The Mountebank Hotel

In the expanses of paradise, the loudest sounds were the cries of desire. 

The gasp of the wide-eyed tourist’s unparalleled awe and ambition.  

The laugh of the lover as their fingers squeezed around velveteen sheets. 

The chants of gamblers staking their lives, risking everything to be free from the shackles of mundanity. 

Another uninteresting day waned. The breeze drew clouds that veiled the dependent moon, and the wake of evening in turn woke the sanctuary of New Altra. Her lucent lights set fire to the sky like the sun had risen again. Perhaps with the flicker of streetlights and neon glows, the evening could prove different.

Who knew? The night was young.

***

The elevator had no room to breathe. 

For the interloper Sister Kynburgh, this was unheard of. For the denizens of New Altra? It was Saturday.

ELEVATOR: “Level 15. Doors opening.”

SISTER KYNBURGH: “Come on, damnit…”

A few people gently pushed their way out, yet it was still impossible to fit a suitcase between each person. 

Rafe could be anywhere by now. How could she have let him out of her sight? 

She glanced around the corridor and blinked away the light. Everywhere here was so bright, nothing like the monastery’s lamplit halls. After some time, she noticed that everyone in the room was taking turns staring at her. She was no older than twenty - from what she could recall from her research, it was normal for a girl her age to wander around the city alone. So why were they all staring?

Slowly, Sister Kynburgh drew her hood back and a quiet gasp escaped everyone’s mouth. She was wrapped in a mottled glaucous robe and various straps and belts formed leather armour comprising various pads and braces. Her hair and skin were pallid and entirely colourless, a shade of chalk that contrasted against the elevator’s warm glow and bronze walls and floor. The only colour was in her eyes - painted a gentle velvet hue. She turned as a hand tugged at her sleeve.

MRS. CHEBERELL: “Are you going to the ULTRAMARINE? I looooove your contacts.”

SISTER KYNBURGH: “The what? My… contacts?”

MRS. CHEBERELL: “Eyes, darling... Don’t tell me they’re natural.”

The mature-aged woman reeked of liquor. Her eyes widened incredulously as she leaned close, even more so as Sister Kynburgh’s eyes began to water from the stench.

MRS. CHEBERELL: “No! You have natural purple eyes?!”

MRS. DANVERS “You idiot Clem, don’t you see? She’s been aug-you-mented. Look at her arm!”

Sister Kynburgh tried to pull her hand away, but the drunkards’ grips were resolute. She grimaced as they rolled up her sleeve, squeezed her arm and ran their fingers along the base of her wrist, caressing over the sacrificial scars that permanently branded her flesh - dozens of illegible runes and symbols carelessly etched across her skin, like a mother writing their child’s name on a jacket.

SISTER KYNBURGH: “Let go at once! I don’t know what an aug-u-ment is!”

MRS. CHEBERELL: “Don’t be ashamed dear. I wish I could afford an iris replacement!”

MRS. DANVERS: “And you’re so young too! My, you must be quite popular…”

***

Unbeknownst to his sister, Rafe would be quite safe - in the hands of the affable night manager of the Mountebank Hotel. Eating real food was the first luxury the young boy was allowed to enjoy since the monastery, choking down nutrient paste or scrabbling over the last scrape of mush at the bottom of the cauldron was officially a thing of the past. He relished this moment, and he would with the next in this exciting new world.

In front of him, the dining table was decorated with platters of roasted savoury meats both red and white, steaming greens and clinking jugs of sweet-scented juices. He squeezed the cream-coloured tablecloth to make finger-shaped gravy and grease stains and proceeded to lick his fingers clean. 

BROTHER RAFE: “Thank you so, so much Mistress Tilcott!”

Brother Rafe sat opposite Ms. Helena Tilcott, who stood from her chair and floated towards the door. She was a statuesque woman dressed in sharp black-gold suit pants and flats with a blindingly white blouse that seemed too clean to be real. Ms. Tilcott rested her hand on the handle when Rafe scraped his chair backwards and turned to face her. Her lustrous inky hair was tied in a messy ponytail, several uneven  lengths framing her weary auburn eyes and radiant smile. She ruffled his unkempt silvery hair.

MS. TILCOTT: “Odd, your sister should be here by now... Finish your dinner Rafe, I’ll be back soon.”

***

The next room over was… explosive, to put it generously. 

Despite the cleanliness of the room however, the enterprising Mr. Dalton was anything but distressed. How could he be, with the gorgeous Ms. Kytson by his bedside?

Briefcases were strewn across the floor and a half-empty wine glass tainted the beige carpet an ugly burgundy as the room emanated with the full-bodied scent of pinot noir. The phone’s handset dangled from the nightstand - a useless solution as the mobile phone across the room began to sing.

VOICEMAIL: “Luke Dalton, sorry I couldn’t make it to the phone-”

PHONE: “Luke? Please pick up when you get this…”

The phone’s snappy dialtone sliced through the taciturn darkness that smothered the room, bar the amber lustre that trickled along the floor, fettered behind draped pewter curtains. After some time, the only sound in the room was the trickster’s ragged breath and his mistress’ pounding heartbeat.

MS. KYTSON: “You should call back. It might be important.”

MR. DALTON: “Please don’t make me get up…”

Again, the phone crooned and clattered along the tiles. 

Ms. Kytson buried her face in pillows as Mr. Dalton finally slithered out of the sheets.

MR. DALTON: “Hello?”

PHONE: “Luke? Finally! Where were you?”

MR. DALTON: “Darling? I was-”

PHONE: “It’s been six hours! I thought you had gotten lost, or hurt, or-”

MR. DALTON: “Honey, nobody gets hurt here. Not like the colonies on the plateau.”

PHONE: “Where are you? Is The Package with you?”

Mr. Dalton’s gaze initially snagged on Ms. Kytson before it eventually met The Package sitting on the dining table, buckled shut and cool to the touch.

MR. DALTON: “O-of course, darling. I’m still in New Altra, waiting for the shuttle right now.”

PHONE: “Thank goodness. It’s about time you caught a break.”

Mr. Dalton frowned and gently shook The Package in his hands. Its weight shifted from within and tilted the hardcase to either side as it tried its best to jump out of his grasp. It never occurred to him that he scaled the sides of skyscrapers, broke countless bones and won the hearts of powerful people - all for a briefcase.

PHONE: “Imagine the things we could build. Sure, it would take some time. Maybe longer than we have left. But we’d finally have control. No more suffering, no more dirty food and water, no more thieving.”

MR. DALTON: “Maybe not that last one.”

PHONE: “I’m serious. We could finally settle down on the plateau. Live a normal life, hmm?”

A normal life? The words echoed in Mr. Dalton’s head. What could be so normal about living on the edge of humanity, stealing from the rich and giving to themselves just so that they could keep living in total isolation? He leaned against the table, traced the indents of The Package with his index finger and idly gazed into the starry skyline that never seemed to end. 

 PHONE: “…and we’ll get time to finally raise a kid - like we’ve always wanted… Hello? Luke?”

The silence was thick enough to cut with a knife. The city skyline only seemed to grow brighter.

PHONE: “Damned phones… Luke? Are you there? Can you hear me?”

MR. DALTON: “Hmm? Yes, darling. Sorry, the shuttle’s arrived. I need to go.”

PHONE: “Okay - talk soon, yeah? You’ll answer me quickly next time won’t you?”

He felt like he never understood Mrs. Dalton at times. Or perhaps she never understood him.

MR. DALTON: “Goodbye darling. I love you.”

PHONE: “I love you too...”

Mr. Dalton sat the phone on the desk and looked up to Ms. Kytson’s wily grin. He heaved a great sigh and ran his fingers through his clammy hair that laid like a second skin across his forehead. 

He set The Package back down.

MR. DALTON: “Now, where were we?”

***

Several floors above, partners quarreled over the fate of a man they had never met. 

YARROW: “I don’t understand.”

VALERIAN: “We don’t need to understand.”

Valerian drew the window completely open, the New Altra skyline glimmering back at us in its golden, gilded beauty. More eye-catchingly, the lights and sparkles danced from the red carpets and rooftops of Idyll Hall. The city’s biennial fashion show ULTRAMARINE was in full swing. It wasn’t long before their quarry revealed itself. Her eyes escaped the cool breeze by burying themselves behind rangefinder lenses. The moon vanished behind wispy clouds as our digital watches chirped in unison. Valerian looked to Yarrow, who met her gaze with furrowed eyebrows and crossed arms. The briefcase was still open on the kitchen counter and inside, the disassembled rifle. 

YARROW: “He has nothing to do with our image - why would they want him dead?”

VALERIAN: “Because perfection isn’t about talent, it's about looking better than everyone in the room.”

YARROW: “We’re not just cogs in their machine, V.”

Valerian sighed, stood up and shoved past Yarrow. She took it upon herself to silently put the sniper together, since her partner had suddenly developed a conscience in their seven years of “maintaining the image of perfection”. Yarrow leaned against the couch and shook his head. He pursed his lips and scratched at his face as he tried to find some way to reach out to his colleague, but she didn’t listen. 

VALERIAN: “He’s not innocent. People don’t get idolised this quickly - especially not colonists.”

YARROW: “That doesn’t change a thing, and you know it.”

Valerian tried to return to the window but Yarrow stepped in and held the rifle frozen in her arms.

His eyes met hers, yet only his were frantic. Only his breath was shallow. Only his hair dripped with sweat.

YARROW: “We can do this a different way. Trap him in the system somehow - I don’t know!”

VALERIAN: “The system is powerless. As far as I’m concerned, right this second, we are anything but.”

Valerian pushed past him again and slid the rifle’s barrel beyond the window opening. The magazine slotted into the rifle with a satisfying clunk! The Haskins-LR6 excelled at this range, and so did its operator. If she succeeded, The Supermodel wouldn’t even get the chance to scream. 

VALERIAN: “You’re right. We’re not cogs in a machine.”

The safety clicked off. Valerian’s reseda-tinted iris magnified. Her pupil followed The Supermodel’s dome through the scope as he strutted down the catwalk. 

VALERIAN: “We’re the grease that keeps it running.”

***

As night fell, the truth began to surface. Darkness was never a shroud, but a window to the secrets of the soul - eventually revealed for all to see, or discover. 

The flame of ambition burned bright and revealed all - there are no exceptions. 

That glance over each shoulder that skipped a hyper-metrical beat in your heart? 

The unwavering tremor in your finger as it hovered over the rifle’s trigger? 

The city held fast. Listening. Smelling. Waiting. 

Standing over the vacationists like an old shepherd over their flock. 

To call her the people’s guardian amidst the desolate wastes would be neither wrong nor right. 

She was the organ to a pianist. A hammer to the engineer. A knife to the assassin.

Another chaotic evening had passed, for some at least. The milky dusk faded into the horizon, yet the daytime continued in New Altra - the time held no sway over the performers, watchers and the mountebanks. Perhaps with the coming of the sun and the gentle breeze through streets, morning could prove different. 

Nobody knew. Nobody ever would.

After all, the night was only young.