Neon Sands Trilogy Boxset: The Neon Series Season One

by Adam J. Smith

  When the ion blast swept across the plains, it also discharged the electrical devices of any stored charge, which, considering the timing of it, made the prolonged and early nights of the winter months frustrating for those addicted to their screens and radiowaves. Elissa didn’t mind it so much; if she wasn’t working in The Crank or visiting friends, she was actually a sleep addict. Lying in was her favourite pastime.

  Maybe she’d get plenty of time to lie-in now, she thought. Still seething from Quintessa’s coldness – she had certainly earned her ice queen nickname – all she could think of was Rohen. And there he was, peering out the window; and there, walking towards her down the middle of the street, young and kicking a small ball; and there, an older one with a face of bushy hair whose eyes were nevertheless unmistakeable. At the end of the street she turned towards the southern end where the single shacks and the makeshift garages and repair-shops stood, catching the last of the rays. So close to the plains, this ramshackle, disorganised area, known popularly as Bottom-Out, always felt as though it had its back turned to the dome. She liked this area, despite her desire to one day see the city. All the front doors opened out towards the plains, including The Crank’s, which she passed on her right; a three-storey affair with an orange adobe exterior and stucco walls inside. A neon-built cog and handle hung from a gently swaying sign.

  “Elissa!” shouted July, waving. “Where you off to in a hurry?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “How’d it go? I know you’re not working tonight but if you’re free we could do with a hand, and you can tell me all about it.”

  She paused and turned back towards the seating area where July was busy handing out drinks from a tray. Fidget, Dorran and French were in their usual place, dealing out cards with spare seats around them for anyone who cared to join, same hair thinning and greying. They gave her a smile and took their drinks from July eagerly, then Fidget said “Not working, Eli? Come join us!”

  “I’m sorry, busy.”

  “Doing what?” French asked. “Come and tell us about the race.”

  “She went to see Quintessa today,” said July, standing with her hand on her hip. She didn’t sell herself off, but she didn’t sell herself short; The Crank’s red top cut low and her calf-length skirt slashed up her leg. Elissa recalled her saying once, while applying makeup in the bathroom, “Most of ‘em don’t want a fuck, they’re just like the rest of us – they want a home.” Elissa had liked her ever since, but right now she wished she’d keep her mouth shut.

  The group of brothers all oooo’ed in unison, and then Fidget pulled out a chair and patted it. “Get her a drink, July. Eli, come, sit.”

  “I’m not a dog, Fidge.”

  “Far from it, my dear.”

  She looked at the chair. Looked at their faces – it was Rohen’s face, but it was also all the faces of the people she cared about. Could she kill Rohen in cold blood? Look at that face and... do whatever it was she was going to do? And what exactly was that anyway? She felt her heart and breathing calming down. She didn’t look, but she knew her hands were shaking slightly at her sides. She made fists, then smiled and let the tension run down from her shoulders and out through her fingertips. To be honest, she could do with a drink.

  “Yet again, you twist my leg.”

  “Good girl,” said Fidget, patting the chair. “Deal you in?”

  She sat down. “So long as it’s just a friendly game. Sorry, July, I guess I had a better offer.”

  July smirked, resigned. “I’ll get your usual.”

  “I’ll fill you in tomorrow, unless someone else does first.” She watched July go and then turned to the guys. Maybe she’d taken this route on purpose. She smiled at each one of them, as they waited for her to speak. Their looks just dampened her temper further. She didn’t know what she could do about Rohen; it was one thing to try and trap him inside the canyon or make the bastard crash, but another to get blood on her own hands.

  “So?” said Dorran.

  “I think I need that drink first.”

  They nodded, and they played the first hand of crash while July fetched the drink. The temperature had dropped by two degrees. The heat tended to expose the general body odour smell of the south of the town, worse on days of no wind. But the breeze was consistent at the moment. The four of them sat quite comfortably in the shade of The Crank, which itself hid the dome from view. Out of sight, out of mind. A plunge into ignorance, or apathy, she couldn’t decide. She’d often wondered what they could achieve if every last one of them charged the dome, or the soldiers and politicians that came from it. The occasional visitor. But the city was a fortress.

  Visitor... she thought.

  “Here,” said July, appearing with the drink.

  Elissa took the bloody Mary and painted her lips red. “Thanks.” She squeezed July’s arm.

  Inside, someone started to shout. “Guess I better see what that is,” said July, turning around.

  Elissa returned to her cards. She studied them. Intently. Catching the peering eyes over the top of her cards. “Sooo,” she said. “Is it my turn?”

  “It’ll be closing time by the time you spill,” said Dorran.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she smiled, placing her prial of cards. “Where to start?”

  “How about with that guy you picked up.”

  “Well, I was just thinking about him.” They continued playing their hands. “I was thinking, we’re all here assuming he came from over the sand, but what if he’s from the city. Like, a visitor who, I don’t know. Was doing something he shouldn’t be.” She shook her head. “No, no, now I say it out loud, that’s just not likely. He was stained the colour of the sand, and he was burned from the sun, and what would a visitor be doing so close to the edge to begin with?”

  “Did he say anything when you found him? Couldn’t pick that up on the camera.”

  “He was pretty much out of it. I think he mumbled something about the sun, but his throat was drier than our pumps on celebration day, all raspy.”

  “And did you see him since? Is that why you went to see Quintessa?” asked Fidget.

  “Nope, not seen him since.”

  “He’s alive?”

  “From what she told me. He’s got sunstroke, nothing new there. Waiting for him to come around.” She thought of the bag he had. The one under her bed. He’d want it back, for sure. She felt a sudden satisfaction at having lied to Quintessa. But why hadn’t she opened it yet?

  “Well, he sure ain’t one of us!” said Dorren.

  “Ain’t got our ugly mug, eh Eli?” laughed French.

  “That’s for sure.”

  “So what did the ice queen herself want? Besides the pleasure of your presence, of course.”

  “Not much, really. Just to wind me up and make herself feel big. Asked me questions about the guy, but I couldn’t help her. Who won that round?”

  “Me,” said Dorran, pegging the scores. He reached out to the cribbage board and the multiple scars in the crook of his arm glistened as though wet.

  “Those Matrons are the worst,” she said.

  Dorran caught her eye. “These?” he shrugged. “I got off light.”

  St

  ranger

  On the rooftop of her small apartment – just a one-room job with an attached bathroom – Elissa lay beneath the stars. The night was quiet, and cool, and the only smell on the air was the faint scent of the chemical toilet, as the pipes converged nearby and were probably leaking. She could see the curved cap of the city’s lights, a blue hue in the distance that hung like a halo above the skyscrapers. She thought of the people living beneath that aura, breathing the shared air, and pulled her blanket closer to her face. Were they sleeping with one thin blanket on a broken spring mattress? Were they awake, and partying? Did they know hardship?

  Many nights were spent like this, waiting for her eyelids to finally pull a curtain across the city and the questions and the jealousy. But maybe she had nothing to be jealous of
– she didn’t know for sure that life was any better beneath the dome. She breathed deeply. She focused on the stars. She turned her gaze to the darkness in the south where the stars ended.

  She returned home about an hour earlier and went straight for the water tank, gulping down the water to thin the remaining alcohol in her stomach, and then splashed some on her face. The room stilled, but at the sacrifice of her tiredness. Her bed no longer looked so inviting, but poking from underneath was the stranger’s bag. She grabbed it and left for the roof.

  She hugged it close now, perched up with her back against the raised camp-bed and wondering about the lives beyond the sand mountain instead of those within the dome walls. She’d put everything back inside the bag and clutched it tight: the empty flasks and empty metal box that had crumbs of bread or biscuits floating around in its bottom; the wrapped and dried sausage meat; an array of rough shirts and shorts like nothing she’d ever seen before – grey, almost green, and thick – and a tan leather jacket. The jacket was branded with the word ‘SANCTUM’ and beneath that, ‘Crawler Crew’. She’d also returned a notebook filled with stories and drawings, that on the inside page had the inscription ‘Annora’s Random Stuff’. Throughout were drawings of faces, often crudely sketched, but she recognised the stranger in a few of them (Calix), and wasn’t sure what to make of the giant, tank-like things called ‘Crawlers’ that Annora drew ploughing through the sand. On another page, she thought it was a badly drawn Neon City, but on closer inspection, the buildings inside were fewer and smaller and she realised this was a much, much smaller version. This ‘Sanctum’ that was branded to the jacket. She read what amounted to journal or diary entries, and as she was flicking through, a drawing fell out; a full-page portrait signed by someone called Kirillion, and of obviously better quality. The lines were softer. Shading sympathetic. Maybe this was Annora.

  She looked back up to the stars and tried to imagine a life without the sun, with clouds that never parted. Where the sand was an ever-present and from where Calix had lived – lived – his entire life up until now. He’d been so red on his forehead, and the cheeks above his thin but bushy beard. No surprise really if he’d never had the sun on his skin before. Have you woken up yet? she thought. What questions would they ask you – and how much would you tell them?

  Did you know your life was in danger?

  She’d been thinking it over ever since discovering the contents of the bag.

  “Calix,” she rolled her tongue over his name. “Cal. What was so bad about your life you had to risk it, climbing the mountain?” And when you wake up, what will they do to you? Quintessa wouldn’t want word to get out that there was life beyond the mountain. She didn’t like anything to stir the status quo. Frita was on the same wavelength. Only Kali seemed to have some semblance of honesty about her, but they ruled as a trio, and she would be out-heard.

  “They’ll kill you.” Since reaching this conclusion she had lay here turning the possibilities over and over in her mind, trying to see a different outcome. And struggling. “They’ll kill you, and say you died of sunstroke, and if I asked too many questions, they’d kill me too.” The words came out barely a whisper, just trying them out in the real world and finding it added weight to her assertion.

  She returned to her apartment to grab her jacket and put on her boots. She didn’t know what she was going to do. She needed to walk. Maybe walking would clear her mind and she’d find a solution.

  Outside in the street, all was clear. A few people favoured the night to the day, preferring to sleep through the heat, but they were also the kind of people who kept to themselves anyway. Avery’s light glowed blue from his window, but the other windows as she walked through the shadows were dark. She passed The Crank and saw July and Ink inside towards the back, just closing up and turning off the lights. She had a shift in the morning and she noted the mess that had been left for her – nothing new. She did the same. Further down the street, it gave way to the main avenue that led back towards the centre of the town, and she turned left. It was wide, and she could see the triad of towers ahead, each with their single skyward spotlight that met to form a point a few hundred feet in the air. She thought, I guess I’m going this way.

  The brick-paved avenue was lined by buildings with large, dusty grounds surrounding them, fenced in with chainlink to keep unwanted guests out, or the children in. These were family homes, linked by the southside school for the trueborn. Scrap-built sheds with solar oven chimneys nestled against the sides of walls, with condensers overhanging the rooftops for those who could trade for them. She didn’t particular like condensed water – it tasted faintly of the town itself, all stale breath and armpits. The Crank turned it into alcohol, and of course that made it palatable. It would have been nice to have one for daily showers though. As it was, the well-water tasted fresh and clean and was delivered daily to her street’s water tank.

  Some of the homes she passed had water tanks of their own with an inlet pointing towards the street. For those who did not, like every street, there was the shared water tank. Fights could break out if the daily ration was hogged by an early riser, but luckily, on Elissa’s street, people were largely conscientious.

  Here and there, scrap had been used to bolt extensions to the sides of buildings, or build extra rooms on the rooftop. Families grow. The town had been growing for decades. Some said it was reaching breaking point.

  Elissa thought so long as there were women like her, it wouldn’t reach breaking point for a while yet. You’d have to be beyond selfish to bring a child into a world like this. Her own parents; a train-girl who had once been a minister for the court of criminal proceedings, and an orphan (she preferred to think of her father this way, rather than as a brother) who worked as a mechanic, had both died when she was thirteen. They never worked out exactly what it was that ate away at her mother’s insides, giving her beautiful, once-bronze face its early, ghostly hue. Skin that turned transparent, followed by her eyes. Probably some form of cancer. Her father’s diagnosis was somewhat easier to figure out. He was found in a heap on the plains with dried blood on his wrists. His blood caked in the cracks of the tundra.

  She passed the school on the left, and then came to an empty home. A child’s scooter lay in the yard, left behind. By now, Leora and Deo were settling in to their new lives under the dome. She had wished them both well, and got Leora to promise to at least try and get word out to them, if at all possible. But no-one ever had. She, and indeed many other winners, had described the ecstatic feeling of knowing they no longer had to hide from the sun, or struggle with the monotony of everyday life, but hated having to sacrifice their friends and extended family.

  “They’re in a better place,” Elissa had said to others as they waved them off – as though they were heading into the afterlife.

  After life.

  The renunciation was always something that made Elissa feel uneasy, if she thought about it for too long.

  The buildings began to turn inwards at this point, part of the inner circle. When young, the town had expanded through concentric circles of streets with the triad of towers in the middle, and the buildings built with reverence in mind. As time went on, its inhabitants began to turn their backs and spread out, becoming increasingly marginalised and distant. The town spread to the south with distant shacks and garages, where hoverbikes were fine-tuned for the plains and non-televised races, orbiting like lonely, stationary satellites. North, a seemingly invisible barrier halted the progression of those homes, and they stacked up, standing tall, as though to emulate the skyscrapers they looked towards.

  Elissa had often walked through the Northern District, enjoying the height of it, and its proximity to the city. Imagined looking out the front window, the city lights painted across its pane. She had wanted, and part of her still wanted, very badly, to go to the city. But who needed that constant reminder? To be teased like that? It was there, it wasn’t going anywhere, and working yourself up about it was poin
tless. That was her rationale.

  That and her father. She hadn’t truly known him, only in the way a young daughter can know any father, until she grew up and begun to have a life of her own. But she knew it must have been hard for him; her friendships with the various brothers were like discovering puzzle pieces of his personality that she could put together to bring him back to life. She knew that in Fidget’s humour, Gentle Joe’s sadness, and even – though she hates to admit it – in Rohen’s darkness, she can see her father.

  Kali, who she so wished had Calix under her wing, had set up the Institute for Children of the Brothers, the ICB. Specifically, for those children who had lost their father. For those who didn’t want to go crazy, seeing their not-fathers every day, just walking down the street. Selling them food. Cleaning their windows. Sitting on a bar-stool and – this was one for the daughters – being hit upon. Many of the brother’s daughters had tattoos on the opposite brow to their fathers; a simple tribal design inspired by the genetic code that defined them, which would halt unwanted advances.

  Not Elissa. Those who knew Elissa knew she was such a daughter, because she was open about it. She had attended an ICB meeting and been met with every mental connotation; from those who were on the brink of suicide because they could not get over their grief – seeing ghosts everywhere – to those daughters who perversely engaged in attracting the men that looked like their father. She had been thirteen when she went for the first and only time, just weeks after his suicide, and she had looked around and known this was not for her. Not because it wasn’t useful, but because it was unnecessary.