6. Gail

Note: Finally, the O'levels are over… and now all I can say is that I may have too much time on my hands than I can even imagine. As such I will do my best to continue 'Junkie', although much of the content is still subject to whether I am inspired enough to write or not. I apologise for the dreadful delay in uploading this chapter; although a greater part of it was written before my O'levels I just didn't have enough time to complete it.

                 If you're wondering, the slight disagreement in tone and writing styles at the end of this chapter are due to the five-week gap in which they were written. Some of the stuff, including the imagery of the fair in detail, is taken from memory, and I do apologise if I unknowingly slip into vague recollections. As for Gail, I suppose it's pretty obvious who she's modeled after. The idea was carried forward from October until now after watching Avril Lavigne during one of her performances, and having a subsequent talk to my skating friends about skateboarding. I understand that I may have just too many characters, so my purpose from here on will be attempting to develop them slowly, but surely.

                And I am grateful for all the support. Though it may not show, I am thankful that words are enough. To Rys and Tigrin, especially. Won't be forgetting you guys in a hurry.

Already, from afar there is no mistaking the focus of all Solbrecht. We always travel early, to avoid the crowd, and this morning our three-day journey gets its ultimate reward: reaching Zechaat – and the fair.

                I have often heard stories about the capital, and its size and endless landscapes of metropolises. I remember Spike and Rusty saying that Zechaat was a centre of universe, so dense with living and commerce that it crowded the walls and blocked out the sky. It is the dwelling place of the chancellors that keep the planet running and profitable. To humans, it may be the only place where our trade is accepted openly.

                An hour before reaching our destination, Zechaat looms out from the road. In the cold morning a low hanging fog shrouds everything, but without warning a city emerges from it. Its skyscrapers, carved like a giant's toys into grotesque shapes with shards of broken glass for good measure, crowd the horizon in a black mass of development. The road, as we travel, is wide and tarried, five lanes abundant with traffic as we advance on the city.

                At the intersection traffic is at its heaviest, and the stench of the masses upon masses of races, whether alien or not, is overwhelming. The road, like the rough, asphalt tongue of hideous beast, leads us straight into the heart of the city, into its bowels of inhabitants and structures.

                I am astounded, half-awed; I have never seen a city this big before. How tiny Zyjushem would seem beside Zechaat! Mr. Niel opens one of the side windows to let air circulate; the odour of a million bodies eking out a living and the very soil that makes up such a city, enter into our vehicle. The streets, broad lamp-lined avenues devoid of any greenery, bustle with pedestrians and the hundreds of crafts on the roads.

                Within the inner districts, I feel as if the city has closed in on us. On all sides we are enclosed by structures, which seem even more monstrous up close. Windows in tiny blots of white, spiral up skyscrapers shaped like piercing spires and crumbling snares of steel. I am right; the sky has been replaced with sharp crowns of buildings whose ends, like torn pieces of paper, cut into the Solbrecht sun. Advertising billboards, hanging at crazy angles in every corner of the street, flash their products in the acid green neon of a thousand different alien languages.

                I think: amidst this chaos there must be some form of order. And then for the first time I notice sentries patrolling the street, surveillance at every corner not taken up by a billboard and the careful disposition of the residents – especially towards us strangers who have come to trade at the fair.

                The fair! How could I forget? As we continue towards the heart of the city, all roads converge at one large mass. It is a blinding riot of colours; on all sides it spills forth hundreds of inhabitants, satisfied with their findings. This is the trade fair, at the very centre of Zechaat, where a seemingly endless flow of ships dock and then leave, selling, trading, buying, exchanging…

                The fair is so huge that the docks are unable to contain it. The exhibition centres, erected by metal scaffoldings covered by canvas that house the best traders in all the system, are flooded to the brim. The excess of traders set up their stalls along the roadsides, wooing passersby as they trek the next kilometre to the docks. Some tap on our window, others block our way. They are desperate for debits.

                At last we disembark. Mr. Niel finds an empty plot near an abandoned building not too far off from the docks, then we unload all our items onto a cart. We are ready to trade! There is a living to be earned. At this moment, music must come later.

                "Stay close together," Father instructs, "the crowd can be pressing, and the more we keep close, the less chance we have of getting lost."

                Already among the no-driving streets that lead to the docks, I edge my way, nudging, pushing, among the hundreds of aliens. Hardly anyone pays us any attention. Those unable to get stalls within the centres and docks pester us with bargains and purchases. An alien, dragging a hover cart not too unlike ours, cries out: "A wonderful piece of machinery! Helps balance the weight well."

                We pass him, Vanessa and Iain's eyebrows raised in sarcasm. Of course, no one will want something which every trader should rightfully have even before the fair. But this shows us one thing too: in Zechaat, trade does not discriminate – whether dangerous or crazy or human.

                Right now on every corner, in every direction flows the ceaseless exchange of debits. Aliens barter loudly, ignorant to the jumbled din they make in their native tongues. Customers complain: a dysfunctional filter system, weathered engines, obsolete technology… and the traders attempt to persuade them with sweet words. The responsibility, the duty of plain, simple trade knows no bounds, as aliens accost us, to buy their goods. A well-bred businessman like Keane Greening would scoff at these rag-tag merchants – lacking everything but their persistence.

                And the scent, the odour that saturates the air – of food, of frying, of glazing, of grilling – overpowers.

                Outside the exhibition halls hawkers and sellers shout their wares, advertise their recipes. As we pass, I see jhowel meat simmering in broth, bubbling in viscous pools of honey, glazed so much with sweetness that they shine like silver. Solbrecht grain cakes, encrusted with sugar, beam through a hawker's glass cabinet – for just half a debit apiece! The almond syrup, baked and crafted into éclairs and strips of candy, make my stomach beg in hunger. Oh I wish, that partaking in temptation were as good as being seduced by it.

                Then there are still the biscuits, the muffins, the donuts, secreting vanilla and the tang of a thousand flavours of berry and fruit… my senses besiege my will to give in. Baked fish, breaded meat, even the occasionally human hawker tossing noodles, letting into the air strands of mee and bits of meat, the clang as his ladle meets wok to mix the ancient strips of bean-cake and fish. Sweat falls but he doesn't care… like us, the world around is simply mesmerizing.  

                Father greets him in dialect, and he smiles, a rustic, toothy grin while is bare arms let in the slack of muscles while pausing after his strenuous activity. From their conversation, they are old friends, a term loosely linked nowadays to all humans: a meeting during evacuation, a smile on board the ship, a distant mention by another friend. He reminds of the days in the old coffee shop at the end of the asphalt road, long ago… the smell of frying comes back to me, and my mind attempts to seek the connection. The smells, the scents of long ago try to come back to me, and I link them together forcefully, hopefully.

                And a recollection becomes reality.

                The hawker, face shining with sweat, looks at Mr. Niel, then to Iain and me. I hear him and Father communicate in thick dialect, out of our understanding, so the conversation does not carry to unwanted ears.

                The hawker looks up at me again, then adds in broken English to Father, "set up stall, Lui?"

                "No, not a stall," Father replies, "we reserved a place in the exhibition hall where we can get more customers."

                The hall! I cannot imagine the importance, the duty, that comes from being in a place of such opportunities. I think of the customers, the goods brought from places afar off – and Father's trading business has room among them. It is as good as being a partner among the best trades in the universe! 

                At the mere mention of the halls, Father's air holds a certain standard of dignity, even his very walk is different: not that of a lowly trader, but a merchant, the king of trades, the master of commerce.

                Father's hawker friend makes a joke about him being outplayed, and we are off, to begin our business. The entrance to one of the halls is jammed with aliens, all clustering around the small entrance of the building. We elbow our way past the crowd, getting grunts from the aliens, who are too busy making purchases to notice us. Within the hall, however, there are no more street traders. No more hawkers on makeshift stalls, no more desperate sellers egging us to buy their wares.

                Instead, aliens sit behind their goods, of the highest class and excellence, awaiting a sale. There are hawkers, of course; again, cakes are being rolled from dough, and sugar sprinkled upon almonds and chestnuts to turn bland pieces of butter into delicacies. Aliens shout their wares: crystal carvings from Asharea, rare spores from Krondor, the latest synthetic fabrics from D'Armara. Curiosity-seekers push crowds forward, and humans, sly businessmen, offer goods at lower prices to attract customers.

                At last, we reach our stall, and Father sets up his journals. He keeps a huge patch of debits beneath his books, while he lays out the exchange rates for the hundred thousand currencies that exist in the universe.

                "Iris," he calls to me, "do the handling of the exchanges. I will observe your work."

                While Iain, Vanessa and Mr. Niel salvage through the hundreds of human stores for unusual remnants of Earth, I handle plates, coins, notes, cards and transactions. And it goes on for a week, under my Father's watchful eye. The exchange continues, until sweat lubricates each corner of my fingers, and the grit blackens my hands. Deal after deal, my hands ache as I painstakingly record each debtor, each trade, each new account, in the journals. Profits are noted, surpluses added to our till of gains and deficits written off. 

                Whether the sun rises, or night fall, I do not know. Aliens, speaking diverse languages, making adventurous promises of return, line up before our store for their turn at money. Unlike Arlheus and Glein, the traders are merry and in many ways over-sentimental towards their money. They grumble about exchange rates, but accept them grudgingly. They come willing; as long as there is money they will borrow, as long as debit plates exist they will exchange. Such passivity!

                "I will embark on a trade mission to Fauldro!" one of them exclaims optimistically, "and you will have a share of the profits, mark my words!" Promises made, Father jokes with many of the light-hearted ones. Sometimes, though, I feel skeptical. Who does Father really know who to trust, and who not to?

                After seemingly endless exchanges and recordings, Mr. Niel returns with Iain and Vanessa. I can see weariness in their eyes as well but they are not weary of boredom, of repetition. Instead, I notice a bangle on Vanessa's wrist, silver and glinting fiercely in the bright lights of the timeless hall. Mr. Niel's hands, I observe, are coarse and scarred with flaking paint. I do hope their ventures have been a success.

                "Managed to get some good buys, Lui," he addresses my Father, who is busy checking the previous day's journals, "and what treasures have yet to be found among these traders."

                "Did you meet others," I ask, blinking my eyes open.

                "Yeah, there are hundreds of human traders spread out in every area," Mr. Niel replies enthusiastically, "and they are all friendly. Of course many say, and I must add this Lui, that the threat of the Drej hangs ever closer."

                I am pricked to attention fleetingly. I have heard stories, catching whispers from traders, of more Drej attacks. But surely they would not dare touch a place such as Solbrecht?

                "So have I heard," Father says, but his solemn mood soon gives way to watchful observation, "nonetheless, there have been no attacks."

                For once, Mr. Niel looks my way, and he smiles warmly to me. He nods towards Father. "Let Iris have a rest, at least for a day or two. She looks quite exhausted."

I look towards Father, who eyes me cautiously. 

                To my surprise, he acknowledges with a smile of his own; it is a small one, hardly lifting from the corners of his mouth. He takes the ink pen from my grasp, the deep black stain touching his fingers. He puts a hand on my shoulder, nudging my cheek gently.

"Go, have your break, you have been a valuable helper."

My face flushes from his praise.

"You have done enough work, and I see you are fit to handle things," he says, then adds: "take some of the things that we have promised to sell, the junk from Mr. Perez and Alvin's spices, and try to get a good price for them. And as a reward, you can take some of the profit."

                "Thank you, father!" I beam. "Thank you so very much!" My heart does a cartwheel; as I walk away from the stalls, anticipation fills my joyous heart, lightened now. The music festival beckons, and Iain, as flippant as ever, leads the way.

                We inch our way through thick crowds, constantly pushing forward to seek buys, past the sweet scents of almond paste and butter cookies burning on grilles, their aroma filling the air like some addictive. Once back at the craft, we load all the items to sell in another cart. The case from Mr. Perez, laden with precious things that I have promised a good price for, is tucked carefully on the side, along with bags of spices from the herbalist Alvin. Vanessa, her arms strapping and focused, loads the drums onto the cart.

                "And you don't forget this," Iain emerges from the compartment, my guitar in his arms. My stained hands touch it, and at once I feel as if I have been reunited with a lost friend. I tune a chord and, like musicians decked out in our garb, head towards the incessant centre of noise drawing us forward.

It is impossible to see where the fair ends and the music festival begins. On all sides crowds, throngs of Zechaat residents, hundreds of races that I may only get to see once, traverse and jostle with us for space amidst their crushing numbers. Iain says the stage isn't too far from the fair; the endless, never-ending stream of beings seems to lead us.

                We do our best to make a sale; our voices loud and clear, we shout, advertise, call out to anyone who wishes to make an interesting buy. Aliens approach us. They grunt, and leave coldly. Others eye our products carefully, before I argue with them for a price. One aliens seems particularly keen in Mr. Perez's transmitter radio; sensing his interest, I bid an outrageously high price.

                He cuts by half; I raise the price again, he bids lower. Like Father has taught me, I ensure our argument for a price is short, but fruitful. I name my price to him again: a thousand debits for the transmitter radio, almost brand new and still functional. We settle, at last, for nine hundred debits. I hurry to rejoin Iain and Vanessa, separating the money from the sale from the duty I earn, my heart lightened by the sale.

                As we continue walking, only one thing guides us: the noise. It blares from deep within the crowd ahead, ever present, echoing off the buildings as if to confuse us. The crowds, still swelling, all seem to be headed in that direction. The sound is more rabble than music; even from this distance the noise has no harmony, no direction.

                At last the echo from the buildings slowly diminish, and the buildings draw back to reveal an open expanse of land. The road gives way to grass, brown and dead, spreading out on all sides. Vehicles, their movement visible out of the corner of my eye, have enough road still to operate on at the far ends. But the crowd is so thick I can barely see the stage. We come to a point where the crowd stops moving; they are all still, some standing, eyes fixed on the spectacle before them.

                "Can't see a thing here," Iain says to me, then gestures to a parapet along a raised stone wall that keeps the road away from the crowd, "let's try over there instead."

                The mass of spectators almost overwhelms us, we fight our through them, and I with feel each accidental nudge or mishap their dissatisfaction rises. Vanessa's cart is taking up space; some aliens growl at us, but we try to take no notice. Once we are at the parapet, we are free from the dense breaths and grunts of the crowd. I stretch my arms gratefully, now that they have been released from an enclosure of bodies.

                I let out a sharp rush of breath.

                Standing on the parapet I can see the stage clearly. It is decked out in plain blue and red, blasted with noise and dripping excitement. It stands at the front of a sea of colours; a multitude gathered to witness a festival of music, flashing, moving, before my eyes. The crowd takes in the music, utterly absorbed by it. There are no screens though, so the performers' faces are blurred specks in the explosion of countless moving faces.

                My imagination fails me; the spectators are way more than I could ever expect.

                And I am going to sing, to play, to dance, for them? My exhilaration, the rush of fulfilling emotions, is abruptly cut short by anxiety. Yet I think to myself: this is the only audience I will ever get. I remember Maya, and the practice piece in the school before my classmates. I do not need a crowd as motivation, I tell myself.

The music guides.

                Even Vanessa seems intimidated. "Ever occurred to you that there'll be this many?" she asks, "say, ten thousand?"

                My eyes dart from one end of the landscape to the other. The performers round their finale, and the audience gives a shout of approval. The buildings rattle on their foundations; the noise overwhelms, but settles down as the grungy, low-pitch music continues with random inputs of instruments.

                "I think much more than that," I whisper.

                Iain, bass guitar still dangling from his hands, joins us to watch the crowd. He narrows his eyes, searching for something, and then frowns when he cannot find it. But there is no fear, no apprehension on his sweaty face. 

                "I can't find it," he finally tells us, "so I guess I'll have to ask around."

                I am confused. "Iain, what're we looking for?"              

                He descends the parapet, swinging his body coolly to one side. "The guy who said we could come and play," he explains, though I am still lost, "he's a Zechaat native, and told me we could have some time on stage. You stay here, right? I'll be back once I find him."

                He disappears into the crowd, the long neck of the bass guitar swinging recklessly in his wake.

                "Well, we might as well sit down and wait," Vanessa shrugs, "with this crowd, he's going to take some time."              

                For a second, I regard her silently; then my eyes catch a glimpse of movement in the extreme corners of my line of sight. I ignore it… and right after I see a flash of silver. I feel puzzled, as the roar of the crowd dulls out these sequences – odd… But I hear a scraping noise, followed by a shout, muffled and distant amidst the crowd's meaningless rabble. I feel it strange enough to turn my head.

                An alien, a Zechaat native by his muscular stature, advances towards a flight of stairs leading to the foyer of one of the towering buildings on what seems like a board with little, rounded wheels. He kicks the ground, accelerating, making head for the rail that cuts straight down the stairs. For a minute, I think he is going to crash into rail.

                But at the last moment, he leaps; for a second there is a period of freefall, plunging towards the rail, sure to shatter his thin limbs on it. But to my amazement he lands square on the rail, flips to his board and lands safely on the ground. His friends, whom I haven't noticed until now, applaud.

I wish to applaud too, until I see the alien is doing something. His hands are out, long and crooked, half-waving, half-gesturing. He has his gaze fixed on something covered by the building's outer wall. I realise soon enough: he is intimidating someone. Challenge me, he says.

                Another group advances; there is no mistaking their figures.

                Humans.

One of them lowers his board and attempts the challenge. He lands on the rail too, very evenly, but slips as his board gives way beneath him. I want to shout – as his legs crumble; overcorrecting, he loses his balance, falling to the ground on his back.

                The alien mocks as the challenger picks himself up, insults flying.

                But another challenger confronts the alien; I notice a streak of ginger, a ponytail, dangling from the back of the challenger's coat, as she circles on her board, defiant. She jumps, and lands, wobbly, on the rail, but her wheeled board does not depart from underneath her. She suddenly appears to have overcorrected, but instead the board grinds, producing that scraping noise again. The challenger, skids across the rail, tipping the board skyward. She defies gravity for a moment, and lands, perfectly.

                The alien looks crestfallen, and I see him curse, while his friends get to their feet, abashed. Before I can stop myself, I applaud, but it is lost in the incessant background crush.

                I turn to Vanessa; she too has been watching the show. I gesture towards the human whose stunt beat the opponents'. She nods, and we agree without speaking to each other. I pick myself up from the ground and we walk towards them. 

                We hear a hail of shouts, and the aliens advance towards the small human group gathered around the new champion. My stomach lurches; I know what will happen and who will win. I want to grab Vanessa and run, but then… I see one glance my direction, passively.

He fumbles his fingers and talks to his friend. He sees me too, but does not wait for me to arrive. By the time Vanessa and I get to the railed stairwell, we meet four humans, no more aliens. Vanessa and I are no doubt puzzled.

                 One of them, the one which unsuccessfully made the challenge earlier, points at us, speaking to his friends: "See? They're the ones who were watching us, and the draggers got cold feet when they saw they were outnumbered!"      

                "Nice move," Vanessa says, and points to the board. "What do you call this?"    

                The girl steps up, and answers, "Skateboarding. Been something one of the older kids started doing, and since it's a good way to kill time, why not?"

                She removes her tight cap; the first thing I notice is her hair, sleek and straight. Vanessa gives me a sly grin from the corner of my eye, for whatever reason I do not know. The girl, her hands tugging the torn lapel of her coat, acknowledges our silence. Again I see a deep wash of hazel in her eyes.

                She puts out her hand to me and Vanessa. "Gail," she tells us, "you can call us the scavengers."

                "So I take it you guys are from elsewhere," the younger of them speaks up enthusiastically, dismounting from his board, "came for the music? Or the fair?"

                "To tell the truth, both," I reply. "You must form some community here."

                Gail nods. "A ghetto, a small one, deep inside the inner district." She stretches out her hand and tugs on my shirt, examining the fabric. I only then do seem to realise her ragged windbreaker, and polyester slacks soiled at where her knees are. I notice her eyes narrow; suddenly I am wary of what she'll say.

                "I guess life as a musician's way better," she says, half-jokingly, and her friends chuckle, but she never takes her eyes off me. She points to the guitar. "Scavengers are the masters of the skateboard here. If your clothes make out what you seem to be, then you must be just as damn good as we are."

                I feel the tease of her taunt; I force a grin. "You can see it for yourself when we go on stage," I say, trying hard to be friendly.

She grimaces, her mood to challenge undeterred  "Tell you what. Let's say we have a bit of a bet here," she suggests, "are you up for it?"

My mind shifts to Iain for a while, strapping and his bass guitar draping down from his shoulder. I silently overrule Vanessa with a gesture. "Only if you'll come to watch us."

"Right," Gail nods, her friends gathering round her, "we'll watch. And if we think you're not as good as our skateboarding, we'll have your guitar."

Vanessa looks uncertainly between us.

"But," I add, "if we're better, you let me have that skateboard." I point at Gail's wrecked board.

She laughs, and I see glimpses of her opponent's arrogance in her. "Agreed then. You'd better get on and practice, 'cause we'll be watching."            

                "Yeah," I say, cutting off Vanessa's objections, as we begin to walk towards the parapet, "we'll see you down at the stage."
                "Right, and what's your name again? Didn't quite get it."

                "Iris," I call out, as we get more distant, "Iris and Vanessa."

Written by shelter