Skeletal Page 4

  ‘Why the sad face?’ Kian walks up beside me, dark hair shining in the sun, tan guard uniform pressed and crisp. I try on a smile, he smiles back. ‘Soon you’ll be living the dream. All that food, nice home, the honour of ...’

  ‘Kian!’ I snap. ‘There’s no honour in pushing Morb brats out of your -’

  ‘Flower?’

  I laugh. He’s always known how to make me laugh. I would never use that word in that context. Kian is working as a trainee guard. Central decided he’s trustworthy and strong enough to be trialled. They don’t know him like I do. He can beat any lie detector test, or memory sweep. He’s strong but he’ll never be trustworthy, not to them.

  ‘Why do I have to wear this?’ I sigh, holding out the pretty, pink silk as if it is a dirty rag, ‘it’s worse than the Showcase outfit.’

  ‘But you look so cute.’ Kian says, in a baby voice.

  I glare at him.

  ‘How about you wear the dress?’

  He raises a dark eyebrow at me, mild amusement in his stare, or impatience? I can’t tell. He thinks this is a good thing, like everyone else, he thinks I lucked in. I narrow my eyes at the imposter reflecting in the shelter glass. This isn’t me, this isn’t who I am. I blink, and false eyelashes, like glued-on spider’s legs, curl upwards and touch my eyebrows. I’m afraid if I blink too much I’ll blink them off. The lashes have three tiny diamantes spaced out on each one. I blink again and my brown eyes water. I wipe away the water with my index finger, careful not to smudge the liner. Silver glitter from the tip of my pink polished nail rubs off, leaving a snail-trail under my eye.

  ‘Dammit!’

  ‘Need some help?’ Kian offers.

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  I carefully wipe away the excess glitter with the tip of my thumb then smear it down the shelter pole. I glance back at myself, lips pursed in frustration; shiny, pink gloss making my mouth look like a piglet’s snout. I part my lips and the sticky gloss tries to pull them back together. Yuck. I resist the urge to rip off the feathered lashes and rub the pink from my mouth. Morbihan like to dress up and it’s customary for those chosen to wear ‘meet the host family’ outfits. Central forbids you to turn up in your dark city issue clothes.

  ‘It’s not that bad, Sky.’

  Kian pulls one of my forced ringlets down and watches as it springs back up.

  ‘I’m wearing a dress designed for a toddler. It’s that bad.’ I pout, crossing my arms.

  Kian shrugs but I know I look ridiculous. My mirrored image mocks me. Mocks my blond curls tied up with a ribbon at my crown, the baby-doll dress, pink and frilly with a matching oversized bow at my back, but the worst part was when the dresser rubbed her shrivelled hands all over me, coating my skin with a strange gel. Its fragrance is sickly sweet, and my arms and the top of my exposed chest all shimmer with glitter.

  It’s as if I’m a present not a person. Yes, that’s exactly how they see me! A gift. But I’m not the gift, I’m only the wrapping; to be ripped, torn, screwed up and discarded. I’m to give the gift of life and in turn, that life is their present. Skyla: the bronzed treat in pretty, pink wrapping, the disposable incubator – the host. I’m also a bad choice, like the shiny material that looked so nice at the market but is unforgiving when trying to wrap a present; too slippery, not compliant. I’ll never forgive myself if I let the Morbs use and abuse my body, and for what? Luxuries, trinkets, and treasure – these things aren’t important to me. Trees are important, trees and plants and people – life. I choose life. My own! I cross my arms.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ Kian says, scooping my knapsack from the platform floor, ‘come on, the train’s here.’

  The sun dances across the tall, metal face of the Sky Train as it approaches. I’ve never been on the train before and an unexpected rush of excitement teases my nervous stomach. Sometimes, at dusk, I watch for the last train. I wait for the headlamps to glide over the city, silver body weaving between buildings like a kite-tail across the sky. My stomach backflips. I don’t want to get on the train alone. I touch Kian’s shoulder.

  ‘Come with me?’ I ask, hopeful.

  ‘I can’t, I’m not a guard yet,’ he says, nudging me forwards.

  I dig in my heels then stumble as his hand presses into my back, forcing me along the platform.

  ‘But you passed the tests.’ I say.

  A cool breeze fans through my curled hair as the enormous metal snake swooshes past.

  ‘Yeah, but I have to pass the trial too.’ He yells over the noise of the train clacking down the track.

  A thought strikes my mind, bang! As if I’d stepped out in front of the train. I grab a fistful of Kian’s shirt sleeve.

  ‘What about Tess!’ I yell.

  Tess is like my little sister. She lives in the slums with Skels who opted out of the system. They’re called Eremites, Central gave them this name and, as far as I know, it means religious recluse. They don’t worship the glory in the sky like other Skels, they worship the birds. They think The Day of the Bird was a warning. That the birds tried to cleanse the city, eradicating sinners who work for Central. Fearing civil war, Central banished all Skels who refused to conform to city law but instead of sending them into the desert to die, they allowed them to reside in the dump at the edge of the city, and after a beating from guards the Eremites decided the dump was a better option than death. Over time, the dump developed into a plastic slum, Eremites using anything they found as housing materials; though they consider themselves free, the slum dwellers are not completely out of Central control. Life is hard for them and that’s why I took Tess under my wing. She will worry when I don’t turn up. Who else is there to take care of her? Bring her the extra food she needs?

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on little red.’ Kian yells back, handing me my knapsack.

  I shoulder it on and breathe out a momentary sigh of relief, then smooth down the front of my silky dress, wobbling to one side, not used to heels. My toes feel crowded, ankles insecure. Kian stares at the towering metal beast, as if the train won’t stop if he doesn’t. I study my best friend; his glowing brown skin, his shoulders relaxed. His body is his own and will never be anyone else’s. For a moment, I envy him. He’ll never need to do this, men don’t – they can’t. I don’t let the injustice swallow me, I know men carry other burdens and Kian carries his well. He takes my hand and squeezes it gently.

  ‘Are you ready?’ He asks.

  The train slows, gears grinding to a halt. I square my shoulders, my doll-like reflection stares back at me from the silver surface, I slump. You can do this, Sky. Stop being such a baby. A baby. I’m not ready to have a baby and I won’t ever be. I take a deep breath and my breasts rise, pushed up like two round coconuts. The dress tightens, I breathe out, worried I might split a seam. Fingers laced with the person I trust most in the whole world, I squeeze Kian’s rough hand back and whisper to him.

  ‘I’ll never be ready.’

  The journey to Mr and Mrs Vable’s apartment takes ten minutes, but it feels like seconds. The approaching view from my window is an illusion of utopia. Skyscrapers stretch into the clear, blue sky like glittering knives and, with every second click-clack down the track, the sun shines out from between the gaps in the silver and pokes me in the eyes with its pointy orange fingers. Behind us, my side of the city is a dark festering pit; even the sun tries to avoid it. Cube blocks are piled high like coal, no sense of order, no attention to detail. The streets are overrun with bone-tired Skels held together by a thread; along with the many crows, rats, and serpents. The city has an invisible line drawn down the middle and no one wants to live in my part, they all want to live with the fakers in their fakery.

  I press my face up against the window, the glass warms my cheek. As the gleaming buildings get closer, the outlines on the spotless apartment windows become clear; the blinds are drawn. I can’t see in, yet my mind sees them – those disgusting, self-indulgent hermits I’m about to meet.

  I exhale and my breath f
ogs the glass. I peel my face away and lean over to touch the red cushioned seat beside me. Spongy, soft like a pillow. I yawn. I want to lie down, but I don’t, instead I look over my shoulder. I’m somewhat surprised by how well maintained the train is. Windows streak-free, chrome polished so you can see your face in it, or in my case, someone else’s face painted over mine.

  Because Morbs don’t use the train I expected it to be in disrepair. Why keep it nice for Skels? I decide it is probably because the train passes through the Morbihan side of town and needs to be in keeping with their high standards of cleanliness. Also, many guards use it and I’m told their training complex is something to behold. Central look after hosts and guards in a way they do not for the average Skel.

  I twist my body around further so that I can see the very back of the carriage. It’s empty. The only passengers are myself and my guard; a tall, black lamppost of a woman who was already on the train when I boarded. The guard stands over me, holding on to a silver pole with one hand. She doesn’t look at me, she stands ‘pole up her back’ ridged, blank-faced, involuntarily swaying from side to side with the train’s propulsion. There’s a strange peacefulness in the motion of the train, like a mother rocking a child to sleep. I wish I’d known my mother, or my father for that matter. I remember the tenderness of my grandfather. He always made me feel safe and loved. My eyelids droop, the Sky Train slows, my eyes close, shocked open seconds later when the great metal engine jolts to a stop.

  When we disembark, the guard leads me down concrete steps. I struggle to keep up with her, she wears guard issue boots and doesn’t give any regard to me toppling down the steps behind her in these silly heels. I step out on to the immaculate streets and the warm breeze sweeps past, bringing with it the smell of sweet flowers. It’s like a dream. Lured by the comfort, stars shine in my eyes and my skin tingles. I catch myself. Remember, Skyla, this is an illusion of happiness and comfort. Yes, the smell of flowers and the cleanness is nicer than the smell of dirt and decay but it can’t induce happiness. Can it?

  As the guard strides and I totter through the quiet streets, Sky Train rattling away in the distance, I note that the Morbihan side of town isn’t gated, guarded, or surrounded by a vector ring and it doesn’t need to be. Morbs don’t move around the streets like we do. The glittering pavements have hardly seen a footstep. Yet workers must tend to the streets, washing the windows and pruning the shrubs into works of art.

  ‘Look at that one!’ I say to the guard’s back, my voice loud against the emptiness. I point to the shrub, she doesn’t look round, ‘It looks like a tall mushroom …’ I tilt my head, ‘Actually, don’t look, it looks rude.’

  The guard’s head moves slightly to the left. Ha! Made her look. We turn the corner and the one mushroom turns into a row of tall mushrooms. To me, they look like giant, green penises growing out of the ground. Was that what they were going for? Oh hell, what if it’s a freaky fertility garden; hosts on their knees, surrounded by dick shrubs, everyone chanting while the masters wash our hair with jizz!

  I see someone, not a Skel, one of them. There’s a tube tunnel beyond the cock shrubs. The guard has doubled back and is standing beside me, she pokes me in the ribs to get me moving again. I smack her hand away and her jaw clenches. Inside the tube, a Morb glides along in a hover-chair. Sunshine blinks across the glass and the memory of Showcase shudders through my mind.

  Tubes run through this side of the city like dozens of see-through snakes, but on my side of the city there aren’t many and I don’t remember being able to see inside them. Maybe the tubes on our side are dirty? I succumb to the guard’s prodding but move as slowly as possible. The Morb hovers slowly through the clear tunnel, disappearing every few seconds behind a shrub; it makes me think of a boa constrictor digesting a greedy rat that has eaten his body weight in bare-cupboard cake.

  The guard shoves me towards a secure door.

  ‘Hey!’ I say and step away from her reach. ‘Can’t you speak?’

  She says nothing, lips pressed firmly together as if glued shut, face set in stone. Do her facial muscles even work? In front of us is a solid-steel door. A secure door. A door I don’t want to go through. A vision plays out in my mind, of me kicking off my heels, one flies off into a penis shrub and the other hits the guard in the face as I run for it. The idea dies when sunlight strikes the large blade in the guard’s utility belt.

  In front of me, the guard spreads her long fingers and presses her palm to the pad beside the door. I stare at her hand, wondering if her skin will melt. I know it won’t but part of me wants it to – wills it to. An incorrect hand-map means unauthorised personnel. Secure doors can only be opened by a guard. They aren’t locked, but if I tried to open one, the skin on my palm would definitely be melted … probably. Actually, I don’t know if the melting part is true or made up to scare us. To my knowledge, no Skel has ever touched a secure door. There isn’t anyone crazy enough to test that theory. Am I crazy enough? I get a strong urge to test the theory; go on, Skyla, shove the guard out of the way and touch the pad. It’s a strange sensation, that nagging urge to do something insane; jump from the sky track, or kiss an attractive stranger, or punch Delia Gold in her blotchy orange face.

  Before my grandfather died, the palm-pads worked on every door; only our hand-map could open the door to our cube and there was no melting of the skin if you tried to open someone else’s door, it just wouldn’t unlock. Central disabled the locking mechanisms on most buildings, most ‘unimportant’ buildings.

  The secure door swishes open, disappears into the wall cavity and the guard steps over the threshold. On the other side of the door is a holding chamber, the walls are silver, like the inside of a tin. I’m ordered to sanitise my hands with a harsh chemical gel. It burns. I wince when it almost peels off a layer of skin. I may as well have touched the palm-pad.

  A tall, gangly woman checks my knapsack, while a short weasel of a man, in a surgical face mask, traces a gloved hand over and around my body. My guess is he’s scanning for weapons or drugs. He lingers on my breasts for longer than I’m comfortable with. My eyes narrow and he draws back his hand sharply, as if my cold stare violated him! He waves us on, signalling we’re cleared to enter. The second door opens and I immediately shiver. The air-conditioning is up high. My silk dress is inadequate for the cool temperature but I dare not ask for warmer clothes. I must keep up the polite pretence, keep my mouth shut and do as I’m told. I don’t want a beating from the guard. A bruised and bloodied host would not be the guard’s fault, it would be mine and, however unfair, turning up in that kind of a state would probably result in being beaten some more.

  The chilly corridor is made colder by its grey walls, sucking warmth from every corner and the strong smell of disinfectant stings the inside my nostrils as I breathe through my nose. I clip-clop down the marble stretch after the guard, past doors and stairwells and shafts. My heels want to go in their own direction. I struggle to stay upright. I’m going to break my bloody neck in a minute.

  ‘Is it much further?’ I ask the guard, on behalf of my complaining feet.

  The guard’s eyebrows knit into a V and this time she growls at me. I don’t speak again.

  I’ve been invited to stay at the Vable’s family home, two weeks before implantation. I use the word ‘invited’ loosely. I was told to pack and move. You cannot be a host and live outside the complex; full control over your food, health, and who you interact with must be exercised at all times.

  The silent guard stops abruptly. I stagger sideways to stop myself from colliding with her, I manage to fall into the door rather than my escort, who scowls at me. The guard raps on door twelve with her large fist. Without a word – she hasn’t said a word since I met her on the train, unless you count the growl – she marches off back down the corridor and I’m left at the mercy of my new family. I press my ear to the door and a faint hum grows louder the longer I listen. The humming gets louder and louder, blood thumps in my ears. Inhale, exhale,
inhale … the door slides open. I flinch, then remember to stand tall, hands by my sides. I quietly exhale.

  4

  Hover-Chairs of Blubber

  ‘Oh, my goodness, don’t you look a doll!’ shrieks the tripled-chinned face, framed by a blond bob. My first thought; wig on a giant pig. I can only assume this is Mistress Vable. ‘Hello, Ms Skyla. Now, how are you feeling on this very important day?’

  I weave my short fingers into my forcibly curled hair and try on a fake smile, glad she didn’t use my first name.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say.

  The three layers of face tilt upwards and she glares at me through one sunken blue eye and one lens. The lens blinks separately to the natural eye, it reminds me of automatic double-doors opening and closing. My captor is exactly as I imagined she would be: a beanbag body draped in sunset coloured silk; all head, no neck. The host mother’s uneven painted eyebrows are raised expectantly, her thin lips turn down at the corners. It’s then I remember.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, Mistress Vable,’ I say, quickly.

  I hate myself.

  ‘Much better,’ she says, in a sickly-sweet contralto. ‘You may be able to get away with ignoring courtesy when working in that awful factory, my dear,’ she pauses and takes a few breaths, her large frame deflating and inflating, as if someone has a device in her back and is hand-pumping air into her. ‘But here,’ her voice rattles out, ‘common courtesy is to be upheld at all times.’

  The hover-chair carrying the host mother turns and glides away from me, air holding it inches from the ground. You wouldn’t think something as light as air could hold the weight of someone as heavy as Mistress Vable. The mechanics and scientists are the true heart of our society, without them the Morbs would die. The Morbs would die. The thought pushes a broad smile to my lips. Am I really that cruel? So twisted that I wish death on people? I am. I imagine myself plunging a knife into the soft skin where her neck should be. I’ll take her life like she’s taken mine. Die, bitch, die!