Beneath the Gaze of Angels - Chapter01 (full version) - A Steemit Original Sci-Fi Serial

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The birds are not real and they are watching him. Perched on the balcony railing they turn their heads and stare despite the tinted glass. They are small but unhurried, lacking the skittishness of the songbirds they imitate. Their carnival colours are at odds with the grey London sky behind them.

He stares back, willing them to take flight. It is a battle of patience, of resolve; one he knows he cannot win. He hopes instead for a little luck. Why is it not rationed like everything else? Perhaps it is. Perhaps he has already used his share. No doubt it is in short supply.

He watches the birds ruffle and preen their feathers. Their movements are convincing even though he knows them to be unnecessary. They stretch their wings, testing the air currents in preparation for flight. Then they settle. They wait. They have nowhere more pressing to be. The frustration winds something inside him, twisting it more tightly. He fears that it may break.

He concedes and moves away, through the kitchen and the archway to the recessed room beyond. Tucked behind the alcove wall the glass-topped freezer hums, one cover panel slid permanently beneath the other. He checks the temperature display then runs his hands over the insulation lining of the inner compartment; a modification he has added himself. He feels for flaws that might let the cold in or the heat signature out.

The child in its depths smiles in her sleep and kicks her legs, trying to throw off the blankets. Her small fists beat at some imaginary foe. He smiles in response. You get that from your mother, he thinks. He wants to pick her up and hold her, to shield her from dangers illusory and real. He can do neither. Soon, perhaps. He holds the idea in check, wary of promises he cannot keep. Instead he takes a breath and counts his blessings. At least she is sleeping. When she cries the fear builds in the apartment like the pressure of a burgeoning storm, threatening to wash away their brittle existence. They need soundproofing. Baby clothes. Extra food. They need these things quickly and they need them quietly. The neighbours will not betray them but their luck will only hold for so long.

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The birds hop along the rusted metal, tracking his body heat as he crosses from the kitchen to the lounge. They follow when he moves and stop when he turns to look at them, as if trying to engage him in some cheerful children’s game. They tilt their heads on one side in unison and he thinks they look puzzled, almost mocking.

‘Do you think you can hide in there, Arnaud? With your tinted glass and your low-tech lifestyle? Do you think we cannot see what you are up to? You know us better than that.’

He ignores them: the birds; his thoughts. He turns his back to the window and focuses on simply being still. From stillness he progresses through the breathing exercises, seeking calm in the repetition. The process clears his mind until only the beat of his heart remains. He listens to it, works to quicken its rhythm then slows it again. Satisfied, he flows into the movements of the Tai-chi.

If he caught one of them, somewhere well away from the apartment, he could take it apart, strip the tech from it. The sensors and processors would fetch a good price at Fairground, no questions asked. Or he could barter them for extra insulation for the freezer and a little more peace of mind. There is a market for the feathers if you know the right people and he thinks he is starting to. The beak and claws could be sold as trophies to one of the more chaotic denominations, with a little more risk. All told, a useful haul. Only the musculature would go to waste. No-one works with the living fibres. No-one really knows how.

It is a fool’s errand and he knows it. If he were caught the fine would exceed the money he could hope to raise and the chances of being caught are as close to certain as makes no difference. The birds have a dozen ways to determine identity. Facial recognition. Voice pattern. Pheromones. Any scrap of skin or blood which they would happily liberate from him if unsighted and threatened. Heart rhythm and heat signature and a host of other secondary traits that combined could sift his identity from the general population. He would need to find a way around all of these. Even then, assuming he could mask himself from sight and sound, he would need to leave behind his filters to step off the grid completely. And if he walked that path, he would want more than a songbird to show for it.

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Maja is leaning on the door frame, arms folded, watching him. The box with this week’s provisions sits outside in the corridor. She lowers her head and scrapes at a scuff mark with the toe-end of one shoe. He is caught mid-movement, arms outstretched, lost in his imprudent schemes.

She draws up her shoulders and walks past him to the window. She is taller than he is by a good inch and well-muscled; a descendent of farming stock in generations long past. Her features are striking with a softness that can be found in her eyes, although not today. Even without it the combination works for him. Maybe that’s where he used all his luck. He probably still owes a debt.

He fetches the food from outside and closes the door. The box feels light but it is not the moment to ask. Maja has turned to watch him. She stands with her back pressed against the glass, arms returned to their folded position. The birds hop to either side, flanking her. They face him across the room; counsels for the prosecution.

‘Tai-chi, Arnaud. We talked about this. We agreed on this.’

‘It helps me relax. You should try it. You have a little tension,’ he gestures. ‘In your shoulders.’

‘Cute, Arnaud. Always cute. Never serious. You know the conversation. Or should I bring up Gaia and we can go through it again. You can point out the words you didn't understand.’

‘Conversations in an Amite residence are not recorded by Gaia. I believe that’s in paragraph thirty-seven of the Contracts.’

‘Forty-eight. And it’s clause. Clause forty-eight of the literal form of the Amite Contracts. You know, I have second year students who know the texts better.’

‘I grew up in a different denomination.’

‘I know, Arnaud. But we have been married for three years. Perhaps you could learn the laws you have chosen to live by?’

‘I chose you. Not your laws.’

‘We come as a package. You made the vows, to me and to the denomination. You remember your vows at least? Or do I have to remind you of those?’

He nods, acquiescent, seeking a turning from the rutted tracks of the argument. He finds none. Maja ploughs ahead without him. ‘And don’t change the subject. The exercises mean you’ve taken another job.’

‘We need the money.’

‘We agreed, Arnaud. There is a lottery. Every day. We still have time.’

They both know it isn’t true but he doesn’t press the point. They are spiralling, on opposite sides of the same whirlpool, slowly being dragged into its depths. He doesn’t mention that their baby is growing up in a freezer, that this is no kind of life for a child. He doesn’t point out the risks of the crying being overheard or of the insulation failing. He tries not to think about what will happen if they find her. Maja doesn’t need to hear these things. He doesn’t want to say them.

‘We need the money.’ He says it again, more slowly, without force. A stubborn statement of fact in place of an argument. She will debate him into a corner given the opportunity.

She crosses the room towards him. Pink flush marks touch her cheeks.

‘You think if you are caught then this will really help you?’ She waves her hand up and down him. At the exercises, he understands. ‘They can tell when you are lying, Arnaud. They can predict what you are going to do before you even walk out the door.’

‘It’s a simple job. Nothing illegal for our denomination. An arbitrage between the laws, that’s all.’ He looks past her at the birds as he says it but sees her reaction in the blur of his peripheral vision. It is a turning away. A shielding from what she feels to be coming.

‘You think you can fool them? You can’t even hide your lies from me.’

Their voices have have been hushed but a small hiccuping wail sounds from the recesses of the kitchen. They move in unison, almost colliding in the doorway. He hesitates, Maja does not. Yet the argument is put aside. He sees the anger drain from her as she reaches the freezer. A smile illuminates her face. He imagines the softness returning to her eyes as she reaches in to tend the child.

Their child, without name or token. Waiting to exist.

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This is the full first chapter of what I hope will be a science fiction novella. I have aggregated the previous chapter sections into one place for completeness and for those who may like the longer format. Let me know which you prefer! I plan to publish a chapter a week but as my process of writing and re-writing is slow, bordering on glacial, that's much more of a challenge than it sounds. We'll see.

The novella is set in London, in a world that is vaguely post-apocalyptic and fully post-decentralisation. A world in which a man may choose the laws he wishes to live by, with one exception. There are also angels, of a sort. But we'll come to all of that. Otherwise you won't need to read it, will you?

This is a new work, original and direct to Steemit.

Thanks for reading!

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