by RD Hale
'That's Antonio Garrett, convicted thief. Failure to finish, that'll be five points added to the terms of his release. He is one lucky man,' the announcer says.
Racers zoom into a forest of giants where lingering fog proves to be a real hazard, reducing opportunity to react as they negotiate colossal trunks. A saw-blade emerges from a pod and fells a sapling easily large enough to crush these armour-plated beasts. A craft is unable to evade the wooden barrier, disintegrating in an explosion of metal shards and charcoal splinters as the craft behind is flung by the shockwave into a redoia. The ensuing explosion topples this monstrous plant, which in turn collapses two more softwoods as wildfire spreads through undergrowth.
'That's rapist Mikael Harson and arsonist Blade Mantel. Neither will be missed,' the announcer says.
'I've lost track of Anguson, can anyone see him?' I ask with hand cupped over brow.
'The positions are in the top left of the display. He's in second place,' Vytali yells.
The craft plunge into a gaping fissure, a notorious sector reminiscent of the fiery inferno of the underworld. Racers vie for position in a network of artificial magma chambers, leaving wakes of golden ripples on the river of liquid rock. Glowing splashes randomly burst from the swirling surface and I wince at the thought of what the superheated flow could do to race pods, let alone human flesh.
'And now the competitors have entered the furnace. This is the critical stage of the race. Who amongst them will make it out alive?' the announcer asks.
Anguson attempts to claim first place but gets slammed by a rival craft and struggles with altered momentum as plasma jets from the wall. Swerving beneath the flame the cage fighter jostles with the pitiless race leader and I clench a determined fist.
'That's Alenko Shunamaka - the most combative pilot in the race. Can Anguson make it out alive?' the announcer asks.
Vehicles collide, rocking from the impact and Anguson swerves as Shunamaka unleashes his deadly saw-blade. Anguson shifts upwards and the roof of his craft narrowly misses a stalactite as the saw-blade strikes jagged rock, breaking off in a shower of sparks. Tension becomes excruciating as the rivals approach a chomping metal mouth ready to crunch any mistimed escape attempt. Dented shells tussle side by side but Anguson dives and his glowing chassis skims lava.
'Oh no, the legend could be in trouble!' Vytali shrieks.
Anguson lurches upwards and his pod's outer shell drips away, leaving an exposed cavity, yet he must carry on as billowing smoke engulfs his rival. The race leaders reach closing iron jaws which will decide who will survive and ultimately be victorious.
Anguson squeezes through the narrowest of gaps and a moment later the criminal scumbag Shunamaka is mercilessly devoured by rusted teeth. A great but ruthless pilot finished by a mechanism designed to kill solely for entertainment purposes. His severed hull sinks into hell fire as gasps transform into euphoric roars.
'Only six more points and he would have earned his freedom,' Vytali mutters.
Anguson once again hurtles through the forest of destruction, the resting place of fallen convicts and he returns to the stadium of those happy to stand by and watch. The infatuated crowd are on their feet as Anguson reaches the red beacon of light to finish in first place and cruise into the pit lane. The camera zooms into the victor who climbs from the barely intact pod and flings his helmet down, tensing those huge arms whilst roaring like a barbarian.
'AN-GU-SON! AN-GU-SON! AN-GU-SON!' they scream.
'Would you believe it? Sydney Anguson has won in his first race. What an incredible feat. Who would bet against him doing it again next week?' the announcer says with unrestrained delight in his voice.
The Scythian Order
The casual series of death and destruction has satiated the bloodthirst of those who label the participants as savages and generated a state of awe with compassion buried somewhere in the back of my mind. Paranoia gives way for their self-seeking attitude as we squeeze through the mob, barely hearing each other speak due to the racket in this cauldron-like arena. Anguson has managed to maintain his hero status despite his dissidence and voices speculate: 'Of course he will do it, Anguson will win his freedom.'
'Come on guys, we have somewhere even cooler to take you,' Eyris insists.
'Sorry Eyris, we need to get back. We have some important things to do,' I reply, concerned if I spend too much time around this girl she may alert the authorities to a slip of the tongue.
'So you don't want to see the most technologically implausible of all Anatolia's landmarks?' Vytali has a teasing twinkle in his eye. 'The hanging gardens…'
'But I thought you had to be Level One to gain access?' I reply.
'You do, but we know another way.' Eyris grins in full knowledge we will capitulate. 'And seeing as we're in a good mood, we're willing to show you two!'
'Come on, we have to see them,' Mila insists and my shoulders droop because I am outnumbered three to one. 'Zain said yes!'
'No need to get the tram. It's only a mile or two this way, let's take a walk... So what do you think of Anguson? The guy's a legend. First race, first place. Some of these bottom levellers are cut from a different cloth, don't you think?' Vytali asks.
'But those guys are low-lives, why else would they be denied Citizenship? Anguson's not a hero, he's a circus animal,' I reply.
'Well let's be honest, any Citizen wouldn't last two minutes in the races. It's their background, it toughens them. And out of nine billion, there's always gonna be one or two who are genetic freaks. I think it'd be exciting to be a bottom leveller. Don't you?' Vytali asks.
'What, you mean having no food, no medical care, no home or money? Scavenging whatever you can to survive. Seeing your friends dragged off to work camps, never to be seen again. Yeah, sounds like a laugh a minute,' I say as we exit Miglia stadium, following a dirt road into the industrialized outskirts of Medio city.
'Living on the edge. Always keeping your wits about you. Danger lurking around every corner. No boundaries. No responsibilities. Every day an adventure, going wherever the wind may take you. Maybe I'm more adventurous than you!' Vytali declares.
'Yeah more adventurous, that's it! Bottom levellers have no responsibility. It's not like they're at risk of starvation or anything. On the bottom level the strong survive... a little longer than the rest.' I sigh.
'I was thinking of going out there, slumming it for the day. Maybe next weekend. You should join me if you're man enough,' Vytali challenges.
'Sounds scary - all those junkie thieves who graduate to become rapists and murderers until the day karma gives them a taste of own brutality. I'm not sure if I could handle it!' I struggle to maintain an expressionless face.
'Oh well, let me know when your balls have dropped! You see that over there, you know what it is? A work camp. That's where they recruit the racers from. They get the choice - years of hard labour or the opportunity to go free. Small chance though.'
Vytali points to a gargantuan mining conveyor which stands in the distance, dwarfing the nearby prison complex. A one thousand ton monster lugging minecarts from pits of despair. Despite its decrepitude the filthy machine gives the impression it could stand for millennia, providing toil to stragglers snatched from the streets as children and flung into a life of slavery.
'Not exactly a tourist attraction. I can see why Anguson chose to race,' I mutter.
'Tell me about it. Who knows what chambers of torment lie beneath?' Vytali laughs, doing his best ghoul impression.
We pass through a business park where eco-friendly buildings of atypical designs are surrounded by pleasant greenery. A salient glass column displays state of the art hovercars and the top floor provides a tantalising view of the ultimate in levitation technology, retailing at a measly two million credits. The vehicle's design has more in common with a fighter plane than a car with its streamlined, finned body and Blue Flame logo. It is alluring to an obscene extent and Vytali's tongue is hanging out.
'One day I'll
own one of them. It'll be the first thing I buy when I gain Level One Citizenship,' Vytali declares.
'Keep dreaming Vytali, your chances of achieving Level One Citizenship are one in a million.'
'Eyris, stop ruining my fantasy... Hey Zain, get this - it can hover off-road at two hundred and fifty miles per hour. That's comparable to the racing pods we've just seen. It's an astonishing piece of engineering.'
'So, so beautiful.' I drool, unable to avert my gaze as we pass the showroom. 'I think I'm in love…'
'I hope you mean with me,' Mila snaps.
Minutes tick by into an hour and the mist thins as we detour around a hill with a sundial at the peak, crossing a footbridge which spans a maglev road. Behind us factories and showrooms blur away as we journey into an estate where geraniums and garden ponds beautify picture book houses. Before long the industrial complex has completely vanished.
'Optical illusion, clever eh?' Eyris says and I flex my brows as I wonder what possible mechanism could have achieved such a feat.
We pass a building with walls composed of tinted glass and scores of children run over turfed roofs that curve down to a playground; their evolutionary hang-overs urging them to swarm over nets, tyre swings and primary coloured climbing frames. Laughter echoes into the distance and joyfulness of youngsters whose bodies are not at the border of starvation feels pleasantly peculiar.
'I'm embarrassed to say that was my first school. It was so mediocre but I suppose I didn't turn out too bad, got accepted at Nimbis at least,' Eyris says.
'I thought you said it was only a mile or two.' Mila sniffs heavily as though she is not used to walking every single day. 'I need to rest my feet.'
'Relax, it's not too far now.' Eyris shows no offence to the rude interruption and we plod on until we depart the housing estate. 'We're passing the light cloak now, look up there.'
Neck hairs raise as we approach a shimmering archipelago of floating islands with mechanical underbellies suspended in the haze, seemingly plucked from the Panthalassic Ocean by a magical force. These captivating havens, which were invisible only minutes ago, stir the imagination and invoke an irresistible urge to explore, but the only entry point I know of is a tram station with a Level One access booth.
'Wa-how!' Mila takes a wobbly step back. 'How on Eryx do they stay up?'
'A combination of graviton shields and very strong magnets. Must use a ridiculous amount of power,' Vytali explains.
Levitating green spaces inconsiderately block already faint sunlight as we pass lifeless trees and brambles hidden in shafts of shadow. We reach a spiked fence with the words: All Saints Cemetery forming a red arch over an iron gate. A muffled noise comes from above like the blowing of fans as we traverse uneven ground with ghostly wisps swirling through overgrown grass. The thought of brittle bones beneath our feet only adds to the macabre atmosphere and I spot a reef of brown flowers fixed to the foot of a broken tablet. The inscription reads:
Molly McCoy
13th January 2031 - 29th December 2036
The goddess has taken another angel home
'They built a cemetery below the gardens?' Mila asks.
'No, they built the gardens above the cemetery. The thing about dead people is they can't complain. Anyway this cemetery hasn't been used for years. Come on, this is how you get into the gardens,' Eyris explains.
A nearby gothic building is visible through shade-tolerant parloch trees as we pass a pair of open graves, which seems rather odd for an out of use cemetery. A stone platform has a broken arch suspended by grey columns - a site of ritual and enchantment which I would have previously dismissed as superstition, but recent events have encouraged an ambiguity which is far more appealing than certainty.
'Now before we go any further, we need to know we can trust you guys. We can't share our secrets with just anyone, we'd be in trouble if we did. You can't tell anyone about this. You have to be prepared to swear to the goddess. Are you?' Eyris asks.
'Y-yeah, course we are.' Mila's fingertips touch as she smiles submissively. 'The goddess can totally trust us.'
'In that case, come down here.'
Eyris leads to a crypt with a pentagram at the peak and stained glass windows bearing images of their saviour. A statue of a winged beast with a missing arm stands guard: the beast who according to myth will escort the dead from purgatory to the above or below and now he is broken, the souls of those buried here are forgotten.
Eyris unlocks the door with a brass key and light filtered by stained glass paints a stony interior which has the coolness of a cavern. A stairway at the far end of the narrow room leads into blackness but as we descend wall-mounted torches are lit by our guides.
A foisty aroma clogs my nostrils as a nightmarish chamber emerges. Dust is piled and there is a distinct sense of intrusion as though spirits are wailing, warning us not to enter. A shackled table covered in brown stains dominates the vault and purple robes hang on the walls. Eyris pulls another key from her pocket and unlocks an ornate chest on a stone shelf, removing a curved blade with a handle covered in scales. A pentagram is carved onto the guard and there is a snake's head at the pommel.
'This is a ritual dagger, it has been used by the Order for generations. It brings strength to those who are true of heart and curses those who are not. Once we are done, you'll be half way towards full membership and it is worth it. We can show you things you never imagined,' Eyris advises.
'Membership of what exactly?' I ask with unabashed scepticism in my glare.
'I can't give details, but complete the first step and I promise you will want to know more. Once you've proven yourselves this will be the first secret of many. Believe me, student life is about to get a whole lot more exciting.' Eyris grabs a linen robe from a brass hook, releasing a dust cloud with a shake which causes my irritated nose to sneeze. 'Okay, we need to put these on.'
Mila raises eyebrows with a braindead smirk, pulling the musty mantel over her head but I hesitate because those things are unhygienic, even by my standards. Standing in their monk garbs, the deathly trio stare expectantly at the odd one out as I hold the garment in my fingers, grimacing. It reminds me of the robes worn by the laboratory escapees, only this one seems infested with evilness.
'Come on, Zain, what happened to your adventurous spirit?' Eyris asks.
The costume contaminates new clothes with dormant microbes and the act of tying the rope around my waist creates an immediate feeling of awkwardness. Contrary to my exploratory disposition, something does not feel right and I have no desire to join their Order, but being perceived as edgy and unadventurous is less appealing still. And the new friends who at first seemed lively and well-balanced are becoming increasingly peculiar. Their faces remain solemn until after a minute or so standing in silence, Eyris breaks the creepy tension:
'Don't you two look fantastic?'
Eyris trots upstairs and as we follow there is an ominous grinding of stone against stone. She reaches up helplessly as an impervious barrier seals shut to entomb us in the crypt, then a draft of wind with no logical source extinguishes the torches, plunging us into pitch blackness.
Midway up the steps I stand numbed and the sense of isolation is swift and intense because there will be no-one in this abandoned graveyard to hear our screams. A flash of light reveals a face for the briefest of instants, possibly my own reflection floating in a gaseous swirl of what could be ectoplasm. As the guys nervously murmur my ears strain to hear near-silent whispering:
'Manipulation comes from either side. Truth comes from within. Own your mind.'
'W-what happened?' Mila asks as presumably her hands grab my arm.
'I'm not sure. Don't worry, I can open it. I just need to feel... Ah there,' Eyris replies and light streaks down the staircase as the roof grinds open to simultaneous sighs.
'What happened to the torches? Where did that wind come from?' Mila squeezes my arm tight.
'It had to be a message from the spirits. A warning... Vytali come ov
er here a moment,' Eyris instructs.
Mila and I wait sheepishly at the crypt as the members of the Scythian Order return to the stone platform for a discussion with the obvious subjects just out of earshot. The superfluous layer of clothing causes armpit sweat to soak into my t-shirt as they whisper, glancing suspiciously in our direction and beckoning us across. Eyris stands below the archway and her robe sways as she looks skywards with the dagger held aloft. Then she speaks:
'Goddess Katona, we bring these people before you to swear an oath. Violation of this oath will result in the wrath of the goddess. This opportunity is offered to guide the young and frail along the path which only leads back to you. We therefore humbly request impunity. Bless them with your love, offer guidance when our judgement fails us and continue to shine your light... Ana, repeat after me... I swear...'
'Not to betray my sistren and brethren...'
'I understand anything which is revealed to me today...'
'Is revealed in the strictest confidence...'
'And I must not tell another soul...'
'Or may the goddess strike me down...'
'Now give me your hand.'
Eyris pulls Mila's hesitant hand towards the blade tip and I fear their warped sense of acceptable behaviour may result in the lopping off of a fingertip. But surely they cannot be crazy enough to act without explicit consent, can they? Uncertain whether to intervene, I observe the practice with a clenched fist as my girl's eyes widen. Mila tries to pull her hand away from the unexplained gesture but Eyris holds her wrist tight.
'Ana, this is important. Please be still, this should only hurt for a moment,' Vytali whispers.
Protectiveness is over-ridden by voyeurism as Eyris gently presses the dagger into Mila's shivering palm. Droplets of blood spill onto the stone platform which hisses in response. Then white streaks materialise to form images of flying snakes which are so faint they could be figments of imagination. Nobody else seems to notice the ghostly serpents swooping around our heads, but the act of watching transcends normal experience and invokes consideration of the divine.
