Junkyard Speedball - Chapter three

Junkyard Speedball - Chapter three

This is the third 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.

Mystic

They could smell the dump site by Norwood as they approached, even at almost two units away, the putrid smell got up Mold's nostrils. He closed them to keep out the stench. But as they approached, they also knew that they weren't alone. Others too were descending upon the dump site, the tingle of psychic energy hung heavy in the air, emanations of madness.

Will Lomas be here too? Mold wondered aloud.

Unlikely, but keep your thoughts down, said Kibble back into his mind, we don't want to draw attention to us.

Ahead, they saw a solitary figure cross Moonshine lane. Mold ducked into the shadowy ruins of an old chapel and watched as the figure, slender with a definite feminine shape, walked quickly alongside a sike in the direction of the dump site, every so often stopping to sniff at the air. Mold listened with his ears and mind, but could pick up nothing at all, the figure was clearly adept at hiding her thoughts, either that, or her mental capability was so light that it simply didn't transmit the few units distance, but Mold figured the former. Ahead of the figure, another darted across its path, this one larger, a male. The female squatted as the man continued at a faster pace, quickly disappearing into the darkness and tree life. Mold followed the woman at a distance, she was clearly heading to the same location as he, yet he became aware as he followed, skulking in the shadows, of a faint aura emanating from her brain. She had not picked up his presence, he was sure, but her mind read -- not fear -- but caution, mixed with a certain headiness, one that reminded him of forays into drug use as a youth.

As they closed in on the freshly junked gruizer horde, the woman stopped and began to inspect the first vehicle that she came to -- the shape of a sportster was shown by a faint glow. Mold continued his slow approach, but as he neared, she must have become aware of his approach and disappeared from view, the illumination that Mold had previously witnessed extinguished.

Incoming! Was all Mold heard in his mind before Kibble clashed with a symbiot roughly the same size as himself. The woman's symbiot rebounded heavily against Kibble and slammed into a sportster, dazed, giving Mold the time and opportunity to orientate himself and scramble for cover under the sportster's rear end. Kibble returned as the woman's symbiot did likewise.

Who?! Came Mold's mental message. He picked up Kibble's thoughts, but nothing else. Who are you? he tried again and listened to telepathic radio silence.

Grinja boom, ganja froom, halle, halle, mixa moon, came a low audible gutteral chant, Grinja boom, ganja froom, halle, halle, mixa moon.

It was no language Mold had ever heard before, maybe she's a witch, Mold thought.

No witch, said Kibble, Wood mystic.

How do you know? Said Mold, she had no readability before.

She has none now, but I've heard chants like that before, answered Kibble, they're insane, the most dangerous fighters of the junkyard. Keep themselves to themselves usually, inbreed, maybe this one is an outcast.

Grinja boom, ganja froom, halle, halle, mixa moon, came the chant again.

Know any of the language?

No, none at all.

She continued her chant in the ancient netherlander language known only to the Wood. Wood are the strangest of breeds; their insular nature and inbreeding turning them into a caste which could communicate with each other but not the outside -- or at least the mystical ones. Neither bio nor synth was able to read their alpha waves and so they were largely misunderstood and treated with general contempt, hence their refined fighting abilities. Their symbiots too were incompatible with those of normal bios and synths, possessing the same language and abilities of their hosts.

So we have an impasse, concluded Mold. If we move, she'll no doubt attack us, we might win, we might not, but it's going to expend alot of energy regardless; she's probably thinking the same about us; but meanwhile, we can't communicate. But likewise, if we stay here, we're sitting ducks, because sooner or later, another vagrant is going to come along.

Or, we could get the hell out of here.

And give up the chance of getting a gruizer.

We could return later.

We could do that, but our best chance is now, while the gruizers are still fresh.

Offer her a gift, show her that we're not hostile? Suggested Kibble.

OK, a plan. What did you have in mind?

How about food? Have you got anything on you?

Mold twisted to search through his overcoat pockets, nothing of value was turned out.

Kibble and Mold together heard the telepathic patterns of a group of three approaching. Almost as quickly, they came into earshot, talking quietly, but openly.

They'll be armed, said Kibble, they wouldn't be so upfront otherwise.

Just lie quiet, replied Mold, It's dark, they'll right walk past us.

But as the trio turned the corner, Mold could see that they carried torches, illuminating their surroundings brightly. Gripped by panic, Mold's brain searched for options. He was prone, lying in an exposed and unprotected position and now unable to move or he'd be spotted instantly, he was unarmed (with the exception of Kibble) and outnumbered, and to make matters worse had a been put into this position by an insane and incomprehensible rune-chanting mystic.

He noted that her chanting had now stopped and mentally noted his gratitude, but in his panic induced delirium, he failed also to hear the beat of feathered wings or the vicious talons that scraped and scratched at his face. Moments later, the Wood manoeuvred from her side of the sportster and wrapped his skull with the blunt end of a long bone.

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 :)