The Skin Hunter Series Box Set

by Tania Hutley

  Some of the graffiti is so old that mold has grown over it. Leave anything for too long here, and it’ll go black. Sunlight never reaches down this far, not even at midday, and the darkest parts of the sidewalk are dangerously slippery.

  Once I’m back on the main street, cabs centipede past, flowing soundlessly in endless, joined-up strings, like beads on a necklace. Occasionally one pulls away from the string and stops to let someone off or on. I wish I could get in and stretch out on one of the comfortable seats, but without a working band I can’t get one to stop, let alone pay for it.

  Just ahead, the base of a massive New Triton walkway forms a roof over Old Triton that covers several blocks. Underneath it’d be pitch black, except the stalls that line the sidewalks are lit up with colored lights. Puddles of blue, red, and green reflect onto the sidewalk, glitching out my bad eye and making my dizziness worse. The stall’s owners call out to the people walking past, urging them to buy a bottle of street brew, or a sweet snack. None of them call out to me.

  There are public bathrooms here, and I think longingly of gulping down some water from the faucet, until I see the line of people waiting. The shelter will be quicker.

  But when I finally reach the shelter, I realize how bad a mistake I’ve made. It’s well past the start of the working day, and inside there are only night-shifters, already fast asleep. Not like when Rayne turned up at my shelter on a rainy night at dinnertime, when the doors were jammed open and there were too many grunts coming in for the scanners to work.

  I’m desperate enough to try Rayne’s band on the scanner anyway, swiping it again and again, pushing uselessly against the locked door until the stomper inside snarls at me.

  Nowhere to go, but back to the public bathroom. Every step I retrace is agony. Then I face a very long wait in a slow-moving line until I finally get to gulp down handfuls of water from a rusty faucet.

  I need to rest, but I can’t lie down here. Under the overpass, away from the stalls, it’s black as night. Every available corner is filled with rough sleepers. They rustle on plastic sheets, smash their empty bottles, and cough up phlegm from damaged lungs. A man with a matted black beard leers at me and fingers his crotch.

  Sleeping outside’s too dangerous. At least in a shelter if you scream loud enough the stompers might rouse themselves. If I stick around here and can’t get into the shelter tonight, what then? Where will I sleep?

  Stumbling out from under the overpass into gloom rather than darkness, I let myself sit down, leaning against the side of a giant cable that’s anchored into the sidewalk, stretching up into New Triton. My guts are arguing against the water and I have to fight to keep it down. My ribs ache and I ease my shirt up for a glimpse of the bruised skin underneath.

  No, don’t look. It won’t help.

  Exhaustion drags my eyelids down, but I can’t rest. I’ve got to get up. Just because it’s mid-morning and the city is filled with grunts doesn’t mean I’m safe.

  Forcing my eyes open, I see a red bug crawling along the cracked sidewalk. A ladybird. I push it onto my finger, then lift it to eye level. Seven black dots on a shiny red body. Lovely but fragile, and already missing two legs.

  “How’d you get here?” I say aloud. I haven’t seen a ladybug for years. Lots of insects are extinct now, and in dark, plant-free Old Triton all we get are cockroaches, spiders, and mosquitos. The ladybug must have fallen from New Triton.

  There’s no way it’ll survive down here. And neither will I.

  Lifting my finger above my lips, I gently blow it up, trying to help it fly back up to New Triton. That’s where we both need to go. I’ll follow the hope that Rayne’s band will magically let me into the Morelle scraper. Her name must have been on that list for a reason, and maybe it’s a reason that’ll keep me alive.

  Would I bet my life on it?

  When I fastened on Rayne’s band, that’s exactly what I did.

  I pull myself back onto my feet, and drag my aching body to the bullet station. When I reach it, the bullet is at the top, dropping down from New Triton. It’s a glass bubble that holds up to fifty people, but there’s only about fifteen other people waiting. It glides down to ground level and the door slides open. I let the others board before staggering in.

  “Ninety credits.” The door doesn’t close and a mechanical voice repeats, “Ninety credits.”

  Fifteen weary pairs of eyes swivel to me. Damn, I forgot about the fee. Ninety credits is a day’s wages, too much for most sinkers to waste on unnecessary trips to New Triton.

  I lift Rayne’s band to the bullet’s payment terminal. When the terminal asks me to confirm the payment, I press my finger against my band’s DNA sensor in the crazy hope it’ll work. Of course nothing happens. It’s so frustrating I feel like banging the band against the terminal, but I could beat my arm bloody and it wouldn’t do a bit of good.

  The others in the bullet stare at me with varying levels of distaste. By their lined, pale faces I can tell most are sinkers headed up to New Triton for work. Housekeepers, janitors, and dishwashers, doing the jobs the floaters don’t want. And pressed against the back of the bullet, as far away from the sinkers as possible, are two floaters. They’re dark-skinned teenaged boys in expensive clothing, wearing sunglasses to hide their eyes. They have matching expressions of bored arrogance.

  Sinkers can get a free bullet ride if they’re traveling up for work, but obviously Rayne doesn’t qualify. The only way I’m getting up to New Triton is if somebody’s willing to pay for my trip.

  Unlikely.

  I’d better get off the bullet.

  There’s a public stairwell next to the bullet that costs forty credits to get into, but I can’t even pay one credit, and even if I could, there’s no way I’d be able to climb twenty-eight floors.

  One sinker makes a show of checking the time on his band. When his gaze lifts back to me, I meet his eyes. “Sorry, my band’s glitching. It won’t let me pay.”

  “Then get out.”

  “I need to go up.”

  He clicks his tongue in disgust. “You’re making me late for work.”

  A woman with sunken eyes speaks up, agreeing with him. The angry murmurs build as I stand my ground, waiting. Hoping for a miracle. My desperation must be written across my face, as plain as my scars.

  Finally, one of the floaters pushes off from where he’s lounging against the back wall of the bullet. “Fucksake,” he mumbles, swiping his band to cover my fee.

  I try to thank him, but he moves back to his friend and turns his back on me. The door slides shut and I brace myself as the bullet shoots up to New Triton.

  At the top, the door opens onto a paved square. I blink and squint against the sudden brightness. My cybernetic eye’s supposed to filter out sunlight, but instead it whites out, leaving me half blind.

  New Triton is a much newer city, though its scrapers start down below, in Old Triton. As each towering scraper thrusts up through the New Triton street, it changes its character completely. Down in Old Triton, the scrapers’ bases are rough concrete shells crammed with factories and the overcrowded shelters the corporations are forced to provide. Up here, the same scrapers soar into the sky, filled with luxurious apartments and office buildings.

  And New Triton streets aren’t like the ones in the city below. There are no fried noodle vendors, pickpockets, or vendors selling drinks from ramshackle lean-tos. Instead, New Triton’s bright, wide sidewalks are lined with fancy stores with big windows, filled with clothes and appliances I could never afford. The city smells fresher, and there’s plenty of sunshine to grow plants. Scanning the windows, it seems almost all of them hold a potted flower or shrub.

  There are no factories or shelters in New Triton, and no rough sleepers. Rumor is that if you try to sleep rough up here, the stompers will throw you off the edge. I can believe it.

  My feet drag as I force them onwards, and I can’t even summon the energy to peer over the barriers that line the edges of the walkways to catc
h glimpses of Old Triton far below.

  The sun lifts, and the higher it gets, the less shade is cast by the scrapers. After a while, the heat’s almost as bad as working with super-heated machines in the factory, but if I take off my coat, I’ll either have to carry it or leave it behind. All the glass and steel up here bounces the light around so I’m squinting, almost blind. My lips are so dry they’re swollen and split. When I lick them, they sting.

  At least I’m going the right way. The Morelle scraper is by far the tallest building in New Triton, and it has a distinctive glass roof that intensifies the sunlight, making it way too bright to look at. It’s like a giant lighthouse that towers over the other buildings. But no matter how far I walk, it doesn’t seem to get any closer.

  I’m not used to being in the sun. It’s burning my pale, sinker face. It saps what little energy I have, and my head is so hot it’s pounding.

  As it gets even harder to shuffle one foot in front of the other, I imagine how easy it would be to lie down by the side of the road. Nobody would stop. Not the cabs whizzing past. Not the floaters hurrying past me on the sidewalk. I could pull my coat over my face and fall asleep. Maybe I’d never wake up.

  The only thing that keeps me going is the hope someone in the Morelle scraper will take pity on me. They won’t let me die on their front steps, will they? They’ll have to at least give me a drink.

  My feet scuff along the ground. I’m not really walking anymore, more like falling and catching myself. The scraper’s a mirage. I’m never going to get there.

  But when I round a corner, suddenly it’s in front of me.

  Steps lead up to oversized glass doors. There are two security guards. I can tell they’re not stompers because their heavy boots are shorter, lacing up to the ankle instead of mid-calf, and their uniforms are red instead of black. My heart still plummets. I stop, feeling myself sway. My legs are weak and the pain in my head makes it hard to think. How can I get past them?

  Through the mist in front of my good eye I see a woman in high heels get out of a cab and go up the steps, then everything blurs. Did she go through the door? Did the guards stop her? I blink, trying to see, but the guards are just two hazy blobs now.

  No way will they let a sinker in. Only I’m not a sinker any more, am I? I’m Rayne. And if they don’t let me in I’m going to fall onto their shiny marble staircase and I don’t think I’ll have the strength to get up again.

  I barely get to the bottom of the steps before they’re on me. One guard grabs me by the shoulder. His rough grip sends a jolt of pain through me so strong that I cry out. The other stands in front of me, his nose screwed up. His face is moving, swinging up close then far away. Is he swaying, or am I?

  I try to talk but nothing comes out. My mouth isn’t working. The guard snaps something, but his voice is jumbled. I can’t see him now. Stupid blurred vision. I can’t see a thing, even out of my real eye. Where’ve they gone?

  My legs sag and I fall.

  Chapter Three

  I wake up in a small room, lying on a bed. When I open my eyes, there’s a woman in a white coat standing over me, watching me.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks. Her accent is pure New Triton. Floaters speak slow and lazy, each word like a little fat man rolling out of bed.

  “Um.” My voice is croaky and my vision’s still blurry in my bad eye. “My head hurts.”

  “That should fade soon.” She glances at a desk cluttered with bottles, cloths, a jug, and some other things I’m not sure of. “Would you like some water?” And when I nod, “Can you sit up?”

  It hurts to move, but the woman eases me onto another pillow, lifting my shoulders and tucking in the support behind me as if she’s done it lots of times. Is she a doctor? There’s a needle stuck into the crook of my arm, connected to a plastic tube, and I finger it, wanting to pull it out.

  “That’s just electrolytes, but I think you’ve had enough now anyway,” says the woman. She takes the needle out and sticks a tiny adhesive bandage over the single drop of blood that wells up, which is pretty funny considering the beating I took and the purple bruises on my arms. “You were severely dehydrated. And when I scanned you for nanoceuticals you came up clean, so I gave you some shots to speed up your healing. Of course, I’m supposed to get your signature on the right forms before treating you, so don’t tell anyone, will you?”

  She smiles, her cheeks dimpling. Her face looks older and more weathered than most floaters, with laugh lines around her eyes as though she hasn’t been tweaked. She’s even let her wispy hair go a little gray, and strands of it are falling out of her bun. I like her face. She reminds me of Ma, the way she looked before William was born.

  At the thought of Ma, my heart contracts. My hand goes to my useless band, but I turn the movement into something else at the last minute, scratching my arm instead. Is my secret still safe?

  The doctor fills a cup with water for me. It feels so good going down my throat, I can’t decide whether to gulp it, or let it trickle down to ease the aching.

  “I got rid of your dirty clothes,” she says. “The blood was worrying, but most of it didn’t seem to be yours?”

  “No.”

  She waits for me to say more, and when I keep silent she refills my cup with more water.

  “Where am I?” I ask. “In hospital?” From what I can see above the sheets, I’m dressed in a clean white smock. But I can smell myself. I stink.

  “You’re in the Morelle Corporation building.” She sounds surprised. “I’m a doctor, though I don’t normally have patients. My name’s Doctor Gregory, head of the Skin development team. I was assigned to look after the competitors, but I didn’t expect anyone would need medical attention so soon.”

  “Competitors?”

  Instead of answering, she frowns. “Can you tell me your name?”

  “Rayne Walker.” I stare into her eyes as I say it, and when she accepts that answer I make sure not to let my relief show.

  “Your date of birth?”

  Uh-oh. I don’t know Rayne’s birthday.

  I stay silent and the doctor gets a small flashlight off the desk. “Please look up.” She shines it into my good eye, pulling my bottom lid down. Then she picks up a scanner and presses it against my forehead. “Did you hit your head?”

  “Don’t think so.” The scanner starts beeping. What’s it measuring? “Maybe,” I say, changing my answer. If I hit my head, is that an excuse for not knowing my birthday?

  “Do you know the name of our president?”

  “President Trask.”

  “That’s right. And what day is it?”

  “Friday?” It takes me a while to answer, and I’m not sure I’ve got it right. How long was I unconscious? Is it day or night? The room has a window but the glass is opaque, its control panel set into the wall beside it.

  The doctor clicks her tongue. “Your temperature is normal now, but you were in bad shape. Cracked ribs, a perforated ear drum, concussion, swelling of your abdominal organs, hematoma, severe bruising and sunburn.” She shakes her head. “I should have waited for you to wake up before offering you the nanotech shots, but without them you’d be in a lot of pain.”

  I shift, wincing a little, although she’s right about me being a lot less sore than I should be after the beating I took. Problem is, whatever she gave me has to be expensive, and there’s no way I can pay.

  “You should heal quickly,” she says. “I’ll give you some lotion to keep your skin moist while the sunburn fades. I’m concerned about your memory loss, but hopefully it’ll improve after a meal and a good night’s rest.”

  Does she mean I’ll get to eat, and then sleep in an actual bed with sheets and pillows? It sounds too good to be true.

  The doctor speaks into her band. “A light meal for 401. Soup, please.” Looking at me she explains, “Easy to digest.”

  She packs her equipment into a bag, and a man in a white uniform comes in with a tray. The smell hits me first and my st
omach growls so loudly that the doctor laughs. “This might be the best medicine yet.”

  The man puts the tray on my lap, then leaves. The soup’s thick and steaming, and there’s a bread roll and a sweet drink that’s delicious. The doctor sits on the edge of my bed. Because she’s watching, I try not to gobble the meal too quickly.

  “Rayne, may I ask a couple of questions before I go?” she says. “I’m curious as to why you don’t have a bag with you. Not so much as a change of clothes?”

  Suddenly the bread roll is hard to swallow. “Um. I was robbed on the way here, and my bag was stolen. That’s how I got hurt, trying to fight off the men who stole it.”

  “Oh dear. I wondered if it was something like that. You should report the theft, although it’s unlikely the police will be able to find your belongings after this much time has passed.”

  Call the stompers? They actually help people who get robbed in New Triton?

  I shoot her as sincere-looking a smile as I can manage. “Thanks, I’ll do that.”

  “And would you like me to speak with your parents, to reassure them you’ll make a full recovery?”

  She means Rayne’s parents, of course. I can hardly ask her to call Ma.

  “No, that’s okay. I left home a couple of years ago, and I’ve been working in a factory in Old Triton. My parents don’t want anything to do with me.” Just as she promised, my headache is gone. I feel clear-headed enough for the lies to flow easily.