Sky City (The Rise of an Orphan)

by RD Hale

  With the lesson tinged with fear and uncertainty I swing hard; not caring whether I smash his jawbone into splinters because I suspect he may do the same to mine. My fist swishes past Jardine's unmissably large chin as he shifts sideways and I tumble over his boot, landing in detritus like an enfeebled idiot.

  'Use your opponent's momentum against them. Gain leverage where possible. You can even beat someone my size if you know how. I'm going to swing my hand towards you slowly. I want you to step in like this, grab me like this, force my arm up like this and put your other arm round my neck.'

  As Jardine gestures a punch, the girth of his arm and his precise technique are enough to communicate the latent power which makes any self-defence attempt seem futile. Nevertheless I follow his instructions, getting my hulking instructor into a chokehold which I would never be able to execute in reality.

  'But you were doing it slowly. You weren't trying to resist. It would never work if-'

  'Okay, let's try it again! Ready?'

  Jardine's huge frame lunges with absolute conviction, giving me a split second to avoid collapsing in a broken heap. The intensity of the situation clouds my awareness but I instinctively follow the motions, side-stepping as his body falls into position. Within an instant my arm is flexed around his neck and he splutters, jerking to and fro, obviously for dramatic effect. Although he could break free if he wanted to, I am proud of my effectuality and as I release my grip Jardine turns around with eyes watering.

  'Excellent!' Jardine wipes tears and grins. 'I'm going to teach you how to break free from chokeholds. Grab me again... Now I won't do this for real so I don't hurt you. This is basic self-defence for any teenage girl, but that's because it works! What you do is dig your foot into the shinbone and scrape it down. If it doesn't work, do it again and again and mix in the occasional elbow. It doesn't matter how strong they are, they'll soon let go. Okay, you can release me now! Now your most important weapon is this.' Jardine points to his head before continuing:

  'You must weigh up the odds in any given situation. If you're outnumbered or outgunned - run. If you're backed into a corner look for an escape route. Failing that look for what you can use as a weapon. A rock, a pen, anything. They grab you, dig a pen in their eyes. They'll soon run! Now I'm going to attack you with this knife, don't worry it's blunt. Imagine you're trapped in a corner, you need to hold up your forearms and use the bones to deflect the blow. If the knife was real you'd be cut, but nothing life threatening. Deflect the blow and shove me to the side as hard as you can. As soon as you see an opening - RUN!'

  Jardine lunges for my heart with the blunt knife and the sight invokes almost the same respect a sharpened blade would. Thrusting both forearms, I force his non-mechanical limb to the side and knock him off balance in the process. Hurdling his outstretched leg, I gain clear opportunity to run to safety and turn on my toes with a smirk.

  Mila stretches arms high with a yawn, utterly unimpressed by our pretend life and death battle as Jardine sheaths his toy. A red mark shows where my aching forearm deflected the thrust and in a real attack I would have lived to embellish the tale.

  'Now if this wasn't a training session you'd continue to run. One day this knowledge may save your life. Grab this phaser. I'm going to teach you armed combat tactics... First thing, breaching a building. Never just burst through a door. Monitor your surroundings. Assess the risk. Ready your weapon. Stand with your back against a wall and reach out to open the door just a little. Wait a few seconds, be ready to fire at all times. Peer through the gap. Look for movement, shadows. If no-one is there, open the door wide. Step back and point your gun into the doorway. Check both sides quickly as far as you can see... Then you enter.'

  Jardine demonstrates his combat proficiency for an hour or so, also going through each technique with Mila who takes to this specialist training with unanticipated zeal. She fits a little too comfortably into this arena of masculinity, learning how to take cover, how to ambush the enemy, how to protect our flanks...

  After seizing the basics I have enough confidence to test my adeptness on the battlefield. It is like my body has been dormant, awaiting the relevant instructions to awaken my true capability and soon my subjugators will not know what destroyed them.

  'Now for target practice.'

  Jardine hands phasers to Mila and I, demonstrating how to remove the safety lock and adjust the power dial, locking his in place at setting number three. As he marches off I fantasise about gaining vengeance on those San Terian bastards for the unremitting misery of the cage they placed me in. The prospect of becoming a killing machine is an intoxicating one and I sneer at the piece of plastic in my hand, thinking ahead to the big guns. But my purpose is not his war, it is my vengeance. I anticipate gaining the ruthless accuracy of a master marksman as my mentor rams a dagger into a eucalyptus with sagging branches.

  'We're going to aim for that tree. Ready your phaser and focus on the foresight. Straighten your arm, line up the shot, relax and squeeze. The thing about phasers is they're one hundred percent accurate. Mila, give it a try.'

  The weapon in Mila's hand seems ill-fitting, although it is not the first time she has held one and the inept zoo guards she previously neutralised helped demonstrate the ease of use. She shrugs shoulders and takes aim like she is acting upon muscle memory, then squeezes the trigger. The ultra precise beam makes the dagger handle glow and a whiff of smoke comes off as she ceases fire, eyeing me with a provocative arrogance as though challenging me to match her effort. Mila is too naive to understand if she can strike the target from this range, I can do it from twice as far. She is just a girl.

  'Good aim, Mila!' Jardine bellows.

  Winking at my petty rival I aim at a target positioned too close for a man of such evident talent, but phaser fire misses this ample hardwood in its entirety and singes surrounding bush leaves. Sights are carefully realigned to recover pride but the plasma stream cuts across the trunk, below the charcoal dagger handle and beyond this elusive tree.

  'Harder than it looks, eh Arturo?' Jardine remarks.

  'The stupid phaser is not firing straight.'

  'Okay, it's pointless focusing on motionless targets. Let's go out and catch some dinner.'

  From a Boy to a Man

  Clutching my phaser I am ready to unleash frustration on the deadliest this boscage can summon and if any leopard crosses my sights that grudge will be resolved. Mila reacts to every rustle as we sneak off track in search of game but over-eagerness will no doubt be her undoing. In the pressure of that critical situation I will demonstrate my true importance.

  I maintain unyielding concentration despite sensing we are being continuously watched in a land where you can encounter lost tribes and, if their mythology is to be believed, jungle spirits. Persistent animal cries fuel impatience during my struggle to spot a victim to predate and with no better option I select an almost invisible stick insect on a low-lying branch. With tongue poking through lips I ready my phaser but a flash highlights the insect against leathery leaves and a plummeting blur is accompanied by scattered feathers.

  'I shot it! I shot it!' Mila shrieks as a lifeless finch lands in the undergrowth. 'Oh I feel guilty now!'

  'Not much of a meal but nice shooting, Mila. That was one small target.'

  Our expedition continues with Jardine whispering useless advice because nothing above bug size will reveal its presence to my straining eyes but Mila does not require guidance as she neutralises every minuscule moving target instinctively and accurately, arousing suspicion she was trained during my imprisonment. Raccoons and birds rain from green murkiness but do not count because they would make paltry meals and are left to provide a feast for voracious jungle ants.

  The humiliation of being beaten to the kill numerous times shatters my will to continue but a slithering tree snake offers a tantalising chance of redemption, being surely too slow to miss. Leaves are sent fluttering down as I hasten the shot and the beam streaks across the recoiling serpent
which hisses furiously. I adjust my aim to strike its thrashing body again but another phaser fires with superior precision and the unconscious snake tumbles through branches.

  'Hey that was my kill. You stole it, Mila!' I growl, momentarily tempted to turn my phaser on my rival.

  'Now, now no squabbling. It's not as if we're going to be having it for supper!'

  Cheated I veer off in a justified huff, not caring how to find my way back to the hunting party as Jardine points his favourite apprentice to something in the canopy. With the advantage of being a solitary huntsman, I am drawn towards a patch of comparative brightness in the woodland and I glimpse my prize, treading gently because a single sound could ruin the opportunity.

  Restricting my breathing I crouch on one knee to peer from behind a thin-leaved bush, looking over reeds and lilies breaching the surface of a pond. A golden stag on the far side of this oasis stops drinking to thrust his head of luxuriant mane upwards, scattering water droplets. Antlers sway as I aim to demonstrate who the real hunter is, but an undeniable aura radiates and I question whether I have the heart to assassinate this prince of the forest. Nevertheless I squeeze the trigger and his legs thrash for a moment before collapsing. His undeserving face pants as his flailing hoof scratches the muddy bank and I consider leaving him to recover. The others do not have to...

  'Nice shooting, Arturo! That will make a magnificent meal. Come on, let's carry it home.' Jardine approaches the oasis with Mila by his side and our feet squelch between strange plants which look like anemones as we circle around this milky drinking hole.

  At the other side Jardine shoots our still breathing prey to ensure he is fully comatose because even on maximum power phasers are likely to subdue big-game, rather than kill and we do not want an agitated stag to wake up halfway home.

  Jardine grabs an antler but the stag's muscular frame proves too heavy even for the augmented hulk and as it snags on fibrous stems I lend a hand - it must weigh one hundred and fifty pounds. Blood vessels almost rupture as we head back to the trail with Mila refusing to clear the way, saying: 'I dunno what I might catch if I touch anything'.

  We drag our dinner through this hazardous course, kicking and swiping with our free hands until we reach the streamlet to seek assistance of buoyancy. Sodden boots slow us down as we splash through flowing water and even with Jardine doing most of the work the effort drains my glucose supply. I slip numerous times and sinews are strained as our quarry's face twitches with one eye blinking repeatedly.

  'This thing is starting to wake up,' I say and the current tests the balance of planted boots as our semi-conscious victim fixes my gaze as though he is pleading for mercy. With ninety nine percent of his body paralysed, his hind leg twinges. Mila unhesitantly shoots him, concentrating a beam of fire until his eyeball sizzles and he lapses back into unconsciousness.

  We sit on a log covered in clover-like leaves and I brush little green beetles from my clothes as I huff and puff because of the absurd effort required to gain a meal; it is easier to steal. The drenched stag is sprawled on uneven soil, surely dead, but he could almost be sleeping if it was not for his blackened eye socket.

  I struggle to feel proud to have taken down such a formidable foe as I admire elaborate skull attachments; one of nature's best efforts undone by a species who cheated to gain the upper hand. We should at least be respectful, not that he will comprehend the gesture.

  'We really should've brought Ahran. I don't think I've got the strength to drag this guy any further.'

  'Stop complaining, Arturo. It's not that heavy.'

  'How would you know, Mila? You're not doing anything!'

  'It's starting to rain. Come on, tough guy. If you fought a leopard you can drag a little stag a few yards,' Jardine insists.

  Acidic raindrops wipe the stupid grin from Mila's face as she jumps into branch cover and I savour our extended break until it is interrupted by nearby voices. Readying my phaser I prepare to incapacitate a potential threat but such hostility proves unnecessary as recognisable figures emerge and they do not seem to have noticed us through the viridian murk.

  'Over here!' Jardine waves to attract their attention and as they change direction my aching limbs are grateful help is finally at hand. A hunter-gatherer approaches with a blood-tinged spear in hand and a speckled deer over his shoulders as he brags to Anguson about his self-proclaimed superiority; childish bravado is clearly not confined to our subspecies.

  'Ahran is great. Ahran caught deer!' the neanderthal announces.

  'This man is quite the hunter. Speared this girl from forty yards, instantly killing her!' Anguson laughs.

  Ahran drops the lifeless doe and thrusts his spear into the air, yelling: 'Ahran great hunter!' His handiwork will provide a surplus of venison and our killing now feels closer to sport than necessity as we plunder the inhabitants of this forest. But the violated innocent at Ahran's feet lacks the majesty of her male counterpart and the scabbing blood on her punctured ribcage does not invoke the same sympathy. She, or rather it is just a carcass.

  Ahran turns to demonstrate his skills by flinging his spear and the shaft vibrates as the blade-tip impales a tree in the middle distance. Bounding over to retrieve his blood-tainted toy, the caveman unknowingly roundhouse kicks a beehive and thrashes limbs to counteract a homeless swarm.

  'Urgh, it hurts!'

  The suicide stingers chase Ahran as he yells, 'Help! Help!' in the vain hope we can make his tormentors go away. Moments ago we naively thought we were the most dominant hunters in this territory but our phasers have been rendered useless by rivals one millionth our size. And we do not wait to find out whether the bees also perceive us as enemies; their desire for vengeance forcing the party to leave our quarry behind and sprint through the forest in the general direction of the anticline.

  I glance back with gritted teeth, hoping the swarm's venomous barbs are targeting any flesh but mine and it is a relief to see Jardine struggling to match our pace. His ungainly frame is further slowed by breathless laughter until howls of pain provide a much-needed adrenaline boost.

  'Owww, the little bastards!' Jardine thrashes arms and summons the energy to nearly double his pace.

  Ahran has at least seen fit to haul the stag over his shoulders and the terror-stricken powerhouse leaves us behind as we take giant strides down the tortuous path, almost flying due to its steepness. Impetus could carry us over a vertical drop with every step but we dare not decelerate. Killer bees seem to have called off their assault as we approach the refuge of the shack and I skid to a stop as our mission is accomplished. The pimple-faced neanderthal flings the stag into bracken and leaps onto the camouflaged roof in a single bound, beating his chest in celebration of his simultaneous demonstration of stupidity and heroism.

  'You have too much energy for your own good. That's the first and last time you'll mess with a beehive, Ahran! We better make sure this thing doesn't wake up,' Jardine says with stings swelling from his forehead.

  Unsheathing a serrated dagger, Jardine kneels over the stag's muscular shoulders and clutches its chin to do the honours. It is a regretful sight indeed as its tongue hangs out and steel violates this masterpiece of natural design by slicing its throat. A red flow saturates dirt as its lifeless face withers then the slaughterer gathers rope from the cabin to hang the piteous corpse from the overhanging roof. After unreasonable exertions our dripping fare is suddenly convenient, thanks to this unwitting vessel which kept meat fresh until the day a superior intelligence came to eat.

  Clammy soles stick to varnished floorboards as we embrace the warmth of the hideout, carrying our waterlogged boots to the fireplace. My belly aches and although hunger is an all-too-familiar condition, having a meal within smelling distance intensifies the pangs. My appetising reward cannot come soon enough.

  Ahran cannot stop scratching red bumps on his face as we sit at the table and laugh about our hunting expedition. Given that Mila spent most of the day outshining me, I am keen to emphasize i
t is my trophy hanging outside; reluctant to consider the deed an act of cruelty because part of me loved the experience in spite of my conscience.

  'Hey Nyota, I killed a stag on my first outing. I always knew I'd make the perfect hunter!' I boast, inhaling a slow, satisfied breath through my nose.

  'Whatever, that was sheer luck, Arturo,' Mila jealously interrupts.

  'So you guys had fun then?' Nyota glances over shoulder as she approaches a dresser.

  'Fun? I had no fun. Ahran does not like bees!' the neanderthal booms.

  'Nyota, it was hilarious. He kicked a beehive and boy did he live to regret that mistake! Men, eh?'

  Nyota hands me a neatly ironed pile of clothes and I enter the bathroom to finally don civilian attire. As I unfold the garish garments I am tempted to remain in prison overalls but they are soft, warm and fresh and this is not exactly a fashion parade so I grudgingly change into the silly outfit.

  Standing before the mirror I feel like a clown and there is a risk of the petal print trousers falling down unless I can obtain a belt. The green, yellow and pink woolly jumper was clearly not designed by somebody with a sense of taste or eyesight and I can only presume this is a terrorist's idea of a practical joke.

  'I look even more conspicuous than I did in the uniform,' I mutter as I step out the bathroom and everyone, including Ahran, points and guffaws at my unchosen new look.

  'Who's up for a barbecue?' Jardine asks and I am the only one to help carry the firewood stored in the cabin; all too keen to embrace this survivalist lifestyle. We erect a spit and Anguson emerges to help lug the hefty stag we will soon devour. I grab a piece of rope and tie its ankles to the stake which just about holds steady under the strain. Jardine slashes its hide numerous times, then lights kindling and we gather around in hungry anticipation as the venison roasts over several hours.

  Delicious warmth makes me feel at one with the wilderness our urbanised habitat detaches us from and maybe we would be better off remaining here. The sense of exploration and teamwork is thus far pushing every button and I get the feeling this is the start of retribution. My journey of discovery has plunged me into the depths of despair, but the smouldering determination visible in these fire-lit faces confirms I am part of something special. My mentor has a clear vision and one day I may look back at the making of champions.