AlexMcGilvery Array - Nano Bytes

See dedication for my by Josh

I kept the face shield down low over my eyes. The heat grew intense. Suffocating. I wore nothing more than the threadbare uniform I’d been given three years ago. Sweat poured down my back. I kept my gaze focused on the work in front of me. Inch by inch. Moment by moment.

The torch cut easily through the metal plate. Just like Gray Man promised it would. For once he’d told the truth. It had been worth the trade. So I’d given up my one ratty blanket. Who cared? I wouldn’t need that blanket anymore.

The torch, crafted from bits and pieces gathered over months, belched out an inconsistent sputter of bright green plasma. The metal melted away. Harsh white light on the other side of the wall shone through the narrow slit I’d created with my newly acquired tool.

Freedom. Freedom. Freedom.

The chant filled my head. My whole body tensed at the possibility. I’d forgotten what it was like. All I knew was orchestrated movements, timed meals, lashes with the electrified whip. I couldn’t do it any more. I couldn’t stand one more day in here.

The muscles in my arms ached. The weight of the torch was more than my weakened body could hold. But the cut was almost complete. If I didn’t keep working, someone would find me in this access compartment soon enough. I’d be accused of sabotage. Or espionage. Or some other trumped up charge they liked to use to keep us in here. For the good of humanity. Always for the good of humanity.

Fuck humanity.

We lived like caged animals in the Quad. Our crimes were small, but our punishments were harsh. We were at the bottom of a very long food chain - first the Residents, then the Guard, then the Workers, and finally the Quad Dwellers. The lowest of the low. The worst of the worst. Only kept alive because of the rules.

Heavy steps echoed in the hall just beyond the compartment door. Someone had ratted me out. Probably Gray Man. He’d appeared sad when he handed me his precious torch. Guess the blanket wasn’t enough of a trade.

My hands trembled. The plasma arc sputtered and dipped. I cut erratically through the metal plating, anticipating my capture at any moment.

Almost there!

A half–inch of cutting remained. The door behind me rattled.

«Quad Dweller Ketchum, your punishment will be increased if you don’t come out of that compartment.» The guard’s voice echoed ominously behind the door.

My stomach lurched. Sweat dripped in my eyes. The torch sliced through the wall one final time, and the ragged piece of cut metal clattered into the corridor. I sucked in the fresh air. The sharp lights blinded me even through the face shield. I scrambled for freedom. My knees scraped the sharp edge of the hole I’d created. Blood oozed.

I lurched forward. A child screamed. A small group of Residents dressed in their pristine, white garb surrounded me. For a moment, they stared. I knew they were in disbelief. Once someone had been sentenced to the Quad, they were never seen again. They were forgotten by the rest.

The door to the compartment clanged open. The guard was mere steps behind me. I bolted through the crowd and headed for a familiar place. A place where I’d always been welcomed with open arms before my sentence to the Quad.

Residents on all sides pressed themselves against the corridor walls to avoid contamination. My clothes were filthy. My nails ragged and dirty. Blood dribbled from the cuts in my knees.

Fear bloomed in the faces I passed.

I ran further. My legs stretched out, my heart pumped, clean air filled my lungs. I’d never felt so alive. Never felt so free. My feet were as light as comet dust. Everything cleared from my mind. The only thing I knew was the rhythm of my steps and the soaring of my soul.

K. J Gillenwater is a writer of paranormal and sci–fi for adults and YA audiences. To date, she has 3 published books: The Ninth Curse, The Little Black Box and Blood Moon.

This short story was a finalist in one of our contests here on the Science Fiction profile and you can find more of her work here.

The clacking soles of patent leather shoes echoed down the cobbled lane. Grey stone shops and fliers for obscure bands passed by in a blur as he scrambled through the tangled nest of bicycles and made the turn to the final hill.

The pink haired girl hadn't lost a step. She was still right on his heels. For a moment, he was sure he'd lost her at the bakery. Now she was breathing down his neck, her sneakers eerily quiet as she pursued him. His chest tightened, ribs pulled tight as he gulped frozen air into burning lungs. The morning air was so cold the sweat gushing out of his temples turned to rime on his forehead. In the final seconds, his legs threatened to give out, but he wouldn't let them fail him. From here on, it was all about mental strength.

The crowd thickened in front of the station, a knotty mass of bodies that hooked his satchel and cut in front of him without warning, the mindless swarm oblivious to his urgency. Under the navy suit and the starched shirt, he felt a river of sweat build momentum as it ran down his spine. The joints of his knees stung from the shock of the concrete. He elbowed forward between two anoraks, glancing over his shoulder.

No sign of her.

One of the anoraks yelled angrily. Performing a half turn in the air, he shouted an apology, though he didn't stop, volplaning down a flight of stairs and through the ticket gates. Heaving for air, he glanced around him. He was safely on the platform. Still no sign of the girl. Not that it mattered anymore. The train would arrive in - he checked the display - six minutes. He could have easily walked the last street and still have squeezed through the door before the whistle shrilled.

From his bag, he took out a handkerchief and mopped the sweat from his forehead. In the warmth of the bodies pressed around him, he felt the slippery film of sweat between his body and his clothes. Audibly, his pulse pounded in his ears, the only other sound the tinny echo of some teenager's earphones. The world was tinged green by the adrenalin rushing to his brain, the colour casting a sickly pall over the passengers.

Still got it. James Richards smiled as he pulled out the Sudoku puzzle from his satchel.

Of course, the whole thing was ridiculous; stupid male pride. She had started running first. That was when he realised he must be late. The two of them caught the same train every morning, not that they'd ever spoken. There were a lot of girls in their twenties, all with the same plastic pass–cards around their necks or dangling from bags. He'd long ago theorized there must be a call–centre at the end of the road. As soon as she broke into a jog, he'd felt like he'd better run, too. He'd taken off at a sprint, passing her in the first fifty meters, only to realise the terrible problem he now faced. If he stopped, she'd think he was out of shape, that he'd been showing off when he overtook her. He'd started a weird competition. The further he ran, and the more persistently she kept pace behind him, the more certain he became she knew what he was thinking.

He let out a short chuckle at his own stupidity and the yawning chasm of awkwardness he was going to suffer every morning after this.

The train thundered in the distance, the screech of steel on steel echoing from the dark. He edged into position, weaving his way through the aroma of coffee and sweet pastries, years of practice telling him exactly where on the platform the doors of his preferred carriage would stop. Over the heads of the crowd he saw the pink hair and the black knitted cardigan. She'd made it. Well, good for her. For a moment, their gazes met. Her face lit up, smizing at him with impish eyes.