by Lyn Forester
I haven't spent much time on this level, but all the city levels are designed in a spoke formation. If I can find the main vein, it will lead me straight to Central Plaza.
A disc-bike zooms past, a quiet zing of noise and ruffle of air. I admire the dual rings of energy, almost invisible during the Day-Light, that circle over the driver's head, then swoop down to the ground.
If I had my disc-bike, I'd be halfway home by now.
I reach an intersection and pause while the people around me hurry across the street. A quick glance around shows an extreme lack of street signs. We rode up the elevators at the rim, then skimmed through the city in a circuitous path that left me disoriented. I need a location sign to place myself on the level.
A man bumps into my arm and scowls up at me for creating a barrier in the flow of traffic. I peer down the road to my right. At the end of the street, a green stretch of road blocks my view. Not Central Road, which flows all the way to the center of the city without obstruction, but the green perks my interest. Since I have nothing else to do with my day, I let curiosity determine my path.
Another block down and the green street turns into grass. But it takes an embarrassing amount of time for my brain to process that fact. I can't remember the last time I saw real grass outside of holo-vids. It doesn't exist on the lower levels.
Only halion plant-crafters can pull the toxins from the dirt gathered outside of the city wall. Of all the people who arrived on the halion's spaceship, only the Troehan clan has this talent. Early on, they'd tried to train the humans who crashed down alongside them, but humans proved untrainable for the halion talents. While the two races seem compatible otherwise, something about their sciences doesn’t cross-train.
The agriculture divisions headhunt those who show talent right out of school. Gathering the toxic soil from outside the city wall and processing it for use can be deadly. Between the danger and the limited number of people with the plant-crafter talent, most of the purified soil goes toward food growth.
Yet here I stand next to a swath large enough for people to lounge on, as a couple demonstrates from their seated position in the middle of the grass. They give me that look, the one that says they know I don't belong. I ignore them and crouch, just at the curb, and run my hand through the delicate green blades. They tickle my palm and I marvel at how many shades of green can exist in one place.
I glare at the couple, offended at their casual disregard for beauty. The woman frowns, uncomfortable, and glances down to avoid eye contact. The man sniffs in my direction, like I'm the offensive one here, and rolls to his feet. More grass crushes beneath his weight as he pulls the woman up and they stomp away.
The scent of bright, bruised greenery and disturbed earth wafts over on a breeze. It's sad how good smashed grass smells. I run my fingers over the greenery again. It must have cost a fortune to import purified earth for this small swath of heaven. The man glares over his shoulder, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his palm-port.
I sigh. Time to move along. I stand and stroll in the opposite direction, aim on the next intersection a block away. Further from the business district now, fewer pedestrians walk the street. Not enough to hide in.
Ninety-four steps later, a quiet bloop bloop sounds behind me.
With that speed, the blue guard must have already been on his way when the couple called. The few pedestrians on my side of the street hurry away, heads down.
I turn to see the blue guard pull up to the curb and dismount, the blue wheels of energy spinning slower. He leaves it to hover at the curb and strolls toward me, hand casual near the psy-gun at his hip.
I stand my ground, noting the crisp lines of his uniform, azure toned to denote his lower level position in the blue guard. Three black triangles mark his left breast pocket to show he's halfway to earning the cobalt uniform. On the opposite side hangs a stylized wing, a circle with four bars extending off either side to form feathers. The circle and bars indicate his Level 9 status. Under the wing, a solid bar reads L9S2 for Level 9, Sector 2.
I'm heading the wrong way.
Good thing someone reported me to the guard or I would have circled the entire city before finding Central Road, now an entire sector behind me.
Human, with a young, tanned face and medium brown hair. In shape, but still soft around the edges. He probably comes from a family of blue guards, raised to the profession.
I put my professional face on, pleasant and accommodating.
He also gives me the once over as he stops a couple feet away. Close enough to disable me. But he takes a small step back when his examination reaches my face. I like to think it's so he doesn't have to look up at me, but it might be the gym odor that still clings to my clothes.
His nose twitches.
"Ma'am, we've received complaints of a loiterer in the area." He sounds polite, despite the flared nostrils. "Are you here on halion business?"
I squash the instant irritation. It's a reasonable question. While the halions don't take their halfbreed offspring home, they have an open door policy at most of their businesses that guarantees entry level work for their abandoned children. A lot of halfbreeds take the easy path. The monetary payback makes up for no father figure in their lives.
I work up enough saliva to coat my dry throat, then force a sheepish smile onto my face, ducking my head to appear younger and bashful.
"No, Blue Guard." I glance at his nameplate. "No, Blue Guard Thompson."
His posture relaxes, and his hand shifts away from his belt to rest on his hip.
"I'm from Investigators, Inc. My case went off course, and I've lost my way." I reach up and flip the strap of my tank top over to reveal a tiny badge of my own in the shape of two capital I's. I might leave my living unit without my disc-bike, but I never go anywhere without my badge.
He glances at my badge, squinting, and moves to step forward before deciding to stay in place.
Definitely the gym stink, then.
"Anything I can help you with, Investigator?" The offer sounds forced and he already edges back toward his bike. Investigator, Inc. takes care of cases the blue guard has no time for. He won't want to be caught up in mine.
I trip after him, a hopeful smile on my face. "Have you heard anything about food grade earth going missing from the agriculture developers?"
"You'll have to check the logs at Peace Keepers' headquarters." He motions behind himself and to the left before he swings onto his disc-bike. The energy wheels spin faster to create a blue barrier between us.
With a nod in my direction, he spins the bike and disappears in a gentle flutter of displaced air.
I point my feet in the correct direction and get moving again.
~
Central Road’s wide street allows small passenger aircraft from other cities to fly in all the way to Central Plaza. Shops line either side, competing for attention with bright signs at both ground and sky level to attract visitors new to Roen. Thick crowds swarm the sidewalks, noisy with pedestrian chatter. The road buzzes with the passage of vehicles, hover cars and disc-bikes clogging both directions. The odor of cooked foods mingles with perfumes, unpleasant in their variety.
A sensory overload after the quieter side streets.
Here, I stand out less. Tourists in every degree of undress intermix with business suits and shop owners. As the masses engulf me, I allow myself to be pulled along while keeping my eyes open for a decent clothing shop and QuickMart. If I were heading straight home, I'd be fine not changing. But I can't show my face at Blue Hall in this outfit. I need to go there to file my report of lies.
I consider going home first, but the Halls of Justice take up a quarter of Central Plaza. There's a high likelihood of running into someone I know. This isn't the ideal place to shop, as the businesses mark up their prices for the unsuspecting tourists.
A couple shops down, I spot the neon happy face of a GoGoNow machine. Elbows out, I push my way through a pair of pedestrians on my left and make it
to the other side.
I smile at the machine and resist the urge to hug it. Happiness rushes through me and I extend my arm to swipe my datband. The finger-wide, black circle of rubber that encircles my wrist holds my entire life, from identification to finances. Funds transferred, a green light illuminates the flavor list. I stab my finger on the cherry button. The machine clunks, then spits out a red can at the bottom. I bend to grab it, take a moment to savor the chill of the can against my palm, then crack it open. Metallic minerals and sour-sweet cherry waft out of the opening and I pull in a deep breath to savor the moment. Then I lift it to my lips.
As I chug, my gaze falls on the shop window next to the vending machine, and a naked woman drifts closer, hips gyrating to draw my attention. Her smooth, hairless skin is painted light pink. On her platform, her upper thighs meet me at eye level and I see a hint of metal between her legs where she's pierced.
I lift the can away from my lips long enough to shake my head at her. She pouts, then drifts to the other side of the display window, where a chubby man stands transfixed. His soft palms rise to plant against the glass, and steam rises from beneath his hands. He jerks away with a cry and shakes his wrists. The pink woman shakes her finger at him, like reprimanding a schoolboy, then beckons him toward the shop's entrance.
Two more chugs and I finish my drink. I toss it into the incinerator next to the machine. Energy floods my body, dispels the fatigue I didn't even realize dragged at my limbs. Cheerful now, I smile at the happy face.
Overhead, a passenger ship drifts down Central Road, engine quiet except for the occasional cough of the propulsion system. It takes a skilled pilot to glide the aircraft in from the rim all the way to Central Plaza without activating the thrusters. Sky skippers, their iridescent bodies almost invisible, swim though the ship’s slipstream in a futile hunt for its electrical system. Beneath the gelatinous bodies, tiny lightning bolts flicker from their tentacles.
On the roof of a building across the street, a brown-uniformed exterminator waits for the ship to pass, then extends a long pole out and deftly scoops a few of the creatures into his net. His partner waits, a few buildings down, another net ready.
I step back into the flow of people and let myself be dragged past a few more stores, closer to Central Plaza. A flashing yellow light catches my attention and I move to the side once more to peer into the disc-bike shop. The window displays the newest model, a single-ring disc-bike. As I watch, it auto collapses into a disc that would fit in my palm. If mine were that small, I'd never leave it at home.
My own tri-ring bike only collapses down to the size of a small plate. I can carry it on my belt, but it's heavy and pulls at my waistband. I've read about the new single-ring bikes, but they haven't made it down to Level 7 yet. Temptation floods me and my fingers itch. I glance at the price tag, just in case, and wince. If I veer off Central Road, I can find a disc-bike shop off the tourist strip where prices will be better.
But I'll stand out on Level 7 with a single-ring bike.
I force myself to move on with the promise of buying one when they come into use on my level.
A few stores further down, I stop at another shop. In the window, a model showcases casual day pants and a graphic t-shirt. A lovely halfbreed changes poses in the display case.
Behind her, the small shop looks empty.
The door slides open at my approach. A pleasant beat fills my ears as the doors close behind me and block out the street noise.
It smells clean, scent-free. A welcome relief from the sensory overload of Central Road.
Clothing hangs from chrome racks that line the walls. More lies folded on white tables. The layout encourages a circuitous route through the store.
The clothes appear grouped by colors. Blues and grays are at the front, meandering into pale pinks and yellows, then greens, and ending in vibrant reds and bold oranges.
I frown, take a step closer to one of the blue tables, and finger the sleeve of an indigo-blue sweater. Fine-textured and silky-soft, with lighter and darker undertones of blue to give it depth.
"Oh, that shade would be lovely on you," purrs a low, feminine voice to my left. I glance up at the sales lady, and her smile widens. "Oh yes, you must try it on. It matches your eyes to perfection. The Rothven collection is made for you."
I drop the sleeve, and my fingers tingle, already missing the fine fabric. "I'm looking for something less flashy."
My gaze moves around the store again.
Now that she’s said it, I can see the clear delineation of halion-colored fabrics and styles. Clan Rothven at the front, known for their blue-toned hair and preference for cold climates. Riellio clan next, with the ethereal pinks and yellows, like the people's mother-of-pearl skin. Green for clan Troehan, the renowned gardeners. Last, clan Koevhern, with their fiery hair and passion for the arts. The entire store is an homage to the halion race.
My heart skips in my chest, and I glance toward the door, to the halfbreed model with diamond dust massaged into her skin.
"We have demure clothing too." The saleslady places her hand on my arm, as if sensing my urge to flee, and pulls me toward the fitting rooms at the back. "Would you care to be sanitized while I collect a few options for you?"
I stop dragging my feet at the word sanitize and glance at the lady from the corner of my eye. A knowing smirk plays at the corner of her mouth.
She knows I'm caught.
~
I step into the sanitizer. The small, white box offers just enough room to stand in without my shoulders brushing the walls. If not for my excitement, it would be downright claustrophobic.
Stripped down, I stuff my clothes into the silver bag with my gym towel and hang it from a hook just outside the door. I turn to face the wall, place my feet on the foot outlines on the floor, and put my palms into the outlines on the wall in front of me.
The door closes, and the room pitches into darkness for only a moment before the walls glow a serene blue.
White mist fills the space. Where it touches, my skin tingles, a gentle shock across my body, both soothing and invigorating. My hair floats around my head as sweat and dirt and years of soap residue evaporate. I feel electrically charged, buzzing with energy.
The light fades, and I lower my arms as the door opens.
I pull on a clean pair of undergarments left by the sales lady. As I snuggle myself in the fluffy white robe, I remind myself that the euphoria that fills my body is part of the store's selling point. A subtle conditioning to feel good about spending more credits.
In the main room, a small counter holds disposable combs and a mirror. My staticky hair rises away from my head, the short strands forming a pouf. I take a moment bobbing my head back and forth to see the pouf bounce. In my white robe, I look like the dust wand I use to clean my electronics.
"Your fitting room is ready down the hall,” the saleslady calls through the door.
"I'll just be a moment." Taming my hair, I marvel at the glossy blue highlights that appear as I smooth the strands back down. They stand out against the black of my hair, like spilled ink.
I lean closer to the mirror, admiring the pores on my face. No amount of exfoliating could have cleaned me better than one minute in the sanitizer. It's almost worth whatever I'll pay for the clothes.
I wish they installed sanitizer boxes in Level 7 living units. But the vapor is Riellio clan technology and costs more than the low-quality water filtered in for shower use.
I grab my silver bag and shuffle out of the room and down a short hall to another room, where the saleslady has placed my selection.
The indigo sweater rests folded on a low bench at the back.
I resist the urge to go to it, to preen in front of the mirror. It will look wonderful on me, bring out my eyes, accent my hair, make my skin luminous.
I'll be beautiful.
This complacency brought on by the sanitizer needs to go before it messes with me anymore. I've spent too many years not being beauti
ful to give in to wardrobe trickery.
A hard pinch on the thigh shocks me back to reality, and I turn away from the sweater temptress to thumb through the other selections. A mixture of more subdued Rothven-themed garments layer in with more practical items.
I ignore the halion-styled clothing and pull out a pair of straight-legged pants in a charcoal gray. When I pull them on, they fit perfectly, hugging my hips and thighs. I do a couple leg lifts and squats, and the pants stay in place.
Good for work.
For the top, I choose a simple black t-shirt and look presentable again. They won't laugh me out of Blue Hall headquarters now.
When I pull my sneakers on, they don't fit the new outfit. But I'm not willing to buy a new pair of shoes. The pant leg covers all but the tip of the shoe anyway.
I exit the fitting room, and the saleslady looks up in expectation, giving me a rueful smile. "I couldn't tempt you with the sweater, huh?"
"A little too flashy for my tastes." I infuse my voice with regret to let her know it's not her fault I'm a dull customer.
"You would look brilliant in it," she enthuses. "With the right makeup and clothes, you could pass for a pureblood."
I hide my distaste. She's one of those women.
"What, and draw a white guard’s attention?" I force a laugh, well aware of the fantasy she's traipsing toward. It's a common one centered around the halion law enforcers.
"They're so protective of their women. It must be wonderful to be looked after like that." She gives a delicate shiver, imagining the beautiful pureblood man that will someday sweep her off her feet and cloister her away.
I smile and nod. But I'll never understand this fantasy. I've read Earth history books, from before they sent spaceships out hoping to colonize new planets. Their women fought for equal rights, for choice. Why would they fantasize about being locked away like that? Halion men aren't beautiful enough to make living in a cage bearable.
They're protected, but it's not romantic. Pureblood men outnumber their women eight to one. They are high-priced commodities locked up in the halion colonies.
