Alistair Raven and the Stormtrooper in Stilettos (Book 1)

Part 2 - Chatter 19

Julian cunningly negotiated his Hypercar through the fog and descended in to the New London mid-levels. He eased off the throttle as he brought them around drab Futurist architecture, soft-landing on a tiered parking pontoon.  He found an empty spot and reverse parked.

"Now we're here," Julian clapped, slipping off his driving gloves. Hopping out the Hypercar, the air was nippy and virginal snowflakes settled on Alistair's eyelashes, nose and lips. New London overloaded Alistair's senses: eerie wind farm moans; the whoosh of HyperCars; the clattering of the Overground; distant sirens; an Airship – all remixed to the tuneful banality of the Visis and Skyboards.

Are you an Agent of Change?

New Britain needs you. What are you going to do about it?

One Vision. Our Future. Your Move. Your New Britain.

Would you please explain the reason for your strange behaviour?

Fitter, happier, more productive.

Creating the Difference?

TraitCrime is a HateCrime.

"Vile," Julian said, loathing the aural repugnance. "Nothing has changed. Absolutely nothing!"

"Déjà poo," Chelsea sniffed. "Same shit, different smell."

Like a mother hen, Julian gathered up his chicks. Tromping through slush they utilised a footbridge to cross a yawning chasm filled with layers of hyper traffic. Reaching the other side, they came upon a hefty set of open wrought-iron gates. Crowning the gates was a warm, red neon sign that proclaimed they were at Kensington Floating Market. It may have been early but it was chaotic and the smell of coffee from a café cart caught their attention. Julian bought the children a hot chocolate and ordered café mocha for himself and as an after thought, a bag of dusted churros. Moving out of the path of those coming and going, they ate their breakfast, congregated next to a statue of an imperious man. Moustachioed, head bowed and punching the air, the statue stood majestically over the trio and guarded the entrance to the market. Once finished, they binned their rubbish and headed in.

Kensington Floating Market was a tapestry of knitted platforms, a hodge podge of styles and organically assembled after thoughts. Hovering on repulsor blusters, the market had a certain roguish charm, flea-bitten immediacy and a nagging sense that everything could vanish in the blink of an eye. Julian warned them of Thames corridor wheeler dealers, villainous geezers, vagabond hearts, tin pot traders, Shang-hai squads and shifty Del-Boy types.

"Don't talk to strangers," Julian ordered, licking cinnamon sugar off his fingers, whilst Chelsea was momentarily taken by the heady smell and illicit temptation of a pork pie stall. Julian found a girl hawking kinky Kindle chips and browsed her wares, looking to see if there was anything that tickled his fancy.

Together, Chelsea and Alistair discovered all manner of merchandise being sold in the market stalls. Incongruously interconnected by floating footpaths, the market bubbled. At the periphery Alistair could see the loading dock where delivery wagons whooshed in and out. Jostling couriers scurried past with skimmer trolleys filled with produce and fashion and bargain bric-a-brac whilst marketeers hustled customers, attempting to relieve, or fleece, them of their credits.