by Lyn Forester
Contents
Also By
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Poison World
Five Years Ago
Goodbye Me
Current Day
Mr Laundreman Gets Laundered
The Etiquette of Doors
Kiss This
A Cause for Concern
Of Beauty and Sanitization
Picking Picadio's
Is That a Psy-Gun in Your Pocket?
Wacking Distance
A Show at the Plaza
Red Light, Green Light
GoGoNow with Protein!
Penned
Copper Alley
The Art of Walking
Tea for Two
Paint Over the Stars
Can't Go Back
Book Two
About the Author
ALSO BY LYN FORESTER
Poison World Universe
Poison World
Beneath a Holo-Sky
Ash in the Blood (Coming Soon)
Poisoned Houses
House of Glass (Coming Soon)
Tails x Horns Universe
You to Me (Coming Soon)
LYN FORESTER
BENEATH
A HOLO-SKY
A Poison World Novel | BOOK 1
Copyright © 2016 by Lyn Forester
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the writer, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Illustration Copyright © 2016 Lyn Forester
Cover design by Lyn Forester
Book design and production by Lyn Forester, www.lynforester.com
Copy Editing by Laura Tom
Chapter opening illustrations © 2016 Lyn Forester
Printed in the United States of America.
First Printing, 2016
www.lynforester.com
To my uncle, who shared my passion for fantastical worlds.
I hoped to share my first book with you,
but you left this life too soon.
Your energy, scattered back into the world,
lights new paths—
still here, just less orderly.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to my friends and family. I couldn’t have gotten here without you encouragement and support. There are no words that can fully express how much your faith has meant to me. To those I’ve met in person, and those I’ve only known online, thank you.
Five Years Ago
Location: Leton
Season: Fall-Cycle, Day 75
Year: 894 PL (Post Landing)
GOODBYE ME
Moldy cabbage. The scent clogs my nose as I open my eyes into darkness. I wrap my arms tighter around my knobby knees and pull them against my chest. The cold edges of tile stab into the flesh of my back. Silence hangs heavy in the air, cut only by the quiet pants of my own gasps.
My stomach muscles clench around a hollow ache below my ribs.
How many days have I been here?
Where am I?
Time has been passing in a red haze.
I remember trailing my mark, Blue Guard Treyhern. On his way to Ground Zero, he lost me in a crowd off the lift. I’d dragged my feet about returning to the house empty-handed, when a rush of heat flushed through my body. My vision went red, hazy and confusing.
After that, everything goes into snapshots.
The rough texture of a wall against my palm.
A blurry face creased with concern.
The scent of sweet honey and cinnamon fill my nose.
Panic.
My legs shake as I force myself to stand, back scraping against the wall for support. I need to figure out where I am and plan my next step. With one hand on the wall, I shuffle forward, the other hand stretched out to ward off obstacles. The urge to lie down again weighs heavy in my limbs.
So exhausting.
When the wall corners, I follow that too and try not to linger on the image of myself, forever circling in the dark. My fingers slide into a crack in the wall. Sharp and well defined, I trace the path up over my head, where it bends at a right angle and becomes horizontal for about three feet, then shoots back down. A door. I run my hands over the smooth surface between the cracks, searching for a palm pad. Cold metal knocks again my wrist. Short, shaped like a pipe. A lever handle. I give it a hard twist.
Must still be on Ground Zero, in one of the abandoned buildings. When people can pay to upgrade from handles to palm pads, they can afford to move up a few levels. Only Levels 3 and below have the old fixtures.
I put my shoulder against the door and push. The effort makes black and white dots swarm my vision as I fight to remain conscious. I stay in the opening, panting as my eyes adjust to the dim light of the new room. A soft glow filters in from another doorway, across from me and off-center. Dust motes dance thick in the air, undisturbed for some time. Frequent patrols by the Peace Keepers prevent freeloaders from lingering in one place.
The moldy cabbage odor dissipates once I leave the first room. Against the walls on both sides, tall, shadowed rectangles form the shape of tables. Might be in an old restaurant. I lurch forward, sliding a hand over the cold, flat surfaces to support myself. Dust slips under my palm. Debris rolls and snaps beneath my shoes. I ignore the scuttle of furred rodents and pretend the crunches are rice.
Fifteen steps and I exit into the main room. The light source comes from a boarded up window next to the restaurant's entrance. It seeps through narrow cracks, white and bright enough to highlight the barren room. Scavengers have stolen everything portable. The shattered remains of larger items litter the floor.
A hard piece of plastic bounces off the toe of my shoe as I shuffle toward the door, proud I haven't fallen yet. The misshapen lump of a melted handle mocks my small victory. I lean my weight against it anyway, hopeful, but the door doesn’t budge. The Peace Keepers’ attempt to lock out trespassers is effective.
Shuffle. Shuffle. Window.
I reach for the boards and my hands pass into a patch of light. I freeze. Panic rattles through my body. Crusts of blood form black scabs on the pale white of my skin. The sight of broken fingernails and bruised knuckles triggers sharp, aching pain. My head swims, the air tight in my lungs as my vision goes hazy again. I don’t remember how it happened. The blank holes in my memory cause acid to roll in my stomach. I fight the urge to vomit.
It only takes a few experimental pushes to find the loosened board. I poke my head through the opening and blink as my eyes adjust. Streetlights dot the sidewalk at even intervals, narrow metal stems that lift dim spheres of light ten feet off the ground. Their setting changes dependent on time of day. Their low setting of Quarter-Light can work for either early morning or evening. With no one on the street, I guess the former.
I push further through the window, brace elbows against the outer wall, and wiggle my way through. It takes a small feat of contortionism to squirm through without falling on my face.
The exertion pushes blood too fast through my body, and I lean over, hands on thighs, as I fight dizziness. When I raise my head, I’m not alone.
What I took for a pile of trash missed by the street sweepers now sports a head. Matted hair sticks out from under a hat that blends with the refuse. Bloodshot eyes stare at me with suspicion.
Man or woman? I can’t tell and don’t care. Loitering is a jailable offense, but we’re both guilty. Whoever this is won’t report me to the authorities, and tonight they’ll have a new place to hide.
I give the person a nod, leave the displaced board loose, and start moving.
The buildings, packed tight together, have bare openings cut into the walls instead of plas-glass windows. Bars cover some, shutters are on others. Trash piles fill the narrow alleys, blanketing the streets in the scent of rotting waste. A chill breeze carries the odor of animal waste from the outer rim, where meat is grown for most of the city levels. I’m definitely still on Ground Zero. A block down, the street sign at the corner allows me to reorient myself. I pull up a mental map of the city level and set my feet in the direction of the nearest public lift that goes to Level 8.
As I walk, the streetlamps brighten and the holo-sky changes from a dark gray to steel blue. Dawn simulation for the populace who lives below the city wall's shadow line. Real sun never makes it down this far.
By the time I reach the lift, people starting their day fill the sidewalks. The stream of men and women swarm the elevator ports, a dense crush on their way to upper level jobs. Most will return tonight, but a lucky few will achieve their dream of upper level lives. It keeps the rest hopeful, striving toward better lives that they're unlikely to see.
I fall in line with those before me and endure the slow procession toward an empty lift.
The large elevator port supports six lifts. Designed as a ring with a silver metal rod at the center, it shoots up through the holo-sky. Attached to spokes, plas-glass encases shining discs to form a pod. Each holds up to a hundred people. Pedestrians form a line around the port in a spiral that shrinks as they near the sorting area. Gray-uniformed conductors direct passengers based on their commute.
“Which level, miss?” His tall, shiny, black hat makes him appear taller than me, easy to see above the crowd. But his eyes are level with my own, sharp and inquisitive.
“Eight.” I square my shoulders, meeting his gaze.
The conductor gives me a dubious look. I run a hand over my hair, feeling the tangles, and show him my datband. He takes his time scanning it before waving me further down the loading docks to the last lift.
I hunch my shoulders to be as small as possible, avoid eye contact, and squeeze my way inside.
A few passengers later, the doors shush closed. The platform vibrates under foot and we’re off, accelerating at stomach-dropping speed. I sway, nauseated, and close my eyes. Through my lids, the light goes dark as we pass through the holo-sky and into the foundation of Level 1. I open my eyes again, hating the black of the between. Brightness floods the pod once more as the lift shoots from the ground and blurs through the next city level. Then darkness once more. Step and repeat.
Like all of the stacked cities, Leton has thirteen levels total. This lift only goes to Level 9, forcing citizens to transfer and recredential before they’re allowed into the more affluent areas.
At last, a modulated voice comes from hidden speakers, “Approaching Level 4.” Passengers shuffle in an awkward dance as the lift slows to a stop and half the people disembark.
With sighs of relief, those who remain spread out.
At Levels 5 and 6, more escape until only a handful stay.
The man next to me stays in place and I frown, sidling away. When we reach Level 7, he creeps close again.
Frowning, I shoot him a glare and freeze.
He towers over me, dazzling. His skin gleams under the pod’s lights, a mesmerizing sparkle like crushed diamonds. A halion pureblood from the Riellio clan. The man stares at me, a look of confusion clouding his pale blue eyes as he searches my face. He leans down, a thick, white braid slipping over his shoulder to swing toward me. Nostrils flare as he breaths in. His coral lips tilt down at the corners.
I turn my back to him and move away, give myself a surreptitious sniff.
I stink.
When the lift's doors open, I bolt without a backward glance.
~
At the first health club I pass, I sneak into the women’s changing room. The smell of wet towels and chemical flowers fills the large, tiled room. A quick sweep makes sure I have the space to myself, for now. I grab a towel and lock myself in one of the shower stalls. My stinky clothes land in a pile near the door as I strip, taking the lingering odor of cabbage with them.
I turn the shower faucets on, thrilled to discover gym members have free hot water. The spray hits my head and shoulders and soothes away the ache in my body. Sleepiness crashes through me and I sway, pressing a hand against the wall for support. I swat at the temperature lever, and the water turns to icy, stinging needles that wake me up. I pump soap into my hand and the chemical flower scent becomes stronger. Pervasive and foul smelling, I lather the stuff into my hair and work out the tangles. Shivers rake my body, and my skin has a blue tinge to it by the time the soap rinses off.
Grateful, I turn off the shower and wrap the large towel around my naked body. Stiff fibers scratch against my skin, as I scoop up my dirty clothes and carry them out of the stall.
Another circle around the room and I’m still alone. The lockers here have a simple tumbler mechanism that takes me under a minute to pick. My shoulders sag when the first locker only holds a shower kit. Two lockers later, with frequent glances toward the door, I find a gym bag full of clothes. The tight pants take some wiggling to get up my damp thighs, and the cuffs hit at my ankles. Not designed for a tall person. The pink blouse, when I tug it on, pulls at the chest. It hits an inch above my waistband, revealing an embarrassing amount of skin.
In another life, I might have felt ashamed to rob some helpless fitness freak. Now, I only regret that the small shoes pinch my feet.
I stuff my dirty clothes into the trash can, destined for the incinerators. My fingers hesitate on the feel of the slick material of the datband on my wrist. It represents who I’ve been for the last four years. An entire person contained within a thin strip of plastic.
Slowly, I pull it off and let it fall to join my other belongings. Where it used to rest, my skin looks pale and shiny. For the second time in my life, I have no identity. Vulnerability washes through me, a sensation I’d hoped to never experience again.
Forty-five minutes later, I find myself in front of Club Razor. At night, neon signs blaze, throbbing music floods the street, and the line for entry takes two hours. Early in the day, the lights remain dark, the doors locked tight. I don't remember the walk from the gym, my feet leading me here by muscle memory. Exhaustion makes everything a blur.
I slap my cheeks, the sharp sting of pain bringing me back into focus. I’m here for a reason.
Pace purposeful and casual, I walk to the rear entrance. The cool gel of the palm scanner molds around my hand, flashes warm, and grants me access. Rushing to the security panel, I shut off the alarms.
Even with the green light on, I’m on a time limit. I hurry to the manager's office, then into the closet. Suit jackets and fur coats hang inside and I fling them out of the way to find the safe in the back wall. I punch in the code. Nothing happens. I swear and try a different code. The light blinks to green and the heavy door swings open. Relief rushes through me when I find the slender gold sticks of unregistered credits. Exactly where Japhrey put them the night before my disappearance. I haven’t been missing long enough for the club to recode them as revenue.
Guilt pings through me as my fingers slide along the sticks. Japhrey gave me a home, a new family. No going back from this. I force the emotion into a box in the back of my brain, lock the lid tight. Survival before everything else. The credit sticks disappear into my pilfered gym bag.
I’m out the door and crouched in an alley across the street when a sleek black car rolls to a stop in fro
nt of the club. I shouldn’t have waited, but I can’t bring myself to leave without seeing them one more time. The driver door opens and a young halion man steps out. March, Japhrey’s second in command. A brisk morning breeze carries the smell of pepper and burning leaves, the sour-sweetness of cherry.
He shakes black hair from his eyes and the holo-sun glints off strands of deep red and purple. Dual-toned eyes, one brown and one green, scan the surroundings. He pauses on the alley where I crouch, then moves past. His hand hovers near his hip where a subtle bump of the jacket reveals his psy-gun. After a moment, he pounds a fist on the roof of the car, three quick raps.
His boss, a tall halion with fiery hair exits from the passenger side. He, too, pauses, head swiveling as he gazes up and down the street. A fur coat hugs his body, brown fibers warm against the golden sheen of his skin. He nods at the driver and they move away from the car. I wait until they go inside the club. Then I walk out to the sidewalk and blend with the flow of traffic.
Raine Condon no longer exists. I need to figure out who I am now.
Present Day
Location: Roen
Season: Spring Cycle, Day 71
Year: 899 PL (Post Landing)
MR. LAUNDREMAN GETS LAUNDERED
“Come on, Mr. Laundreman, daddy needs his dessert.” I'm talking to myself, but it doesn't worry me. I’m my only friend and I get lonely on stakeouts.
A cool breeze ruffles the short strands of my hair as I glance through the bars of the motel banister. Below, the line in front of Tony’s Delicatessen continues to grow as day slips from Half-Light into Quarter-Light. The chill of the metal balcony numbed my butt hours ago, but I’m not ready to return to the horrors of the rental room. Instead, I risk my life to sit outside, leaning against a railing that creaks with every shift of my weight.
