The Making of Heroes

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

When planets align, some are good, some are bad. Mixed blessings.

The V-City streets coil like stacked metallic boa constrictors around the central structure. Mile after curving mile, one on top of each other, linked by stairways at regular, defined intervals. And this is where, like rats, the street dwellers live during the day, retreating inwards at night. And - like rats - they have punished and pummelled the V-Cities, with fresh holes and tunnels appearing as if the massive structures were no more than a giant cheese.

But try as they will, the street dwellers are in decline. If there were a census - not that there has been a census for many, many decades - it would show a steady reduction in babies born and a steady increase in early deaths. Even to those existing in the streets, this history is evident: big communities have shrunk and small ones fail; the distances between them lengthen; the packs of feral dogs become more hungry and traverse further in search of food; the Space Army still entices the young and fit to join them; the jungle offers a place of short freedoms and the E-Spiders - Spides - are rumoured to take a nightly toll of the unwary. And they do not - cannot - dare not - approach the Upsiders in the top fifty floors.

Spiker Gomez was not aware the planets in his particular solar system were moving implacably into conjunction. He was padding along at the steady trot that eats up the miles. Ahead, the street curved gently, restricting vision to about a hundred yards. To one side a corpse had been placed for disposal, the arms crossed on the chest, the legs straight. Overnight the dogs would tear and chew and carry away; in under a week there would be just a stain on the rusting metallic plates; within a month all evidence would have evaporated like smoke. One more street life lived and forgotten.

Soon, Spiker would be home, locking and barring the door behind him. Hera would be on the bike, furiously accumulating the charge so they could cook whatever it was he had. This day he had done well: a pair of rabbits had run into his snares and he’d found them before the dogs. Now they bounced in the plastic bag in the sack on his back. Hera might even smile when she saw them. But probably not.

The planets clicked into place.

In front of Spiker appeared a man. A street tough. The tattooed chameleon - neatly done in blue and gold - on his forehead marked him as a Clansman. Well muscled and hard he wore a leather jerkin with chainmail links. Spiker slowed. In his hand appeared the spike that gave him his name. On seeing him, the Clansman braced and drew his sword.

It is said the street dwellers that survive gain an extra sense. Or perhaps they survive because they have this extra sense.

Spiker swung round, fast. Behind him, as quiet as a grave, and too far away for any sudden assault, another street tough. Another Clansman. Large and as hard as granite, with restless, shifting eyes.

Spiker backed over to the wall. The inner wall. He needed a rat hole. But they had chosen well. There were no holes. No hidden exits.

The one from behind - obviously the one in charge - put up his hand. “Yo Spiker.”

The traditional street greeting. It meant ‘I am not a threat.’

But then they would say that, wouldn’t they?

Cautiously, eyes darting from one to the other, Spiker put up his hand. “Yo.” The smaller of the two, to his right, had three missing chainmail links, high, near the right shoulder. A vulnerable spot but not immediately fatal. Pity. Spiker waited.

Eventually the leader spoke again. “Kzar wants to see you.”

Spiker nearly said ‘Kzar? But he never sees anyone.’ but he didn’t. Instead he folded his arms. “What does he want?”

“I said, to see you. He has a proposition.” He extended his arm, palm down, wrist exposed. “He told me jolt you this.”

Spiker felt his own arm tingle. A jolt of fifty creds. That would be useful. Might even gain them a mating pair of rabbits. But then where would they get the fodder? But fifty creds was fifty creds, and Spiker found himself relaxing. “OK,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

And the reply was - as Spiker knew it would be - “Not tomorrow. Now. Guest rights.”

Spiker considered. Guest rights. A courtesy with no real meaning unless offered by the right person, in person. And Kzar - the right person - was not here. But the proposition was probably real, else why the fifty creds? And if it wasn’t, Kzar would have sent more men and they would have already attacked.

And Spiker was curious: the reclusive street boss - who had been in power for longer than anyone could remember - very very seldom granted an audience.

Spiker shrugged and went with them. Guest rights should give him a safe haven through the night. If not, well … he’d probably become just another body to be disposed of.

****

Catman, holding a towel ready, his eyes alert, watched as Kzar shaved. Once, many months ago, Catman had said “If I was a man wanting a shave, and there was an expert at shaving to hand, I’d let him shave me. Sir.”

To which Kzar had grinned and replied “No. I wouldn’t feel safe, someone with a razor near my throat. Not even you, Catman.”

“If the expert was to nick you sir, you could cut off one of his fingers.”

Kzar had paused. “Which one?”

“Any finger you like, sir.”

“Tempting. But no.” And he had resumed, cutting through the lather with steady, controlled swipes of the blade.

Some weeks later, Tavia had tried. “Uncle, I’ve got you a present.” She laid the box on his desk. His gaze was steady, somewhat blank. She gave the box a little nudge. “A present.”

Catman - ever present - leant over. “I’ll open it for you, shall I sir?”

Tavia tried to keep her voice light. “It’s rare. An artifact from way past.”

“I wonder what it could be,” said Catman, who knew what it was and had indeed bought it from the scavenger in the first place. “Wow! Look at that sir.”

Kzar was now squinting at the wall, at the traces of rust. “Extraordinary! The patterns resemble the battle of Pharsalus!”

Catman and Tavia had exchanged glances. Catman had turned back to Kzar. “If I were a man presented with a new razor, I’d use it. Fewer nicks!”

Kzar looked down. “You must both think I’m getting past it. A safety razor! When did any street boss ever use a safety razor?”

Catman had sighed and put the box to one side. “Yes sir.” Five more seconds of blankness, of absence, and he would have been able to say “I’ll just swap your old for this one, eh sir?” And, taking another second’s pause as acquiescence, hurried away to do the deed.

But the swap hadn’t been sanctioned and therefore hadn’t been actioned, and now Catman, poised with towel, nervously watched the naked blade hacking through the stubble.

Kzar liked shaving and admired the way the razor, wielded so deftly, so briskly, cleared the white foam from his cheeks. He shaved every day, sometimes twice if the stubble irritated.

He wiped the residual foam away, leant closer to the V-Mirror and said “Enlarge two.” His image swelled to twice size, showing every blemish. For a man in his sixties, his face wasn’t too badly lined. Some creases, a spider’s web at the corners of the eyes and his neck had definitely aged but - for a man in his sixties - he looked OK. Kzar took a step back and said “full length.” The V-Mirror flexed and showed the street boss from top to toe.

Kzar smiled. Every inch the man in charge.

Catman was hovering, a towel held ready. The man was a total fusspot. Kzar ignored him and turned to the V-Screen. On it was the image of Spiker Gomez, flanked by the powerful forms of Figgus and Grundy.

Spiker Gomez. Kzar felt an unexpected rush of anticipation. He knew of Spiker, of course, but they’d never met. Spiker was of shadows and rumour, inhabiting the uneasy hinterland between the legal and the illegal. Mind you - Kzar thought wryly - everyone is illegal, but some are more illegal than others.

It had taken two days to find where Spiker lived and another day - and fifty creds - to bring him in. And now there he was, waiting to be seen. And had been kept waiting for ten minutes. Powerful men kept lesser men on hold. Kzar decided another ten minutes would be about right. Even an alpha street dog like Spiker would be getting twitchy in another ten minutes, for in twenty, dusk would settle like a shroud and no-one, not even the toughest street fighter, wished to be out after sunset.

“If I might, sir?” Catman again, with that blasted towel. “On your forehead, sir.”

A blob of foam. How had he missed it? He waited while Catman wiped away. “And on your ear, sir.”

“Thank you Catman.”

Kzar pulled on a shirt, with Catman thoughtfully tugging down the back. “Tavia is waiting.”

Tavia. Well, she could be put on hold as well. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of movement, a sudden violence. Kzar swirled round, paying events his full attention. Grundy was slumped against the wall, his face bruised and blood seeping through fingers nursing his right shoulder. Figgus was standing very very still, the spike at his throat.

Spiker’s voice filtered calmly from the V-Screen. “How many men d’you want to lose tonight, Kzar?” A pause, then: “You have two minutes to tell me what you want. Or I’m out of here and you’ve two injured men to take care of. Or I might decide to make them dead.”

Briefly, only briefly, Kzar thought to ignore him. Two men? He could lose two men and hardly blink, but … “Spiker Gomez. I gave you guest rights.”

“You didn’t. He did.”

“Quibbles, Spiker, quibbles.”

“One minute Kzar. One minute left.”

Kzar sighed. “You have guest rights. I’m planning a raid. I need you for it.”

The spike was not lowered. “Tell me to my face. Thirty seconds left.”

Kzar’s voice turned weary, as if dealing with roughs like Spiker and his unreasonable demands was no more than a cross to be born. “Oh, alright Spiker, OK.” He said “I’ll be there.”