BRITANNICA: Chapter 1

 *To the wary reader. Be aware that mild language may be used on this blog.*  

* * * 

Name please.

“Lucas. Britannica.”

Unregistered.

“Fine. Ossian.”

Unregistered.

“Lucas. Ossian.”

Unregistered.

Britannica frowned and poked the LP3 Card Generator. “Soul,” she muttered.

Unregistered.

Shut up.

Britannica Lucas flipped shut the flashy green keyscreen on the Generator and pulled a small scrap of paper from her belt. She glanced behind her shoulder for a moment. It was not bright in the porcelain-like hallway, colored pale blue. But technically it wasn’t even open to the public right now, to be fair. It was nice. More than two years old, it was still sleek in comparison to her rough attire.

And today it was empty.

Britannica turned to the scrap in her hand. Eleventh Province, Station 24. JUNEBURN. Just some numbers and a name. Right. But without a card, she wasn’t going anywhere.

Maybe she should try again. Or not. “Don’t think so,” Britannica said aloud. She tapped her left earbud and pulled out her controller, tapping a few images on the lit screen. “Soul,” she said. She sounded calm. A voice responded in her right ear, muffled by what she guessed was Juniper Gas. Always so careful, she mused.

“Britannica.”

Britannica could picture him - her old boss. A huge, black-skinned man from the third Province, scars spreading across his experienced arms like spider-webs. Age: Forty-seven. No. Forty-eight now. Cleanest mouth in the Scruffs, so it was said. Also the harshest, usually.

“Soul,” she repeated evenly. “Why did you delete my LP3?”

Deep, gruff chuckles rattled her eardrums. She grimaced. “What is your problem. I’m gone, remember? You don’t have conch anymore. I’m free. On my own.” She leaned against the wall and began to bite her fingernails. Soul had stopped laughing.

“I don’t touch your shrapnell, Brit. That then. That then be Siren.” he told her. “You been looking for her?”

Britannica tensed. Uncertainty flashed through her green eyes for but a moment. There was a silence.

“I haven’t seen her,” Soul said quietly, as if to answer the question not spoken aloud.

Britannica nodded, though there was none to see it. “Yes,” she said. “But I’m done with this Soul, you know that. Screw Siren, remember? Screw her and her cats. I don’t care.”

“Yes,” came the somber reply. “But that doesn’t change what our old friends be doing.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Britannica mumbled. “Soul,” she said. “I need a card. I’ve got to ship in one half-hour Z-time, and - and they think I have one already. My employers. I had to come in now, when no one else was here, but the Generator won’t take me.

“Britannica,” came the rumbling voice again. “Do you remember Jetson?”

At the sound of the name, Britannica instinctively reached for her belt, where a gold javelin nestled comfortably, folded carefully by her hip. “Damn it Soul,” she hissed. “Let off.”

“He be tracking you, Digger.” Digger. Her old nickname.

She shook her head. “Clocks is in the Chinese Scruffs. Province Fifteen.”

“No more. Si-”

“Look Soul, this is dumb. I don’t care. Let them come. Next time they drop by for a chat, tell them to come. See if I care.”

Britannica cut the connection. And then she sat down, her back to the smooth pale wall. Her skin was still cool, but she needed to breathe more evenly. Siren... Clocks... She could murder their titles alone. The grim fourteen-year-old pulled out her javelin and immediately it snapped to attention, gleaming dimly in the light. The point was sharp and regal.

Let them come, thought the girl they called Britannica.

They may chase, but she would never run, like last time. Never in a hundred lifetimes. Though by Scruff standards, those were pretty short.

Let them come. But now, Britannica thought, she had a flight to catch. And someone had already stolen her ticket.