by Nick Wilford
BLACK & WHITE
Part 1 of the Black & White Trilogy
Nick Wilford
Copyright © 2017 by Nick Wilford
Superstar Peanut Publishing
Cover Art © 2017 by Nick Wilford
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First of all, I want to thank my family for their continued support as I pursue this crazy writing dream.
To my critique partners, Kyra Lennon, Krista McLaughlin, and JE O’Neil, each of whom provided invaluable evidence that helped me sharpen up the plot and tone down some of the more, shall we say, extreme elements.
To the organisers of NaNoWriMo, for giving me the impetus to make a start on this story back in 2012.
And to you, the reader, for giving me the chance to spin you a tale that I hope you’ll find gripping.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Connect with the Author
Other Works by Nick Wilford
About the Author
Chapter 1
At first no one could explain how the strange boy came to be there in the middle of the street. One minute it was just the gleaming and silent hovercars, the next minute there he was, like a blot on the landscape. One of the vehicles bumped him as he materialised, but it didn’t seem to bother him. That, at least, was no surprise to the crowd of onlookers who quickly gathered around this curiosity.
“Who are you, boy?”
“He just popped out of thin air!”
“What is that dark substance on your skin, and clothes? I’ve never seen the like!”
Mallinger was a sight unlike any ever witnessed by the citizens of this unnaturally clean city. Black streaks of grime marred what would otherwise have been an appealing face. His brown hair hung shoulder-length, lank with grease, and seemed to contain things that were... alive. And his clothing seemed to be one loose thread away from falling apart: he wore a grubby tunic that could have been white in a different millennium, a brown waistcoat that seemed to be made from some sort of muslin cloth, and ill-fitting britches worn to a shine not just at the knees, but over their entire surface.
All were just as dirty as the boy’s face and other areas of skin that could be seen through the various holes in these garments. But of course the onlookers had no words for things like “dirt” and “grease”. The boy seemed just as alien to them as a visitor from the planet Zarglemoof, a place of which they also had no concept, being outside the confines of the land of Harmonia.
The lad was shielding his eyes, as if blinded by his surroundings. Nonetheless, he became aware of a tall and officious-looking man in front of him, who gave the impression of being in charge. He wore an immaculately tailored suit and bowler hat, which were - like all the other citizens’ clothing - all white.
“Where did you come from, boy?” His tone was not unkind.
The boy kept his eyes fixed on his threadbare shoes, as if trying to anchor himself in this unfamiliar environment.
“Fusterbury,” he managed at last, in a voice which seemed too guttural and deep for a boy of his size.
The man frowned. “Where? I know of no such place in the land of Harmonia.”
“Perhaps he’s a devil,” shouted a woman in the crowd. “He should be arrested!”
“Hush!” said the man. “I see no grounds for such an accusation.
“Now tell me, boy,” he said, hunkering down in an effort to meet the boy’s eyes. “What is this strange substance on your face and hands?”
The boy rubbed his fingers down his cheek, frowning in confusion. “Well, it’s just... dirt.”
“Dirt?” The man said the word as if trying it out for the very first time. “Is it... a part of your skin?”
“Well, it feels like it is. It’s been there for as long as I can remember.”
“Fascinating.” The boy dared to bring his eyes up to meet the man’s for a fraction of a second and saw they were, indeed, wide and full of wonder. “Perhaps you hail from a territory in our fair land outside of my knowledge. As you seem to have nowhere else to go, perhaps you should come with me. My name is Rosebury, mayor of the fine city of Whitopolis. What is your name, young man?”
“Mallinger.”
“Come on then... Mallinger.” He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder as if to guide him in the right direction, but recoiled as if stung. He stared at his hand in incomprehension, then quickly seemed to compose himself.
“Forgive me,” he said. “It’s just I have never experienced such... markings on my own skin. And it felt so strange. I can see we have much to learn about each other. Perhaps, after all... you should not come to my home. I will take you to a place where you will be safe.”
And after that it wasn’t long before Mallinger found himself in a locked cell, as pure and white as everything else in this... Whitopolis, and with a bed infinitely more comfortable than any he had experienced. Given that he had slept on a thin layer of dirty straw on a floor made of packed earth for the whole of his sixteen years of life, that wasn’t saying a lot. Nevertheless, there was no way out of this small room, and being trapped was another new sensation.
He had thought Mayor Rosebury would stay and talk to him and offer some comfort beyond the material kind presented by the bed, but he had been led away by two other men who had been talking to him urgently. He had left Mallinger with a vague promise to be back shortly. Mallinger didn’t know when that had been. In fact, he had barely any concept of time. Only that of harsh, unrelenting existence.
*
At the same time, another boy of sixteen, who had lived all his life in the city of gleaming perfection, was preparing for his end of year exams at Magnificence High School. Wellesbury sat and went through his practice tests on his hand-held computer pad. The pad was white. He was sitting on the sofa, which was white, in his immaculate living room, decorated in white. Finishing one round of tests, he turned his head to peer out of the window. Only the sky provided some variety from the universally monochrome colour scheme, being a sort of pale, sickly yellow. At nightfall, this would turn to black, with the frozen white stars shining down and casting the buildings of the city in an eerie relief under their light. Those were the only types of sky seen by anyone in Whitopolis.
He came to the end of his study session, checked his schedule and found that dinner was due in fifteen minutes. Until then, his time was his own. An hour after dinner, there was gravball practice at the recreation zone. Wellesbury was looking forward to that, because he would see his friends.
Leaving his pad on the coffee table, he made his way to the kitchen, where his parents were already seated at the table.
“Finished studying?” asked his mother.
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise, would I?” he replied, sitting down a
nd folding his arms.
“Wellesbury,” barked his father. Wellesbury met his stare. “I’ve warned you before about that attitude of yours.”
“Sorry,” said Wellesbury, turning his gaze to his lap. His answer to his mother had come out before he’d had a chance to think about it. She did have a tendency to ask useless questions, but replying in such a way was hardly being a model citizen.
“You’re hardly shaping up to be a model citizen,” said his father.
Wellesbury sighed and opted for a change of subject. “Looking forward to the menu tonight?”
“Lamb chops and mint sauce,” said his mother. “I’d have preferred the trout tonight, but what can you do?”
“Nothing,” said her husband. “We should be grateful for what’s provided to us.”
She made no reply, but cupped her chin in the palm of her hand and gazed around the room with an air of distraction.
Maybe you’re not such a model citizen either, thought Wellesbury.
The three of them sat in sullen silence for a further few minutes before a ping announced the arrival of dinner.
Mrs Noon pushed her chair back, walked over to the food production unit and removed the three steaming hot dinners. Wellesbury was hungry, and tucked in eagerly.
No animals existed anywhere in the land of Harmonia. If anyone had told the Noons about lambs in the natural world, they wouldn’t have been able to grasp the idea even using two hands and a large shovel. All animals had been culled by the government and wiped from history during the Reforms, as they proved too difficult to hygienise. Plant life had also been eradicated, and all food was synthesised via computer. Far more straightforward, far less messy.
The family were allotted twenty minutes to eat their main course before the arrival of dessert. Secretly, Wellesbury often wished this time was quicker, as he usually cleared his plate within ten. The elders ate at a more sedate pace.
After dessert, a strawberry cheesecake which met with approval from everyone, Wellesbury retired to his room to catch up on the news before the game. Unlike a lot of their strictly regimented lives, accessing the government news feed was permitted at any time.
The top story related that the government had been voted “Best Government to Rule Harmonia” for the eleventh year in a row. The choices when voting were “Yes” or “No”, with 98.7% of citizens responding in the affirmative on this occasion. Technically, you were allowed to vote “No”, but dark tales abounded of the measures meted out to those who felt disgruntled. Wellesbury was pretty sure how he’d be voting when he turned eighteen.
The rest of the articles imparted statistics about how many jobs had been created by the government over the past week, their success in keeping energy prices stable, and one story told of a designer (who worked for the government, of course) being given an award for creating a portable water synthesiser that would clip onto your belt and dispense endless cups of H²O.
Wellesbury couldn’t fault his leaders for doing a good job. So what was the tingly feeling about when he got the sense of things being out of kilter?
He put the thought aside and changed into his gravball kit, a simple sleeveless jersey, shorts, and trainers. The game was something he really enjoyed. An element of competition was permitted, with those of greater ability receiving special privileges, unlike the level playing field of the study system. Wellesbury was the second greatest in the whole of his year, and was determined to get to that number one spot before the holidays.
In gravball, the ball travelled at incredible speeds. Sharp reflexes were required. It was said that those who succeeded at the game would succeed in life. The idea behind the exam system was equality for all – officially – but Wellesbury knew this wasn’t really the case.
He said goodbye to his parents, who had transferred to the living room to watch a government-sanctioned movie, but still sat with the same stoical resignation. He didn’t want to be like them, but at the same time he couldn’t see a way to avoid it. Probably his feelings of disquiet would be smoothed out of him by the time he was an adult. Were these doubts normal? It was a subject he found hard to bring up with others his own age.
It was dark as he made his way to the Recreation Zone, an imposing structure – cuboid in shape and, naturally, white – which was visible from miles around. It housed several levels of games rooms and pitches, catering to every taste in sporting activity.
Wellesbury used his key card to enter the building and took the lift to the gravball court. The Zone was busy, as always, and he exchanged greetings with several citizens of all ages as he walked to the lift. Through transparent walls he could see various games going on. He had tried most of them in his time – telepathic tennis, four-way football, even homing darts – but gravball was where he felt most comfortable. It was as much about mental agility as physical, as you had to have a lateral mind and projecting skills to visualise where the ball would go next. It bounced freely from floor to wall to ceiling, and you had to get to the right place at the right time to manoeuvre it toward the opponents’ goal.
Before entering the court, he saw through the wall that some of his friends were already warming up before the game. He went through the door, shouted a greeting and joined them. Now he was inside the court, the walls were regulation white. The transparency was one way only – in order to inspire passers-by on the way to their own sessions, but stop the players inside from getting distracted.
Wellesbury slotted easily into an attacking position in his team and had scored two goals before the rest of the players arrived and the match proper could begin. Once it was underway, he scored two of his team’s three goals before half-time. He was particularly pleased with the second – a kick from one of his opponents bounced the ball off the wall to go hurtling towards the ceiling. Wellesbury, already in the right area, visualised the ball’s trajectory before it happened and was able to take possession, sending the ball on a direct course to the corner of the goal net.
At the end of the first half, Wellesbury high-fived his teammates and they congregated in a huddle on the floor for their first real chance of the evening to talk to each other. The other team did the same. All had conquered the feelings of nausea that could come with running across the walls and ceiling, but no one would choose to sit on those surfaces to rest.
“Top form tonight, Welles,” said Hedgeson. “You’d better keep it up for the big game on Sunday.”
“I’ll try my best,” said Wellesbury. In truth, he barely needed the practice. He seemed to have a natural gift for predicting the ball’s movements, but he didn’t say so to his friends. No one wanted to appear arrogant.
“Those guys over there are getting an ass-whupping by royal appointment,” said Salvo, jerking his head in the direction of the opposing team.
“That’s not who we’re playing on Sunday, though!” said Hedgeson, batting his friend on the shoulder. “Just make sure you stay on your toes.”
There was a few moments’ silence while they contemplated the team they would be up against. It was the semi-finals – all-important – and these guys had had an unbroken run of nine wins. Even with their star asset, Wellesbury, it would be a tough call.
“Hey, I saw something weird today,” said Finnister, as if feeling the need to break the tension.
Wellesbury lifted his head. Their lives were so uniform and ordered, any occurrence out of the ordinary was always a source of much interest.
“Go on,” he said.
“It was lunchtime. After eating I’d gone out of school for a little walk... when this boy, just, like... appeared in the middle of the road. Right in the main shopping street.”
“Where from?”
“Well, nowhere. One second nothing, then there he was. I’ve never seen anything like him before. He had this stuff on him, like... black stuff.”
“What was it?” asked Hedgeson.
“I don’t know. The mayor was there, for some reason... that was just as well, because I think some
one might have hurt him. One woman called him a demon, I think.”
“Sounds like he is.” Hedgeson narrowed his eyes at Finnister. “So he was wearing black stuff? Not white? How is that possible?”
“No... I mean yeah, he wasn’t wearing white, but when I say black stuff, I mean like on his skin. Stuck on.” Finnister looked confused, as if trying to reconcile that he was remembering correctly.
“Did they arrest him?” asked Wellesbury. “They must have, if he had markings.” The others nodded slowly. They had all heard the stories – rumours, really – of strange skin decorations people had worn in the pre-Reform era. They were called dattoes, or something like that. The Reformers had outlawed the practice as unclean.
“No, it wasn’t like that. Those people, the markings didn’t come off. But when the mayor touched him, it came off on his hand. The boy called it something...” Finnister frowned. “Dirt, I think he said. Yeah, that was it. Dirt.”
The other boys scratched their heads. “How old was he?” asked Wellesbury.
“Well, he looked about the same age as us. But nothing else the same. All this stuff on him, like I said.”
“Where did the stuff come from?”
“I don’t know!” Finnister sagged. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to shout. But I’ve told you all I know. I mean, where did he come from? Out of the air? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well, that settles it,” said Hedgeson, with the air of one solving a great mystery. “He must be a demon.”
“There’s no such thing,” said Wellesbury.
“How do you know? We’ve all heard about them. Demons live under the ground, in the place where it’s... not clean.”
“That’s just kids’ stories, Hedgeson. We’re not five any more!”
Hedgeson leaned into him. “So you think you know best, do you? Just because you reckon you’re a hot shot at gravball? Fine, you explain where this kid came from. Assuming Finnister didn’t make the whole thing up.”
