Sky City (The Rise of an Orphan)

by RD Hale

  Stacking guncrates on a patch of bare carpet, we navigate the disorder to sit at a strangely elegant wooden table. Bottles and candles cover a varnished counter as well as the shelves adjoined to a mirrored wall. A painting of a mother and child is hanging against burgundy and gold wallpaper, wooden panelling covers the ceiling and a tall plant stands alongside a jukebox, but the untidiness betrays this classical decor.

  'Good to meet you, men. Why don't we have a drink?'

  Jardine leaves the safe door ajar and gets up to unscrew the lid of a whiskey bottle, which he pours as the ceiling fan creaks. We clink round-bottomed glasses together and this unexpected hospitality within the grubbiest of locales, provides a small taste of our potential lifestyle.

  'Okay men, I take it you brought the merchandise?' Jardine says.

  'Yeah, most of it's in the jeep. We can show you in a bit. We've got fifteen rail guns, twenty four laser rifles, sixty pistols, sixty stun guns, eighty flashbangs and eighty EMP grenades. We've got four hundred five-five-six rounds and two hundred two-two rounds,' Turbo advises.

  'Whoa! That's more than I asked for. I could've done with a little more ammo but I can't complain. Let's see... Fifteen rail guns… laser rifles... stun grenades... that's eighteen six... twenty four and six... off the top of my head, I'll call that twenty eight thousand credits! Does that sound like a fair deal?'

  Sitting with baited breath, I prod my wobbling glass and Smig is unable contain his beaming smile as Turbo glances at us, before coolly replying, 'Yeah, that'll do.'

  Jardine leans across to shake our hands, offering his metallic appendage which bears the letters A.S.T.R. Presumably there is an interesting story behind the loss of his original flesh and bone limb but I lack the forthcomingness to ask. Showing Jardine my cast, I offer my left and his bone-crushing grip almost breaks my one good hand.

  'Right, before I give out any credits we better check out this merchandise.' A smirk is only just visible beneath Jardine's beard. 'I presume the crate isn't filled with water bazookas!'

  Turbo places a crate on the table which is too nicely polished to risk scratching and he opens the lid to unveil five neatly aligned railguns. Jardine picks one up, scrutinising all forty eight inches with professional suspicion and admiration of fine craftsmanship but one glance is enough to confirm the railgun's authenticity. He throws the oversized rifle an inch into the air with an impressed nod, before returning it to the case.

  'Kansdale EMRG, very good. No body armour can withstand the firepower of one of these beauties.' Jardine leans out the door to shout: 'Stokoe, Hickey, we have a special delivery! Come and give us a hand.'

  Two overall-wearing associates of Jardine's emerge and both are unfortunate enough to have faces no mother could love. One has a heart tattooed on his neck, a double chin covered in grey bristles and a scowl so pained he appears ready to burst into tears. His jug-eared colleague has a lazy eye, drooping lower lip and general air of gormlessness, indicative of learning difficulties.

  Upon return to the jeep, Jardine and his helpers grab a guncrate in each arm, tempting the injured liability to sit this one out, but a weak impression could prove costly so I labour on. After three exhausting trips up and down the broken escalators, I relieve my drained arms by placing the final crate down.

  Stokoe and Hickey return to their sinister shenanigans as we follow Jardine into the back, where he removes a plastic bag from his safe. The beaming smile on Smig's face proves contagious and I too bear a grin as twenty eight thousand credits are counted on the table. Jardine hands the pile of notes to Turbo, then pours more drinks and addresses us:

  'I'm very impressed, Turbo friend. You've given up everything in order to help our cause. You're a worthy member of the rebellion. The two young men you've recruited have also shown their worth.' The word Recruited provokes excitement and concern in equal measure. Jardine maintains a steady-eyed, open-handed sincerity and continues with an eloquence somewhat at odds with his brutish facade: 'We can use men like you, that took a lot of balls. If you'd been caught-'

  'This is the kid I was telling you about - Arturo. The one with brains, he likes to read. When I listen to him talk, it's like talking to you. He's not your average kid from the slums. And my cousin Smig, well he's fearless and as loyal as they come. These lads won't let us down, I can vouch for them,' Turbo interrupts.

  'And if you've got more work for us, we'll do it,' Smig blurts with mucus bubbling in his nostrils. 'Danger money is the only kind I know!'

  'I've definitely got more work for you, you have potential. Smig, you're fearless - that's perfect for us. Arturo, you're smart - that's a rarity.' Jardine scratches his frizzy beard. 'Now, I'd like to hear the story of how you got these guns.'

  'It was easy. We drove to the entry point and the guard was half-asleep so I told him to get himself to the pub for a pint! We drove in like planned and filled the jeep, but when we were driving out the guard must've woken up a bit, because he got suspicious and asked us to open the boot. So I stuck my foot down and smashed straight through the fence! They came after us in jeeps and copters but I out-manoeuvred them,' Turbo boasts.

  'You out-manoeuvred copters? Impressive. I bet you guys have never done anything like this before.' Jardine laughs, flashing his gold tooth.

  'Actually, we do crazy things like this all the time. The other week I broke into a gang's hideout and robbed them while they were sleeping. Leapt out a window to escape!'

  'Sounds like you're a risk taker, Arturo,' Jardine says.

  'Well if we don't take risks, we don't survive,' I reply.

  'Aye, that's right. Me and Arturo have been through all sorts together. This lad tried to stab him once so I smashed a rock straight into his head, left him bleeding in the road. He's probably dead now. It's survival of the fittest,' Smig adds.

  'Natural selection favours brutality,' I murmur, lost in my thoughts for a moment. 'The altruism of the war gene - that's what separates us from the great apes!'

  'You know of evolution?' Jardine's voice bears the pitch of surprise.

  'If you're asking if I know dinosaurs didn't walk with women, then yes,' I reply.

  'Congratulations, you're already smarter than our ruling party!' Jardine says.

  'San Terians are a bunch of dumb bitches.' Smig bounces in his seat as though jolted by a small electric current. 'Moody virgins who need a good seeing to! They're far too temperamental to be running the world.'

  'Tell me about it, I despise the things I've done in their name. Thought I was doing the right thing, getting a career. Ended up participating in mass murder and seeing my friends literally fall to pieces around me,' Turbo says.

  'Yeah and Arturo's Dad was killed as well. I don't understand why we allow women to order men to fight. Once upon a time men like us ruled and to think - they used to say the world would be a better place with women in charge. How the fuck did we fall for that? No man can match the rage of a woman on her period!' Smig remarks.

  'Men are dumb enough to think they have to do as the goddess tells them. You have to break the grip of Samarianism if you want to change things. You wouldn't believe the crazy shit they've ordered. We were sent into a village to take out insurgents. There were civilians everywhere. We got our arses kicked and we were forced to retreat so they sent in an airstrike and the entire town was reduced to ashes,' Turbo says.

  'Like I keep saying, there are no good guys in war.' I writhe my fingers and take a heavy breath. 'I'll only ever fight personal battles, put a stop to my oppression.'

  'San Teria can't be stopped by one man alone, that's why we work together.' Jardine pauses, then adopts a whispery tone. 'But our aim is not war, it's liberation. And young men like you can help to achieve that.'

  'Nothing will ever change. History proves sheep will always be at the mercy of wolves. My only goal in life is to have fun while it lasts,' I respond.

  'But if they have their way, it may not last long. You've already helped our fight by bringing these weapons,'
Jardine suggests.

  'What you do with the weapons is your business.' I face the table top to hide my frown. 'I won't shed tears but I'm not interested in killing.'

  'You're presuming we fight by violent means,' Jardine says.

  'Course not, we brought you non-violent guns,' I reply.

  'The guns are primarily for defensive purposes. We have other ways to fight - with the spread of information and cyber warfare. We can bring down their systems, disrupt their finances and undermine their moral authority. When the time is right, we will launch a bloodless coup.' Jardine rests his chin on metal knuckles. 'How much do you actually know about the ruling elite, Arturo?'

  'They're hypocrites whose moral views are used to control people. It used to work, it used to control people like us, but not anymore. We were left behind by the elites. So much for us being equal.'

  'Good... and what do you understand about Samarianism?'

  'Well, there's no logic in it. Their goddess tells us what to think, how to eat, how to have sex! It's absurd. They say you'll go to hell if you don't pray, how can people believe this crap? The believers are the wealthy who reap the benefits and the desperate who are too stupid to know what to believe.'

  As Jardine refills glasses my loosened tongue struggles to resist venting opinions to someone willing to listen, despite strong reservations. Jardine nods his coily-haired head, bearing an ear-joining grin which confirms I belong in proficient company and our shared wavelength could equate to additional employment. Smig, who is also nodding, interrupts with insight: 'Samarianism is for cunts. I only worship barmaids and credit notes!'

  'So you don't agree with San Teria's message? No crime, no drugs, no sex before marriage. Does that not sound honourable? What about the charity work they do?' Jardine adopts the role of the goddess's advocate.

  'They decimated half the planet, then sent a few trucks of grain to solve the famines they created. And they tell themselves this charity will book their place in paradise. What about health care for everyone? A proper education system? That's not too much to ask, is it? If they can't provide that, they have no right telling me to follow their laws,' I reply on Smig's behalf.

  Jardine has a glint of captivation in his eye as he finishes his drink and pours yet another round, but my speech is ever-so-slightly slurred. Indulgence in the strong stuff has ensured my waffling mouth remains the centre of attention, but I know nothing about him and insurgents are renowned manipulators. Careful consideration must be given to any proposition.

  'Let me tell you a few things about the ruling party that you may not know. Have you ever wondered why the Level Ones, with all their supposed intelligence, are so fanatical? Have you ever wondered why they fail to see the logical flaws, why their cognitive dissidence is so complete? The microchips that give them their great intelligence, they're designed to control.

  Samarianism has found a way to take its control to the next level. The chip provides an urge, a craving for worship they can't resist. It keeps Level One Citizens, with all their cleverness, obedient. It's the only way they can do it, the only way to prevent a revolution. They know Level One Citizens, with their intellect and physical prowess, could overthrow a corrupt government if they wanted to. The poor can't threaten them physically or intellectually so they don't worry about them, but the Level Ones are another matter. They can't have them asking questions.

  These people are so warped in their belief of the goddess, that they're forcing their view of the goddess onto others. And you know what? If a Level One Citizen refuses the mind enhancement chip, they're executed as traitors! You don't believe me? Take a look at this report... Activate holoscreen. Search document STG one six forty.'

  A cavity opens in the wall to reveal a hidden holoscreen, which brings up an authentic-looking government document. Smig seemed both lost and captivated by the whole exchange and stares blankly at the text, which may as well be written in a foreign language. Turbo watches with an undeclared expectation as I cautiously read the report, fully aware the web is filled with conspiracy theories and bogus evidence:

  The code to stimulate human impulse control has been cracked. It is possible to influence, although not fully control, human urges. Due to recent concerns and signs of political activism emerging within Level One Citizenship, it has been decided it is necessary to initiate Project Ludevico. Behavioural modification software is to be uploaded to all mind enhancement chips on 8/7/42.

  The program has been designed, for reasons of morality, to positively influence Level One Citizens. It will make them feel a hunger which can only be satisfied by worship. A hunger they should already feel. It will activate reward centres in the brain when a Citizen attends a temple or prays. It will also activate these reward centres when they are supportive of the state. It will stimulate emotions of fear and panic when they consider doing the opposite.

  Given the fragile balance of power in the world and the threats our great nation is facing, we cannot afford to take chances. Therefore, if any person upon acceptance to Level One refuses the MEC, it will unfortunately be necessary to eliminate them. The elites have ordered that these people must be executed on charges of treason, the smaller details of which can be calculated on a case by case basis.

  When it becomes financially viable we will extend this plan to all Level Two Citizens. It may also be necessary to extend this program to Level Three Citizens. Given the numbers involved, this would cause logistical problems and as a result we have no substantial plans to do so for the time being. With regards to the bottom levellers, there is no practical way we could hope to assimilate them. Therefore if their rebel groups continue to pose a nuisance, then proposed plans for a purge of the impious may go ahead.

  Gut instinct suggests this report could be legitimate and my lower jaw hangs as though the extent of theocratic evilness was unexpected. San Teria's policies often promote or at the very least turn a blind eye to suffering and it would be a mistake to attribute such action to corruption of power when it could only happen because the barriers built when they lacked power have been removed.

  'I always thought the elites were a bunch of religious bullies, but I had no idea they were complete psychopaths. I should've known better, after all they started out as an extremist group,' I murmur and as I sit in the bowels of Underworld, away from the reach of sunlight, it seems the entirety of Eryx has further darkened.

  'That report is one hundred percent genuine. There's another report giving specific details of a purge. That's why we've established a rebel group. The thing is, we're not just fighting for the freedom of bottom levellers any more, but for the freedom of everybody.

  We have a network of tens of thousands across the country, in the slums and tenements, in Level One, Two and Three, in the countryside and in the mountains. Given the extreme nature of this situation we have to recruit every person we can. Well, every person who can be of use. And you know who the most important people in all of this are? You, the younger generation. We're fighting for your future.

  We have people working night and day to sabotage their systems, but they are well defended. We can install viruses, however they are quickly spotted and amended. We've accumulated a lot of sensitive information but we haven't made any of it public yet, because anything published online can be quickly identified and deleted by their censorship department. We need to wait until the intelligence gathered reaches a critical mass and then we'll flood the internet. This should undermine their authority and make it easier for us to seize power.

  Right now it would be almost impossible to fight them directly, but we can hurt them by remaining hidden until we are ready. We're gaining international allies, but they're eliminating rebels worldwide and it is a matter of time before they catch up with us. We need to be ready when they do.

  I'm telling you this because we need your help and it is only fair you know exactly what you're getting yourselves into. We'll pay you well, but you'll be taking a risk every time you work for us. We'd never
ask you to do something beyond your capability, because that would jeopardise us as well as yourselves, but nevertheless the risk will always be there. We have to take chances, because this is a fight for survival and young men like you who have brains, who have courage, you are our future.

  If you choose to walk away, I understand, but you have to understand the importance of discretion. Do not tell anyone about what I do or where I can be found. Go now, think about everything I've said to you. If you want to, come back in two weeks.'

  The speech's initial zeal faded as it went on and Jardine is now sombre, almost weak, pleading with his apologetic eyes. The feared manipulation has concluded in perspective altering desperation and we leave in an unforeseen position, courtesy of the persuasive case this rebel has put forward. My father died in a pointless war and I have no desire to be drawn into fighting for strangers but I knew this was a risky business. Everyday life is dangerous but does not recompense like Jardine does. I must calculate risk versus reward.

  During our return to the jeep the inhabitants of Underworld suddenly do not appear so hostile as they conduct dreary tasks; possibly fulfilling duties to the rebellion or maybe unaware of the revolution being planned under their noserings. We can finally consider the mission complete upon entering the vehicle. Turbo divides a hair-raising amount of currency into three uneven piles, placing the biggest wodge of cash into his pocket.

  'I said six thousand credits each, but I was paid a little more than expected so I'll give you guys a little more. Six and a half thousand. Don't spend it all at once!' Turbo hands over our insanely-gotten gains.

  'But that's not fair, you're getting more than half the share,' I protest.

  'Well, I got you into the base. I sacrificed my job. If we were caught, I would've borne the brunt of it. And it was my plan. I'm giving you more than agreed so stop complaining,' Turbo snaps.

  I snatch the money without making eye contact but despite getting a comparatively small portion, it is difficult to feel short-changed as I hold a crisp green fifty credit note to the light which bears the words: The Goddess is great on one side and: Change leads to destruction on the other.