shoulder pony tail tied into bushy, bunched up segments. The girl's entirely justifiable smugness only exacerbates her sex appeal and Mila's jealous glare confirms she knows exactly what I am thinking as she sits on a stool. Swivelling eyes scan thin air as she remains silent for longer than she has all day.

  'Erm... Erm… That one, number thirty eight.'

  'If you can please sit upright,' the droid instructs.

  Mila giggles as her head is swallowed by the styling apparatus which makes a quiet whirring sound. The limp-wristed droid stands motionless like it has been temporarily deactivated until the machine rises after a minute or so, revealing a hairstyle which is volumous on top, wispy at the bottom and somehow longer with streaks of purple. Mila tilts her head with an unashamedly conceited smile as I nod in approval.

  'Is this style suitable for you?' the droid asks.

  'Whoa! I can see myself floating, how cool... Er yeah, how much?' Mila asks.

  'That'll be forty credits. No need to see your Citicard again. I'll debit your account.'

  'Do you sell makeup?' Mila asks and I bite my lips to prevent patience from escaping.

  'Certainly, if you would like to come this way.'

  Mila and I are led to a male-free zone and my skin itches due to the noxious chemicals in a scented room composed of spotless white surfaces and images of pouting airheads. An unnecessarily orange droid further encourages Mila's mini-rampage during a tedious fifteen minutes of sample testing. Another one hundred and odd credits are spent on cosmetics which are naturally high on the priority list of a starving girl.

  'You do realise you've spent nearly five hundred credits in less than an hour?'

  'Thank you for counting, Zain.' Mila smiles but her gaze shows mutual contempt. 'It's a good job I'm not poor today. We can go now.'

  'Hold on a sec, I wanna buy some clothes!' I march to the male section as a matter of principle and my first choice outfit is purchased in a grand total of five minutes. We venture back into the wonderland and I swing a spangly carrier bag, containing reasonably priced clothing which sort of fits and smells clean.

  The Pet Shop

  Reflections ripple across glass polygons as we rejoin shoppers on the main walkway where Level One snobbery clashes with Level Two riff raff who wear clothing emblazoned with sexual or drug references, highlighting the fact they are closer to the bottom level than the top. Mila shuffles the bags she is struggling to carry, but my inflamed hand means I am reluctant to offer assistance. We pass a middle-aged couple in plain blue suits, bearing the golden star insignia of Samarianism. They walk in a robotic Level One manner and their little fingers have been snipped but their wrinkles betray their true class.

  'Miserable looking gits!' Mila mumbles as though she cannot decide whether she wants them to hear. 'You're wealthy, try smiling.'

  'That's aspiration for ya, makes people conceited. Niceness doesn't get ya to Level One, depends on whether ya happy with what ya've got really.'

  The obnoxious laughter of teenagers sitting next to a wishing well attracts looks of disapproval from nearby adults, which only makes them laugh louder. A girl grabs an unsuspecting boy's arm and she attempts to duck him into the penny-filled water. A couple of irritated twenty somethings jump out the way as the pair tumble in a playful embrace, splashing head first into the wishing well.

  When the teens haul drenched upper-bodies from water, their eyes beam and styling products drip from ruined hair. I look with envy at these tear-aways expressing rebellious streaks without risk, the way every youngster should be able to. In my mind I become one of them and wish for the sense of liberation to last as forgivable pretentiousness circulates amongst the never-ending flow of carefree and uptight bodies.

  'Let's go in there.'

  Mila points to a wall bearing animal heads which appear to have been sculpted from clay and she leads into a pet shop so well-stocked it could be considered a miniature zoo. Nearly every genus of the animal kingdom is represented, irrespective of whether it would make a suitable pet and I pass a pile of dog beds as tanks in the creepy crawly section fail to repel my attention.

  'Disgusting,' Mila shrieks as I press my nose against consecutive panes of glass to admire mandibles of tarantulas, barbs of scorpions and claws of preying mantises, imagining the damage human-sized versions could inflict. On close inspection hideousness dissipates because there is an alien beauty to the polychromatic lenses of perfectly-evolved predators; monsters of a small scale world so anatomically different it is hard to believe we share a common ancestry.

  'Why would anyone keep these things as pets?' Mila twists her nose and shakes her arms. 'Look what I keep in tanks – the most disgusting things in the universe, seriously.'

  'Mini killer freaks - perfect for keeping annoying women at arm's length. I'll take ten!' I remark.

  'Oh, which one w-'

  'Just kidding,' I interrupt and the pushy sales droid does an about turn, leaving me to browse the monster festival in peace. A large tank contains rocks and branches and a motionless two-headed snake lies below an ultraviolet light. Analysing yellow skin patterns, I tap glass with my fingernail but neither head is responsive. Fork tongues flick simultaneously and I wonder how this mutant is even alive, let alone how it, or rather they co-ordinate movement.

  'I bet they have a few arguments at dinner time!' I joke as Mila stands at a safe distance. 'Scared beasties might escape and come after you?'

  One tank in the aquatic section stands out from the assortment of tropical fish and turtles by exhibiting a mythical river dweller in a far from natural habitat. The piranha bears cattle stripping teeth as it prowls amongst waterplants with self-assurance, probably imagining what good meals humans would make.

  'I wanna see it feed!' I say and no sooner than the words have
left my mouth, a droid with unpainted metal skin hovers over, despite having legs.

  'No problem, Mr Gilfoid. If you would like to select one of the rodents. You'll have to pay for it of course.'

  I follow to a cage and a sudden wickedness creeps over me as I select a fat white mouse, which the droid snatches quick as a cobra. Any crumbs of guilt are over-ridden by bloodlust as the prey is dropped into the water where it paddles furiously. The piranha approaches and takes a nibble of its tail but the mouse darts to the side, proving surprisingly agile in water. This process repeats for several minutes then just when I think this is a waste of credits, the mouse is ravaged by jaws and released with blood streaming from injuries. The piranha swoops back to swallow its meal whole and the little ball of fluff which was happily snuggled in a cage is now stomach contents.

  'Deadly!'

  Zain Gilfoid's Citicard is debited two credits for the grim privilege as I gaze at a shoal of tropical fish glistening like an iridescent kaleidoscope. Nearby, Mila squeaks with glee as she clings to a cage where hyperactive chipmunks dart around and rattle bars like they have overdosed on caffeine. I pass a tortoise with wheels for legs and we are simultaneously drawn to parakeets chatting in an aviary equipped with branches, nets and coloured rings. 'Hello,' they squawk.

  'These guys are more articulate than Scoop and Oscar!' I remark.

  A strange ripple floats through branches in the next enclosure and floating auburn eyes approach glass, vanishing with each blink. Shades of yellow and grey are added to a shimmering outline, revealing a fluffy critter with ears like radar dishes. Mila places hand on sternum and sighs longingly as the apparition crawls ever-so-slowly along its perch.

  'The world's prettiest ghost,' Mila whispers.

  A message appears: Chameleon bush baby - a genetically modified primate which is able to blend into its surroundings by changing colour.