The Scioneer Read Online Free PDF Page A

subsequent fall
from grace, broke both of his legs trying to jump a fence six-feet
high, and died of shock in his sleep that night.
    There was
a M etro station at the
corner of The Cut and Blackfriars - Lek didn’t like the vibe on the
streets any more and decided to take his chances underground. He
took a final deep lungful of clean air before walking down the
steps and into the dim eco-lights. The cracked cream ceramic tiles
of the ticket office walls were slick with filthy slime, and the
Terror-Guards and Metro-staff glowed in the green gloom in their
bright orange bio-hazard uniforms. Anybody who wasn’t wearing a
filtro-mask had tied bandanas or handkerchiefs around their faces
to block out the stench of decomposition. Lek buried his own mouth
and nose in the crook of his elbow and made his way to the
infra-red lights of the silver security turnstiles, which seemed
out of place in the stinking humidity. He was about to thumbprint
his way through the gates, when paranoia got the better of him.
They could be tracking my bank account, he thought, and immediately
backed away from the scanner as though it were a bomb. He pushed
his way out of line, much to the annoyance of a wild-eyed kid
wearing face-paint behind him, who bared his fangs and
hissed.
    Lek fed
four cred coins into the slot on the ‘cash-only’ queue and made his way through the
barriers. The ticket office concourse was nothing compared to the
deeper levels of London’s underground system. It truly felt like a
descent into hell – the eco-lights flickered in the depths,
illuminating the press of bodies struggling to get through the
horrific ordeal as quickly as possible. The heat was almost
unbearable and the closed-in onion stench of sweat was
overpowering. Commuters freely stood or squatted to urinate against
the walls, and the floor was alive with rats. At the bottom of the
stairs, a man in a pink rabbit-suit, the feet of which were stained
brown up to the ankles, was playing the theme from ‘The Fourth Man’
on the zither. There were flies everywhere, feeding on everything,
and straggly etiolated roots hung from the ceilings, caressing the
commuters’ faces and hair like dead men’s fingers. Lek felt the
bile rising in his throat and moved to join a line of people
vomiting on the Metro-tracks, but his stomach was empty. He peered
down at the enormous squashed yellow carcass of a train-biorg and
watched it sizzling on the third rail until the lights of a Stadia
Line pierced the murkiness and the train roared into the platform,
bringing with it a pestilential wind and a fresh swarm of insects.
Only three stops, Lek thought to himself as he pushed his way into
the carriage. Since there were so few still running these days, the
train was heaving with people, and Lek found himself face to face
with a gruff Hispano sporting a tremendous circus-strongman
moustache. The lights flickered as the train left the station and
then went out completely. Only three stops, Lek thought again,
keeping a firm grip on the doctor’s holdall in his hand.
    The cool
fresh water from the fountain outside Victoria Metro Station tasted like the
elixir of life itself and Lek dipped his head under the tap, hoping
to wash away the reek of the underground from his skin. He breathed
in the city air again and dropped a few coins into the cup of a
beggar kneeling at his side, before walking up the steps into the
International Station, trying to avoid making eye contact with
anybody in the crowd. Sunlight poured in through the glass ceiling
and Lek made his way through the palms and giant yukkas to the
snaking queue at the Europatrans Counter. He hadn’t realised he had
been tapping his feet and chewing his nails nervously until he
noticed one of the Terror-Guards eyeing him suspiciously. Calm
down, he told himself, everything is going to be just
fine.
    Lek
stepped up to the assistant, a young round-faced girl who clearly
enjoyed a touch of Tigranol in the bedroom, judging by the