“Where am I?” he asked, sitting up. Quintessa took a step back as he swung his legs to the floor. He suddenly held his head in his hands.
“You have to take it easy,” said Whisper.
“You are a guest in my palace... mister...?”
There was confusion among the grimaced expression on his face. “Mister?”
“Your name.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know your own name? Where did you come from?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know your own name? You don’t know where you came from? You don’t know where you are? Did you have a visitor last night? What did she want?”
“Last night?”
“Yes!” stamped Quintessa. Whisper glanced down at her Grace’s heels to see if they were damaged. The glass may be hardened, but it wouldn’t be the first heel to have snapped. “Someone came to see you last night. Who was she?”
The unnamed man shook his head, clamped it between the palms of his hands and rolled back onto the bed, groaning quietly.
Quintessa turned to her. “Whisper!” she said, exasperated. “Do something!” The knee bent slightly, but did not stamp this time.
“I...” Do what? “I...” she looked from Quintessa to the man and back to Quintessa, and finally bent over him again. “More water?”
“Head. Pounding.”
“I could get you some salve to cool your head. We have medicinal alcohol, but I’m not sure you should have that until you’ve drank a lot more water.”
“Anything. To make. Me better.”
“Okay, I’ll be right back. Do you really not know your name? It would be better to be able to call you something.”
“No,” he groaned again.
“Okay,” she turned to a displeased Quintessa. “Maybe we should let him get a bit better, your Grace. Maybe he’ll remember once the fever’s gone completely.”
Quintessa huffed, and pierced him with her cold stare, as though this alone could cool him down and cure him. Her Grace could be impatient. Whisper hated disappointing her, but what else was there for it?
“I’ll keep a close eye on him and if he says anything, I’ll come straight to you.”
“Be sure that you do.” And she was gone, undamaged heels clacking down the hallway.
Whisper put a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “I’ll get some cooling salve.” And left to go to her room. This whole situation was very strange, and completely unheard of. Where could this stranger be from? He must be from here somewhere, but no-one has been reported missing. Maybe he’s just a loner and no-one has missed him. Then why was he so far out on the plains? Did he go there to get a view of the race? So many questions she was eager to ask him herself, and she was glad she would get the chance. She had to do it, both for Quintessa, and herself.
It was exciting! Hardly anything exciting happened round here, except proposals and courtships in the shadows, or midnight trysts as girls hopped beds, or bickered among each other, usually over resources and whose queen merited the most need. Now that the city politicians had collected their blood and dropped off their convoy of goods – the Liberty Day celebrations well and truly over with the last of the ribbons, flowers, decorations and food just about cleaned up – this place desperately needed something to keep the butterflies fluttering in the stomach. She had to get the stranger fixed, and talking!
As she rummaged through her cabinet for her personal suncream, she remembered how he’d looked at her, with his dark hair tousled across his forehead and eyebrows. She wondered how he’d look with a haircut and a shave. Maybe she’d give him a makeover next time he was passed out. Then she remembered how he had shifted in the bed as she ran the soapy cloth up his inner thigh and then washed his private area, and thought maybe scissors so close to his head might not be the best idea. She’d seen them before though, obviously (just call it a cock, she thought) and often; the walk of penance was a popular punishment for Frita to dish out whenever someone stepped out of line. But she’d never touched one before. Duty of care had obligated her to make sure he was okay, and that included being clean (he’d wet himself at some point). But when the softness had begun to thicken, she’d stepped back startled, and then pulled the blanket back over him. Then she’d gone for the bathrooms and showered.
Later that night, legs entwined with Starlight’s, she’d closed her eyes and imagined the fingers gently bringing her to conclusion were not fingers at all, but that thing, that word she was usually too shy to even spell out in her mind, but which now engulfed it.
Awakening
The girl returned. Calix wasn’t sure how old she was, twenty or twenty-one perhaps, but she seemed kind enough. Certainly kinder than that ice bitch. Between them and the girl from The Crank (had she really been the one to pick him up? he wondered) he was beginning to wonder if there were any men around at all.
His head had hurt, but not as badly as he was putting on. Elissa’s words kept playing through his mind, and if he was going to trust anyone around here right now, she seemed like the best bet. Especially after meeting, whoever she was. He didn’t want anything to do with her. He wanted to be far away from her. And this Elissa, she said she knew about Annora. What could she know? Did she know where Annora was?
I have to get out of here as soon as I can.
“I’m Whisper by the way,” she said cheerily.
“I had a bag with me,” he said, sitting with his back to the headboard. He’d looked around briefly while Whisper was gone, but it wasn’t under his bed or in the cupboard, and the drawers of the bedside table had been empty. The setup of the room, especially without a window, reminded him of the brig back in Sanctum. In fact, maybe he was underground; if he had been taken to a new town where strangers were frowned upon, it made sense to hide him away from everyone.
“We think you lost it somewhere on the plains,” Whisper said as she applied the salve to his forehead. It was cool and her fingers were soft and she was wearing a perfume he’d never smelled before. It was quite strong, as strong as Sanctum’s rose-scented hemp factory, and he recognised it as the full assault of the smell that wafted in through the door whenever it was opened. In fact, it was a little intoxicating; between that and the physicality of Whisper’s presence, he almost didn’t register that the bag was lost.
“Lost? No, that can’t be.”
“So you remember?” she smiled.
Shit. “I... remember having a bag. I was hoping it might have something inside to jog my memory.” Gotta be more careful, Calix. He swallowed and ran his tongue across his lips. Man, they were sore.
He recalled feeling like his face was on fire, between bouts of unconsciousness.
“Are we underground?”
“Underground? By Grace, no. Why ever would you think that?” She finished with the salve and returned the lid to the pot, putting it down on the table. “I’ll leave this here in case you need it. Would you like some more water?”
“Yes, please,” he smiled and could feel the scabs of his lips crack, and groaned.
“You okay?”
“My lips,” he replied, touching them with his fingertips. “Sore.”
Whisper nodded. “Take a few days to heal will they. Water’ll help.” She handed him a glass.
Again, he was reminded of Annora, tending to him in the arches under the crawler. He hoped this water wasn’t spiked. Too late now if it was.
“So, why did you think we were underground?” Her face may be innocent, beneath that headscarve and pigtails, but she would have the same intention as that other one.
“Just from, you know, the lack of windows. Who was the woman in here before?”
“Our Grace, Quintessa. Did you not recognise her?”
“I don’t recognise anyone.” Then, for good measure; “Even myself.”
“What about that cut up your side? Do you remember that?”
Had it really not been that long ago since he had fallen from th
e crawler? he thought. Felt like months. He lifted his arm and inspected the stitches; crudely sewn but they were doing the job, tying the fading black and blue together. “No. Do you think I might’ve banged my head when I did this? Do you think that’s why I can’t remember anything?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see any sign of head damage.”
Calix hmmed, and then asked where they were.
“We’re in our Grace, Quintessa’s tri-palace, of the matriarch’s triad, in the centre of our glorious town, of course.”
“A palace?”
“Sure.”
“Can I see?”
“I don’t know. How do you feel? Can you stand?”
“I should be able to. Maybe if I could look around, it might jog my memory.” And show me my escape route. Whisper seemed to waiver, so he stood and tried to quell the rising tension in his head – the throbbing returned to the area above his eyebrows but he tried not to show it. Before she could say anything, he asked, “Where’s my clothes?”
She fetched them from the cupboard, where he knew they were, and he put them on. They felt oddly soft and did not smell like him at all. This whole thing was unnerving; to find out, after all, that a whole other world really did exist over that gargantuan pile of immovable sand, something the wanderers and dome-dwellers had debated for years. He thought about the climb he’d undertaken and figured if any of those wanderers had ever tried, and not died, and found what he had found, it was little wonder that they had never returned to tell their story.
He was immediately curious and had to stop himself from asking Whisper. I’m not really very good at this, he thought. The sooner I’m out of here, the better. “Lead the way.”
He followed her out into the relative brightness of the hallway; somewhere around the curve of the walls was a window, as natural light flowed through the space. The smell was the same except it carried an undercurrent that reminded him of the west arch of the crawler where Annora had slept with Ardelia and Caia. “Are there any men here?”
“By Grace, no, except you of course. We have male guests sometimes, when they come from the city, but no men live here.” Whisper lead the way towards a flight of steps leading up.
“The city?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t remember the city.” When Calix failed to respond, she uttered something under her breath.
At the top of the flight of stairs were more girls and women; of all ages, most in white headscarves but some in other colours too, and they were all busy with something, sitting behind desks with sewing machines or pushing trolley carts across the room, or bent over ledgers scribbling furiously. One whole wall was glass, and through it came the sunlight – real, actual sunlight – he’d almost forgotten about the sun and how bright it had been, stinging his eyes. Rolling down the sand almost blind from it.
Even here he had to squint; watching as everyone stopped what they were doing to turn and gawk at him, whispers like the water-condensing white noise heard in the crawler eaves at night, cascading and falling in waves across the open space. She continued to lead; the smallest procession in history, he thought. Bodies remained rigid, but heads turned to follow them. Follow him. What kind of place was this where men weren’t allowed?
They came to another flight of stairs, and before ascending he spotted the tops of buildings through the window, and his heart fluttered. So many buildings. And if there were that many buildings, how many people were there?
Whisper continued up, and he heard the clamouring restart behind him. “That was one of our utility rooms – we’re in the rear of the palace where a lot of the work gets done, and these are the train-halls and stairway. Our Grace rarely comes down here.” The stairway began to spiral quite sharply, passing doorways with further rooms leading away, as Whisper continued: “We’re heading to the top now.”
“So we’re very high?”
“Highest point in town. Of course, nothing compared to the skyscrapers of the city.”
He almost asked ‘Skyscrapers?’ but held his tongue. He envisioned the tall buildings of the film archives and wondered, could there really still be some standing?
He didn’t have to wait long to find out. Whisper pushed out into a hot blast of dazzling light, raising an arm across her face and holding the door with the other. Calix stepped past, wishing he had his goggles but not wanting to ask, since that would mean he’d remembered something. The light burned, he knew that much; it felt as though the sun was singeing the hairs on his raised forearm. He kept his eyes to his shadow as he stepped out onto the balcony, marvelling at how defined it was. No blurred edges. A distinct blackness marked out against the yellow of the tiled flooring.
“You okay?” asked Whisper’s shadow, standing next to him.
“Fine.”
“So, recognise anything?”
He put his hand across his brow and slowly cast his eyes ever higher, finding first the balcony’s edge and then the empty space beyond. He stepped closer to it, and saw over it, and down, to the street far below where people moved, living their lives. Such different lives to his. So many people, down there, more than he’d ever imagined, yet looking up, the town sprawled out; flat rooftops of buildings clad with what looked like metal here, or some kind of clay substance there; many spoked with aerials and covered with a kind of canvas or tent that made him think of tent city above HQ back home. He was sure there must be colours if he got close enough, but from here it was all just whites and shades of yellows, even in the shadows the intensity of the sun seemed to pervade. His eyes ran with tears, but he couldn’t look away. At some point the buildings ended and the plains began, which shimmered, and he swore that what he saw next was some kind of crazy mirage: a glimmering woodland of green far thicker and far wider than anything from Sanctum’s Agridome. He couldn’t calculate distance, but he could see tree trunks that rose tall behind the shield of the dome, and topping those trunks, such foliage; it all merged into one dense forest that spanned almost the entire horizon, wrapping like a ribbon around – yes – the skyscrapers beyond. Sanctum had been tall. Its dome had touched the sky. This one before him now surely stretched into space itself: its top faded into a yellow ether and he imagined standing up there in the city’s watchtower – if it had one – and touching the stars.
And the skyscrapers, Holy Fuck the skyscrapers, he thought. This was just his vantage point, and there must be hundreds of them that he could see alone – thinking about this city in three dimensions, with all the people that must be living inside, made his head spin. This was something else. This was beyond. He thought of his hoverbike and his dream of chasing sand-devils from outpost to outpost, exchanging ghost and vodka and letters; or of staking out a convoy chain with Annora, growing old and settling down in some far flung dome they could rule together. This was beyond. He had wanted freedom, but he’d never imagined that something like this could be just over the horizon.
When Linwood had spoken of the city, of Neon City, this must have been the place he had in mind. He knew about this, and he never told us? Calix thought. But then he, and Kirillion, had had an agenda. One that Annora got tangled in.
She must be in there.
“Why?” started Calix. “Why are you here, when you could be there?”
Whisper groaned. “You still don’t remember? No flashes of memory? I was hoping this would work.”
“It’s…” he could barely keep his eyes on it, looking through narrow slits now. “I need to get there.”
“Why?”
“I… don’t know. I just know I need to get there.”
“You and half the town.”
“Half the town?”
“We can’t go there. They only allow one person, or one person and their family, twice a year. The winner of the Liberty Trials.”
“What’s that?” He could take it no longer and turned his back to the sun. Whisper stood before him, her white, flowing dress shifting loosely in the occasional gust of wind. She looked like some
kind of bronze goddess, how the sun deepened her complexion. The only giveaway was the whites of her eyes and the gleam of her teeth when she smiled.
“The race that got you. The girl who picked you up sacrificed her place in the race to grab you, not that she would have won. Leora went on to win and left just three days ago. Packed up, took her family with her, and was escorted away to the city as part of the Liberty Day celebrations. And none of this rings a bell?”
Calix felt suddenly warm, not from any outside source, but from within. And his temple began to throb. “I need to lie down.”
Sout
hside
Rohen was trapped. Perched southside of Bottom-Out, on the edge of the plains, with no real water service, and five minutes from the nearest water-butt, he was getting low. He thought of those who saved credits or else traded their time for a water condenser, and said “Fuck you and the DNA you rode in on. Fuck you and your privilege. Fuck your town. Fuck your city. Fuck the Matrons and fuck whoever had wanted my blood. Fuck my mothers and fathers and laboratory womb. Fuck this dance.”
Of course, no one could hear. Outside the window, heatwaves bloomed golden in the sun. Pawl, whose tattooist had probably been having a bad day when he wrote out his name above his eyebrow, was two hundred metres away. And beyond that; a concave façade of shack bungalows interconnected by a central courtyard, where Bevan, Grail and a few other old-timers lived.
He couldn’t be more disconnected if he tried.
It was the way he liked it.
Except now, it was a problem. The Matriarchs had officially pardoned him for Joe’s death, but he’d seen something in the faces of those who glared at him. Something that scared him. When he’d been punished for Georg’s death, it hadn’t even been close to this.
And now, when he walked the streets, two problems; those glares bore into him on every corner, because – and this was the second problem – their eyes were vacant when they first looked at his face, then down to his gimpy, limping leg, then back up to his face, where they saw the scrapes on his face, and then recognised him. His anonymity was gone. At least for now. “Fuck you, Joe. Fuck you, Elissa. Fuck you, leg.”
Neon Sands Trilogy Boxset: The Neon Series Season One Page 28
