Astra: Synchronicity

by

Lisa Eskra

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

Astra: Synchronicity

Copyright © 2010 Lisa Eskra

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is
entirely coincidental.

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For Michael

Without his ever-loving persistence, this
story never would have been written.

"The future enters into us, in order to
transform itself in us, long before it happens." –Rainer Maria
Rilke

A strident crash startled her awake, and when
she slammed into icy tile, she realized she wasn't dreaming.

Before she could scream, her head struck the
floor with a thump, violently jarring her eyes open and forcing her
into a world she was not yet ready to handle. Under her naked body,
a steel table stuck out at an oblique angle, its warped hinges
having buckled from the strain of her weight. She searched her
memory for any recollection of the recent past but came up blank,
and a renewed sense of panic trapped the breath in her lungs.

Her heartbeat surged as she pulled herself to
her feet. No windows broke the monotony of the featureless walls
around her. The sweet scent of ether permeated the air, and the
flicker of jade monitors imparted an eerie sense of familiarity.
Yet she remembered nothing of this place.

A single lab coat hung on an array of hooks
mounted near the door. She slipped it on and browsed an assortment
of electronic tools arranged by size on a workbench. Looking for
some clue regarding her whereabouts, she picked one up—a sapphire
blade with hooked flange. A connectorization cleaver. She wouldn't
be repairing fiber optics anytime soon but stashed it in her pocket
anyway.

Amidst the high-pitched whine of the archaic
instrumentation, she noticed her reflection on a glossy monitor
next to her. Her light hair had an asymmetric cut: a blunt bob that
ended at her ear on the left and brushed her shoulder on the right.
The angle she stood at made her look sickly thin. And it struck her
that she'd just set eyes upon a stranger.

Before she had a chance to access a nearby
workstation for answers, thunder shook the small room. She spun her
head towards the door while the floor quaked from another. Louder.
Closer. Jars on the counter rattled from the booms. A monitor
winked out. The blast pattern sounded too regular to be natural. If
this was an attack, she needed to escape.

She cracked the door open and peered out.
Only the faint outline of darkened doorways greeted her. As she
struggled toward an exit somewhere on the north wall, tremors
continued to rock the building. She passed by several rooms filled
with equipment but saw no one else around.

When she reached the exterior door, an
explosion sounded outside. She dove for cover just before the glass
from a window behind her shattered. The debris cut her back, but
she had no time to cower in fear. With a deep breath to fight off
the lingering pain, she opened the door wide enough to slip outside
and sprinted away.

A flood of daylight blinded her until her
eyes adjusted. Shafts of crimson sunlight inundated the black
leaves of the jungle, which fought to absorb every ray that
trickled through the canopy. Although the sun consumed most of the
southern sky, few ribbons of light pierced the verdancy, imparting
airs of a nocturnal forest at sunset.

As she fled the scene, she heard muffled
voices in the distance. They seemed to be looking for someone. In
her hasty flight, she stumbled over sharp branches and jagged rocks
hidden under decaying leaves and fungus. Vines lashed her arms and
face while she scrambled through the undergrowth, the cumulative
pain building with each step. Her feet ached and throbbed, but she
ground her teeth and pressed on toward civilization.

The halo of a nearby city beaconed from the
east. That would be her sanctuary. Kivara glowed in the distance
from its irradiated smog, and despite its unsavory atmosphere, she
didn't stop until she reached it. Her athletic body covered the
distance with the endurance of a cross-country runner. The trek
couldn't have been more than a few kilometers; the fear wore her
down more than the run.

Many regarded Kivara as hell lit by neon.
Formerly an old industrial city, Kivara had become the drug capital
of Astra. The air was so thick with pollutants on bad days toxins
choked out the sun. Street gangs had ruled the whole planet for the
last century, transforming a once benevolent colony into anarchy,
and drug trade fueled their ongoing wars. Signs everywhere
displayed an exotic tribal emblem—the symbol of the East Rim
Souljas, the dominant gang.

I've walked these streets before
, she
thought as she gazed at the geodesic domes littering the crumbling
metropolis. It was the capital of Pisa, second planet in orbit of
Shambhala. The only disputed system in Astra, a collection of
planetary systems inhabited by humanity. The known galaxy.

She hugged the shadows and tried to conceal
the brightness of her coat while she crept through the city. The
gangs patrolled the streets with ruthless pride. Whenever she heard
the distant rumble of bikes, she hid and let them pass. Sometimes
as many as a dozen blazed past, all carrying on in manic delight
like they were high. She was surprised the chemical fumes didn't
have the same effect on her.

When she reached an empty lot, she frowned.
Remnants of foundation grew out of broken concrete leaving four
acres of empty space without cover. She jogged across and got
halfway before a pair of bikes growled behind her. When she heard
them, she tried to take shelter behind a towering steel beam. Her
pulse almost drowned out their approach.

For a moment she thought she'd fooled them,
but their engines bellowed when they sped toward her in pursuit.
She bolted down the closest alleyway in sight and realized she'd
erred. It came to an abrupt end, blocked off on all three sides by
sheer walls. She searched for any avenue of escape—a door, a
ladder. Nothing.

The bikes circled around and obstructed her
route back before the men dismounted their dusty machines and
advanced toward her. If she tried to run, there was a good chance
she'd be gunned down. If she didn't, she'd be at their mercy. On a
world with no laws, death provided a merciful alternative to living
under gang rule.

One of them backed her into a corner, and she
knelt to keep as much distance between them as possible. His boot
buckles rattled as he walked. A swarm of dark dreadlocks hung
around his face. Grime and dried sweat covered his dark clothes.
The faint odor of rancid urine seared her nose. He rested his hands
on his hips and looked her over with care.

"Please don't hurt me." She raised her hands
in an act of innocence. "Please…"

"Well, well. Ain't you a beauty…" When he
spoke, his breath reeked of rotting garlic. He nodded to the man
behind him. "Look, Sinkiss—I think I'm in love."

His companion towered over his shoulder. A
fringe of ginger hair ringed half of his scalp and the rest was
bald. A pair of dark goggles rested on his crown. "You think she's
claimed? She branded anywhere?"

"Who cares? Nobody got to know." He unbuckled
his oversized belt and jingled it in her direction. "You want
seconds?"

The gangster said nothing and took several
steps back to leave his comrade in peace. He pulled a disruptor out
of his denim jacket as he kept watch. The gun sparkled in the urban
gloom when he held it close to his chest.

"It's alright, pretty baby. Be a good girl
and we're gone in a few minutes." He caressed her hair, and his
jeans bulged from his pangs of desire.

"Make it quick, Deadhead," Sinkiss said. "We
on Souljas ground. Dirty Max died out this way not but a week ago.
I don't wanna be next."

He unzipped his pants and eased toward her,
letting his guard down inch by inch.
That's right
, she
thought as she tightened her grip on the instrument in her pocket.
Closer. Show me how much you want it.
From his stench she
doubted he'd been this close to a woman in years. He stroked her
head out of hormonal affection as though he had genuine fondness
for her. Whether or not he was a bad person or a man trapped by
circumstance made no difference to her. He was an enemy.

In a decisive action she brought the blade
straight up between his legs and stabbed him as hard as she could
in his crotch. When he howled and doubled over, she ripped it out
and jammed it deep into his eye socket. His hands flew to his face
in horror, and she used the confusion of the moment to shove him
straight into Sinkiss. After climbing to her feet, she escaped down
the alley in a blur.

One shot rang out before she rounded the
corner and headed into the fog of the chemical plants. A
profanity-laced tirade followed her while she wove between narrow
walkways and vanished in the city, but the pair did not pursue her.
Similar threats would loom until she left Pisa, and she had no idea
how she'd make it to safety.

Her helplessness frustrated her as she darted
through the streets, no closer to recalling who she was than
knowing who Sinkiss and Deadhead were. After taking shelter beneath
the carcass of a burned-out hovercar, she clutched the tool in her
bloodied hand. Her only defense against the ruthless streets. Once
she was out of danger, she could mourn her lost memory, but for now
she maintained a vigilant watch—alone in a city where being raped
meant you got off easy.

***

"Breakfast is ready, sweetie."

Magnius Zoleki glanced up from his pristine
hoverbike toward his wife, who stood in the doorway with her arms
crossed and a potent sneer stretched over her lips. He looked down
to avoid her unnerving stare and wiped his brow with the back of
his hand. "Give me a minute."

Lyneea shook her head at him the same way she
did every morning before heading back inside the house. Just last
week, she'd accused him of spending too much time on his pathetic
hobby. Since lusting after his hoverbike was his sole vice, he
figured she'd grow to accept it. But like most women, she never
did.

Without another thought, he returned his
attention to his work. Every morning he meticulously waxed the
piece of extraordinary machinery, more a work of art than a street
machine. Villegas Motors custom produced a handful of them each
year. Their serpent emblem adorned the electronic dash with its
bejeweled eyes. He lost himself in the black chrome of the 724
engine and cleaned the last traces of dirt from its grooves. The
paint boasted a glamorous name: ultraviolet tanzanite. The phrase
"Tour de force" was embossed in the metal, a name Carlos Villegas
had christened this masterpiece with. Hard to believe it was ten
years old.

Despite their inherent efficiency, they'd
never caught on because they were tricky to control. Magnetodyne
buffers had not been designed for use in quantities of two; stable
maneuvering required four or more. Biking accidents soared over the
years to become one of the leading causes of premature death. Most
people rolled their eyes when he pulled up next to them, but
everyone stared. It was one stigma he could live with.