Azure

Azure

Grant Palmquist

Copyright © 2013 Grant Palmquist

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living dead, or undead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

Smashwords Edition

Do not be afraid; our fate

Cannot be taken from us; it is a gift

Dante, Inferno

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Azure

2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26

Epilogue

About the Author

Other Works Available by Grant Palmquist

Thank you

Azure

When the gunmen stormed the bar in District 18 of the nation of Azure, Asher Cain wanted to believe he was dreaming, but he hadn’t dreamt a dream in as long as he could remember, hadn’t experienced anything but nightmares, and every single one of them turned out to be real.

He first heard the man shouting, I ain’t living with this shit no more, then the boom of the Meridian shotgun followed and blood slung against the walls and women screamed shrill screams. The man who was shouting had long, stringy hair, a throaty voice, and his piss-like stench traveled through the bar in a nauseating wave. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes and FUCK YOU was scrawled across the base of his neck in red lipstick. A dwarf walked behind him with a black leather mask covering his face and a Generation 44 pistol in his fist. The pistol was so big it looked strange in the dwarf’s hand, as if it might cause him to fall over at any moment.

The dwarf fired the pistol into the ceiling. None of you bitches even try to leave, or you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.

The stringy-haired man strolled from patron to patron, picking and choosing who he wanted to off next, shooting a man in the chest who flew against the wall, spray-painting it red, or blowing someone’s head off and moving onward. He stopped along his path and ran his fingers through a blonde’s hair and kissed her trembling lips. Tears ran from her eyes, and he seemed to get off on it, smiling and wiggling his tongue against her rouged cheek. He killed the woman with a shot to the temple and stood before her for a moment afterward, seemingly admiring his handiwork. All the while lyric-less techno music played on the sound system like background music to a fever dream, the ringing from the gunshots now the primary layer of noise in the bar.

They laughed as they continued going on about their business, steadily cleansing the bar of clientele. One man’s head exploded in a cloud of blood at the hands of the dwarf. Another woman’s hand disappeared behind the boom of the shotgun. Behind them a red neon sign read MARTINIS BEER COCKTAILS. The dwarf aimed his pistol at the sign and fired and sparks channeled through the air and the neon glow died.

Some of the men ducked and folded their hands together behind their heads. Some of the women put their hands over their eyes and cried. Somehow, through it all, Asher heard the stringy-haired man’s boots clicking on the ground as he made his way closer and closer to him. The blood of strangers now crimsoned the man’s face. There must have been twenty to thirty people lying dead in the bar, only moments earlier laughing and drinking. Finally the stringy-haired man made it to him and told him to open his mouth. Asher did so and wrapped his lips around the warm double barrel of the shotgun and looked at himself in the mirrored sunglasses of the man, his heart pumping in his ears. If only he could watch himself turn to pieces, then it would be a perfect end. The man hesitated—why? Asher took his lips from the muzzle and looked up at him.

What are you waiting for? he said. Go on and do it.

He sucked on the muzzle again and closed his eyes, waiting for his head to explode and a vision of white light to engulf him. But the shotgun slipped out of his mouth and when he opened his eyes to the ringing sound of shots, he saw that half the man’s head had disappeared before him. His body lingered a moment, as if trying to keep its balance, his fingers twitching around the shotgun, then dropped to the ground with a thud.

The pale-skinned, white-haired man who had offed him brought the barrel of a Generation 18 to his lips and blew away the streams of smoke. Across the bar, the dwarf tried to charge him, firing away, and the man squatted, aimed, and shot him in the center of the leather mask, leaving a gaping hole where his face used to be. The dwarf went stumbling to the ground and again the man brought the barrel to his lips and hushed away the drifting rivers of smoke, then holstered the gun beneath his beige trench coat and stared at Asher.

Asher splayed his hands and widened his eyes. You gonna kill me now?

The man turned away from him, swiveling his head about, seemingly checking the bar for survivors—only a few. One of his eyes emitted a bright white light that swam around the room, flashing over each person in turn, revealing him as an android.

Now, the android said in a sonorous voice, "none of you have seen a thing here tonight. None of you have witnessed a murder or murders. This never happened. If there comes a time when word hits the streets about this event, I will find out who slipped the word, I will come for you, and I will kill you. Let me reiterate that for the hard of hearing: this never happened."

Asher’s ears were still ringing a bit, but he heard everything the android said clear as a bell. He placed his hands on the hard wood of the table before him and watched the android with grim fascination. His movements were clean, each one driven by intent. Not like a human man, who hesitated with every motion, who fumbled and stuttered. No, the android’s voice was clear and meaningful, his motions rhythmic, seductive. What he said, he meant. And looking around the bar, Asher knew at least one of these people would die by his hands, maybe even himself.

The android walked out of the bar and into the night and the sound of the techno music crawled back into the forefront of existence, though it had been there all along, hiding behind the gunshot blasts and eerie speech.

Asher looked through the window and watched the android merge with the dark, then tried to finish his lukewarm beer, alcohol the sole pleasure the government allowed. His hands shook around the glass. Suds slicked down his throat. The smell of blood filled the air. He studied the remaining patrons. Of the few people left, a couple of women who’d survived cried in their men’s arms; another one stared straight ahead in shock, her hands pulling at strands of her hair. A man crossed his arms over his stomach and vomited on the ground.

He finished all but the dregs of his beer and left the bar. Strangers had begun to cluster in the street and on the sidewalk, looking at the bloodstained windows, clearly curious about the carnage.

What happened? one of them said to Asher.

Why don’t you go inside and take a look? he said.

He stopped in the middle of the street and looked up at the sign—SMITHEE’S PUB. Above the sign he made out several drones hovering in the sky. Behind them a tracer wheeled through the air, shining a spotlight into the district below. Always watching, and they couldn’t stop a massacre from happening? Soon he’d be watching from one of the drones too, as useless as all the rest, only around to do the government’s bidding.

He moved up the sidewalk, jostling past strangers, the warm summer air causing sweat to coat his brow. He shoved his shivering hands into his pants pockets and headed toward home. An armored car sped by in the streets, a slider behind it, its blue lights spinning like tracers through the darkness. More than likely both were manned by androids. The number of androids was steadily growing within each sector, the police force still being the most highly permeated. He’d heard rumors they’d begun to man drones too, which could eventually put his job in jeopardy. Sooner or later they’d probably replace people altogether, then everyone would be out on the streets, committing crimes, murdering each other over bread crumbs.

He could see it so clearly. It made him wonder if the government really cared, or whether they were blowing smoke up everyone’s asses, giving speeches just to sound important.

On the way home he witnessed a youngster pleading for his life on his knees before a masked man; a stabbing in an alleyway, lit only by the intermittent gleam of the offending knife; and an old man on the ground with his arms raised to the grey-black sky, begging someone for help. It was the last one that stopped him cold.

He stood and watched the bearded man beg an unknown entity for peace. The old man rolled his fingers into a fist and then spread them out.

Please help us, he said. You see us suffering. We got nobody down here that cares, nobody.

The drone hovered closer, its camera probably trying to see through the darkness. A barrel extended from within it and a flash of light blazed against the obsidian backdrop. The old man’s arms dropped, and he slumped over and crouched there, dead or close to it.

Asher backed into the shadows and studied the drone, wondering who was watching through its camera. Was it some young punk who’d just gotten the job, abusing the little bit of power he had? If it was, he would find out soon enough that every power leaves you one day except the one within you—that power nobody can steal, try as they might.

When the drone had backed into the clouds, Asher emerged, laughing to himself at hiding from it when only a few moments earlier he’d urged a stranger to kill him. But the strangeness of life was never a stranger to him.

Asher moved toward his apartment with his head down, sliders zooming by him every now and again. Occasionally, sliders flew through the skies, though it seemed like it’d been a long time since he’d seen that happen. Perhaps their functions had regressed or there was some other reason behind it. Either way, he supposed he’d never know. He wished he could drive or fly, but citizens weren’t allowed to own armored cars or tracers or sliders, for they were an alleged danger to those around them when in control of a vehicle, land or air, despite the fact it was rumored some of the pols liked to get drunk and go out in the night and run over citizens for fun, a game they called chickenshit, which he had a hard time believing was the truth, but rumors had a way of becoming truths sooner or later.

Asher arrived at his dilapidated apartment building, some twenty stories high, and placed his hand on the sensor.

The speaker box near the glass doors said, Please state your name.

Asher Cain.

The line on the voice-recognition box went from red to green, and he pushed open the door and went inside. He took the elevator to the eighteenth floor and walked up the hallway to room 1822 and placed his forefinger on the sensor above the door handle. It lit up green, and he opened the door.

Home, sweet home.

It was one room with a kitchen off to the side and a single bathroom, a tall window at the back of the place. The only furniture he had was a stiff bed. A couple of German cockroaches skittered along the far wall against the moonlight.

He poured himself a glass of water and drank it down in a few long gulps. Then he walked to the window. Even through the darkness he could make out one of the drones watching over his district, number eighteen, one of the twenty-four in Azure. Soon he would be watching through one of them, chained to his workstation. He dreaded the thought of work, of one more day in that shithole. A fly landed on the glass and maneuvered about. Was it an insect drone, watching him, recording him? He tried to swat it, but it flew away just in time. His chest sank thinking of how much he hated Azure and was a part of it at the same time, like two chains inextricably linked together. There had to be some way out … somehow. He’d wanted to commit suicide but could never bring himself to do it, always seeing his wife’s green eyes staring at him as he tried to press the blade to his wrists. It was his penance to live here, to carry out this life no matter the cost.

When he couldn’t take any more of listening to his thoughts, he went through his nightly ritual. He performed one hundred push-ups, sit-ups, and weightless squats and two hundred calf raises. Afterward, he ran in place for forty-five minutes and did squat thrusts and jumping jacks. If he didn’t exercise, he couldn’t sleep. And sometimes he couldn’t sleep, either way. At thirty-eight, he felt the strain in his muscles and ligaments while working out, but he pushed through it anyway.

Afterward, he lay on the hard bed and closed his eyes. He imagined holding his wife, Chloe, in his arms, kissing the soft skin of her neck, smelling her soapiness, tasting the saltiness of her tongue. His chest felt as though it was caving in on itself, a hurt he revisited often thinking of her and his son David. He looked into her green eyes, and it seemed he could look forever, hold her forever. Tears strained his throat. He wanted to say something to her, anything, but it was as though he couldn’t form words any longer, although he knew what he wanted to say. He opened his eyes and looked out the window. Moonlight crept from behind grey clouds and lit a hovering drone. He reached under his bed and pulled out a small wooden box and opened it. From within it he pulled a slightly yellowed letter.

Dear Asher,

You know I love you, but I can’t stay in Azure one more day. David is always unhappy, you know that. It has nothing to do with you. It’s just that I know you’ll never try to leave, and you’d try to talk me out of it. But what is a life when it’s lived under tyranny? You might as well be dead. Please don’t blame yourself. You were always a good father and husband, and I always loved you and always will, but I have to leave you now. I hope you understand, and I hope you find someone new who will love you and fill any hole in your life I may leave behind. I wish I could say more … but I don’t know what to say.

Yours,

Chloe

A fly landed on his chest. Was a mini-camera inside it watching him? He waited a moment then swatted at it, but it buzzed away and spun around the room. He looked at a German roach crawling along the wall above the bed’s headboard. Maybe they were recording him, but if they were, so what? What more could they take from him? Everything he’d ever had was already gone. He was left to his own devices. Yet they still wanted more, wanted to make sure he did everything in his power for the good of Azure, for that was what really mattered, not his humanity, not his heart, not his spirit.

He went to the bathroom and turned on the flickering lights. It was only now that he saw his face and hands were covered in dried blood. He got into the musty shower and scrubbed the blood away a little at a time, the cold water sending goose bumps up his arms and legs. While doing so he thought back to that man on his knees in the street. What did he know that Asher didn’t? Who was he talking to, arms raised in the night? When Asher finished washing himself and brushing his teeth, he lay on the bed. Images of his wife and son wove their way into his mind.

He could almost feel their presence beside him.

And that was good enough for now.

For now.

2

Asher was up, as always, before the alarm clock went off.

He lay on his side, staring at the glowing numbers—5:37 a.m. He turned off the alarm, rolled onto the floor, and did twenty push-ups to fully wake himself up. Then he went to the kitchen and made coffee and poured some stale cereal. He ate and drank standing up, staring out the window, watching the glow of the sun purple the night sky, smelling the aroma of his cheap coffee before each sip. The drones became clearer with each moment, populating the ashen sky like so many clouds.

When he finished his breakfast, he washed the dishes with cold water and soap and put them back in the pantry. He laid his khaki pants and shirt on the bed and looked down at them. The patch on the chest of the shirt read ASHER CAIN - EMPLOYEE OF AZURE. Just looking at the clothes made him tired, drained him of the little bit of energy he had. He loathed going to work, sometimes wished he could be like most everyone else, living off the government tit or committing crime to get by, anything but the same mundane shit day in and day out. But, he supposed, sooner or later he’d grow tired of that, too. Sooner or later everyone got tired of their routine.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thoughts plaguing his mind. He took the elevator to the lobby and walked outside into the balmy morning air. A few men and women moved up and down the street, hurrying toward unknown destinations. The sun had risen a little more, and across the street Asher spied a man dressed in black with an open briefcase lying on the ground in front of him. He studied him for a minute, then crossed the street and stood before him. The man had a glass eye and a hook-like scar that ran from his temple to the corner of his lips.

You about to pack up?

Yeah, man, it’s almost daybreak. His voice sounded like gravel was lodged in his throat.

What are you selling?

Straight-up dreamnovas.

Asher squinted. Dreamnovas?

Yeah, you heard me.

What do they do?

Make you dream awesome dreams while you sleep. Most people only have nightmares, which … can you blame ’em? But this shit is clean. You’ll sleep like a baby and have dreams of your own personal paradise.

How much?

Five gold pieces.

Asher pulled his pouch of money from his pocket and counted. He had twelve gold pieces. Can anyone detect this stuff?

"You work for them, right? You should know better than me."

All right. Asher handed the man five gold pieces, and the man gave him a small blue tab. That’s it?

That’s it. He squatted, secured the hasps on the leather briefcase, and rose.

All right. Asher put it in his money pouch and looked the man over once more. Let me ask—

I gotta go. You need some more, come find me.

What’s your name?

Mason.

You got a last name?

Yeah, but you don’t need to know it.

Asher watched him disappear around a corner. When he looked about, he noticed a young brown-haired girl watching him. He waved to her. She waved back.

On the way to the light rail, the sun crept over Azure. Tracers flew by overhead, watching the citizens below. Cops rode through the streets on sliders, the blue lights on the wheels like lasers in the fading dark. They tried to make eye contact with citizens as they drove around, looking for signs of crime or disloyalty, but any fool knew to keep his head down, to keep his mouth shut, and the criminals seemed to know just when to pack up and disappear.

Asher reached the light rail and got on. He sat toward the back and folded his arms over his chest. A few other people were scattered about within. The rail smelled of urine mixed with potpourri. On