Neon Sands Trilogy Boxset: The Neon Series Season One

by Adam J. Smith

  He looked up.

  “Get a load of this,” he said as Elissa bumped his shoulder.

  “Crazy.”

  “My head hurts if I try to think how high this goes.”

  “Consider this,” she said, taking steps forward. “There’s more people living in this tower than there are probably on the whole of the plains. Maybe even your sands. Combined.”

  He shook his head. “How? How can... how could this all exist and we never knew?” Part of him, however illogical, took a certain comfort from the thought that Annora would have shared the same awe.

  Good, good. He let loose his stomach butterflies; let them lead his legs with renewed vigour. This was one step closer. Every step, was one step closer.

  “I knew,” said Elissa, turning around. She must’ve seen his bewilderment on his face for she understood he was thinking about those in Sanctum and the surrounding sand, and smiled. “Come on, before we get any questions. Remember, we have to blend in, not look like tourists.”

  There were some words he knew that had never held any meaning for him, like ‘tourist’. An abstract kind of understanding, but now he was beginning to see things in a new light. A whole language of words that might begin to take on more importance.

  That was almost as exciting as wherever they were going next. “Lead the way.”

  Those nodding heads – their owners were distant now, some having walked towards the ends of the towers, or into the heart where the – he was guessing – lift shaft was. Elissa aimed right, and the rain began to fall again. He’d become so accustomed to the heat, and been so distracted, he hadn’t noticed the slight drop of temperature, and now it was raining, he was glad for long sleeves. Elissa’s arms were bare, and she tucked them into her chest.

  “Shall we find shelter?” he called out.

  A trainlink whistled by overhead and landed further down.

  “Wanna go for a ride?”

  ***

  They took a seat inside the car, knee to knee, and hand in hand. Elissa squeezed him tight as they began to move. They didn’t quite have it to themselves; no-one else had embarked so seven or eight pairs of eyes had shifted their way. Watched them closely, Calix thought. Too closely. They focused on the floor in front of them with their bills hiding their faces in shadow, and they swayed as they rose and moved along the rail. Her weight felt good on his right as momentum pushed him into her. He kept his left leg braced at an angle to the floor for the inevitable halt when she would push back.

  After a while, he dared to look up. In contrast to the darkness outside, it was bright; the striplighting yellowed and old, though, like the aged walls of Sanctum. Holographic projectors displayed a rolling video stream of what looked like a mixture of news and sports results. They even have sports here! He used to dream of basketball games as a kid. Whooping and cheering in the crowd. Perhaps if they’d had a basketball he would have dreamed of actually being on the court.

  He quickly checked eyes – no-one was looking at him, or even up at the projection; Why did everyone look so miserable? – and so he tilted his head a little higher.

  It brightened up outside the window as the car rose steadily into a sea of flashing lights. Here, the towers had windows – he could see actual people with actual lives inside them, going about lives in such a comfort, he never imagined, and he hoped they understood how different it could be. For he did. He was born here, and then expelled. He could’ve grown up here.

  But then you’d never have met Annora, said Kirillion. You make sure to thank me for that. If you ever get that far.

  He released Elissa’s hand and rubbed his forearms, head twisting with every new window of light and life inside that passed.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  The windows turned into shop sign hoardings each brighter and more elaborate than the next. Not just shops, but restaurants too. Or small vendors beneath signs no wider than a doorway, serving from a narrower hatch. He saw flames beneath pans and steam rising and mixing with the mist in the air, and wondered what smells went with them.

  And people. So many people.

  The trainlink slowed to a stop with Elissa barely moving against him – she’d grabbed a handhold, and everyone stood to leave.

  “I guess this is us,” she said. “Sure beats walking everywhere. I miss Phoenix though.”

  “Maybe they don’t have hoverbikes here. Looks too crowded!” He kept his voice low.

  “That would suck.”

  The doors to their left opened on rails and everyone departed, while the door to the right let people in. They stood and followed, again keeping their heads low, faces as hidden as possible. After weeks of not shaving, his beard had grown quite long, stringy and unkempt. Maybe that would be enough to disguise him, but he couldn’t take that risk.

  “This is where the city really begins,” Elissa said as she stepped down. Without the security of facial hair she was taking a risk, but it couldn’t be helped: they both tipped their noses and eyes to drink in the smell of cooked meat and something yeasty, alcoholic, slightly sweaty; the visuals hanging like a decorative scarf above them. Lighting like this, or as close as it could get, would only ever be seen at times of celebration, such as the departure of the Liberty Trials winner. That this wash of neon was most likely an ever-present show was baffling. How was such indulgence powered? And it went on and on, down the street and up the tower facade to the next street level that Calix could just about make out, mainly from its lack of light, and the gridwork bridges that spanned out from it connecting to the tower opposite.

  He felt a tug as she pulled him into the shadows.

  The trainlink they’d arrived in pulled away, heading back the way it had come.

  The rain ceased.

  Puddles small and grey remained, with barred outlets in the side of the street lapping them up.

  A city of voices shouted and whispered, laughed and cried; children ran past ahead of their mothers and disappeared into the crowd. A string of neon, undulating purple and pink and blue, lined a nearby awning, beneath which sat crowded round tables with rickety chairs, steaming plates upon the table surface. Calix drooled at the sight of beefburgers. No, that was a lie, he told himself. At the sight of everything. Essa and her ghost shrooms were a distant memory, drowning in the murky shadows from where they surfaced in the submersible.

  “What now?” asked Elissa.

  He turned and took her hand, terrified of what he was about to say. “You could stay. Look around – there’s life here. This isn’t your fight. Stay. Grow your hair. Become someone new. Unrecognisable. And start over. Maybe find your friend who won the trials.”

  Her eyes became distant, flicking left and right. She sighed, but held fast to his hands. Then her eyes froze, seeing something, or someone, over his shoulder.

  “What is it?” he asked, afraid to turn.

  She met his eyes. “No. I go where you go. At least until this is sorted, one way or another.”

  “Sorted? Look where you are! Sorted could mean anything: dead, or worse!”

  “Worse?” she laughed.

  “Worse.”

  “You think I want to stay here, anyway? I haven’t seen the sun for weeks. I am not living in this lower half of the city. You need to get up top. I need to get up top.” She let him go and walked back across the road.

  “Where are you going?”

  Back by the platform, she raised a hand to a flickering display set into a lamppost. A grid-like map appeared, criss-crossed with lines that were evidently trainlink routes. “Up.”

  Fear

  “Have you heard from Clarisse?”

  Misty smiled at him over the hotplate. “No, but then I never expect to, dear.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You eating?”

  “I’m not really hungry,” he answered.

  “Alright then. Everything okay?”

  A draught of cold air blew across the nape of his neck, despite the high collar o
n his coat. Must’ve blown down from the air vents above Misty’s head. He was tired and his eyes kept defocusing, and he’d found himself sniffing at the synth rather than drinking it, these last forty-eight hours, whenever he needed to quell the still-stinging headaches.

  “I saw her, a couple days ago, in the link.”

  Misty pointed her spatula at him. “Ah, I see – that’s why you look like a pile of rat droppings been stepped in and smeared across the pavement, eh?”

  “Well aren’t you the charmer. You wanna watch that talk around your customers,” he said, stepping aside as a young couple ducked beneath the narrow awning, taking seats.

  “Oh, don’t mind him, my dears,” said Misty. “What can I get ya?”

  “Two of your finest, sugary pancakes, please!” said the boy. He wore a baseball cap, but removed it to comb his fingers through his long hair. Face so smooth it made Rylan count his years.

  He groaned, rubbing his neck. “So you’ve definitely not seen her?”

  “Answer’s still nope.” Batter landed on the hotplate with a steamy sizzle. “You want me to call her?”

  “I’ve tried. No answer.”

  “Well, that’s not that strange. You know what she’s like. I’ll leave her a message if you like: ‘Your ex is desperate to catch up.’”

  “Thank you, Misty. Helpful as always.”

  “Be good now,” she called after him, but he had already turned away. He went in search of a general store further up the street, feeling heavy footed, very much planted in the real world. He was all feet and legs and head, unlike the link, unlike his dreams; if this too was another layer upon another layer, they’d coded it with too much pain and gravity. And reality.

  He was so focused on himself though, that those around were blurs emerging from the mist and the lights and the shadows, and vanishing just as quickly.

  Someone called his name, but he heard it too late, and was too far gone to go back.

  He pushed open the door to the general store and its little bell rattled.

  “Aspirin,” he said to the woman behind the counter. She turned and grabbed a pack from the shelf behind her, and he scanned his hand across the reader. Before heading back out he chewed three tablets, all grit between tongue and teeth. Then added one more for good luck. For a speedy recovery.

  Too late for that.

  He pulled his coat across his chest and rattled the little bell once more.

  If he was hoping something had changed, he’d been hoping in vain.

  The evening was warm and clammy but he shivered beneath his layers of clothing.

  He brought up his comm unit and went online. Earlier, Clarisse’s name had had a grey circle next to it, indicating she was offline. Now her name had gone altogether.

  “What the – ?”

  He disconnected and reconnected. Her name just wouldn’t appear.

  The aspirin turned to coal in his throat, burning, as he tried to gulp. He pulled a flask of synth from an inside pocket and swigged. Lubricating, he told himself.

  It didn’t stop his heart pounding.

  His feet moved towards the platform on the opposite side of the street. He knew where they wanted to go. It wasn’t where he wanted to go. He wanted to look for her in McCartney’s or Groundhog Joe’s; maybe get way-laid by one too many pretty smiles and new friends offering to buy drinks.

  His feet had a different idea.

  The trainlink lowered and the doors slid open and he entered. It was between shifts so there was plenty of room to sit and think things over. But what was there to think over?

  He already knew.

  He just had to see for himself.

  Fucking damnit, Clarisse. How many times have we heard stories of people that just went missing, never to be seen again? Who got mixed up in shit they had no right stirring? Fuck.

  Her reply was as silent as her connection to the link.

  It struck him that this was it. He’d never see her again. Never speak to her again. He wondered if there’d be tears; for now there was just the needling of his headache trying to break through the temporary barrier he’d erected.

  Five minutes later and his feet were carrying him down an old street; signs and vendors like friends from school he hadn’t seen for years. Or their siblings, an uncanny resemblance making him think he recognised them, when in fact they were strangers. That was how it was down here at the bottom of city. This whole half of the city. He’d been to the higher levels a few times – never above the surface – and it wasn’t much different up there.

  Ten minutes later and his boots were thudding up the stairwell of Clarisse’s tower, having avoided the elevator for no good reason but delaying the inevitable. And had there been a little paranoia there?

  Should he be here?

  What if they’re watching?

  Of course they’re watching, said Clarisse. Dumb fuck, get away from here.

  That he could hear her was a strange affirmation.

  Still, he wanted to avoid tight spaces with no exit.

  At her floor he stepped out, now with more control. More aware of his surroundings. Her corridor stretched grey and low-lit, buntings of shadow hanging between the sconces. Bicycles clung to wall clamps and welcome mats adorned the doorsteps of families deigning to make an effort.

  Already he noticed that where her door stood, the mat had gone. It had been a bristly affair that said ‘Piss Off’ on it. Maybe someone had complained and had it removed. Yes, that was the most likely answer.

  Cameras watched from the ceiling.

  He knocked on the next door he came to, rapping three times. When a middle-aged woman with a half-shaven head answered, he said “Oh, sorry. I was looking for Danny. He doesn’t live here, does he?”

  She shook her head and quickly closed the door.

  He spun on his heels and repeated the charade with the next-door neighbour. He was an older man, more forthcoming, but no, he had “Never known a Danny on this floor. You sure you got the right level?”

  “I’ll double check,” said Rylan, moving off.

  He knocked on Clarisse’s door.

  “Ain’t no-one living in there,” the old man called down the corridor, his head poking into it. “Went and moved out yesterday.”

  “Oh right. Yeah, I think I best check I got my facts right before disturbing anyone else. You have a good night.”

  His feet regained control, moving quickly, desperate for the north stairwell and the steps and the exit and the street and the presence of people. A lot of people.

  Since when has that stopped them?

  His eyes stung. The back of his throat burned. Breathing felt like a smoke-filled room in his lungs.

  You stupid girl.

  He looked back, anticipating that any moment a dark figure would appear, rifle in hand, barrel squaring him up.

  He looked ahead at the stairwell door.

  His feet froze.

  You’ve got nowhere to go. You can’t hide from these people. If they want you, that’s it. You’re out!

  “Come on,” he said, pushing on the door.

  The lights came on and all was clear. Not a squeak of a rubber sole or clack of chambered bullet. He took the steps two at a time and was at ground level in quick time, rushing out of the lobby and into the street.

  A reconnaissance drone hovered by overhead, spotlight swivelling in three-sixty and bouncing from the tops of glistening umbrellas.

  Raining again.

  He lifted his hood and walked into the crowd.

  Lost again.

  He needed to keep his legs marching while he figured out what to do next. Up steps and onto the bridge that lead to the opposite tower. Everyone’s footsteps clanging out – a bridge had never collapsed before, to his knowledge, but the way it sounded sometimes made you question its stability.

  If she’s gone, shouldn’t I be next?

  And yet…

  The authority weren’t known for taking their time – they were decisive, m
oving without equivocation; ruthless. You couldn’t bargain with them. They were beyond the courts and law. So why was he still alive?

  He stepped down from the bridge and turned right, not knowing or thinking about where he was heading. Forward motion. He pulled the flask from his inside pocket once again and gulped a couple of swigs. He needed some better stuff. Some Synesty right now would go down smooth. Dull it all to blackout.

  He breathed in the fumes, wishing it would work quickly, but they did more to prevent headaches than stop pre-existing ones.

  If he usually dwelled in the pain, then why did he want to be rid of it so much now? he wondered.

  Because you need to think clearly. He could see Clarisse’s twisted face; surprised that he had torn so hard at her arm.

  What about Caia? I’d been in no mood for pain then.

  You had a hard-on – pain was the last thing on your mind.

  Damnit, Clarisse.

  He walked beyond the corner of the tower and followed the street around at ninety-degrees. Wind whispered with a gush at the apex, and awnings ruffled.

  People wishing they were elsewhere rushed. Just a small proportion; everyone else comatose in their apartments. It was amazing the vendors did any business at all.

  Always the cynic. You’ve never understood.

  He drank from the flask some more; bland and watery now. He veered towards the balustrade lining the edge of the street and played an imaginary keyboard along the top. Over the edge, the darkness of the pits and the little ant-like colony of tents were barely visible.

  Hey, he thought. Is there even a catch net here? He tried hard to think – everything was becoming a fuzz – but he didn’t think there was. Down here at the final level, they would let you fall to your death. The other catch nets weren’t about saving those in pain, it was about making sure you didn’t fall on someone else. And only then because it probably happened so often it had been the easiest course of action to take before an uprising occurred.