Imran Siddiq may have tried to leave Leicester a few times, but its become his place to wake up to two cats, freeze when the heating’s off and most of all, get down to writing. At a young age, his primary school teacher commented on his creativity and ability to tell stories. At the age of 29, during a night in the jungle, the bug inside awakened, and for the last 5 years he’s been sacrificing every second that he can to write. A veteran of writing festivals, a presence on Twitter and gobbling up all forms of Star Wars and Lord of the Rings, he hopes he can bring a smile to others in the same way that he had, aged 5, reading with a torch under his duvet. Imran’s preferred genre is YA Sci Fi, and he has a tendency to throw a droid in every novel.
Excerpt
Chapter
1 - Worthless
Zachary
stopped at the clunk under
his boot.
How
had nobody seen the box? With a glance into the darkness of the
Wastelands,
he licked his chapped lips.
Taking
the box, Zachary darted past heaps of tottering metallic sheets. So far today,
he’d scavenged nothing that was worth shoving into the pockets of his knee-
length coat. If there was one thing to beat today, it was the pride-crashing
kick to the guts of returning empty-handed for a fourth day. As the shortest
scavenger of the stall at five foot six, a barren run made him the easiest
target for teasing.
The
stall’s heckles from the day before still chilled him. The quickest rat with the hunting skill of a slug.
But
thoughts of leaving the vast Wastelands with only a handful of screws and
two-inch nails drowned in his anticipation that the jingling in the box would
be ratchets, fuses and battery cells.
Zachary
sprinted along the ledge of the bay to an overhanging bank. Not even the sick
rested amongst the rusty vehicles deserted here. Using his trusted titanium
screwdriver, he teased off the knot of wires beneath the mesh. Why would anyone
take trouble to wrap and then to discard this box?
Whatever, thought Zachary freeing the last clasp of the lid. Inside
there was a folded note, a silver Intercom-transmitter, and an orange-tinted
bracelet. Result! Twiddling
his long, brown hair, he scrutinised the box for hidden compartments within the
padded interior. The smooth texture couldn’t have started life in Underworld,
could it?
Locked
away from light, Underworld was a murky pit in comparison to the rich nature of
Overworld that few had seen, and finds such as these were rare here. Luck
placed Zachary within easy access of the clutter that lay on the west side of
Underworld, the Wastelands. Spending most of his day amongst the sewer pipes
didn’t bother him for it was far better than the dull lanes of District Two. No
day was the same amongst junk. Every gush from the pipes revealed a new
surprise.
Nobody
knew how thick the ceiling was or why its creation blocked Underworld from the
world above. Often Zachary pondered what exactly sat above the ceiling. He
guessed unlimited power, droids with abilities that dwarfed the functions of humans, and a life that
didn’t require working in muck. Short hours. Free time.
An
eerie chill climbed his spine at imagining the scattered giant steel support
pillars dropping aside? Would Overworld add to the mess of Underworld? Could
the two worlds of the Galilei Research
Base co-exist? No chance.
What
did it matter? Underworld’s builders had left it to rot.
Zachary
squinted in the darkness at the unbroken chain links on the bracelet and the
deep dent in its centre. Components of music-playing Harmon bracelets weren’t
difficult to locate, though one as complete as this? He clicked his teeth
thinking of when a working bracelet had last been handed to the stall. Longer
than five years at least. There was a harsh rattle as he shook the bracelet. If
he fixed this, it could be enough to save him another day of shame.
More
than that, he could show his dad that scavenging wasn’t a deadbeat job by
putting some good food on the table.
The
Intercom-transmitter, a communication device he’d often see in the hands of a
ruthless looter, felt light in his palm. If this find functioned – he held his
breath – then mushrooms for supper would become a memory. Zachary squirmed.
Adjusting to the slimy, vomit-wrenching taste of mushrooms that thrived in
abundance was at the bottom of his to-do list.
He
rubbed his back against the carcass of a vehicle, his heart thumping. Maybe the
Master of the stall would let him look behind the curtain?
Zachary’s
hazel eyes reflected off the Intercom’s shiny shell. He rubbed the recognition
pad underneath, not sure what to expect. Dull lights clicked along the screen’s
circular pattern. Blue tinted static formed in the air a foot above the
Intercom.
“What
in Europa!” Zachary swiped the image. Signs of energy were a signal to the
greedy. If any of the gangs roaming the dry deluge saw this, they’d seize the Intercom
and snap his skinny limbs apart.
Coat
over the Intercom, Zachary sunk deeper into the bank. He paused before
returning his thumb to the pad. The blue static burst out again, accompanied by
a disturbing cackle. A human head with long hair formed in front of him. The
image rotated, showing blurs where the eyes and mouth should have been. An
incomplete android? Or an Overworlder?
Zachary’s
curiosity peaked. He’d never seen an Overworlder before and it wasn’t like he
had a choice in that matter. Galilei’s distinct division prevented any
mixing.
There was no doorway, window or ladder to allow sight or sound between the
worlds. Yet, he held a gateway to one in his hand. Were Overworlders as
perfectly skinned as he imagined them to be? Did they wash every day without
scrounging for water under steam-filled pipes?
“Fourth
of August 2340, 15:16,” said a young girl.
Shut
up!
Zachary
crammed the Intercom to his waist. A spark erupted in the centre of the device,
and then it switched off. He gasped open-mouthed. Eyes closed, he bugged his
memory to repeat her soft words. It was gone. Zachary rubbed the pad. Nothing.
Inactive. Dead. Worthless. No – the Intercom could be salvaged. It could be
worth ... something.
His
eyes narrowed at the unfolded note. “Initial surveillance confirms the
location. Continue with Project Centurion.” There was nothing on the reverse.
The
word surveillance bothered him. It was what scavengers said when watching a
lucrative drop point in the Wastelands. Did the girl write the note? Was she
after someone?
Zachary
tapped the Intercom. It didn’t make sense for anybody to write on paper if they
were going to place it with a messaging device, unless they knew the Intercom
to be faulty.
He
shrugged, putting all three items into his pocket. The box weighed little, but
it was valuable. Hooking a wire from the box to an inner seam of his coat to
aid its hidden transport, Zachary smirked. The mushrooms looked closer to being
history.
After
snaking around the vehicles, he jumped onto a protruding sewer pipe to reach
the upper level. Whirring sounds halted him. Eastwards, embedded turbines spun
clockwise like a volatile drill within the high ceiling.
A
drop was coming. Normally, Zachary would’ve dashed over bust circuit boards to
reach the drop point. Instead he watched a triangular section of the ceiling,
secured by hydraulic arms, eject downwards. Wind spurted ahead of blazing light
before rock-like objects rushed out, followed by a rainstorm of particles in
pursuit. Discarded rubbish of Overworld had entered his world.
Zachary’s
eyes tightened upon other Underworlders swarming to the falling treasure. It
was a good one-minute run away, and by the time they reached it, the Wasteland
gangs would have fought one another for the glory. If the wired-box had
been
part of that drop, there’d be steel cutting through bodies to get it. He
shivered with thoughts of the carnage if they’d found the Intercom.
Emitters
within the ceiling dimmed, ending the artificial day. Turning on his heels,
Zachary took the southern route to the bartering camps of District Two.
He
manoeuvred to the steep ladder against the gigantic heated pipe. Halfway up on
the forty-fifth rung, Zachary gazed over the irregular horizon of the
Wastelands scanning for a girl running between the swamps, searching for her
box. Who was she?
On
reaching the platforms jutting from a mountain of metal, Zachary moved into the
bartering camp, avoiding locking eyes with the near-naked hut occupiers begging
with their scrawny fingers. Drooped faces, similar in every way, shared cracked
bowls of sludge. He considered them to be a clever scheme, detracting from the
pick-pocketers groping his coat.
If
anybody here owned an Intercom, they wouldn’t place it in a box, even for
safekeeping. No – they’d solder it to their belts and some to their piercings.
That wired-box had to have come from Overworld.
Zachary
licked his lips. The Intercom wasn’t totally broken; some life inside remained,
and that gave it a chance to be repaired. There was someone who could repair
it, but he’d have to be quick. If Zachary’s dad found out that he’d messed
around with a device rather than exchanging it for money, then he’d be in for a
kicking.
Recessed
between the huts of the rat seller and the cockroach grinder sat Zachary’s
employer’s stall. A bullish man nodded, allowing him entry into the candlelit
foyer. He spoke little to the other scavengers lining the room’s edge. Either
their goods had been delivered, or they had nothing spectacular to show. He
continued, descending to the symmetrically carved area underground.
At
the front of a corridor, a middle-aged man mumbled at his desk as he scribbled
into a paperbound book. Shekhar peeked over cracked spectacles, showing no
amusement at Zachary’s tentative loosening of his fingers.
The
Harmon bracelet glittered in the candlelight.
Shekhar bit the lid off his red pen. “He already has many.”
“This works.” Zachary yanked the bracelet away from the
attempted snatch. “Whereabouts?”
“The drop.”
“A
working Harmon, Mister Connor? Why would anybody throw it away?”
Zachary
gulped. The stall’s beady-eyed Secretary wasn’t a man to irritate. “Why does
anyone throw away anything?”
Shekhar
murmured. Pushing his spectacles up onto the bridge of his nose, he led Zachary
to the wooden door with depictions of men carrying building blocks and guiding barrows.
Shekhar knocked three times.
Zachary
exhaled upon entry into the Master of the stall’s five-cornered room. Air swept
from Shekhar’s slam of the door didn’t detract from the heart thumps Zachary
felt. He was seconds away from the padded curtain that hung behind the Master’s
chair. Desperation at wanting to peek behind the curtain accompanied the slide
of his heel. No – wait, there wasn’t time for the curtain, no matter how long
it’d been since he’d gazed beyond it. Priority stormed his mind. Get home.
Repair the Intercom.
Cobwebs
pinned inside picture frames decorated the walls above stacked items and
metallic gadgetry. Dust floated between the generous glows of the corner-
mounted tubes of energy. Zachary passed the human skeleton standing there with
sharpened pencils crammed into the holes and notches of its skull. It was a
symbol of man stripped of protection whose purpose was to hold objects of use.
Maybe that was the Master’s interpretation of Galilei; Underworld lived as the skeleton holding up Overworld.
A
strange smell hooked Zachary’s nostrils. Of all the sewers he’d stepped in,
this was by far the most rancid. Had something died here?
He
drew near to the long, polished table in the centre of the room where Master
Salvador “Biro” Burton sat observing him. The rear curtain skewered in place by
copper rods tempted a grin.
Then,
the thump of Zachary’s heart tightened.
On
the table lay a male torso. No arms or anything below the waist. Splatters of
blood and jagged cuts ran along its light brown skin. Charred muscles
overlapped where the neck should have been. Zachary’s eyes swept the floor for
dismembered limbs and the head. The rotting smell filled his lungs. A dead
body? Here? Whose?
For
a man who’d hoarded enough coins to build his own town, the Master’s scrawny
state drew pity. Going on seventy years, Biro had entered beyond the final
phase of life. Blemishes littered his sunken skin. He looked ill. Diseased.
Almost like the skeleton in his room. But what the heck was the Master doing
with a corpse? Glaring at the torso, Zachary rubbed his sweaty palms.
Biro
twitched with a never-ending shake of his left leg. “Quite extraordinary, isn’t
it? They’re now creating them to look like us.” His tone hummed between tainted
teeth.
Zachary
almost cried out. The corpse was an android! Impossible. It looked – too –
perfect. Lines of blood-carrying veins could be made out above the region of
the collar bone. Zachary shivered. Androids were pale, almost ghost-like. Where
was the streaming-port that every android had on its abdomen? And why the
blood, and the muscles?
“I
suspect Overworlders are trying to integrate them deeper into their extravagant
lifestyle,” continued Biro. “It’s rather artistic, isn’t it?”
“Did
you find this?” Zachary gulped. It wasn’t his place to ask a question.
Biro’s
smirk lasted a second. “Found in the most intriguing manner. Something almost
flawless and no doubt expensive, yet, it came to rest here. Enough of that.
Your find?”
Zachary
handed over the bracelet. His eyes focussed on the padded curtain which was
coloured black to prevent the sneakiest glimpse of the reward behind it.
Zachary’s palms moistened as he clenched his anxious stomach. His thoughts
stopped lingering on the torso.
After
loosening the slim compartment on the bracelet’s edge, the aged Master directed
a charged-stylus onto teeny cogs inside. The bracelet illuminated. Frozen in
mid-twitch, Biro shuddered at the melody’s beginning. Soft strings gave way to
a slowly building drumbeat.
An
intensifying harp played, swaying Biro’s pleased face. “Shekhar will give you
enough to treat yourself for this find.”
Zachary
unhooked the box from his coat.
Biro’s
gaze sharpened. “What’s inside?”
“I found it ... empty.” He looked at the curtain, knowing
the Master would
interpret
it without asking.
“Going
behind will forfeit any reward for the box,” Biro went on, seeing
Zachary’s
furrowed brow. “Tell me. Why love something so far away?”
“It lets me without asking,” replied Zachary.
Spinning the bracelet twice to prolong the melody, Biro
waved for Zachary to
continue.
“You need to find yourself a girl”.
There
was no point in Zachary fighting the urge. His breathing accelerated. Hands
trembling under his chin, he went around the table, and then behind the
curtain. Lights sparkled outside the awaiting window with greater strength than
a thousand diodes. His heart raced quicker. The melody, behind him, peaked to a
thunderous fanfare.
Remnants
of Zachary’s breath frosted the glass as his eyes soaked up the atmospheric
dense bands of the gas giant of space.
Jupiter.
He’d
always thought that there was nothing more intriguing than this planet. Except
now. Something new seeped into his mind; something that reduced the gas giant
to a ball. Eyes closed, Zachary took a deep breath. He visualised the blurred
face of a girl without eyes.
Who
was she?
.jpg)
