Alistair Raven and the Stormtrooper in Stilettos (Book 1)

Part 1 - Chatter 1

However, Alistair Raven, a tadpole, blinked and took scant notice of the nauseating eye-candy as he tinkered with the thruster core on his busted up HyperBoard. Skyboard temptations luring him to be a strong Futurist Youth member did not deter him from his work; he'd heard it all before and fallen prey to the fists of the Youth's most ardent supporters. A collection of black and yellowing bruises covered him from head to toe; their message was clear.

Once in a while a certain Skyboard advertisement did draw his attention: the Red Special HyperBoard. Like a mythic beast, a Red Special was the latest HyberBoard model; a top of the line, ultra manoeuvrable, super fast HyperBoard. With a waiting list a mile long and a price tag Alistair could never afford, the Red Special was just out of his world. Whilst Archie told him the happiest people didn't have the best of everything, they just made the best of everything they had, it was no consolation for Alistair who had to make do with re-configured, second hand parts swiped from scrap piles, and an aging deck. There was the dream, an impossible dream, and it remained so.

As the Skyboard switched message, Alistair got back to it. Whilst Skyboards fought for attention, they had lost Alistair Raven's.

One Vision, Our future, Your move...

A change is good for you...are you an Agent of Change?

A cause for celebration is rehabilitation. Get a mentor today.

New Britain for the New British.

Agents of Change...making the difference.

Unfortunately, Alistair Raven lived in increasingly apathetic and rather brutal times. The upper echelons had little to neither fear nor worry about in their comfortable age of enlightenment. The workers were too tired to revolt and the huddled masses...well, their bohemian and argumentative numbers dotted amongst the gray had considerably thinned. Where once there were whispers of possible revolution, the mere hint of resistance was now a forgotten memory. Yes, New London's landscape had changed inexorably, and for the worse. Selected New Londoners discovered Futurist rehabilitation and relocation; there were rumours as to their fate, but never concrete proof. Fourteen year old boys don't often notice this sort of thing; Alistair Raven did, but had yet to find the courage to ask his grandfather that uncomfortable question: Why?

For the elderly Civil War veterans, holed up in the QP tenements, which had learned to forget before natural attrition stole their memories anyway, it was something all the more terrifying to comprehend. So many had fought, and lost, to prevent this from happening. Silence, and fear, much like the omnipresent gray skies and rainfall, was pervasive and the iron fist kept them obedient. Yet, if they had known how truly flaccid the regime had become on the inside, maybe they would have eked out a voice of dissent and fought back. But the tough exterior was still in place and the veterans were weary of fighting. Where once there was a nation of stiff upper lips, there was now a state of scared and kow-towing Englishmen living in the shadow of the Futurist Guards. Alistair Raven knew where they all fit in the scheme of things. He was on the bottom of the ladder, not even allowed to reach for the first greasy rung. Downtrodden, he privately dreamt of growing up and finding his place in the sun.

Wiping his face with a grimy hand, he listened. With the winds just right, the eerie sound of sighing filled the air. The forlorn symphony, created by the spinning turbines in the tubular wind farms attached to every high-rise block in New London, ebbed and flowed, like some sort of lament. Looking out, Alistair could see Futurist Visi-banners - long red screens topped with the white circle and black Futurist logo. The fascist symbol had always been a part of his life; it was as common as air and never let anyone forget who was boss. With the mix of city lights, Alistair pretended he was sitting in a jewel box filled with diamonds and rubies sparkling in the pessimism.