Junkyard Speedball - Chapter one

Junkyard Speedball - Chapter one

This is the first part of an updated version of the novella, Junkyard Speedball — a symbiot story, which was first written a couple of years ago and introduces a couple of characters that subsequently play major roles in Van Hallam’s Hellsborough Chronicles, as well as providing some insight into the region of The Dark Peak known as the netherlands.

Gutterball

The symbiot careened like an ash fly as Mold drained fifteen units of potcheen, flinging the empty bottle at the back of a junked gruizer.  He crushed a rollie between the fingers of his left hand and with his right, experience and brain patterns clicking in, plucked the incoming carbon ball from the air, letting its potential do the work, so that with a spin and flick of his gauntlet, the ball was jettisoned back in the direction that it came.  With a dull thump, the ball embedded itself into the door panel of another wrecked vehicle and sat there, resting, as if dazed, before slowly falling onto the floor and rolling back to the feet of the new arrival.  Rap Lomas toed the ball, his symbiot chirped.  The ball began to burrow into the asphalt as if trying to hide, it didn't much like this game, it didn't want another death on its conscience.

His symbiot understood Lomas, leaving his shoulder, it slammed into the earth and began to burrow, nipping the ball from the underside when it made contact.

Gruizer graveyard! Life's short, bodies wearout!  Slurred Mold, his glazed eye staring at Lomas, his other darting around frantically, looking out for the ball.  Lomas said nothing, just concentrated on his symbiot and, by association, the carbon ball, which was now receiving his attention.

Mold's malfunctioning mind saw decay.  Hulks of putrid scale, rotting in the humid murk.  Where the ball had impacted the gruizer was like a wound to Mold, the giant lizard, it's armour depleted and rotting, oozing from a scar; its eyes half open, half closed.  Its face showed no pain, no discomfort, just resignation, as if to say:  Whether it's a heart attack today or cancer tomorrow, or Alzheimer's the day after that, the nett result is the same -- so what's the point in worrying over it, over death.

I'm sane, thought Mold, it's just the booze; I can beat that damn ball and this pest man.  He stood straight now and waited for the ball to come in his direction as it inevitably would.  Still Lomas waited, his and his symbiot's psychic energy focused on the gutterball, which still cowered in the dusty dirt.

Salat!  Shouted Mold, his symbiot now hanging limply off his shoulder, Nice kebob!  No hastle!  Mold's vocal outburst was counter to his thinking, which although blurred by the potcheen, wasn't thinking what his mouth was issuing, he had no control over the content.  What's happening to me, thought Mold, I need to regain control, that gutterball is going to be heading in my direction any moment, and I'm shouting out my, or someone's, lunch.  I'm not going to be his lunch, or anyone else's.

Demon' driiippiinnggg! jellied eeelss! Lovely cockles, muscles, wiiiinklessss!

Mold clamped his mouth shut, unable to understand his outburst, his eyes flashing with incomprehension, the rational side of his mind trying to fight off the fear.  The ball was at Lomas's eye level now, dragged psychically from the dirt and spinning against its will.  Both Lomas and symbiot concentrated their thoughts on the spinning gutterball and then with a synchronised blinking of the eyes, flung the ball towards Mold.

Here it comes thought Mold.  He concentrated on its swift progress, its speed increasing all the time as it flew over the wreckage of old gruizers.  No point trying to dodge it, reasoned Mold, too much thought control over it, must catch it and return it, like a hot coal jumping from a fire.  Mold kept eye contact with the ball, then as it approached, wheeled sideways bringing his glove into contact to bat the gutterball; but it wasn't there.  Lomas had stopped it microns from Mold's swing, and now dropped the gutterball heavily onto Mold's symbiot, which throughout the manoeuvre had lay motionless on his shoulder.

Mold screamed with pain as the symbiot was crushed under the falling weight of the ball and then all three:  Mold, symbiot and gutterball fell to the ground, none of them moving.  The first to stir as Lomas approached was the gutterball, which rolled, sliding out of harms way under a wreck; Lomas let it go, it had done its job for today and there were many more of them spread through this chequered landscape.  Mold was unconscious, but breathing, the shock of loosing a symbiot under duress was a strong one, a major wrench to the nervous system, but he would survive and maybe, depending upon the next few minutes, get a new attachment.  Mold's symbiot itself had already started to decompose, its thin structure readily absorbed into the asphalt.  It had been the truly sick one, Lomas knew.  As for the true mental state of Mold, and his make-up - biologically human or synthetic, that's what kept him alive - for the moment.

Although biological human and synthetic jellyheads were outwardly identical, the test, ironically, was simple, although only when the subject was unconscious -- or at least, receptive -- and to a pest controller, equipped with the necessary tools.  Mental state was another matter; but with Mold's recent outbursts, Lomas was pretty confident that insanity was his also, and not just the symbiots.  But it was still a risk, a concern for Lomas; even if Mold should prove to be a synth, if he wasn't mentally ill, if he was sane, he shouldn't be condemned, there was no way of telling -- just gut instinct.

The test, simple that it was, proved negative.  Mold was not biologically human.  He was a synth, an artificial jellyhead.  He was insane, Lomas had seen it with his own eyes and heard it with his own ears.  Lomas had no choice, as a pest controller he was compelled to do his duty and condemn the prostrate Mold.  Mad jellyheads could not be allowed to run amok.  Had the test proved positive, he would have been cared for in one of the netherlander facilities; but he was not human, he was not a biological man, but syntheic.  Lomas had no option but to condemn and retire.  To ensure that Mold never awoke again.

After the injection, Mold's body softened.  Lomas took the uke from his back and strummed a melancholy tune, his symbiot hummed in time.

If you know anyone else that you think might find this interesting, then please forward this email to them :)

I have launched a new series of diary entries that I call “Pip Rippon — Stranger in a Strange Land”, in which I describe my struggle to survive as an immigrant in Hellsborough and The Dark Peak, and how I make ¢hits, and how you can use my knowledge to make money in the off-world. I think you’ll enjoy it, check it out here: Stranger in a Strange Land.

In other news, Hellsborough Chronicles book one “Dark Peak” is now available on Kindle and paperback.

If you can leave a review of Dark Peak on Amazon, I'd be more than grateful.

Hellsborough Chronicles book two “Darker Peak” is now being worked on — look out for early releases.

Cheers, until next time,

Pip :)