by RD Hale
Mila and I take seats outside Rewana Coffee Shop which has a star at the central apex of three concave triangle roofs. Rippled humanoids can be seen through glass bricks and two statues stand adjacent to our chosen table, depicting cupid and a mermaid. Voices chatter as we browse the holographic menu with hardly a clue as to what any of the names mean.
'Wow coffee. I've never had coffee before, I wonder what it tastes like,' Mila says.
'I don't even know how to pronounce half of these names. Cap-puh-see-noh,' I lower my voice so no-one hears my ignorance.
'I think it's cap-puh-chee-noh, Zain. Cappuccino, that's what I'm ordering.'
A service droid wearing a t-shirt and cap bearing the Rewana logo whizzes out the cafe door and approaches our table, speaking from a rigid metal mouth: 'Would you like to order, sir? Madam?'
'Yeah, I'll have a cappuccino please,' Mila replies with a confident guess of pronunciation.
'I'll have a La-tee... La-tay? Latte. I'll have a latte please,' I mumble, hoping the robot does not think I sound ridiculous.
A minute later the service droid returns, placing cartons onto the glass table and I do not have the foggiest idea what a latte is, but the name makes me envisage a bubbling chocolate drink. I withdraw Zain Gilfoid's Citicard and the act of paying for a non-alcoholic beverage seems strange, but makes a welcome change from filtering polluted water.
'One cappuccino and one latte with lactose-free milk,' the service droid says.
'Lactose-free milk?' I ask.
'For your lactose intolerance, Mr Gilfoid, as confirmed by your file on our database.' The service droid returns to the café as I remove the plastic lid and stare at brown liquid evaporating in the sun, then I slurp a large mouthful. Reeling in pain, I spit latte out and pant to cool my scorched tastebuds, drawing bemused looks from other customers as eyes leak water.
'It's h-h-hot!'
'Wahaha! Mr Genius didn't even know it was a hot drink!' Mila shrieks as though determined to divulge my non-Citizen status.
'Clearly not, the cup didn't even feel warm. Whoever thought it was good idea to make a drink scorching hot? It's dangerous!'
'There you two are,' a female voice says and I turn around to see Vytali and Eyris grinning with dazzlingly white teeth. Although still attractive, the Citizens do not seem so intimidatingly superior in their casual wear and we reminisce about last night's drunken capers as our friends await their drinks.
The service droid arrives and when Eyris lifts her coffee cup, I observe a serpent tattoo on her forearm and her little finger has been snipped. She fixates on my reworn t-shirt and I shrink in embarrassment until she restores the smile to her face and chats on like she did not notice the limitation of my wardrobe.
'So the races don't start until midday. We thought it would be an idea to catch an execution first. They're running them all day, here on the highest plateau, directly under the eye of the goddess. A bit of extra excitement before the main event. What do you think?' Eyris asks.
'E-execution? I don't know.' Mila sits lower in her chair.
'Oh come on. They wouldn't be executing the guy unless he deserved it. Everyone has to see at least one execution in their lives. It reminds us how to behave if nothing else. What do you think, Zain?' Eyris asks.
'Er, could do,' I reply, morbidly intrigued by the thought of state-sponsored murder, which in fairness will be no more brutal than the races I am looking forward to watching.
We detour to the plateau rim to kill a few minutes and Mila puts her arms around my waist, resting her chin on my shoulder. A breeze blows into my face as we stand a little too close to the edge which has no railing. Looking down, we see the highest towers poking out of low-lying cloud in a realm where the filthy flattened summits of old town conflict with the gleaming blobs of the inner-hub. Impoverished darkness versus superficial light. Envy versus greed.
'Look at that - a city sitting on a cloud. All the way down there. No wonder they call this place Sky City,' I mutter.
'A city on top of a city. It's like the inhabitants of hell have risen from the Underworld to provoke the heavens.' Eyris smirks as updraft lifts her hair.
'Well, I just think it's cool we're standing above the clouds!' Mila adds.
Leaving the plateau brink we march through the crystalline village to the execution arena - a pristine crater situated below the Sky Elevator where an atmosphere of mercilessness is engendered by the murmurs of bloodthirsty spectators sitting on steps.
As we take our seats and await the culmination of undue process, the sense of anticipation renders me mute. A dozen Samarian guards line a tunnel entrance as four traditionally iron-clad executioners lead out a shackled prisoner, naked except for a loin cloth and a barbwire crown. An elite marches out in an undulating red cloak with chin held high. A gold and sapphire diadem generates a blinding aura and her serpentine staff almost seems to hiss in her hand. The elite stands on a platform lined by carved snakeheads and she addresses the crowd:
'Thomas Arkenhead was yesterday found guilty of blasphemy. The prisoner proclaimed that Samarianism was a compilation of outdated ethical philosophies and fanciful mythology. He said the Orientis was self-contradictory and he was baffled by the gullibility that allowed it to propagate. He rejected the reincarnation of Samaris...
There can only be one penalty for such profanity and that is execution, the manner of which can be decided by the crowd. But first a word on why such punishment is necessary. The love of the goddess Katona is found in all of us, although it is often suppressed by materialism, intolerance and egotism. The principle of revelation is to resurrect this understanding in our minds, but our tendencies corrupt this knowledge. This is why we need prophets to speak the mind of the goddess. Those who reject faith will be punished with appalling agony now and in the afterlife.
And now for the punishment. You can choose one of three options. The first, death by stoning... The second, death by burning... The third, death by quartering...'
The first two options drew unenthusiastic murmurs, but the third brings a blood-vessel bursting roar from the crowd and their unquenchable desire for suffering sends tremors through my bones.
'It's unanimous. Death by quartering it is.'
'But I'm a good man, this is wrong. Pl-ea-se!' Thomas Arkenhead screams and his words are met with howls of derision. Knees buckle to baton blows against his ribcage, adding to bruises and scratch marks which cover his vulnerable torso.
'You are not a good man. Savour this moment while it lasts, for it is going to get a whole lot worse in the hereafter. Mount him,' the elite commands.
The rattle of chains is drowned by fervent blasts as once again the crowd roar. Broad-shouldered guards grip the prisoner's limbs which hopelessly resist being mounted to the gallows. 'Please, please!'
Thomas Arkenhead's gaze darts disbelievingly but there is no escape route, no straw to clutch at, no saviour. As they suspend this fretful convict he already looks dead despite vigorous animation. He is not of this world, not worthy of life - it has been decided, pre-ordained. And I should feel pity for him but hundreds of prisoners are executed every day; it would be a waste of tears.
'Nobody imagines when they start out in life, it'll end this way,' I mutter.
'He knew what the punishment was before he committed the crime,' Eyris whispers.
'How can another human being can do such a thing?' Thomas Arkenhead screams, coughing vomit into his beard. The elite draws her ritual dagger and the curved blade gleams as she approaches the condemned man who leans away with a grimace of terror.
The blade tip is placed against Thomas Arkenhead's trembling groin and he screams but it is a gentler, more pitiful scream. A scream of resignation, of hoping for a swift end to the torment. A flood of red pours as the elite's hand crosses his abdomen and his bowels spill, dangling. Colour drains from his greying flesh and he squirms as gore taints the brilliant floor.
'I can't watch a man being cut to pieces! Tell me when it's over.'
Mila turns away with face buried in palms.
Thomas Arkenhead's crown barbwire falls as the gallows are tilted backwards to suspend his body with arms and legs at full stretch. Executioners stand at each limb and they unsheathe swords so visibly sharp they could slice through individual dust particles in the air.
'On the count of three... One... Two... Three!'
The deafening roar makes me sway in my seat as four swords simultaneously sever Thomas Arkenhead's limbs, causing his torso to slump to the ground. And the carving of human flesh seems not dissimilar to the butchery of a farm animal. This scene of ruthless injustice makes me feel ashamed for not being more horrified than I am.
'Sword.' A guard hands a sword to the elite. 'Hold him up.'
The same guard holds Thomas Arkenhead's limbless body by his crusted hair and as I wonder whether he remains conscious a swish of the elite's sword severs his neck. Once again his torso audibly thuds and a decapitated head stares into the crowd as the last modicum of life slips away with the dripping of blood.
'Prepare the pigs!'
The severed head is dropped to the plateau and the executioners stroll out the arena without displaying a hint of unease. Warthogs are released, scurrying over to tear flesh and their ravenous, shaking faces are soaked by Thomas Arkenhead's vital fluids. A living, breathing person is reduced to animal feed and I cannot avert these eyes.
'Exciting eh?! I told you, you had to see an execution at least once in your life,' Vytali loudly whispers in breathless elation.
'It… was... barbaric...' I stumble along; a confused mush of moral contradiction. 'How can this be a spectator sport?'
'Careful what you say or you might be next!' Vytali chuckles, barging my shoulder.
'If it's any consolation, I struggled at my first execution. You develop a stronger stomach after two or three,' Eyris says.
'Look at the time, it's eleven o' five. We're gonna be late for the races,' Vytali advises.
'You two walk on. We'll meet you at the tram station.' Mila pulls me to one side to whisper through clenched teeth: 'Careful. If they think you are a non... Well, you might be next.'
'Well we can't go with them.' My mouth leans towards Mila's ear. 'We can't trust these people, did you hear them cheer?'
'That's fine. If you still wanna go to the races, we can go alone.'
The Hover Race
Mila and I return to Rewana Coffee Shop where we sit solemnly muted, ordering blueberry muffins from a service droid, which we barely touch due to our loss of appetite. Class animosity seems ever more tangible as I imagine the fervour with which these customers would watch our execution if bottom levellers were to be exposed. Thomas Arkenhead's severed head is burned onto my subconscious as we trudge to the tram station.
'Come on, let's go the fun way. Lead us to the serpent slide.'
Pinkness is puzzlingly restored to Mila's cheeks and her posture lifts as glowing arrows guide us through the crystalline village. After a short walk with only one conscience disturbed by today's murder, we approach sparkling scales and flashing eyes of a snakehead emerging from the plateau near the central tower.
'Plateau One!' Mila screams, leaping between fangs with arms flailing and she soars down a frictionless throat, through the walls of Sky City.
'Okay, Plateau One please.' Shrugging, I crash onto my coccyx as I am ingested by the serpent and swooshed along at abdominal-tensing speed. The slide spirals the endless central tower and although the walls are transparent the external scenery is nothing more than smears of white and grey. Internal organs are rearranged as the slide ends mid-air, flinging my body over pedestrians to land gently in an area free of bystanders.
'Fun, eh?' Mila grins in defiance of disorientation, but shame prevents a smile from appearing on my lips and I watch the public with immovable suspicion.
'You seem weirdly chirpy, given what we've just witnessed.'
'It was horrible, Arturo, don't get me wrong. But let's not let a bit of mindless violence put a downer on things, eh. You've always wanted to see the races, remember?'
'Yeah... The strange thing is part of me found it mesmerising, seeing a person like that. I can't believe I'm saying it.' My voice strains to get the words out.
'Arturo, it really doesn't surprise me. You boys are all a bit twisted!'
A hypocritical mess of reservation and compulsion arrives at Leto station. Catching the tram, we reach our destination at 11.58am and a muddy path leads to a gigantic wart on the crust of Eryx, a stadium of unsightly magnificence with dwindling queues as spectators venture inside. The words: Miglia Circuit have been constructed over entrance booths with pieces of welded scrap iron fixed to a crudely engineered stand.
'This stadium is over a century old. They can fit one hundred and twenty thousand people in here.' Eyeballs roll in an observant arch to soak up a presence even more commanding than I had envisaged.
'It's big and ugly. You'd think they'd clean it up,' Mila expresses a typically female appreciation of fine culture.
'They've got no plans to enter it into a beauty contest, it's a race track!'
By 12.03pm we are encompassed by the cauldron of Miglia stadium and the gossiping crowd generates a thrillingly uncomfortable tension. Every woman and man is aware of the stakes, for these racers are not volunteers and it is not so much about first place and last, but freedom and imprisonment. Life and death.
As I admire pods on the starting grid, pilots emerge one by one to rapturous applause. The lingering mist is not as milky as it seemed from the brink of Plateau Three and an enlarged hologram of the pilots is clearly visible as an announcer speaks:
'Ladies and gentleman, we have a special surprise... He was a renowned cage fighter with a record of fifty two wins, forty six knockouts and only four defeats. His career was interrupted when he refused conscription during the war and he served two years in a work camp. On release he risked execution by speaking against San Teria. However he has since retracted those words, stating they were taken out of context. Therefore he has been given the opportunity of redemption by participating in the races. So the question is, ladies and gentleman, can Sydney Anguson survive long enough to earn his freedom?'
The notorious dissident marches out in racing leathers with helmet under arm, raising his fist to an ecstatic ovation. As you would expect from history's greatest cage fighter, he does not show a modicum of apprehension and to the contrary revels in the spotlight, regardless of circumstances. This sport requires nerves of steel and there are few as unflinching as Anguson.
'Only four racers have done it before him, could Sydney Anguson be the fifth? He is facing arguably the toughest test of his life, but who would bet against him. Bets are being taken now. Forty to one for Anguson to win his freedom. Do you believe he can do it?'
The helmet Anguson is placing on his head will be of little use, given the nature of injuries sustained in this sport. Opening the hatch, he squeezes into the fearsome battle-craft and it hisses upwards, primed for action. The armour clad shell heaves in the air, in third place on the starting grid of mechanical monsters which sway as though they are rocking on waves.
'There you two are. What happened to you?' a male voice says and I turn around to see Vytali and Eyris shuffling past seated racing fans. 'I love this guy Anguson. He's a legend, don't you think?'
'He's a non-believer. I thought you'd want him to be executed,' I reply as Citizens squeeze backsides onto the step.
'You can't execute a man like Sydney Anguson. Anyways he retracted his words, remember?' Vytali explains.
'Funny, I don't recollect any footage of him retracting those words.' I frown more by reflex than intent.
'It was confirmed by the elites, Zain. No need for a grand public announcement. They let the man keep his dignity.'
'And forced him to participate in these races.'
'Do you think anyone could force Anguson to do something against his will? The man's a fighter, he needed a new challenge. That was just hype for
the crowd... Anyway, the goddess allows those who are true of heart to succeed. The races will prove his innocence,' Vytali insists.
'Ladies and gentleman, the drivers are in their starting positions and ready to go. Who will survive and who will fail. There is only one way to find out. The race will start in... Three. Two. One. Go! Go! Go!' the announcer's voice booms.
Flames burst from exhaust pipes and competitors zoom over the arena, leaving dust plumes as they follow beacons of green light through stone arches. An arrow-shaped pod scrapes its paintwork of white zigzags as it sideswipes a rival craft which loses stability. The pilot ejects at the last instant as his careering vessel slams into an enormous boulder and is blasted to fragments. Billowing plasma follows the pilot upwards and the crowd screams as debris rains down, then a smouldering body parachutes to the ground.
'That was convicted fraudster Joseph Smith. Is he alive or dead? Let's take a look,' the announcer says.
The holographic display in the centre of the arena shows Smith's blackened clothes and charred skin in graphic detail; bloodied flesh is exposed in places but he is still intact. Closed eyes and stillness suggest his traumatised body is finished and the consensus of the speculating spectators is: 'He must be dead,' but then his hand twitches and paramedic droids rush in to stretcher him off.
'I see movement, he must have a guardian angel but his racing career looks over. It's back to prison for Joseph Smith,' the announcer says with a hint of irony in his voice.
The remaining racers hurtle into a mesh pipe which goes directly above our heads, offering a sense of raw engine power as my face is blasted by air of breath-stealing heat. Consecutive air blasts follow as streaks of colour thunder through the iron tube and the pacesetter exits the stadium. Mila sticks fingers in her ears and hunches as she yells with maximum vocality:
'Oh my goddess, I can't hear myself shout. This is awesome!'
The holographic projection shows the exit of the quivering pipe from the internal viewpoint, a rotating slit just wide enough for the craft to be piloted through. Several racers tilt their pods and escape due to split-second timing but the pilot in sixth place clips the mouth. Pieces break off the hull as it skids across undergrowth and comes to a halt in the cushion of dense vegetation. The lucky pilot clambers out unscathed and the crowd boos.
