Friend
Chapter 3 - Act I - INGRESSION
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Chapter 3 - Friend
Paysha
As Py and I descend my home’s last unsubmerged flight of stairs, July’s sunshine gives way to semi-darkness. The Stink’s pervasive odour of organic decay rises up from a dank former living room, replacing the upper floor’s fresher air. Four legs always beat my laden two in negotiating the final algae-coated steps, and Py is the first to jump into my hover from the makeshift pontoon of wooden pallets and yacht fenders. I run through my daily cast-off ritual to an accompaniment of echoing drips: stowing my diving gear and scavenge bag in my hover; pulling the charging cable from an ageing battery pack; untying the rope lashing the craft to an inner wall. I slap the kill-cord around my wrist and unlock the hover’s control bar. Thumbing a remote fob, the garage door I reinstalled in place of a sixth-floor window whirrs and clanks upwards within its rotting frame. Post-Flood floor numbering remains a tedious topic of Stinker conversation and blinding sunlight pours into the now sea-level basement.
My hover’s twin electric fans spring to life as I punch the starter button, deafening me in the confined space. Crustaceans scuttle from the green scum marking high-tide to take refuge in the barnacles which now girdle the building inside and out. The craft rises on its inflating skirt and I nudge the throttle forward to steer towards the opening.
I stick to wary habit, pausing to squint across the sparkling lagoon water for swag-jackers or other chancers. The coast is clear and Pythagoras takes up lookout duty on the bow as I edge the hover across the threshold and thumb the garage door shut behind me. Clouds of spray billow around the hull as I guide us through a narrow channel between serried ranks of phyto trays. Surrounding my home, this sea garden acts as both a valued source of nutrition and a deterrent to the inquisitive.
The sun is climbing, the tide is rising and my shoulders still ache as I align my hover’s nose north of the Spire. We’re heading for the City’s docks, or, more accurately, a dive location twenty metres above them. Flying at full throttle over the glassy, flotsam-laden swells of the Stink’s lagoon, Py’s tongue flaps in the wind. To the north, the chalk cliffs of Newtown loom over the lagoon’s Flood-carved shoreline, its hung solpanel arrays flaring in reflective sequence. Scattered columns of smoke rise from the charcoal-brushed openings of its warren of inhabited tunnels. The idling blades of turbines which form a ragged line of clifftop sentinels disperse them like blown-out candles.
I shut my eyes to savour this snatched moment of false freedom, grinning as the sun and spray bathe my face. The hours spent poring over faded City maps and undertaking dangerous and exhausting dives to feather a criminal’s nest could soon be over.
My course takes me near a raft of three stationary hovers and their suited and booted pilots. One of the hovers is larger and redder than the rest – like its owner. Right on cue, Tom waves frantically, yelling, “Pash, Pash. Over ‘ere!”
With a sigh, I yank the control bar to divert towards them, skimming sideways until my craft berths alongside. Mr Warren’s grin tells me I’ve already made someone’s day.
As the fans’ whine fades, Py wastes no time in jumping into Tom’s hover to greet him with wet snuffles and a wagging tail. The contrast with Markus couldn’t be more obvious. But even if dogs are the best judge of character, I’m not letting Py’s preferences sway me today.
“Where the ‘eck you goin’ then, Pash?” Tom calls out, dark-brown eyes dancing below tousled ginger hair. There’s never a casual hello whenever our craft bump together, just an honest question or a reminder about the risks of going buddyless. I’d gone solo once the two-year-old memories of my first panic-laden dives with Tom had receded. The tactic had reaped greater rewards and I’m still breathing – more than many Stinkers could claim. But the Flood’s traumas still linger: no amount of false riches will return what matters most or dispel drowned ghosts. Like the memory of the dead mother Tom still clings to.
“No amount of false riches will return what matters most.
Like the memory of the dead mother Tom clings to.”
“Nowhere in particular, Tom,” I reply. “Just fishing around.” I’d tried to hide my interest in the Aleutia from Tom, but even he’d noticed I wasn’t interested in potential caches of food, fuel or clothing. So I’d spun a tall tale of gold bullion in a sunken ship. He’d laughed until he cried at my inedible and useless fantasy, repeating my gullible story to every Stinker he met.
Tom’s burly frame blocks out the sun as he lashes our hovers together, but he can’t hide giving my neoprene encased body the once over. Not in his usual shy manner, but ogling me as much as his companions. With my body, leering men are usually a red flag for weird desires, ignorant censure, or just outright hostility. I stare back until all three divert their gazes, even if Tom’s buddies continue to smirk and nudge each other.
“Nothing worth diving for o’er there,” Tom says, waving towards the Spire. “All the good stuff starts ‘ere to ways out east. You knows that.” I shrug, gazing across the lagoon, towards the pock-marked cliffs of Newtown.
His brow furrows, betraying a Stinker’s natural insecurity and unspoken competition for survival. “You after that gold again?” The question triggers snorts of knowing laughter.
“Yep. I got loads more bullion to haul up, Tom,” I say, holding up my empty scavenge bag. “Anyone want to join me? You could be millionaires by sunset. Just think of all the drink, drugs and depravity you could never handle.”
My words sink into their predictable skulls and silence the sniggers. Tom’s blushes betray his preferred reward as he diverts the conversation: “You be careful, Pash. Pair of ‘jackers been spotted out o’ Newtown. But don’t fret. If I spots them Townies, I’ll be over quick-as-a-flash.” My seal-skinned knight crosses his muscular arms. “No-one’s takin’ nuffin’ of yours, Pash.”
“I’m not an idiot, Tom. I know the drill,” I retort, my brow beetling.
“Yer still shouldn’t be goin’ down by yourself, Pash. Mark my words, you’ll come a cropper one day. Dive with me and the lads. You knows it’s safer.”
His biased advice can’t dilute my stubbornness. “I’ve looked after myself so far, haven’t I?” I call back, ignoring my creaking emotional barricade. It’s always harder when they genuinely care.
“All right. Guess there ain’t a problem,” he says, glancing over his shoulder as his dynamic duo dissolve into more juvenile giggles. “You two can shut it ‘an all. All I’m doing is takin’ care of my friend ‘ere.” He ignores my impatient expression and deploys a well-worn tactic: “You want help lookin’ over those maps again this eve’?” he asks, eager as Py to be part of my life. “I’ll bring over a fresh fish, gutted ‘an all. And prawns, if yer like.”
Tom had been helpful when we’d found the maps, when I still needed his experience. But that was before I found Markus. Opening my door to Tom – or anyone else – would now be cruel. I’d push him away within days. Like Markus. Like everyone I’d exploited since my blighted teenage years. Tom doesn’t deserve my disease-driven brand of cruel selfishness.
So it’s my turn to avoid his gaze: “Thanks, Tom. But I’ll…I’ll be okay. It’ll be another few days before I…before we need to look at them again.” Success today could be the final step in escaping the Stink and its kingpin’s predatory clutches – with or without Tom.
Sure enough, he betrays the real reason for his suggestion: “Still got that captain fella with yer? Still…still enjoyin’ ‘imself?”
My guilt at how far I’d deployed my female wiles had already primed an angry reaction if pressed on my salty sailor’s sleeping arrangements. But Tom wouldn’t dare risk ejection from my life. So obfuscation is easy: “I’m sure Markus will be back on his feet in a week or two, Tom.”
His shoulders slump, his eyes following a piece of floating garbage. “Okey-dokey,” he says in a small voice. Untying my hover, he shouts over his shoulder to his dive buddies: “Best we get down there, lads. Got a whole supermarket shelf to clear. All sorts o’ tins an’ stuff.”
The little boy act works. Our conversation can’t end like this. “Hey, Tom!” I call out, as I fix a bead on my original course. He looks up. “You’re a proper friend, you know that?”
Yes, just a friend, and it’s his turn to avoid my gaze as I restart my motors. He shouts over the rising din, “Glad yer think so, Paysha. But I’d always look out for any friend – any day!” before turning his back to me.
There’s jeering and laughter as my craft rises up on its skirts, interrupted by Tom angrily berating his floating crèche. I slam my hover’s throttles wide open and take off in a thunderous roar of drenching spray and ill-tempered frustration, cursing my innate impulse to cut the best of any ties.
Similar behaviour as a teenager had often resulted in being ejected through a school gate. Afterwards, I’d meander home and slam my bedroom door on a harried, demanding mother. It was a poor substitute for punching a Principal’s pompous face.
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Loved the interaction with Tom and his crew. There’s a vintage sci-fi feeling to your writing. But it also reminds me of this book you recommended to me about pinatubo…