Hurricane from Farhost

Prologue

The district was a fuzzy neon splash of flaming reds and pulsing blues as a heavy fog billowed down from the sky and draped itself over the skyscrapers like multiple strips of muslin. Metallic structures jutted up from Rahv's crust in stepped geometric patterns. The tallest building broke the repeating pattern under the leaden sky. Two neon blue skyscrapers twisted around each other like DNA strands high above the neighboring buildings until they flattened and connected at the top. The pulsing chrome towers were outlined with the brightest glow of the city, meant to be seen from miles away like a lighthouse is seen from a boat through the tips of crashing waves. The center of Palm City was brilliantly high-tech. The buildings surrounding it were crumbling and dingy in every district, revealing the throbbing scars of previous wars that never healed.

Bordered by snowcapped mountains on the east, I could sense a storm approaching. I could feel the damp chill on my shoulders through the cracked leather of my coat. I stood on the metal balcony for so long that I worried the rubber sole of my boots had adhered to the grate. The balcony met a cracked glass sliding door whose shards were held in place so delicately that the spider web pattern looked frozen. I side-stepped from the balcony into the bedroom to find Ivan collecting his belongings and pushing them deep into a green canvas shoulder bag. He snatched a glass bottle of glistening water from the brown stained mattress and placed it gently in his bag. The mattress was so dirty it looked as if it was a massive coffee coaster.

In the cold zephyr, Ivan was a warm sun. His tan skin formed no goosebumps even as the frigid air rolled through and quietly curled around every surface. As he collected bottles and cans of food, I watched his toned shoulders move like the muscles of a strong panther poised to attack. The tips of his blonde hair swayed in front of his chrome eyes which perfectly reflected the hue of the industrial buildings, as if he had lived too long and seen too many. I watched him and began to forget about the recidivist in both of us.

His lithe body stretched over the canvas bag to retrieve his Kei-sik that had slipped from the belt that held pants onto his wiry frame. The gunmetal barrel of the Kei-sik caught the evening sun through the fog and flashed a sudden blinding arrow of light through my retinas. The scrunch of my leather coat caught his attention as I lifted my arm to shield my eyes.

His head tilted back to look up at me. "We need to go."

"I haven't had my cigarette yet."

"Seriously, Veysa?"

I pulled my wavy brown hair into a pony tail and slid a light blue rubbery ring from my wrist. I remember climbing the four flights of stairs to this abandoned apartment weeks ago with Ivan. The stairwell was littered with paper trash, blood and feces. I couldn't tell the original color of the steps through the dirt, debris and mold. A bent needle found its way into the heel of Ivan's left boot and I remember him cursing. He shook his leg to the side to knock his boot against the wall and the needle popped loose and disappeared between crumpled newspapers. Through the tan and brown hues of trash I saw a single blue nitrile glove on a distant step. Upon approaching, I saw that it was used and inside out but still, somehow, mostly clean. At the wrist of the glove was a thicker band of rubber that I tore easily from its body. It was a perfect loop.

I twisted it around my hair until it was snug. I could feel a few strands being tugged sharply from my scalp, but that's how I knew it was secure and wouldn't slide off my greasy hair.

Ivan clicked the safety off his gun, the sound pulling me back from my memory. The Kei-sik is a modified Beretta, a classic that has been around for centuries. It's Ivan's favorite semi-automatic. I remember last night when he loaded the magazine shell by shell. I assume he knows a lot about guns from his time living on planet Kulmar; a past I never felt appropriate to bring up. He thinks he's a much better shot than me because he thinks any guy can shoot better than a girl. When I get the chance, I'll prove him wrong. The bullets glowed purple in the darkness of the room. They were filled with viscous purple fluid for a specific purpose. Ivan pushed the loaded magazine into the gun. Click.