Junkyard Speedball - Chapter two

Junkyard Speedball - Chapter two

This is the second 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.

Kibble

The gutterball sensed Lomas leave, and felt the vibrations of the strummed uke fade into the distance, the sound rebounding off the rotting gruizer carcasses. Only then did it roll over to the prostrate body of Mold, drawn by a faint pulse, and examine the scene. Mold's symbiot had now degraded completely, without psychic energy to keep it buoyant, but from Mold himself, the gutterball could sense a minute spark of life. The gutterball edged closer and nestled into the man's neck, feeding Mold with his own small lifeforce. In time, Mold's senses began to awaken and his alphawaves atuned to the gutterball until their thoughts intermingled. When Mold finally opened his eyes, the transformation from solitary gutterball to cojoined symbiot was complete.

Darkness had fallen onto the world of junk and filth. Mold raised himself onto his elbows as his eyes atuned themselves to the darkness and illuminated enough of his surroundings for him to see sufficiently. The gutterball perched upon his shoulder.

So you're my buddy now, Kibble, he said to the gutterball, what happened to Hassan?

Dead, answered Kibble, he wasn't well, Lomas killed him. Used me to kill him.

I don't remember, said Mold, I don't remember anything; nothing at all.

Telepathically, the gutterball told the story, making up for the holes in Mold's memory:

Hassan was ill, it sent you loopy. You drank to ease the pain, but that just made you worse. You talked rubbish. Anything that came into Hassan's head came out of your mouth. Then Lomas, the pest controller came and used me as a weapon. He controlled me, him and his symbiot, Jason; in the end, he dropped me on Hassan and killed him outright. You passed out of course. Then Lomas tested you out as a synth and retired you with an injection. Why are you alive?

Because i'm bio, not synth; I ain't no nascenti stooge. The injection was just pain relief for me, after Hassan.

But why did Lomas..

Think I was a synth? Because I've disguised my genome, enough at least to fool his field kit. I've been tracking him down for weeks. Finally made my way here, to junkyard central. Which way did he go?

East, a while back, you've been out for hours.

Lost him again then, slippery as a furslip. I need a gruizer. One that works, get myself above and scan him from there.

Can't you get backup?

No backup, I work alone, or you and me do anyway. No, what we need is a vehicle; seen anything viable? You've been around here a while, right?

Netherland junkyard, junkyard central, was a vast island of rotting bioengineered and geoformed material and bioplastics. Rising a thousand metres above the city of Hellsborough and spreading several kilometres from end to end, it had become the dumping ground for all manner and make of gruizer, sportster, helicop and jetplane. It also housed all manner of refugee and drop out in the crosslands, some solitary, some in small groups, all outcast and none the type who found solace in the city -- whether dissident politico, mentally incontinent or moron.

Disassociated symbiots and soliary lifeforms like gutterballs, ratterstars and pingots. Indiginous wildlife still existed in the junkyard: Scrufftail, rootwing, squarkwing and other rotties. Common were the hexapods: Crickerjack, ants, beetleforms and caterpeads, and the cold blooded lizards and tads. There were also the beasts, but their existence was more mythical than concrete. The staple diet up here was largely vegetarian, wild fruit, barley, some cultivated pots and cabbs. Hexapods too were important nourishment and maybe one of the indiginous junk dwellers or lizard if you could catch one, or just its tail if not; regenerating trolls of the junkyard.

There is one gruizer, said Kibble, down near the Neepsend side, tucked around the back of an old pub.

Heart intact?

The body is well battered, but I think maybe the internals are good; came in a month or more ago, I was out that way then.

How long to get there?

An hour, maybe less.

The gruizer was where Kibble had promised, illuminated slightly by the pale murkmoon and covered in bankweed, its body shell dry as a wheat husk. Nobody bothered to steal them or mend them, they were junk, and in any case, vehicle skills were few and far between out in the netherlands. A gruizer, once dumped might be raped of anything edible (anything of value would have already been stripped, unless the hull was diseased in some way), but otherwise, it would be left to its own decay. Netherland junkyard was, what it was, an ecosystem for the mentally unwell, but then the whole world had broken backs and brains a long time ago.

Mold fought his way into the driving seat and pressed his palm against what was left of the console. Nothing, not even a cough of life.

Maybe it needs juice, suggested Kibble, but he knew he was just trying to make Mold feel better, there was little that could be done for this gruizer now, it had been dead for months at least, had probably been laid to rest long before its arrival at the junkyard. Any medicines on you?

Nothing is going to revive this beast, medicine or no, said Mold, I mean look at it, its been out of service for a long time. He pulled at the steering stem and it disintegrated between his fingers, turning to dust, nothing but brittle bone.

A distant sound alerted Mold. Kibble heard it too, through Mold's ears, not possessing any of his own. A huge governor ship was passing at low altitude, several units to the North. They heard its propulsion drive come to a halt and then a loud crunching as it dropped its load, most likely a fresh consignment of dead gruizers and crumpled sportsters, before it growled off into the distance. They didn't even discuss it, just headed off on the direction that the noise had come from.

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 :)