The Monoliths (Chapter 1)

The first chapter from a novel I am writing (subject to change on full release)

Chapter One 

A dark network of concrete climbs toward the sun, wilting during economic winters, then growing rapidly once more. My window used to look out across the barren wastelands of Thrain, and I would complain endlessly at the planet’s ugliness. Now I long to restore that view, for it has been replaced with brutish architecture and violence. ‘Adapt, Expand, Advance,’ the slogan of Nova Technology, floats holographically outside my apartment, covering a huge portion of the opposite building. It is at once a reminder and a threat.

The booming rhythms of parties and raves echo through the nights, forcing me into a nocturnal cycle, whether I participate or not. At random, every room in the city becomes a blast of light, countless screens projecting a warning of nuclear destruction, or laser destruction, or of some kind of parasite that eats your eyes. The resulting lack of sleep and paranoia cause my dreams to blur into reality, in disturbing amalgamations. Sometimes a spidery creature lurks in the corner of my room, its twitching red eyes fixated on me. Other times, I am falling, past windows without reflections.

Today is an exception. I awake to a soft pulse in my head, and the start of a beautiful melody. It is a song projected directly into my neurons, with no need to pass through my ears. “Good afternoon, sleepyhead” says a woman’s voice and I feel a tinge of sadness. “Do you want to save your personal Dreamwave?”

“No!”, the save feature costs an extra fee “What time is it?” 

“It’s two pm, still early.” My eyelids are heavy. Many people take a stimulant to help them out of bed, but coffee suits me. The machine has already produced a mug, steaming, with a layer of froth. I catch the scent and it slowly beckons me from my slumber. As I pick it up, my primary screen, embedded seamlessly in the wall, lights up with the last episode of a program that I have been watching. I eye my bookshelf, probably one of only five in the city, willing myself to make the right decision… Before I know it, I am nestled in my sofa, consuming pixels, only vaguely aware of the passage of time.

As minutes turn to hours, the guilt of inactivity begins to creep in, so I decide to respond to a few messages and leads. I switch the screen to another tab and a message is already open:

‘Hello James,

I have read your article and I have some information that might be valuable to you.

Come to the staff room in Razor Tattoo Parlor, on 5th street and I will share what I know.

Derek’

It has been haunting me for months. ‘He knows about the article, and it's easy enough to get a hit on someone in this city, so why bother with the theatrics?’ Trying to divine a motive seems like a lost cause, but my curiosity doesn’t let me stop.

Before I can get to any of the other responses, an overlay appears: ‘Dental appointment: one hour’. ‘Shit! That’s today?’ I run for the shower, firing a blast of warm soapy water, before switching to ‘Ultradry’. The droplets of water on my skin evaporate, though I only feel a slight, irradiating heat. I opt for a cheap t-shirt and jeans, and place my jewellery in a draw; all but one ring, before heading out of my tiny apartment. 

It opens into a corridor, terminating in a communal area with the usual franchise eateries. I pass by a couple sharing a tray of fries and meat. Visions of dark red liquid and steel fill my head, until I shake them away and continue. I have not made it far, when Toby, a friend since school, appears from round a corner “Heyy, what's up?” he says.

“Nothin much, just got a dental appointment to get to. My teeth have been killing me”

“Lucky you, I've been trying to get a slot for ages, I’m half tempted to go to the minus levels”

“I’ll keep an eye out for your teeth on the black market then,” I say, only half jokingly. “Look, I really gotta get a move on. Sorry I can't stop to chat!”

“No worries. Good luck down there, see ya around dude” Toby heads in the opposite direction to me, probably searching for a meal or a cheap fix.

The walk to the elevator is always further than I remember. One side a row of doors, the other a series of darkened windows facing out to the city. A bridge extends from the floor below, intersecting another skyscraper, upon which advertisements cycle every few seconds. The rows of windows in corrugated repetitions seem to descend forever, like when an object is placed between two mirrors and abstracted into infinity. I find myself lost in the vivid colours for a moment, before returning to my errand.

Finally, I reach the elevator, which arrives on cue, carrying only a few people. The available floor numbers are in the hundreds, but I input: one, three. I try to savour the ride, a last quiet moment before the chaos. Silently the elevator descends, with only the passing numbers giving any notion of travel. From time to time, it stops to receive a passenger or two. When the doors open at floor thirteen, a barrage of stimuli floods in and I know I am at the right place.

The air is heavier, with a sickly mix of stodgy aromas and perfumes. The streets have reinforced glass panes on each side, preventing people from falling, or jumping, from the immense heights. Everything is bathed in blues, purples and greens, meticulously adjusted in hue to meet the aesthetic mandate of the region. However, the clothing of the crowds mix together in a more chaotic blend of colours, muddying the intended harmony. On the side of the street, a man in a worn biker jacket chokes back a couple of pills. I recognise them as ‘Solites’, allegedly powerful vitamin D supplements. They have become a kind of currency in the lower districts, where the monolithic towers block out the sun. The man then glugs down a synthetic cocktail disguised as juice, and disappears into an ocean of people.  

My arm constantly glows with an indicator towards my destination, a crisp white projection of the immediate vicinity, which updates with each turn. The device has been within my arm since my first memories. I ignore it where I can, trying instead to conceptualise the landmarks and street corners in my mind’s eye. No use. I default back to my map in resignation, and try not to take notice of the strewn rubbish, used needles and unconscious bodies. 

My ears keep tabs on people nearby as I pass through, vigilant for trouble. Mostly I hear normal conversations. “I saw Tommy the other day, barely even recognised him. He’s gone loco with the cybernetics.” I ponder how people might have felt in generations past, when more than just relics of other languages were spoken. There is a stall selling an assortment of paintings with a sign which reads ‘human painted’. I am not convinced, and based on some other shrewd looks from passers by, there seems to be a consensus. Every step of my journey makes me more uncomfortable, only exacerbated by the growing number of gruesome body modifications. A bodybuilder type has his back exposed to reveal scar tissue in the shape of wings. Another man has large bony spikes sticking out from his skin. The latter is talking to a tall, pretty woman with platinum highlights, who seems only half interested. Her left eye fixates on me as I pass, a glowing red iris, on a black screen, whilst her right remains on the conversation. I feel cold and exposed.

Finally I reach a bridge, which cuts through the middle of a skyscraper, with perhaps five or six floors of empty space overhead. According to my navigator, the path ahead will take me across to the gold sector before looping back, a sure-fire way to miss my appointment. It does offer an alternative route, a narrow alleyway. I am undecided for a moment, but urgency compels me to take the shorter option.

As I approach the alley, I pick up the pace and put a hand on the hilt of my firearm. When I have reached the middle, a slender man silhouettes the exit, slightly hunched and facing me. He begins stumbling down the alley and I notice a clawed metal hand swinging at his side. I think about doubling back, but desperation still lingers. “I can’t miss this appointment man, don’t make me use this” I cry, making my gun more obvious. He hesitates a moment, as if weighing my mettle. Suddenly, he’s sprinting towards me with a crazed expression. “Please!” the gun fires, shattering his knee in a cataclysm of blood and marrow. His shriek sickens me to the core and a nauseating dizziness comes over me. Some screams echo from both ends of the alley and the rumble of footsteps grows heavier. It is all I can do to leap over my attacker and make for the end of the alley. The street has cleared, but for a few unsavoury looking thugs with weapons ready. My heart jolts into action, twice as fast. They study me for a moment, then turn away dejected, as if upset that there would be no firefight.

The adrenaline, now depleting, is all that is keeping me standing, so I stumble to a nearby bench; one singular block of metal, forged into the ground. The sirens in the distance are louder than ever, but I know that no-one is coming. Enforcers don’t make arrests in these zones, not unless they have a very good reason. I can no longer hear the man in the alley, presumably he has passed out or crawled off to some shady doctor. Some time passes whilst I collect myself, and crowds of people make a hesitant return. I take a deep breath and step into the growing wave, barged by a shoulder as I do so. “Sorry” I say instinctually, unsure of who is at fault, but they have disappeared.

Finally I see it ‘Unison Dental Clinic’. I enter into a cramped, white room. One panel of the wall is playing videos which flick between various dental infographics and adverts. There is a check-in screen on the wall with a retinal scanner. Light beams into my eye as I lean in close and my profile appears, alongside a countdown. I still have twenty minutes. I let out a sigh of relief and some of the tension of the day is expelled.

A row of seats jut out on the right side, where several people sit with vacant expressions. One seat is occupied by a girl, perhaps in her early twenties, her face concealed by a thick sweep of hair. Her clothes are jet black, but her skin is alive with colour and geometry. Her tattoos morph from edgy and brutal to flowery and serene. My shoulder design, a small eye with graphic purple ripples, is unimpressive in comparison. I sit in the furthest seat and fiddle with my hands nervously, still not over the previous events. Then another wave of shock hits. “No… No!” I shout aloud. Most people ignore me. The girl glances up, assessing the situation, then her eyes jolt back down, as if fearful to invite confrontation. All bad luck seems to have converged upon one day. I barge out the door in a panic. ‘Where is it? Why did I take it with me?’… A voice speaks from the abyss, having read my thoughts “I’ve updated your map with possible locations based on your previous journey.”

“Why didn’t you tell me I dropped it? And please stop using her voice.”

A man’s voice responds with a different accent and intonation “I had a ten second shutdown at two fifty two. Maybe someone used a jamming device?” 

“Maybe, just. Please be quiet and let me look.”

I study the ground everywhere that I have been, looking for a glint of polished silver. The city seems to grow more claustrophobic, and I am ever more conscious of the darkness in deep corners, always battling back the lights and waiting for an opportunity to devour them. I retrace my footsteps multiple times until the despair overcomes me, leaving me unmoving. The crowd passes me like a shoal of fish weaving around a rock, but I pay them no mind. My wife’s ring is gone, the last part of her that is real, not a corporate bastardisation.

I arrive at my apartment, barely conscious that I have journeyed back and collapse onto my sofa. “Do you want to talk, James?” The voice has changed back to my wife’s.

“No. I just want to be left alone for a while. And I don't want you to use her voice again. Ever.”

“Are you sure? The deletion process cannot be undone. Speak confirm to delete.”

“Confirm.”

The relative silence feels eerie and heavy. For the first time since my wife’s funeral, I allow there to be no voice in my head, no friends for company, no drugs coursing through my system. Nothing to drown out the pain.

The Monoliths Book Cover (In progress)