Art Bébé says, 'Fade in:'
It is as if a link to another world. Spun from the brown of cross-laminated boards and the silver of Beck rope, the bridge spans the fifty-meters over the dark, wind-whipped chasm, and from there, the town’s decking born dwellings fan out ever upwards and below, the whole town illuminated by Beck Light, creating a patchwork effect, as if colored firebrands had been tossed about on a whim, lighting where they had fallen. A short series of step leads down from the elevator platform.
‘You’re going to need your hands from here on, girl.’
She spins around on her heels and stares up at the hulking intersex.
‘Let me introduce myself,’ the tenter continues over their external comms. ‘My name’s Bernice Kimura. This bunch of misfits,’ she nods indiscriminately either side of them, indicating the guard detail. ‘That’s the Special Operations Militia. I’m second in command under Mike So. We’ll be taking the swinging bridges from here, so I’m going to take back those cuffs. Just a warning. Try anything other than gripping the ropes and we’ll handcuff you again. That will make for tough going. You might easily slip.’
The militia member who’d handcuffed her earlier steps up, unlocking the handcuffs. It’s a surprise. She remembers Bernice from earlier. You might think you’re fooling everyone around here, but not me. Those cuffs .. I know they’re not actually doing anything, but better for you that you keep on pretending they’re doing something. I’ll be watching. Well, whatever that had meant, and how could she possible know, the cuffs removed, bringing her arms forward, she made a show of shaking her hands and rubbing her wrists, and waits
‘Ok, look, I’m sorry.’ The intersex steps closer. ‘These bridges can be a bit unsettling when you’re not used to them. Just yell out if you’re uncomfortable. We’ll take it slow if you want. You got a name?’
Only now she is completely taken aback. A sudden show of empathy from the intersex. She is being played with? Perhaps just to get her name? She can only believe this. Her confusion keeps her silent.
‘Alright, you’re the silent type. I know the kind. They’re the ones always so buried in their own misery that they can’t speak because of the tomb they’ve locked themselves in. Kind of poetic don’t you think?’ The intersex looks down, seeming to momentarily struggle, as if she just as well might have been referring to herself. ‘We’re not stupid you know,’ she snaps, suddenly looking back up. It’s Ansvar that ordered your arrest. I might have done different.’ She abruptly shrugs shoulders that would have looked more comfortable yoked to a sizable sized farm cart, and then presses herself even closer, raising her left arm and making an adjusted on her wristband, saying ‘That’s better. I’ve sent you my private channel. If that fancy headgear you’re sporting is what I think it is, then you’ll understand. Look down if I’m right. And keep it natural.
The voice comes through over her internal comms. She looks down as she had been told. The intersex goes on. ‘Thank you. Now, I don’t think I need to explain, this is just between you and me, don’t let on in any way, or I’ll be in trouble.’ The trans pauses to look about, then continues, adding, ‘A category four of five is building, but I have a feeling you know that and can handle yourself, and maybe better than we can. Let’s get a move on shall we, and just one more thing, no need to explain we’re being monitored. More later.’ The intersex abruptly faces towards the lead guards by the bridge steps, and signals with the wave of an arm. The guards begin down, and she faces back to her. ‘Alright, fall in.'
She gets in line and begins to step off, but her steps are halting. She is thinking deeply about the intersex. Bernice seemed a mess of contradicting behavior. She needed to know more about her, and this would take time. She had to be patient. For the moment, there was the journey ahead. She gets to the bridge steps.
Below lies the worst aspects of the canal level, the yellow swamp miasma rising in thickening, swirling clouds, kicked by the wind, partly enveloping the bridge. She checks back behind her to see Bernice at the extreme rear of her escort, her attention clearly focused ahead. Keeping watch. She faces back forward, and makes her slow way down the steps, pretending nervousness, concluding it better to keep up her act, as intersex had right believed she is doing, an innocent uptown girl, experiencing real slummin’ for the first time. On the bridge proper, she keeps it up, pulling herself along, gripping the ropes for all life is worth, and occasionally stumbling, almost falling. The sensation is like walking on carpeted water, but really not a problem for her, she could skip along if she wished. Soon enough, however, they are at the opposite steps, and she trudges up these as if completely exhausted.
The pattern is repeated. Bridge followed by boardwalk, followed by bridge, followed by boardwalk. Reading the topography, they have been slowly climbing, and it is becoming clear just how multi-leveled the town is, overlapping and intersecting at add odd angles and planes. And everywhere, despite the building storm, people are crossing the swinging bridges, or walkways, or occupying themselves outside their tent dwellings, tidying up, preparing for the worsening storm. The yellow miasma has now almost completed cleared, blown to invisible thinness. And now, they are on another swinging bridge, ahead of which lies a smoky, crowded area of decking, covered with colored sheeting. She focuses her eyes. A hawker center. It is so far the biggest concentration of tenters she has seen. Chinese lanterns hang everywhere, gray smoke from countless biogas and synthetic coal fires shifting between light, causing the lanterns to take on a baleful look, like the shifting faces of so many gibbous, orange moons. The center also appears to be a major thoroughfare, other bridges intersect the decking, secreting out into wind blown dark. They reach the bridge end and take the steps, her escort joining the throng.
She observes closely.
The food stalls overflow with a profusion of vegetables: wombok, gia lan, kanggong, various quas and choys, each from the world’s genetically modified seed banks, and all adapted for a wetter world. People cue before serving counters, sit at tables, barter excitedly, make hand signs, and talk at the top of their voices. She catches the sounds of Chinese, Korean, Indian, Japanese, the principals, and then the lesser languages from the drowned South Pacific. And every now again, there are snatches of tenter slang. She focuses on these, just to add to her dictionary. As they made their way, the mass of tenters part for her escort, and soon enough, it is possible to glimpse the exiting swinging bridge. But at this moment, there is a commotion to her right.
A figure, stooped over, and wearing a hooded cloak of coarse brown cloth, is forcing their way through the crowd in the direction of her guard. The militia kept on their course, and she struggles a little to keep the figure in sight within the dense crowd. When she catches her next glimpse, she immediately enhances her visual, and sets her physiological and anatomical scans. The figure very quickly identifies as an old woman in poor health. She checks back on the forward progress of her guard. They are only a short distance now from the exiting bridge. She quickly brings her attention to the old woman, to see now that she is attempting to hurry towards her guard, and then, the woman, edging around a stall, knocking it, and rocking it upon its thin, faux-wood legs, suddenly she screams out, ‘No… please, no,’ the voice thin and plaintive, and then she is down, bumped by the crowd behind. A cascade of bodies follows her down, and she is buried
‘Never mind. Leave her to her people. She’ll be alright.’
Bernice has come to step up beside her, speaking over her external comms. This is a shock, but at this point, the head of her guard detail is already descending the short run of steps leading to the exiting bridge. She has no recourse but to follow. She can analyze the recorded footage of the old woman later to perhaps better understand. She checks back once more, only to find that she and her escort are now out of the direct line of sight of where the woman has fallen. They reach the exiting bridge, and at that point, the sky ahead lights with a huge spear of lightning. There is the crack of thunder, and the rain proper begins.
Art Bébé™ ©
No comments:
Post a Comment