Astra: Synchronicity

by Lisa Eskra

  ASTRA: SYNCHRONICITY

  by

  Lisa Eskra

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  * * * * *

  Astra: Synchronicity

  Copyright © 2010 Lisa Eskra

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

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  For Michael

  Without his ever-loving persistence, this story never would have been written.

  Chapter One

  "The future enters into us, in order to transform itself in us, long before it happens." –Rainer Maria Rilke

  A strident crash startled her awake, and when she slammed into icy tile, she realized she wasn't dreaming.

  Before she could scream, her head struck the floor with a thump, violently jarring her eyes open and forcing her into a world she was not yet ready to handle. Under her naked body, a steel table stuck out at an oblique angle, its warped hinges having buckled from the strain of her weight. She searched her memory for any recollection of the recent past but came up blank, and a renewed sense of panic trapped the breath in her lungs.

  Her heartbeat surged as she pulled herself to her feet. No windows broke the monotony of the featureless walls around her. The sweet scent of ether permeated the air, and the flicker of jade monitors imparted an eerie sense of familiarity. Yet she remembered nothing of this place.

  A single lab coat hung on an array of hooks mounted near the door. She slipped it on and browsed an assortment of electronic tools arranged by size on a workbench. Looking for some clue regarding her whereabouts, she picked one up—a sapphire blade with hooked flange. A connectorization cleaver. She wouldn't be repairing fiber optics anytime soon but stashed it in her pocket anyway.

  Amidst the high-pitched whine of the archaic instrumentation, she noticed her reflection on a glossy monitor next to her. Her light hair had an asymmetric cut: a blunt bob that ended at her ear on the left and brushed her shoulder on the right. The angle she stood at made her look sickly thin. And it struck her that she'd just set eyes upon a stranger.

  Before she had a chance to access a nearby workstation for answers, thunder shook the small room. She spun her head towards the door while the floor quaked from another. Louder. Closer. Jars on the counter rattled from the booms. A monitor winked out. The blast pattern sounded too regular to be natural. If this was an attack, she needed to escape.

  She cracked the door open and peered out. Only the faint outline of darkened doorways greeted her. As she struggled toward an exit somewhere on the north wall, tremors continued to rock the building. She passed by several rooms filled with equipment but saw no one else around.

  When she reached the exterior door, an explosion sounded outside. She dove for cover just before the glass from a window behind her shattered. The debris cut her back, but she had no time to cower in fear. With a deep breath to fight off the lingering pain, she opened the door wide enough to slip outside and sprinted away.

  A flood of daylight blinded her until her eyes adjusted. Shafts of crimson sunlight inundated the black leaves of the jungle, which fought to absorb every ray that trickled through the canopy. Although the sun consumed most of the southern sky, few ribbons of light pierced the verdancy, imparting airs of a nocturnal forest at sunset.

  As she fled the scene, she heard muffled voices in the distance. They seemed to be looking for someone. In her hasty flight, she stumbled over sharp branches and jagged rocks hidden under decaying leaves and fungus. Vines lashed her arms and face while she scrambled through the undergrowth, the cumulative pain building with each step. Her feet ached and throbbed, but she ground her teeth and pressed on toward civilization.

  The halo of a nearby city beaconed from the east. That would be her sanctuary. Kivara glowed in the distance from its irradiated smog, and despite its unsavory atmosphere, she didn't stop until she reached it. Her athletic body covered the distance with the endurance of a cross-country runner. The trek couldn't have been more than a few kilometers; the fear wore her down more than the run.

  Many regarded Kivara as hell lit by neon. Formerly an old industrial city, Kivara had become the drug capital of Astra. The air was so thick with pollutants on bad days toxins choked out the sun. Street gangs had ruled the whole planet for the last century, transforming a once benevolent colony into anarchy, and drug trade fueled their ongoing wars. Signs everywhere displayed an exotic tribal emblem—the symbol of the East Rim Souljas, the dominant gang.

  I've walked these streets before, she thought as she gazed at the geodesic domes littering the crumbling metropolis. It was the capital of Pisa, second planet in orbit of Shambhala. The only disputed system in Astra, a collection of planetary systems inhabited by humanity. The known galaxy.

  She hugged the shadows and tried to conceal the brightness of her coat while she crept through the city. The gangs patrolled the streets with ruthless pride. Whenever she heard the distant rumble of bikes, she hid and let them pass. Sometimes as many as a dozen blazed past, all carrying on in manic delight like they were high. She was surprised the chemical fumes didn't have the same effect on her.

  When she reached an empty lot, she frowned. Remnants of foundation grew out of broken concrete leaving four acres of empty space without cover. She jogged across and got halfway before a pair of bikes growled behind her. When she heard them, she tried to take shelter behind a towering steel beam. Her pulse almost drowned out their approach.

  For a moment she thought she'd fooled them, but their engines bellowed when they sped toward her in pursuit. She bolted down the closest alleyway in sight and realized she'd erred. It came to an abrupt end, blocked off on all three sides by sheer walls. She searched for any avenue of escape—a door, a ladder. Nothing.

  The bikes circled around and obstructed her route back before the men dismounted their dusty machines and advanced toward her. If she tried to run, there was a good chance she'd be gunned down. If she didn't, she'd be at their mercy. On a world with no laws, death provided a merciful alternative to living under gang rule.

  One of them backed her into a corner, and she knelt to keep as much distance between them as possible. His boot buckles rattled as he walked. A swarm of dark dreadlocks hung around his face. Grime and dried sweat covered his dark clothes. The faint odor of rancid urine seared her nose. He rested his hands on his hips and looked her over with care.

  "Please don't hurt me." She raised her hands in an act of innocence. "Please…"

  "Well, well. Ain't you a beauty…" When he spoke, his breath reeked of rotting garlic. He nodded to the man behind him. "Look, Sinkiss—I think I'm in love."

  His companion towered over his shoulder. A fringe of ginger hair ringed half of his scalp and the rest was bald. A pair of dark goggles rested on his crown. "You think she's claimed? She branded anywhere?"

  "Who cares? Nobody got to know." He unbuckled his oversized belt and jingled it in her direction. "You want seconds?"

  The gangster said nothing and took several steps back to leave his comrade in peace. He pulled a disruptor out of his denim jacket as he kept watch. The gun sparkled in the urban gloom when he held it close to his chest.

  "It's alright, pretty baby. Be a good girl and we're gone in a
few minutes." He caressed her hair, and his jeans bulged from his pangs of desire.

  "Make it quick, Deadhead," Sinkiss said. "We on Souljas ground. Dirty Max died out this way not but a week ago. I don't wanna be next."

  He unzipped his pants and eased toward her, letting his guard down inch by inch. That's right, she thought as she tightened her grip on the instrument in her pocket. Closer. Show me how much you want it. From his stench she doubted he'd been this close to a woman in years. He stroked her head out of hormonal affection as though he had genuine fondness for her. Whether or not he was a bad person or a man trapped by circumstance made no difference to her. He was an enemy.

  In a decisive action she brought the blade straight up between his legs and stabbed him as hard as she could in his crotch. When he howled and doubled over, she ripped it out and jammed it deep into his eye socket. His hands flew to his face in horror, and she used the confusion of the moment to shove him straight into Sinkiss. After climbing to her feet, she escaped down the alley in a blur.

  One shot rang out before she rounded the corner and headed into the fog of the chemical plants. A profanity-laced tirade followed her while she wove between narrow walkways and vanished in the city, but the pair did not pursue her. Similar threats would loom until she left Pisa, and she had no idea how she'd make it to safety.

  Her helplessness frustrated her as she darted through the streets, no closer to recalling who she was than knowing who Sinkiss and Deadhead were. After taking shelter beneath the carcass of a burned-out hovercar, she clutched the tool in her bloodied hand. Her only defense against the ruthless streets. Once she was out of danger, she could mourn her lost memory, but for now she maintained a vigilant watch—alone in a city where being raped meant you got off easy.

  ***

  "Breakfast is ready, sweetie."

  Magnius Zoleki glanced up from his pristine hoverbike toward his wife, who stood in the doorway with her arms crossed and a potent sneer stretched over her lips. He looked down to avoid her unnerving stare and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "Give me a minute."

  Lyneea shook her head at him the same way she did every morning before heading back inside the house. Just last week, she'd accused him of spending too much time on his pathetic hobby. Since lusting after his hoverbike was his sole vice, he figured she'd grow to accept it. But like most women, she never did.

  Without another thought, he returned his attention to his work. Every morning he meticulously waxed the piece of extraordinary machinery, more a work of art than a street machine. Villegas Motors custom produced a handful of them each year. Their serpent emblem adorned the electronic dash with its bejeweled eyes. He lost himself in the black chrome of the 724 engine and cleaned the last traces of dirt from its grooves. The paint boasted a glamorous name: ultraviolet tanzanite. The phrase "Tour de force" was embossed in the metal, a name Carlos Villegas had christened this masterpiece with. Hard to believe it was ten years old.

  Despite their inherent efficiency, they'd never caught on because they were tricky to control. Magnetodyne buffers had not been designed for use in quantities of two; stable maneuvering required four or more. Biking accidents soared over the years to become one of the leading causes of premature death. Most people rolled their eyes when he pulled up next to them, but everyone stared. It was one stigma he could live with.

  A phantom drop of water touched his hand. He glanced up at the dreary sky but realized it had been his imagination. Since moving to the seaside village of Bordelaise years ago, the weather cultivated its own personal vendetta against him. He sometimes found himself riding home in the rain after a perfectly clear day. Overcast mornings often produced no precipitation at all, except for the days he rode his hoverbike. The cruel joke summarized his life.

  His wrist implant chirped, and he sighed at the reminder of another long day of work ahead of him. He'd stuck around far longer than the minute he'd promised Lyneea. The two of them spent less and less time together anymore, a fact he had been trying to rectify but working twelve-hour days made it next to impossible.

  He darted back inside the house to the bathroom, where he washed his hands and combed his short peppery hair one last time. A week-old beard roughened his face the same as most men throughout Astra. He wore a waistcoat—something no one younger than fifty would be caught dead in. His designer shoes were a cross between loafers and military boots; he bought them in 2285 for two thousand dollars, and he planned to wear them until the day they fell apart.

  When he walked into the kitchen, he snatched a piece of toast from his plate and took a bite out of it. Lyneea stood in the corner of the room in her blue scrubs cursing about their housework robot. "Damn piece of Chara junk…"

  It was their third robot this year. For some reason, they never had much luck with them. One thing or another was always wrong: fried circuits, not following commands, sometimes they didn't turn on at all. When he sent them in for repair, no one could tell them what caused the problem. She claimed their shoddy workmanship was the issue, though his coworkers joked she had the touch of death. After hitting their current robot on the back a few times, it turned on and went about tidying up the house.

  He sauntered over to her and put his hands around her waist. Her warm mulatto skin imparted her with a perpetual tan. "Thank you for breakfast, baby. I'll see you tonight. We should go for a drive along the coast."

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. "In the Maclaurin? I'd like that. Hopefully the rain will stay away."

  After exchanging his leather jacket for a raincoat, he dashed out the door to avoid being late. He grabbed his VRD helmet off the porch and put it on before climbing onto the hoverbike. The moment he turned the key, the bike roared to life. He revved the engine and let its wicked howl wash over him. The sound roused the memory of his first time around the block on his very first bike. His soul still coursed with that love, and under its spell, the rest of the world disappeared.

  The virtual display from the dash sprung up inside his helmet. The dizzying information gave him a headache until he'd gotten used to the vivid gauges and readouts strewn across his visual threshold. In a neighboring driveway, Kenneth Dodd exited his beachfront villa and approached his vehicle. The burly man waved when he spotted the hoverbike, and Magnius returned the gesture to be polite.

  When he pulled away from his sprawling manor, he noticed ominous clouds on the western horizon. The bluish sunlight gave them an abnormal glow. On a clear day, a third of the aquamarine sky was filled with a sapphire gas giant: Nuage, a supergiant that orbited Vega once every eleven years.

  Fantasti approximated a fairy tale world in the truest sense. Their erratic day-to-night schedule and distance from Vega gave rise to an abundance of unusual plants in all shades of the rainbow with needles for leaves and wide branching structures that grew no more than a few meters high. From afar the pinnon trees resembled cotton candy, but they were hell to deal with. He'd returned looking like a war veteran rather than a manager after pruning them on more than one occasion.

  The sky was by far the most amazing sight on Fantasti. Many considered this moon to be the most beautiful place in Astra. On clear days and nights, the violent storms of Nuage unfolded above in stunning patterns. He'd often sit in the backyard and watch the battle rage in those hydrogen-helium clouds—a war of epic proportions to protect its precious diamond core.

  The fishery sat on the coast ten miles away down a rural highway. Part of him resented his parents for burdening him with the task of managing it. He should've sold it, but he felt indebted by blood. Now, all the frustrations were his.

  On the open road he and his machine merged into a single entity to which the world didn't exist anymore. The warm air caressed him as he sailed at breakneck speeds, and the temporary rush liberated his mind. He needed a vacation before the demands of everyone else came crashing down and broke him. But for now, cathartic jaunts on his hoverbike would have to suffice.

  He parked in h
is usual spot outside his office window near a peach pinnon and crouched to avoid its razor-sharp needles. When he replaced his helmet in the storage compartment beneath his seat, he didn't see his briefcase. In his haste to leave home, he'd forgotten it and all the documents for his meeting with the food safety commission today. He had no time to return for it.

  Morning dew soaked the pavement, and the scent of fresh rain blew in off the ocean. When he jogged inside, he could taste the sea salt on his lips. His brisk stride led him straight to the entrance of the toffee-colored building covered in stucco.

  "Good morning, Mr. Zoleki."

  Magnius heard his secretary greet him the instant he opened the door to the main office. He took off his coat and fished out a pair of glasses, tinted beige to match his cravat. A holdover fad from the late 70's that faded when ascots made a brief comeback.

  He forced himself to smile. "Good morning, Justine. How was your weekend?"

  She flipped her long black bangs away from her eyes and grinned. "Fabulous. I spent it holed up in Cardinal Point with Alex."

  "Alex, I keep hearing about the fabulous Alex." As he approached her desk, he took off his coat and draped it over his left arm. "You two getting hitched anytime soon?"

  Justine lowered her head and blushed. "Doubtful. You know my luck when it comes to men. I'm a freak magnet. Remember the last one?"

  "You mean, Jon, the one who peed in the sink all the time?"

  "No, Eddie…the one who wore more make-up than I did." She sighed and rustled through the mess of paraphernalia on her desk before thrusting a large, tablet computer into his hands. "You are in the news today."

  On the screen blazed a picture of him leaving a restaurant with Lyneea, presumably when they'd gone out Saturday evening. He scanned the headline: Zoleki's Date Night. Magnius grimaced when he noticed it was the handiwork of Leslie White. "It must've been a slow weekend for Viva Vega. I don't suppose she's stopped hounding me for an interview."