Excuse
Chapter 1 - Act I - INGRESSION
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Chapter 1 - Excuse
Paysha
The snores from the drunken excuse lying next to me have lost their novelty value as a wake-up call. It’s been two weeks since I rescued Captain Esala from his shambolic, drink-sodden existence on the Stink’s shoreline. He’d been almost indistinguishable from the washed-up flotsam and other destitute living remnants. But Markus had begged me to believe he was different, that he had a unique story to tell. Keen to hear more, I’d traded a few drops of pity from my dwindling reserves to relieve his predicament. I’ve never been a wonderful hugger, or a sucker for needy types – just ask Tom. But I’ve bartered so much since then that, if Markus isn’t proven right today, he might never see a tomorrow.
After hovering him back to my concrete islet, I’d hacked off his matted Northern-blonde hair and scrubbed scabrous skin. He’d emerged from my bathroom looking like the former captain he claimed to be and I set to prodding his story from him.
On the night of the Flood he’d been nursing a better class of drink in an Uplands tavern, ignorant of his docked ship being inundated by a titanic wave of water. He considered his absence from the Aleutia a greater dereliction of duty than his alcohol addiction. Cracked nails, random pink-puckered scars and a thousand-yard stare are clues to his resilience, but he remains a broken man who emotionally sank with his ship. The Aleutia is gone and nothing will bring her back, least of all his unintelligible whisky-laden prayers to ancient salt-soaked gods. But his misplaced pride still prompted a defiant exchange. One baited with tantalising details of his last expedition to the melting North.
…here I am again, waking to a slack-jawed mouth set in a ruggedly handsome face, my head filled with remorse and self-contempt.
It was enough to hook any Stinker, especially one with my naked ambition. He’d promised a scavenged case of whisky and a willing shipmate would release all of his intriguing tale. I’d promised myself ‘just this once’ as we’d talked and drank into the night. Like a burglar with a crowbar, I’d levered his weaknesses until my calculated acquiescence had revived his expediency. Drunkenly grasping his dangled bargaining chip with over-eager hands, I’d given my drinking partner every reason to loosen his tongue. But I’d under-estimated my self-pitying emotional rescue. Both of us possessing something the other wanted didn’t mean they were of equal value. They rarely are between a man and a woman – and Markus knew it. He’d detected my desperation, assessed his long-term situation, and applied the old rules. Despite his bloodshot eyes being a plimsoll line for how much false hope and ambition we’d drunk, he’d made sure our first time wasn’t our last. So here I am again, waking to a slack-jawed mouth set in a ruggedly handsome face, my head filled with remorse and self-contempt. All for a few morsels of information and a bed creaking with selfish exploits.
Deep-down, I know I’m more mercenary than Markus. There’s no room for unfettered altruism in this cruel world, and time isn’t on my side. But sometimes a scavenged item can reveal a surprising reward, even if you eventually dispose of it. Today it’s my turn to accrue the benefits of my fateful encounter with Captain Esala. I’ve sucked enough knowledge out of his pickled head to dive inside his sunken mistress of regret. Within her, he’s sworn there’s something unique and therefore eminently tradeable, especially by a woman with a desperate plan, an irrelevant man, and a limited lifespan.
Scratching and a low whine from outside the bedroom door help push older memories back into their acrimonious crevices. My other emotional rescue is hungry, but Pythagoras is a definite keeper. I drag my stiff body out of bed and open the door to let my lovable mutt greet me with a morning lick. We both know it’s pointless trying to rouse the grog and sex-sated body snoring in the bed.
Stretching my arms, I shuffle into the small kitchen. Py sticks to my heels during our morning routine, a salt and pepper muzzle attached to a fidgeting body. Chasing his tail around twice before sitting, his brown eyes watch my every move. I guzzle down a tumbler of salt-to-fresh pumped from the kitchen’s osmofilter before filling Py’s bowl with his water ration. He paws my leg for food, and the smell of a salty, Stink-soaked dog smell assails my nostrils as I drop a home-made phyto cake into his other bowl. He makes quick, sloppy work of his breakfast, feathered tail wagging. They’re much tastier than the green gloop bartered by other Stinkers, and I pop two of the cakes into my mouth and chew slowly as I peer out of the top-floor window. Another cloudless blue sky is visible through the salt and guano streaked glass, the nearby rooftop turbines idling in the humid haze. Perfect topside weather for hovers, even if the Stink’s depths are forever opaque from the City’s decomposition.
I amble past a pair of diving cylinders, yawning as I enter the bathroom. Sleep still eludes me, even in the lulls between my bedmate’s nautical-grade snoring. The familiar, painful twinges in my knees and shoulders from my latest underwater excursions have been slow to dwindle. My body is still impersonating an uncorked soda bottle, depth-induced gases fizzing out from bones, organs and blood. My impatience often matches Py’s, provoking me into rapid ascents. ‘No pains, no gain’ is the Stinkers’ diving mantra, rejecting a known peril today to survive an uncertain tomorrow. But I’ve a greater, more certain danger looming within me.
Propped on a dusty shelf, a cracked mirror reflects the reality of my scarred, unreconstructed flesh. The surgical damage purposefully wreaked on my body is only a foretaste of the genetic ravaging factional doctors promised me. Greeting my puckered flesh each day helps keep my dreams alive, propelling my search for both an exit from the Stink and a cure for my illness. Other items on the shelf are evidence of the lengths I’ll go to: scavenged male toiletries – soon to be discarded.
My self-inspection shifts upwards from my torso’s traumas, rendering only marginal improvement. Keloid tissue gives way to a Stinker’s defining patchwork of melanised face and forearms, places where my diver’s flexiskin doesn’t mask the sun. Sleep has scarified my unruly dark hair, despite being hacked short for diving. Dark bruises orbit my eyes from hours underwater and too little sleep. My rubber-abraded nose and cheeks are a disaster zone of peeling skin patches. I’m the perfect look, line and sinker for any desperate Stinker.
I flip the broken toilet seat down to perch with a forced smile. I can still hear snoring. But at least I get to flush, making me the Stink’s luckiest woman – if luck is what you buy into. If only my good fortune didn’t rely on a full bottle, an inquisitive nature and a restless tongue.
First installment. - Not bad...
I enjoyed the interaction between the two characters and the grit of their relationship. The worldbuilding is fantastic, as is the storytelling. 👏