Blackbirds

Dispatch, Ch. 24

The irksome 'beeps' of Henry's alarm rebounded from wall to wall of his room. The lights clicked on above him, filling the room with a sickly yellow and an awful drone. He squinted, clenched his fists and rubbed his eyes. His eyelids reluctantly rolled upwards, even though they craved further rest, and he uncoiled his chalk-white quilt from around him.

Now on his feet, he was the antithesis of steady. He staggered past his twin bed, as dazed as a post-operative patient, and fumbled for a door handle on his left. Feeling cold metal against his palm, he yanked the handle downwards, tugged the door towards him and stepped inside.

Again, lights clicked on above him and that sickly yellow clung to the walls. He dropped his paisley trousers and unadorned boxers, hobbled into a plastic tray on the floor, and cautiously rotated a metallic knob that sat midway up the wall in front of him. A forceful wrench would have sent blistering water raining down from the shower-head above. A mere timid turn would have sent wintry water lashing down. Thankfully, the temperature of the water was bearable.

He squatted down and scooped up a plastic bottle, which contained an emerald green liquid, and emptied some into his right hand. He then ran it through his auburn locks, rinsed away the resulting froth and twisted the metallic knob back to its starting position.

Blind in the sticky steam, he tread out of the tray, reached for a switch on the opposite wall and flicked it upwards. A fan whirred into life and the steam began to dissipate. He then plucked a frayed towel from a rack beneath the switch and dried himself from head to toe.

Henry gazed at an oval mirror that sat on the back of the door. After he had gelled his locks with a stiff matte product and cleaned his teeth with the worn bristles of his toothbrush, he inspected his body. He was neither too tall, nor too short. He was neither ugly, nor handsome. He was neither feeble and anaemic, nor blubbery and portly. In fact, he wasn't too anything.

He spent the next ten minutes wriggling into a slim, scruffily ironed shirt, and a pair of tapered flannel trousers, which were turned up at the ankles. A broad tie followed, which he retrieved from his dusty desk and slung round his neck, tucking it under his collar and then tightening it. He completed the look with a pair of sturdy brogues, which were, in turn, decorated with spiralling perforations which culminated under the laces.

Henry puffed his cheeks out and took in a deep gulp of air. He then strode forward and pressed his right thumb against a panel, which was glossy and emanated a cobalt glow, in the wall to the right of the door to his room. The door hissed momentarily, as a burst of air escaped, before it produced a cheerful hum in agreement and slid left into the wall.

Henry stepped outside into the soulless corridor. Even though it was a tall space, the daunting walls contributed to a claustrophobic and ominous atmosphere. He skipped through the corridor, then took a left turn, then another left, and then swung a right. The floors were traffic-free: this lack of activity, however, was unsurprising, given that it was early. Very early, in fact.

Henry traversed further forward until he reached a dead end. A brooding, reinforced door stood guard. Again, Henry smudged his right thumb against that glossy panel to the right of the door, which blocked out the cobalt glow for a mere second. The conventional routine ensued - a hiss, a buoyant hum, and then the steel slab slid to the side, into the right wall this time.

Awaiting him inside the triangular room was Zoe. She sat, slouched, in a worn leather chair. The chair curved upwards past her head, supporting her spine and neck, and had gaping patches of material missing, which revealed the bitty foam underneath.

At just over five foot, and with a chubby face, Zoe gave a youthful appearance. She sported a buzzcut, with hoop earrings hanging from each earlobe. Her plump lips were glossed with a toxic, plum lipstick, whilst the same colour was smeared across her eyelids. Further, her cheekbones had been dusted with a sparkly powder, which gave them a radiance.

Upon Henry's arrival, Zoe only reclined the seat further, sinking into the aged fabric.

"Could I interest you in a latte?" Zoe queried, an attempt at humour evident in her words. "Espresso. Milk. Made by these very fine, capable hands. What more could you want?"

Henry chuckled. "You could sell shoes to a mermaid, you know that?"

Zoe snorted, and drummed a rhythm against the panel in front of her with the fingers of her right hand.

"Go on then," Henry caved in. "If you're offering." He then slumped into a chair which neighboured Zoe's. "I'll keep an eye on the monitors whilst you're away."

"No need." Zoe countered, sliding a cardboard cup across the desk towards Henry. "I knew you'd say yes." She shot a playful wink in Henry's direction. "Here's one I made earlier."

Henry grinned beside himself and tilted his head towards Zoe in appreciation. He reached for the cup, held it between his fingers, and then tipped it towards his mouth. Piping liquid slalomed down his throat, filling his stomach with a comforting warmth.

He then placed the cup back down on the desk and began to study the monitors overhead. Eleven screens were clustered together, each one displaying a different angle of the Earth. Some were zoomed out, whilst others were focused in. Each one flickered with the same bronzed glow, due to the perma-tanned colour of The Bundu.

"Anything happen overnight?" Henry asked, devoid of any sincere interest. "Any activity?"

"Yes, actually." Zoe answered, which startled Henry. "Take a look at this." She jerked a drawer open underneath the panel and pulled out a clipboard, with three or four sheets of paper attached. She then threw it across to Henry, who initially failed to catch it, but succeeded at the second attempt.

Henry studied the pages, one after another, for about five minutes. His face gave no indication as to his thoughts.

"We should bring him up." He eventually disclosed. "He's fit, healthy - he's everything we're after." Henry nodded repeatedly and bent his lips into an arch, evidently impressed by the individual detailed in the papers. "We need to get Rijkard's permission, though."

"Already on it," Zoe responded. "He should be here-"

The reinforced door guarding the room slid open, and a black, rangy man stepped into the space. Perched on his nose were mirrored, aviator sunglasses, and draping down the back of his neck were wispy dreadlocks. Hung from his shoulders was a coal-black, leather cloak, which helped to fill out his frame, and rugged combat boots hugged his feet.

"Zoe," he said, a South African accent perceptible. "You requested my presence?"

Both Henry and Zoe bolted from their sprawled positions and sat upright, stiff and rigid.

"Has Kaylum been in contact?" Rijkard enquired.

"Erm, no." Zoe panicked. "It's something else. Take a look at those papers." She attempted to reclaim some composure. "We think we might have one."

Henry hurriedly handed the clipboard to Rijkard. Rijkard, unperturbed, assented to the handover. He then, as Henry had done, scanned the papers.

"I like the look of him," Rijkard divulged. Even when he spoke, Rijkard was collected and assured. He did not sway, and his shoulders did not even lift when he exhaled. "We're bringing him up."

An impetus and enthusiasm possessed Henry and Zoe, as they swivelled in their chairs and began to thrash buttons, levers and dials on the panel in front of them.

"I'll head to The Circadian - to dispatch a Hauler." Rijkard declared. Henry and Zoe elected not to respond, operating in a mute environment, as Rijkard ambled toward the exit.

"Just out of interest, though," he then remarked, pivoting to face Henry and Zoe, who disengaged from their engrossment. "What's his name?"