Sky City (The Rise of an Orphan)

by RD Hale

  'Hey Daisy, slow down!'

  After crouching in silence for an uneventful eternity I stand straight and risk an unbearably gentle push of bulky oak doors, wincing with every chicken cluck. They are sealed shut so I shrug at the still hiding gang, left with only one idea of how to escape - which may or may not be viable.

  'Dynah, can you open them?' I whisper.

  'I don't know, maybe.' Dynah treads between a multitude of chickens which courteously make way and stand to attention like she is avian royalty. She clenches her fists whilst focusing on the sealed doors and the rattling grows loud enough to potentially attract the farmer's attention. His murderous presence in the farmyard has me wondering whether it would be best to run or to unleash the supergirl onto our armed enemy. I grimace as my fingertips push with increasing pressure but the barn doors are locked tight.

  'Come on, Dynah, you know you have the power to do this,' I whisper with restrained impatience.

  'Okay, don't look. I can't do it properly if you're looking,' Dynah explains.

  Turning from the coming miracle with folded arms, I strum my foot on crispy bird droppings. An increasingly loud rattling is followed by a surge of daylight and I spin around, checking the fuzzy whiteness of the danger zone to see a wooden beam lying beside an empty stable opposite. Apprehension is alleviated by the sight of the farmer chasing a genetically-engineered mare past a parked tractor.

  'Hey, slow down you blighter!'

  'Quick, let's go,' I whisper.

  Oscar sensibly grabs the sack from Emmi and we duck low as we scurry past unicorn stables with the clodhopper still in shooting distance. Legs twinge due to the worry of him spotting us scarpering over vegetable patches. Sack contents are still clucking as I glance back to see chickens running free, which could either draw attention to our escape or provide a convenient distraction.

  'We never do things the easy way,' Lel says breathlessly, leaping a ditch obscured by an entanglement of weeds at the border of this arable land. Despite being encumbered by provisions, Oscar and myself easily clear the obstacle with a run and a jump. Clawing through thorny bushes, I hear a wail which provokes little sympathy as I turn around to peer into the steep ditch. Nettles are striking Emmi's bare limbs like angry snakes as she lies with face in mud six feet below us.

  'Ouch! Ouch! Why me?' Emmi whines.

  'Nice dive, shame about the entry. I'd call it a six point five!' My laughter is drowned by an almighty growl as Emmi's tears steam with rage. 'Are you okay down there?' I pass the sack to a slow-to-collect Lel and ensure she maintains a tight hold of its neck.

  Plunging into the pitfall of my clumsy sibling, I squelch ankle deep in mud as I tug a forearm covered in red bumps. The denim of my jeans forms a protective barrier against the stingers as I haul Emmi up a slippery ditch wall. She continues to whine as bare legs are belaboured by carniplants and when we escape the bimbo trap, Emmi assesses her biggest priority with a gawp of horror.

  'My dress, I'll never steal another one like it!' Emmi sulks at the sight of green stains streaked across daisy prints, accompanied by clicks of thread.

  'Don't say I never warned you!' I reply.

  'Shut up, Arturo. If you were any sort of brother you'd offer a piggyback, I'm in pain!' Emmi pouts.

  My shoulder stiffens during our sluggish return journey, but I cannot ease the strain by switching hands, thanks to my cast. We battle a headwind as I ponder whether the farmer would have blasted us with his shotgun before Dynah could summon her superpowers. Our close scrape should prove to be worthwhile at meal time, but I have no idea how to slaughter and cook a live animal. This will be a learning experience.

  My thoughts are interrupted by a shabby grey dog, wagging its tail and barking at my sack. It runs in figure eights before leaping up to Oscar who cowers from its sniffing nose and loses balance in the middle of the road. Landing on elbows, Oscar vigilantly focuses on holding the sack shut as the canine mounts his rear.

  'Get it off! Get it off!' Oscar shrieks and the girls howl with glee as pink lipstick emerges to hump him.

  'We don't wanna be bitten!' Emmi turns a shoulder with clasped hands. 'Or interrupt your special moment of intimacy!'

  'What is it?' Dynah grins, tiptoeing towards the bestial scene for a biology lesson.

  'It's a filthy mongrel.'

  I swing my boot close enough to accrue a couple of leaping fleas as the pesky hobo jumps off its lust object. It, or rather he lies in submission with eyes pleading for unobtainable acceptance and unlikely affection. This mutt is certainly not the most attractive and his ribcage can be seen through patchy fur, but there is a friendliness to his emaciated face; a lone survivor who just seeks companionship. Unfortunately, this is not something we can practically provide.

  'Hey. You're not so bad are you, little guy? You're not so different from us.' Lel bends forward with hands on knees.

  'Don't even think about stroking it! Who knows what you'll catch? Go on, shoo shoo,' I say.

  Dynah and Lel frown as the mongrel scurries over a collapsed fence with tail between his legs. He enters a trailer park where gypsy kids playing next to a tied up horse will probably roast him for dinner. I feel guilty to have turned my back on a fellow outcast, left to fend for himself in a far from ideal habitat but the natural order will always be indifferent to such a plight.

  'We should've kept him as a pet. We could've taken him for walks and he would've been a perfect guard dog,' Lel pines.

  'Guard dog! He could barely stand on his own two legs, or four legs even. And how on Eryx would we have fed him?' I reply.

  'He could feed himself, begging for scraps from strangers and raiding bins and stuff,' Lel says.

  'We could go and get him. Animals like me, but not as much as they like Oscar,' Dynah says and I am unsure whether her statement is an attempt at humour.

  'I think I've got a blister and my legs are stinging,' Emmi interrupts.

  'Wait till the others see what we've got for dinner. This is why we're thriving while everyone else goes hungry. We're the smartest!' Lel states with elevated squeakiness.

  'I'm not sure thriving is the right word, but I've got to hand it to you girls, it was certainly a creative idea.' I smile.

  'And as usual, my brother made it more difficult than it needed to be. Honestly Arturo, you wouldn't last two minutes without us girls. You've got no common sense,' Emmi nags.

  'Excuse me. I'm carrying this food home one-handed, because my broken hand is still throbbing! If you girls are so self-sufficient why don't you carry for a while?'

  'No Arturo, we've done our work. We provided the brains and the beauty. We came up with the plan, led us here, instructed Oscar on how to catch a chicken! I'm wounded and I've ruined my dress, but you don't hear me complain,' Emmi insists.

  'You've done nothing but c... Ah never mind, you girls are definitely the brains of the group. Where would we be without a bunch of airheads, eh?' I sigh.

  As our trek comes to an end, a jovial bark signifies the dog has sneakily followed to the delight of Dynah whom he embraces on hind legs. The supergirl scrunches her face as we leave them to develop their inter-species friendship, dragging our acquisitions into the soon-to-be slaughter house. Oscar drops his sack onto the ground, flopping onto the couch without giving a second thought to the tumbling contents.

  'Urgh! It's pooed over the fruit.' Lel holds up a gunge-smeared orange and then cowers from the angry chicken flapping towards her head. Laughter startles a sleeping Scoop as the feathered dynamo hops over Lel, then brushes his drooling face with its wing. Puffy eyes scrunch in response to this unexpected tickling. Still not fully aware of surroundings, he rises to reap vengeance on the disturbance of his slumber and chases the chicken around the cluttered room.

  'What the hell?' Killow snorts as Scoop trips over a stray shoe, falls to one knee and decides to call the hopeless hunt quits, sitting down before he stubs a toe or incurs some other serious injury.

  'Time to see if this thing abo
ut headless chickens is true!'

  Grabbing a carving knife from the cupboard, I place the blade between my teeth and reach into the sack to feel for the chicken's head, before squeezing its neck. The condemned bird struggles with surprising vigour and I beckon Oscar with my eyes as I raise my cast. He pins the chicken's muscular body to concrete with enough force to crush its hollow bones.

  My imprecise left hand lines up the carving knife and I avoid Oscar's fingers by luck more than intention as the blade slices through the chicken's neck and a head stuck to pieces of red gum rolls away. Blood streams across the floor and the twitching carcass somersaults towards the girls who run screaming.

  'Awesome!' the lads yell.

  Chapter Four

  The First Mission

  Oscar squeezes the headless carcass into a cupboard as my attention turns to the bird which still has an intact neck, when a buffooning voice causes me to shudder: 'Hellooo Arturooo!'

  My heart buzzes as the forgotten assignment which should have been dismissed out of hand, becomes a tangible prospect. The mercenary and the lifelong bullshitter stand at the doorway in green camouflage fatigues. At first glance the duo appear ready for treason but Smig's perversely excited grin implies the planned raid on a military base is a game. It would be foolish not to take his cousin seriously, but the youthful veteran with sandy hair and slight, freckled features does not appear robust enough for military service and his gaze bears the trauma of front-line action.

  'Broken hand, Arturo? Who ya been fighting this time?' Smig's grin reveals bits of food poking from yellow teeth.

  'I'll tell you later. It's a long and scarcely believable story, even by my standards.'

  'Is that a headless chicken? Funny. We've got Turbo's jeep waiting outside, you still up for it?'

  'I'm one handed, it'll be a struggle. How is this gonna work?'

  'Don't be soft. We'll drive to the barracks like I do every day; no-one'll suspect a thing. We'll go straight to the weapons cache and fill the jeep. We'll be in and out,' Turbo's forced gruffness masks the slightly high pitch of his voice.

  'I don't even know how much use I'll be, but if you want me to come... as long as you make it worth my while.'

  'We can sell these guns for a lot of money. You two will get six thousand credits each for helping out,' Turbo explains.

  'Sounds good to me!' I fail to restrain an excitable snort at the idea of earning several years income in one risky night.

  'Thought that would change ya tune, Arturo! Get changed into these.' Turbo removes green camouflage fatigues from his rucksack and passes them over.

  Upon grasping the military uniform, I feel reluctance dissipate and nip to the bathroom to get dressed for action, grimacing at the smell of stale sweat - this uniform is a little too authentic. When I am done getting changed, the mirror's failure to confirm my transformation into the real deal feels rather embarrassing. Bagginess of the outfit emphasises my undeveloped jawline, youthful complexion and lack of height and I return downstairs feeling like a dumb kid in a fancy dress outfit.

  'Right guys, we're off now. You all know why. Make sure you do not annoy the new girl... for your own safety,' I yell.

  Smig and I follow Turbo into a hunter-green jeep, given the briefest of briefings for an assignment in which the stakes are dauntingly high, even for a pair of chancers led by former minefield fodder. Failure would be equivalent to suicide, yet I subdue the frustration of being kept in the dark, unable to understand why I cannot walk away from this idiocy. Turbo presses the auto-drive button and says: 'Hawksmoor Barracks.'

  The navigation system replies: 'Hawksmoor Barracks, twenty nine point six miles away. Estimated arrival time nineteen twenty four.'

  The vehicle drags me along with mixed emotions as a premonition of being blindfolded and riddled with bullets blurs into a dream of money, money, money; exacerbating my urge to accompany an old friend into the unknown. It is 18:47 and the roads are quiet.

  'Arturo, ya alright, kid? I haven't seen ya in a while. How's it going?' Turbo's eyes veer from the road and his faith in the vehicle's artificial intelligence invokes jitteriness.

  'Good, I've had an interesting past few days. Broke my hand punching a guy pumped full of GEDs.'

  'Same old Arturo, eh? Still punching above your weight.'

  'And living to tell the tale...'

  'Just so you know, this is nowt to worry about. I've got full clearance and there's young lads like yous coming and gan all day long so they won't bat an eyelid. I'm in the weapons cache all the time, dumb bastards trust this defector and so can you.

  I'm leaving anyways, don't wanna get myself killed. Men are being skinned alive by Nyberun guerrillas and the fucked up thing is, those guerrillas are the closest thing we have to allies. It kinda messes with ya head when you feel like you've been fighting for the enemy.'

  'Sounds pretty straightforward. Betray the people who are worse than those who'd skin us alive and pray to the underlord they don't notice!' My calm demeanour conceals the squirming of my intestines.

  'Course it is, Arturo. I told ya, it's easy money!' Smig grins but there is a slight trembling in his voice.

  'Once I get this money, I'm gonna disappear and start again, far from poverty, suspicion and hatred. Can even see myself with bairns and a nice little house. Shame we have to face our nightmares to realise such humble dreams.'

  Right on schedule we reach a wasteland, just beyond the west end of Medio city where we approach a military base with flags bearing golden stars. Watch towers and a radar dish are confined within razor wire and anti-air missile launchers are ready to blast any craft flying over the fence with warning signs bearing lightning bolts. There does not appear to be any sort of perimeter forcefield which I can only presume is due to the energy requirements of shielding such an extensive area.

  The moment of commitment is upon us as our jeep approaches a yellow booth at the entry point. The on-duty guard removes waxed boots from the desk, sits upright and repositions his beret as Turbo lowers the window to pass his identification through a slot in the protective screen.

  'Alright mate, long shift?' Turbo's head pokes out the window of the jeep.

  'Eleven hours staring at lovely scenery just to press a button for you lot every thirty minutes.' A quiet chuckle stretches the guard's mouth wide. 'Can't wait to finish.'

  'Ya should get yaself to the pub, mate. Get a few pints down ya neck,' Turbo suggests.

  'I might do that, get yaselves in.' The guard bashes his fist down on his out-of-view button.

  The minor forcefield vanishes and we infiltrate the enemy's ignoble heart with the jeep now in manual drive. Our breathing gets noticeably louder as we cruise along the road at walking pace, past rows of half-cylinder buildings until we approach indistinguishable steel storehouses. Turbo glances around the base then nods to confirm our target mark. Parking up, he swipes his pass in an electronic card reader and the shutter rolls up to reveal piles of aluminium cases.

  'Are yous getting out or do ya just wanna sit there and admire my backside?' Turbo asks and Smig and I glance hesitantly at one another until obligation compels jittery legs to exit the jeep. Turbo opens the boot and points to the required crates which are discernible only by size because the identifiable markings are meaningless jargon.

  The handling of these items proves difficult as I wrap my injured forearm around a case, almost causing the stack of weapons to topple in the process. The pressure on my cast produces sharp pains but I continue back and forth until there are about forty gun cases in the boot.

  'Right, we need some ammo.' Turbo points to containers with tiny lettering written below thin metal handles. 'Check to see if they are five point five six millimetres.'

  Scanning a blur of letters and numbers, I come across text on one of the crates which reads: 800 CRTG 5.56MM. A handle digs into my palm as the hefty object swings and my shoulder dips during my struggle to the jeep. We toil for an elongated ten minutes and my accomplices shift t
he crates at twice my pace, because they are fortunate enough to have the use of both hands but their unfair advantage makes me feel no less inadequate.

  'Right, we're done. That wasn't so skin-threatening, was it?' Turbo slams the boot of the jeep shut.

  Apprehension educes ever-so-slight trembling as we drive for the exit of the complex, but once we are home free I will have earned the easiest (and probably the only) six thousand credits I will ever make in my life.

  As the yellow booth comes into view my nervous face could arouse suspicion, but the passive nature of the situation means I cannot just relax and act like a regular soldier, because I am only fearless when my fate lies in my owns hands. The guard who granted us access stands twitchily as he talks to a colleague who waves his finger in a suspicious manner. They frown at the holoscreen as our vehicle pulls up at the forcefield.

  'Alright, lads? Not long till beer o'clock!' Turbo says.

  'Hang on a second. What were you doing at the weapons cache? Nobody was scheduled to be in there.'

  'Weapons cache? We weren't at the weapons cache!' Turbo glances at us with award-winning puzzlement in his gaze.

  'Okay, open the boot please.' The guard steps from his cabin with machine gun readied.

  Frozen like a helpless child my survival is dependant on a traitor's under-pressure driving skills as Turbo hits the pedal and tyres squeal like they share my fear. Our reversing jeep turns forty five degrees as the guard scrambles back through the cabin door to pull the alarm switch on the wall and the ensuing sonic assault almost perforates eardrums. His colleague stares down the sight of his rifle but does not bother firing at our bullet resistant shell.

  'I hope you've got ya seatbelts fastened!' Turbo roars and the bonnet crashes through the electric fence, bringing excruciation to my broken hand as clenched teeth withhold the scream trying to escape from my mouth. Our getaway driver's focus remains fixed on returning wheels to the road as we shudder over grass tufts, struggling to gain traction. The rear-view hologram shows the punctured fence enshrouded by a dust plume.