by Terina Adams
The air changed from a cool invasion through my clothes to warm and still. I opened my eyes to a sea of faces, but no one bothered to look at us.
Only half the seats were taken, but Jax led me toward the far right, the least populated part of the skytrain. Each seat faced inward, but down this end, we stared ahead at the vacant seats opposite. Behind them was the metal hull of the craft. The light came from above with the top third of the skytrain made from glass. It was perhaps a good thing I couldn’t see the ground.
“Do we have long to go?”
“Long enough.”
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“The outskirts of the city, where the senate’s reach is weaker.”
“And where black markets thrive.”
“All manner of things thrive there.”
“How do you know about these people?”
A woman made her way down toward our end, choosing a seat opposite us and halting our conversation. Jax turned away from me, placing an invisible wall between us. I did the same, fixating on the metal hull over the woman’s head. According to Jax, this was a long journey, so I would be staring at that spot for quite some time.
Chapter 10
After looking up through the skylights of the skytrain, catching the occasional flash of another skytrain passing overhead, I longed to see the ground. Blind to any view, it had taken a little getting used to the maneuvers the train made as it ferried us along. Although the skytrain moved with smooth efficiency, my body had become sensitized to the small movements.
The train lurched to the side, and I was pushed tight alongside Jax with a gasp. He reassured me with a squeeze of my hand before taking his back. The woman opposite stared through us, her eyes focused on more interesting things. Mechanical whirring sounded from behind our seats, and the train returned to smooth flying.
Jax leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Sometimes, that happens. Violent downdrafts or updrafts. The sound you hear is the stabilizers recalibrating.”
I nodded and schooled my face to boredom, like everyone else.
We made numerous stops so far. At a guess, we’d been traveling about one hour. By now, the skytrain was emptied of all but the woman opposite us and a handful of people toward the front dressed in no-frills overalls, which looked well-worn and in need of a wash. Given it was mid-morning, they could be the equivalent of nightshift workers heading back home to sleep it off before they started again. Maybe I had it all wrong, but I couldn’t help making up stories for this new world and drawing parallels with my own. And I didn’t know why I bothered. It wasn’t like I was hoping to make this place my own.
“We’re here.”
I went to slip the latch to the harness but found it wouldn’t open.
“Like I said, the skytrains are safer than your aircrafts, but there have been incidents on docking. The harness is locked until the train comes to a complete standstill,” he murmured close to my ear so the woman wouldn’t hear.
I settled back, not at all calm as I felt the descent and simultaneous slowing of the train. The whirring kicked in again, followed by some other mechanical sounds and the train began to maneuver through small adjustments in direction before it began to vibrate slightly.
I had to swallow what I was about to say out loud. Then, in a low voice spoken from the corner of my mouth, I asked, “Is that normal?”
Jax leaned close again. “It just means there is some low-level turbulence. At this slow speed, the train’s controls can get a little sloppy. The sounds are the stabilizers again, compensating for the lack of precision in the steering and the turbulence. The extra noises are the ultralight stabilizers. A good pilot can maneuver a train at low speed and height by ultralight stabilizers alone.”
“You seem to know a lot about skytrains.”
“I wanted to be a pilot when I was young.”
“What happened?”
There were a few soft bumps and more whirring noises before we came to a halt.
“I became a pilot,” Jax said as he unclipped and pulled his harness over his head.
The woman opposite us stood and hurried from the skytrain the moment the door slid open.
“Jesus, you’re joking. I thought you said you couldn’t fly one of these, and that’s why I had to….” I darted a look up the end of the skytrain where the last were exiting and new arrivals were boarding.
Jax jerked his head toward the door with a smile. “You’re like a child. Everything is surprising and new. It’s refreshing to a jaded person like me.”
The harness latch was a complicated mess of buckles and clasps. I grinned up at him with an apologetic smile before flicking a glance to anyone close by. How many people had problems getting themselves out of a harness? Probably few, if any.
“Press this,” Jax said. The silver button undid everything else, and the harness clasp peeled away as if on command, releasing me. Jax lifted it over my head then helped me to my feet.
I looked through the metal grille on disembarking and saw nothing but gray. The Dome and the Central Airways terminal were no longer visible on the horizon. We’d left the treed boulevards behind and entered into a place that held no color… or cheer, by the looks of it. The beauty of central Califax did not extend to the outskirts.
I leaned over the railing and glanced below. People, like ants, scurried along the narrow alleys that wove like warrens between the flat-roofed buildings. Dotted here and there, the alleys opened out to courtyards of gray. It was here I found splashes of color, not from flowers but what looked like stalls. A marketplace?
Jax gave me enough time to absorb the sight in a fraction before nudging my elbow. “Let’s go.”
Our boots clanked along the platform and down the stairs. I grabbed the railing for balance, as my eyes were too busy looking at the scene below me rather than at where I was going. Jax slowed, creating distance between us and the people who’d disembarked with us. “This is the fringe.”
“And the Senate of Factions don’t bother too much with the upkeep,” I observed.
“In more ways than one.”
“Meaning?”
“The fringe would be the equivalent of your slums. I lived long enough on your world to understand the effects of poverty are universal, even in different dimensions. The influence of the senate is weak this far out, so there is a lot of illegal trade.”
“Such as false tattoos.”
“Factions mix readily, because there is less policing. They also trade directly with the country provinces, which is forbidden. Normally, there are nominated parties that deal with trade to prevent the factions from dealing with each other. The provinces are separated into factions, and while they sustain themselves on their own form of agriculture, each province specializes in specific manufactured goods.”
He pointed toward a ridge of mountains in the distance. “Those are the Eliqua Mountains, Set province, and where they mine most of our metals. And behind us is the Ulridian Desert, Persal province, and where they mine trylite, the rocks that glow.”
“Dad thought Holden would return to a village within the Persal province called Uradra.”
He looked ahead, seeming to find the final decent more important than what I said, which meant I was not about to tell him I planned on going there, something likely to fork our paths.
The neglect toward the fringe became apparent once we reached the ground, but Jax wouldn’t hang around long enough for me to comment. Without hesitation, he headed off down one of the many alleys branching away from the platform. The buildings pressed close on either side, arrowing toward the mouth, forcing us into single file and cutting off any conversation. Jogging behind, I felt the beginnings of a stitch, because I was holding my breath too much.
We burst out into an open space cluttered with stalls and fringe dwellers cramming the laneways as they inspected what was on offer. The placed hummed with a low chatter, devoid of the energy I felt in central Califax. While most of what I�
�d seen of the fringe from above was gray, these pockets vibrated with color from the fabric hung on lines, stretching the width of the lane to the woven baskets of spices raised off the ground on roughly hewn logs. Insects buzzed around carcasses laid out on thick blocks, but the air smelled of fresh blood, not rancid meat. The crowds hid most of the stalls, but they could not suppress the aroma of roasting spiced meat or sweet baked goods. It must have been only hours ago I last ate, but the saliva pooled into my mouth when I passed a rich toffee, buttery caramel smell.
The vibrancy of the market space did not transmute into the fringe dwellers. For many, their faces looked as faded as the colors of their clothes; they also smelled just as worn and dusty. Judging by their expressions, I’d say their spirits were no better than their clothes.
I was bumped and jostled and forgot to keep my hair in place over my shoulder to protect the secret of what was not behind my ears; maybe out here it didn’t matter.
Once we entered another alley, wider than the first, I caught up with Jax. “You move through the fringe like it’s your second home.”
“I know my way around.” He increased his pace.
“And that’s all I get?”
“For now.”
“You’re worse than Carter and Dad for secrets.”
“And you’re nosey.”
“Curious, you mean. You must have felt like this when you entered my world.”
That earned me a sly smile. “Just a little. Although I was more curious about one person in particular.”
“Who was that?”
“You.”
My mouth clammed shut on what I was about to say. It took a few steps more before I said, “Curious is not the way I would describe you when I first met you. Predatory, hostile. Those are the first words that come to mind.”
Jax ignored me.
“Not that I blame you.”
He ignored that too.
There were metal doors with big metal latches on either side of the alley. “Are these people’s homes?”
“Yes,” was all Jax had time to say, when a man entered the mouth of the alley and headed toward us. Jax dropped behind but nudged me in the back so I would not lose my pace. The man shuffled along, hugging the wall, keeping his gaze to the dirt ground. Oversized trousers, shirtsleeves covering his hands, he appeared to have shrunken in his clothes. He wore a turban like brown cloth low over his forehead and ears, partially concealing his tattoo. Set. I’d not seen too many of those tattoos before.
We exited one alley and turned left into another, equally as narrow, dark, and dirty as the last two. The walls on either side were crumbling with age. Bricks of unequal size were stacked upon each other with no mortar to glue them together. Piles of refuse created mounds for us to weave around. I covered my nose and mouth with my hand to reduce the stench from the waste of living.
Halfway down, Jax stopped at a metal door with a rusted gouge running from midway to the ground and pounded with his fist. Feeling like we were being watched, I glanced up and down the alley then ran my eyes up the brick wall to see a child’s face peering over the roof. The moment our eyes met, the child darted away.
I stared back at the door when the click sounded. A small portion of it opened at eye level, reflecting the dark from inside. Seconds later, the peekaboo hole disappeared, followed by a loud clunk, and the door opened.
A short, portly man, no taller than my shoulders, stood in the doorway. His bottom lip, swollen to twice the size of his top lip, drooped down toward his chin, exposing his teeth and an intricate tattoo on his gums. The pattern continued across his lip, ran in channels to his chin and down his throat to disappear in the V of his shirt front. We’d found our tattooist.
He stood aside without a flicker of recognition or welcome. As I passed, his dirty-green eyes travelled the length of me without leering. Good thing, as I was sure destruction would rally in the face of a threat. All I saw was simple curiosity. Once we were inside, he stuck his head out, glanced up and down the alley, and then bolted the door.
I followed Jax down the windowless passage and into a bright, airy atrium at the center of the house. The place reminded me of Aris HQ on a smaller, less opulent scale. One story up and a balustrade wrapped around the circumference of the open space. A young boy peered through the railings, and when I met his stare, he ducked his head back and hid himself behind one of the metal poles. The man followed my gaze and, seeing the boy, barked something incoherent. The boy scampered, his bare feet slapping on what sounded like concrete.
Satisfied the boy had gone, the man hobbled off down another passageway. One leg appeared shorter than the other, accentuating the bow in his spine. Movement for him looked painful, but his speed suggested otherwise. In no time, he waited at the door to a dimly lit room, hands on hips as a silent reprimand for our tardiness.
“Could you give us a moment please?” Jax turned his back to the stout man, blocking him from my view. “What’s your tattoo going to be?”
I’d pushed this decision to the back of my mind, but now I had to face it. To be tattooed Aris meant I could stay with Jax. To be tattooed Persal meant I could enter Persal HQ, gain their protection, and be taken to Uradra, where I would be reunited with Mum and Ajay. To be tattooed a Persal meant Jax and I would no longer fight together; we would fight as enemies.
“Why can’t I have both, one behind each ear?”
He shook his head, a tired smile on his face. “If only the decision were that easy.” For the first time since we left his apartment, Jax took my hands in a solid grasp. “You will never be an Aris. The tattoo will never eradicate what is within you.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I think your family means more, as it should. You’ll never be safe by my side.”
“Is this you pushing me away?”
“This is me wanting to see you survive. It’s going to get ugly. People fear dissent as much as the senate does. It upsets the balance. Most in Califax are happy with the way things are. They benefit from the peace the senate enforces. That’s why Carter and your father kept everything a tight secret. One sniff of trouble creates widespread panic. A Persal caught tattooed an Aris will trigger alarms akin to a full-scale war. Never forget what a war would mean.”
“When factions fight, nothing is left.”
“The foundation of our peace is built from fear of factional war.”
The small man behind us cleared his throat, the signal to finish up our conversation.
“I’ll wait for you out here.”
I moved around Jax and down the passage. The man watched me pass with his observant eyes.
Inside was a low wooden table, and beside that a chair. In the dim light, I couldn’t make out what filled the rows of shelves behind. My nose clogged with centuries of dust and the musty smell of damp clothes and books.
The man hobbled around me and patted the table. “Lay.” His heavy accent twisted the word to almost indecipherable, but the pat was enough for me to understand.
I slid on and lowered myself onto the cold surface while he busied himself at the shelves. Once he had everything he needed, he returned to the table. A harsh light glared just above my face, forcing me to turn away, shielding my eyes.
The man grabbed my left arm and turned it up to examine my wrist. He spoke a few words, but I shook my head, unable to understand. Instead of repeating himself, he tapped my wrist, because sometimes actions were clearer than words. He was asking what type of tattoo I wanted to cover my supposed graft. The fact I had no mark to indicate I was grafted seemed a moot point to him.
I hadn’t thought of that. I waved my hand over my face, feeling for whatever it was that shone the light in my eyes. The man rescued me, pushing the arm of the light aside so I was able to look around the room, my mind scrambling for inspiration, conscious that he would perhaps want this over with and us out the door. My eyes fell on the cuff link at my wrist that acted like a button on a shirt.
�
��You have a pen? I will draw it for you.” I mimicked writing. Hopefully these people wrote using similar instruments. He frowned then spun and rummaged through his shelves. When he came back, he held a small, sharp metal poker like the sort Mum used to test whether cakes were cooked all the way through and pointed at the table.
Understanding what he wanted me to do, I sat up and etched my drawing into the wood. Crude as it was, he nodded, his lower lip flopping up and down with the movement. Whether he understand or not, the exact design of the tattoo on my wrist didn’t really matter.
I undid the cuff link and rolled up my sleeve then lowered myself back down onto the table while a gentle whirring came to life.
As Jax promised, I felt a faint drag on my skin and nothing more. I resisted the urge to watch, instead staring at the opposite wall, my eyes traveling the cracks while the whirring played in my ears.
When my wrist was complete, he laid my arm gently by my side and moved up to my head, bringing the harsh light with him. He brushed my hair away from my ear and tapped the skin with his finger. “Here?”
As if to remind me of who I was, destruction flared briefly as a hot arrow before settling into its ceaseless roam through my body. I hesitated for two breaths then told him what faction I would become.
Chapter 11
When he was done, the little man left the room without a word. I pulled the metal clasp that Jax removed from my hair earlier out of my pocket and attempted to tie my hair back without a mirror. Now, there was no reason for me to hide behind my hair. Once done, I ran my hand over the tattoo behind my ear, expecting to feel something. The skin was smooth. There was no pain.
At the door, I bumped into Jax. He looked at my hair pulled back then into my eyes for so many breaths I lost count. With a gentle hand at my chin, he turned my head to the side so he could see the tattoo.
With my chin free, I turned back into eyes swimming in their fury. Without a word, he spun and stormed down the dim passage, leaving behind the lead weight of his disapproval. He might as well have punched me in the gut for the same effect. My head felt heavy, and for one brief moment, I lost the will to follow. The conviction I used to tell the tattooist in which faction I would belong fled. Had I made a dreadful mistake?
