Sky City (The Rise of an Orphan)

by RD Hale

  'RIGHT YOU LAZY FUCKERS, TIME TO WORK!'

  We head from the mess hall into the open where dead trees line a crater containing dirty mechanical behemoths, rusting scaffolds and hills of rubble. A line of slaves plod through poisoned mud to descend into the pits and guards shove us to the back of the miserable queue which moves along far quicker than I would like. A dozen of us climb onto a fully rusted transporter which growls along tracks as I stare at feet, squashed between Anguson and a grunting member of an unspecified species.

  'Another joyful day at work, eh men? Cheer up kid, don't let them break your spirit. That's what they want. I've been here about ten years and I'm still going strong. Grand old age of thirty five, at least that's how old I think I am!' the man opposite says as his raised voice judders.

  The tilting transporter flings us forward so I grab the hand rail as we chug through a shaft of pitch blackness, coming to a standstill in lamplight. Hot air bears the smell of mud and burnt wood and low oxygen levels make me breathless. I do not think I can cope with such conditions and if it was not for the brutality of their execution methods, I would plead for death. A peaceful demise would be preferable to physical and mental torture.

  'Welcome to the bowels of the underlord, kid. Get one of these on,' Anguson instructs, putting on a hardhat. The brightness of his lamp momentarily dazzles my eyes and when I do the same the helmet hangs loose. 'You can adjust it with the plastic bit at the back and turn the lamp on by pressing this. Best take your pick axe. You're gonna need it.'

  I grab a sack and a pick axe designed for larger hands than mine and proceed on a long march, stooping as the passage tightens. Crooked support beams of a crudely carved shaft look ready to collapse as we crawl into a half-dug tunnel, settling on the moist mud with barely enough room to manoeuvre.

  'Right kid, you'll be expected to fill fifteen of these sacks a day, minimum. If you don't, the guards will beat the crap out of you. If they catch you having a rest or think you're slacking, they'll beat the crap out of you. Don't even think of fighting back... Best get digging.'

  Black rock crumbles as I hack with my pickaxe, struggling to gain leverage and the awkwardness places additional strain on my injured shoulder - this is going to be an exhausting day. Choking on dust, I cough repeatedly whilst digging into soil way deeper than the worms, deeper than any biological activity with geothermal heat producing sweat courtesy of the hell fire below us. And now we are away from the others I emerge from my shell, because if I cannot relax I risk losing my last strands of sanity.

  'How come you're down the mines, Anguson? I saw you participating in the hover races yesterday.'

  'You think just because I race, I don't have to go down the mines? Nah, I just get the weekend off in exchange for a coffin. Beats a lifetime down here, I suppose.'

  'Coffin? Nah, you're gonna win you're freedom, Anguson. You always win.'

  'You really think they're gonna allow that to happen again? They released me first time around for political reasons, but now they know they can't censor me when I'm out there. I'm too much of a liability.'

  'I don't understand, the law says...'

  'That if I accumulate one hundred points I earn my freedom, right? It's gonna be pretty hard to win my final race with a sabotaged craft. Believe me kid, if they don't want me to win, I won't. It's as simple as that.'

  'What about the guys who've done it in the past, like Arav Boas?'

  'You heard anything about the guy since? Course you haven't. Executed the same day he earned release. They just want the public to think it's possible. Adds to the entertainment. It's a billion credit industry. Here's the thing, kid - once you're in the mines, you're not getting out.'

  'Nah my friends will get me out, they'll think of a plan.'

  'Keep dreaming, kid, whatever keeps you going. You can try escaping from this place but between the droids, armed guards and gunner towers you'd have a hard job. How do you think you're gonna get through that electrified fence? You'd need a bloody missile launcher. And there's also the forcefield...'

  'So what happens when you serve your sentence? They say the whole point of the work camp is rehabilitation.' I realise the stupidity of the question as it leaves my lips and vainly await a positive response.

  'Rehabilitation?! The only thing they're interested in is prolonging your torment until you're fully dehumanised and no longer care whether you're alive or dead. This isn't about justice. It's about them being able to say they're superior to us. By eradicating our humanity, they tell themselves their own sins aren't so bad, they're the better ones. We deserve hell and they deserve paradise. It's their way of rationalising. The fucked up thing is they don't even realise this themselves.'

  'Sounds like suicide is the best option.'

  'Ah, don't let me hear you talk like that. Maybe I've been exaggerating slightly. Your best option is to sit it out. San Teria's reign could crumble, eventually. I know it's a long shot, but while there's hope... So tell me, there must be something for you to return to. What about your family?'

  'Well, I have a little sister - Emmi.'

  'What's she like? Annoying, shallow and frivolous, I bet. And you wouldn't change her, even if you could.'

  'Actually, you're right.' An unexpected smile aches my cheeks. 'I wouldn't even change her obnoxiousness, wouldn't be Emmi otherwise!'

  'I haven't spoken to my sister in eighteen years. Fell out before all the success and infamy. I thought I didn't wanna see her again.'

  'And now you do?'

  'Yeah. I dunno if I ever will, but it's not impossible. Having said that, I'm not sure she'd wanna see the over-bearing, control-freak who made her young life miserable. Shit, I wouldn't even know where to look for her. She could be dead for all I know.'

  The finish of our shift arrives but I lost track of time hours ago and accepted this drudgery as never ending. We have not had dinner and every part of me is crying out for even a morsel, a bread crumb. The skin is coming off my stinging hands, my chest and shoulder wounds are tender and I wince as tender flesh is stretched by every step. Soot clogs my pores and my abused body yearns for sleep. It was an unpleasant experience, but the likable bastard helped me through. We take the transporter to the surface and I feel a short-lived relief as we clamber into twilight.

  'BOY! You only filled thirteen sacks today. Come here.'

  The guard's nostrils flare and his eyeballs bulge as I skulk over, hoping he will understand I worked hard, despite my exhaustion. I am not adapted to this way of life but I pushed the limits of my physicality because I know better than to shirk. I am not an idiot.

  'It was my first day. I'm woun... Argh.'

  Scrunching his face animalistically, the guard strikes my neck with a baton then wallops the back of my legs and I collapse to knees. The bastard kicks my solar plexus, causing me to squirm as my diaphragm spasms and I do not understand how he can be so cruel after the day I have had. For the first time in my life I have capitulated so eagerly; the thought of retaliation is terrifying.

  'You're lucky it's your first day, kid. Get up before I drag you off to the lab.'

  Wary of further brutality, I watch the guard from the corner of my eye as we are led inside the complex to a tiled area which is presumably the entrance to the showers. I hobble to the unnerving queue of deprived inmates who no man should be forced to shower with and despite being filthy I would prefer to opt out - there are too many rumours about prison recreation. Ten unrecognisably blackened faces are let in at a time and when it comes to our turn I dread to think what is going through their twisted minds.

  'Don't drop the soap, kid!' an inmate remarks with aggressive laughter.

  'Hey, I think I'll give the shower a miss, I d-'

  'Shut up, kid or I'll beat the crap out of you! Strip.' A guard slaps his baton against his palm. Shivering, I feel unnaturally tense as I remove these coal-tainted overalls because I am unused to the presence of naked men; especially ones lacking female contact. 'Place them in the basket.'


  Eyes remain fixed at head height as we step into the shower area where I am relieved to see no bars of soap. Unpleasantly cold fluid blasts from nozzles and strips dirt in seconds, followed by a blast of air which rapidly dries skin.

  'Done. Out.'

  As we step from the shower area, clean overalls await on rows of hooks and I get dressed without witnessing any inappropriate behaviour, apart from a couple of lewd jokes. It is difficult to tell if they are intended as harmless banter or something sinister. The duration of this nerve-racking ordeal has been mercifully short and I suppose it was not as unpleasant as it might have been.

  'It's shower day today, kid. You'll be waiting another three days for this luxury. So where'd you get those wounds? They look like claw marks,' Anguson asks.

  'They are.' I hastily fasten the last few buttons.

  'What you been doing? Wrestling a fucking tiger?'

  'Leopard actually.'

  The men in the changing room roar with laughter but it now feels like they are laughing with, rather than at me. Maybe they are not as bad as feared, just bigger, uglier versions of my friends at home. If they really are anything like my species they only care about sleep right now. In reality they could not harm anyone unless the guards allowed them to, which they possibly would, but it makes more sense for us to be on the same side. Against the screws.

  'True story. Brought the two of them in last night with a web gun. Careful, Anguson, this one might be tougher than you. Be nice to the kid or you might get your arse kicked!' a guard remarks and again the inmates roar with laughter. 'Come on, men, gruel time.'

  We are led back into the mess hall where I sit less timidly with the fearsome alpha prisoner of this institution. Insecurity is subdued by intense hunger as I stir another appetising bowl of gruel, debating whether to take the plunge and just eat. It cannot be that bad because the other prisoners feed so eagerly and the alternative is starvation.

  'Tell me you're gonna eat that, kid. You don't eat, you won't last. You know what they do to workers who don't pull their weight? Experimentation and vivisection, it's no joke. They'll send you to the lab. Keep you alive for as long as possible. Test your tolerance to pain, injury, poisons or whatever else. Eventually your heart will give out. Best eat up, kid. Gather your strength for tomorrow.'

  'Not that it makes much difference, Anguson. If he stays strong it just means he'll have nice, juicy organs to harvest!' a prisoner licks his lips.

  All untrustworthy eyes are now focused on the new inmate and these veterans smirk in amusement as I separate a small, sticky blob to raise to my lips. A faint whiff of rotting fruit halts my breath as I shove the plastic spoon into my gob, swallowing instantly to minimise the taste which is vaguely unpleasant but tolerable.

  'A slum kid choosy about what he eats!' Anguson bawls.

  Laughter roars around the dinner table and I gain the impression the inmates have seen this a million times before - they knew I would not hold out. When I have finished the entire bowl we are led back to our cells and now that delirium has settled I feel a cautious optimism. I just need to bide my time until I get the chance to escape.

  'Tell me more about the leopard story. What the fuck happened there?' Anguson asks.

  'We were in the zoo and guards came after us. Then there was a rocket attack. We had guards hunting us on one side and animals trying to eat us on the other! Two escaped neanderthals helped us and we managed to get out. That's when we got attacked by leopards. I think there was more than one. I don't know what to... to... I don't know if she's been captured... If she's even al...'

  'She? Your girl? I'm sorry kid... You say protohumans helped you out? Next you'll be telling me the rocket attack was your doing!'

  'Well...'

  'Fucking hell! If this is true, kid, you're my new fucking hero!'

  'Nothing heroic about it. People are dead. I'm in here. Mila is fuck knows where. Couldn't be worse.'

  'It's a tough world, kid. That's why people like me speak out. I just hope the rebellion gets its arse into gear and makes some changes.'

  'Well, they say they're almost ready.'

  'What do you know about the rebellion? You're not part of it, are you?' The pace of Anguson's speech slows as he fixes my gaze.

  'No, not really. I've just met one or two people, heard a few things.'

  'Met one or two people. Ran a few errands or a few life endangering missions more like. That's how it always begins. Yep, you're part of the rebellion, kid, whether you like it or not.'

  'How do you know so much then?'

  'Let's just say I have my connections.' Anguson smiles, lying down on the bunk to rest his eyes.

  ********

  Weeks or possibly months of near permanent darkness pass and hope of freedom becomes a distant memory. Eighty four hours a week in the bowels. Twice weekly showers fail to prevent the soot from seeping into my bloodstream. Muscle and head-aches are constant and my eyes scream misery. Sporadic tufts of hair poke from my face, shoulders hunch and bottom lip protrudes. Every warden is an adversary and only thoughts of vengeance keep me going. I am a hovelling ground dweller, a calloused orc, a creature of the underworld.

  A Break from the Monotony

  'Hey kid, how'd you fancy the day off? I need some help with my practice session. I'll sort it with the guards so you can come along,' Anguson offers.

  'You mean the races? What help can I be?'

  'Anyone would think you'd rather go into the pit! I need an extra pair of hands, testing a few things.'

  This unintentional attempt to talk my way out of the best offer I could hope to receive in this droning existence is interrupted by the release of the lock. A slave master awaits outside the cell to lead to another fifteen bag slog in the pit. I would do anything to break the endless struggle to meet the quota and avoid a beating, but I do not feel optimistic about obtaining authorisation. These heartless cunts are not interested in giving anyone a rest.

  'Hey Wiggins, is it okay if the kid comes with me today? I need to test some changes to the craft for the race tomorrow, Harris suggested it last week. The kid just volunteered himself,' Anguson requests.

  'Sure, if you and Harris need him. One less brat for me to worry about today.'

  I am amazed the pitiless automaton took so little persuasion and given that we are normally tightly guarded, I intend to keep my eyes peeled for the slightest escape opportunity during our trip. Anguson and I are handcuffed by the prison warden, led to a garage and ushered aboard a windowless transporter with an armoured shell. Metal restraints clamp over our shoulders and several other competitors are coming along to the practice session but Anguson blanks his rivals because they must race to the death tomorrow.

  'If you need to take a piss, you're screwed, kid!' Anguson laughs.

  For all the misery I have recently endured, getting up close and personal with a race pod is an experience to savour in any circumstances. The likelihood of taking a test drive maybe small but with a reasonable degree of persuasion, who knows? Every pilot has to start somewhere and that somewhere just happens to be the most miserable place on Eryx or as we call it - home. The notorious hover races can provide much needed excitement and alive or dead they offer a way out of subjection.

  'Hey kid, it's not all bad in this place. You'll enjoy yourself today. There's no sound more beautiful than the roar of pod thrusters. It'll blow ya socks off, I tell ya!' Anguson grins as he grips the restraints.

  The engine murmurs for an exciting duration as we are flown to the nearby test track. There is one guard opposite each prisoner and they continuously aim their phasers in the knowledge every passenger is awaiting a moment of complacency. The armoured transport comes to a stop and the guards lead us from the hangar to the testing facility.

  Inside the nerve centre enlivened mechanics are applying finishing touches to Dark Storm – a craft with twin thrusters, covered in dark paint with glittering stripes of burgundy, mustard and olive. The capsule resembles a boar's
face with a horned nose and tinted windshields resembling sunshades. Anguson affectionately pats the roof and opens a hatch which barely seems large enough for him to squeeze into.

  'This is my baby. You better take care of her, kid. Climb in,' Anguson instructs.

  'What?' I ask, somehow surprised by the opportunity to live out the fantasy I was determined to realise only moments ago.

  'Well, do ya wanna fly this thing or don't ya?'

  'You don't have to tell me twice!'

  'There are two levers inside. Pull the left lever to turn left and vice-versa. The button on the left lever controls your thrusters. You don't have to worry about the button on the right! Just complete a couple of circuits of the dirt track and let me know what you think. Press the left button when you wanna stop... A word of warning, this thing is primed to blow if you attempt to escape, so don't.'

  Grabbing a handle I climb onto the roof and slide into the quantum age cockpit. Dual windshields display various symbols, most of which I do not understand, but there is a map of the track in the bottom left corner and underneath it reads: 4.2 mi. I fasten the seatbelt as Anguson slams the hatch down, yelling: 'I hope you don't suffer from motion sickness!'

  Dark Storm automatically rises into the air and slowly cruises from the garage, hovering in the pit lane. Squeezing the left trigger, I am pinned against the seat by the acceleration force as engines roar into life. The pod screams towards the first glowing beacon situated straight ahead without obstacle and I glance at a mountain peak on the horizon, reminding myself to keep eyes on the road.

  A left-pointing arrow appears on the windscreen as I approach the mouth of a weird tunnel with painted lips and jagged teeth. As the craft is swallowed engines reverberate like a hurricane-force wind and I soar with little room for manoeuvre, yet each turn is effortlessly negotiated with gentle nudges of sticks and prompts on the windscreen.

  Eyes are continuously drawn to images on the tunnel walls - an eyeball with fire in its pupil, a sleeping woman with a psychedelic mural behind her, a haggard man in the coils of a serpent. But my admiration of this artwork is interrupted by an ear-splitting screech and sparks are sprayed as the craft vibrates, immediately veering.