Imagine you are watching the film, the camera zooming majestically on a tall tower of apartments where famous celebrities or lords and ladies of the realm might live, the mysterious swirls of Planet New London atmosphere twisting and twirling behind it. Now imagine the camera man has tripped up and has fallen down a manhole. Here we find our house.
It is a small, slightly damp looking affair nestled in the bowls of Planet New London's Hyde District. The residents were the Naylor family, who lived in relative poverty. By the standards of anywhere else in Sirius this meant very comfortably middle class and doing pretty well, but on planet New London it meant they were little more than a skid mark on the pants of society.
It was crammed in with several other houses which formed the foundation of the larger buildings above. These dwellings housed a number of the the bureaucratic horde that was New Londons work force. This force of unknown number and indefinite power comprised of BMMs many desk jockeys, Bowex's bureaucrats and Planetforms paperwork sifters. If you needed a Bretonian that dealt with mind numbingly dreary and dull paper work, this would have been the place to look. New London was to a bureaucrat, what Hamburg was to a mercenary.
BPA ships occasionally buzzed overhead, or there-about, forming a part of the continuous drone of moving traffic that mingled with the drumming of rain that constantly pounded a steady beat on the cobbled pavement.
James Naylor watched the sky through a grimy window and envied the constables that floated around up above in their Cavaliers. There wasnt any crime in this district so as to speak of, so their presence was a more or less a pointless exercise. Everyone here was just too damn Bretonian to consider committing anything as vulgar as crime, although adultery was a regional favourite - so long as it remained behind firmly closed doors, so allowing gossiping neighbors to invent conspiracies of dizzying complexity.
James backed away from the window, grumbling to himself before heading for the door. He was off to celebrate the eighteenth anniversary of his birth by getting slaughtered. It was also the day his father was threatening to turf him out if he didnt get a job. He snorted to himself and let his thoughts fall into what could be called order. All that rumbled back was, how very bloody Bretonian. He stalked off towards the door, pausing to appreciate the overcast sky for a moment as he lurched outside. Bloody weather.
A few minuets later he was at the local pub slouched on a barstool looking glumly at the wall. A barkeep wandered over and tapped the wooden counter near his arm to draw attention.
You going to buy anything sir? James scowled at him before turning to him with an air of self-importance.
Do you know who I am? He said contemptuously. The barkeep took a guess.
No?
Good. Ill have a whiskey. The barkeep shrugged and trundled off to pull his drink and serve another man that had wandered up. The drink got back to him a few seconds later.
He downed it, gagged and pulled a face, then reflecting thoughtfully drained a second to check on the first, followed by a third to act as moral support for its predecessor. And so the night continued. At closing time he was thrown out and after that all memory ceased.
James awoke in a gutter somewhere in the New Soho district with the mother, father and possibly foster children of all hangovers. He had a dull recollection of giving his number and address to someone the previous night. He hoped they were good looking. On second thoughts he hoped they were female.
Muzzily he patted down his pockets, searching for his wallet, instead, his questing hands wrapped around a small metallic object. He pulled it out, flipping it over in his hand. It was a small silvery disk with the Queen's head printed on one side. An etching on the other showed it to be one shilling. James briefly wondered where it had come from, before his hangover dragged him back to the present.
Shaking the thought out his head he caught a train home from the nearest terminal. It was ten minuets late. He found himself thinking, this wouldnt happen in Rheinland, before his fickle mind wandered back to the weather and how he despised it. At home his mother moaned at him followed by his father screaming at him and telling him to pack his bags. He ignored them both and staggered up to his room before collapsing onto his bed and falling asleep.
He awoke later to the sound of pounding on the door. His father stomped in looking red in the face and very annoyed. Not a nice sight when you had a headache that felt someone was putting an angle grinder to your cranium.
What the hell have you done now you stupid little child?! James attempted to turn over but only succeeded in getting an empty tea mug thrown at him.
Get up you lazy little sod! Mr. Naylor screamed, theres a bloody Bretonain Armed bloody Forces sergeant looking for you on the doorstep you bloody waste of space! What have you done now?! James eyes popped open as a revelation from the fog of last night drifted back to him. He remembered going into a little office just off the high street looking for somewhere to crash for the night but had instead found a smooth talking man in a funny uniform that had persuaded him to put his name on a form and give him some details. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but then everything does when youre drunk, like that mug of curry and marmite he had tried for example.
James rolled of his bed and crawled under it. Im not here he called out from underneath. Mr Naylor ranted for a moment more before storming out. James heard him moving down the stairs. Stomp stomp stomp, grumble, stomp. Slam. Then there was the muted sound of conversation, the words Yes the little waste of space is upstairs ringing painfully clear. At this point James saw only one option: to face his fears.
James complained to himself about the weather, the army and how whatever diety that was watching over him was being bloody cruel. He wandered aimlessly through the streets. He grumbled for a while longer before growing sick of his own internal bickering, getting out the mental whip and forcing his protesting thoughts briefly back to the topic at hand - the soldier he had inadvertently given his details to. Idly he tacked on a clause about wondering when it would be safe to go home onto the end of the mental to-do list.
His dad was going to go mental over the fact hed enlisted himself while under the influence, so he instead passed the time by going to a nearby cinema. Bold signs exclaimed the bright exiting news that an additional screen had been revealed For All You Customer's Entertainment And Viewing Pleasure!
The place had really gone to the dogs since the short time past he had been a child, a fact confirmed by the party of Lbertonian tourists bustling around the entrance and blurting out 'touristic' (if that is even a word) comments regarding the architecture and locals.
He tore his attention from the tourists and looked over the days film listings, briefly picking out an old favourite: 'Elderly Rising!! It was an old parody of an old film called Evil Rising. It wasn't particually good, but it would pass the time, so he bought a ticket and settled down.
The film was interrupted halfway through, the lights flicking on causing James, several starstruck lovers and a mad cat lady to blink irritably towards the ceiling and now open doors to the rear.
There was a yelp followed by a lanky young man sprinting past, jumping the front row of seats and bursting out through a fire escape.
There was another sound that sounded strangely like yerk as another man followed suit. James looked around. The recruiting sergeant, flanked by two other hardy looking RMPs was standing in the doorway scanning through the crowd. One of the starstruck lovers took off. James decided that discretion was the better of valour and snuck out.
A few minuets later he was slumped on a park bench in one of the less industrialised areas of the district trying to piece together a more comprehensive picture of the pervious nights festivities.
When he had left to go to the bar, he had... two-hundred and fifty credits, or there about. He raided his pockets and turned out a few chips. Taking five away to account for the film ticket and another ten for the train, that meant he must have spent... One-hundred and ninety credits on drinks. That explained a lot actually, although for the sake of his liver he hoped he had been sharing.
Setting various mechanisms inside him whirring into action he creaked to a standing position and walked off towards the Kings Head to look for last nights barkeeper. As the name suggested he was standing behind the bar. James wandered over, and upon seeing him the barkeeps face lit up.
Why hello sir! Have you come back with more credits? That was quite a spree you went on last night! He chuckled to himself, but probably laughing harder at him on the inside. James plopped down on a barstool again and fixed the man with a slightly paranoid eye.
Have there been any BAF types in here recently? The barkeep looked slightly worried for a second then shook his head. James dropped his head into his hands before looking up and adding, and how many drinks did I buy last night? A grin full of wonky teeth split across Barmans face.
Well sir, I lost count after the twelfth. Oh, and when some Rhinelanders came in you started a game you called Can I Hit them? which was based on how drunk you had to be before you couldnt hit them with ten credit chips anymore. I dont recall you hitting them at all sir, but it provided a class piece of entertainment for the rest of the lads! He gave James another wonky smile and winked at him. James moaned.
Do you recall when I left? The Barkeep looked thoughtful for a second.
About two in the morning when I threw you out. He shrugged and started to polish a mug, smearing grime from the towel across the glass.
James moaned again before ordering a drink with the remnants of his birthday money and stalking out. Having nothing better to do he cast his memory back and wondered how or even why he had woken up in New Soho. He had nothing better to do after all...
Halfway to the New Soho district he decided he needed caffeine, and that meant tea. Seeing as he was probably Kill on Sight at home, a cafe would have to do, preferably with a greasy fry-up to follow it up with. He found the perfect establishment a little down the road; The Leaking Bucket Cafe. The name was about right too - the place was full of holes and the rain never stopped.
A little later he was left poking a greasy fried egg, staring at a grey sausage that looked pretty uneatable and pondering over the health hazards of drinking a watery mug of tea that looked like the mad cat lady from the cinema had brewed it from a noxious concoction of water, used tea bags and cat urine.
He looked carefully at the chef behind the counter just to make sure it wasn't the mad cat lady from the cinema. Fears resolved he ate it.
Youre nicked my son! James spun around to see a BPA constable bearing down on him, a bushy moustache jutting out from under his nose. Weve been looking for you, you know! James made a noise that sounded like urr-ack!, before staggering off in the general direction of anywhere else in Sirius.
The constable put a hand on his shoulder and spun him round again. James screamed. I dont want to join the army! The constable looked slightly taken aback.
Im not making you join you daft sod. Whats got into you lad? James looked shell-shocked. Im picking you up because some Rhineland boys are doing you for assault and racial discrimination. Come with me please. He was propelled towards a waiting Cavalier. James made note of the way the 'tash jiggled and jumped around when the Officer spoke. It looked like someone had glued a Ferret to his face.
Inside the ship the constable gave him a slip of paper. That will be $50 please. James looked at him blankly. The fine... Sometime today please The Constable looked at him hopefully. Some rummaging later he produced the fifty credits in various quantities of change. He was now broke. The constable waved goodbye, turfed him out of the ship and promptly took off, leaving him on the pavement being rained on.
He tried to think why hed been heading for New Soho in the first place, when at the mention of the blasted place his line of thought was derailed and collided with another tangent of the same theme, causing any survivors to start complaining about why theyd rebuilt the slum in the first place. It was after all, easily the most degenerate place on the planet, or possibly even Bretonia. After a quick internal argument he revoked that statement, instead agreeing by committee that the most degenerate place in Bretonia was more than likely Planet Leeds.
He shook a metaphorical fist at the universe in general before going back to the safe old ground of complaining about the weather. After all the rain had gone from drizzling to drifting, which was worse because that was the kind of rain that got you soaked. He wouldnt have been surprised if it had started slat sooner or later.
So far he had managed to count nineteen varieties of New London rain and found reason to complain about all of them, save one which was a localised phenomenon known as dry rain.
He stomped of towards New Soho again and then realising how much alike his father he was becoming switched the stomp for a slouch.
He arrived, surveyed all that was before him then wished he hadnt. People said that New London was a gleaming jewel in the Bretonian crown. Those same people said that New London was the model of perfect human civilisation. For some reason those people also said it was the last bastion of the noble law. Those people had never been to New Soho which very obviously was exempt from any of these statements.
James skulked around looking for the curb he woken up on and found it after a little while of searching.
A man yelled at him from an alley in a garbled sentence containing a lot oh, 'eh, if you know what I mean, wink wink's'. James walked on.
A Clydesdale swooped down low and dropped a dishwasher out the sky which made a small crater in the road. James walked on.
A light flashed at him from an alley, which just happened to be attached to a doorway in a darkened alley. James walked in.
It was a small tavern, named the Queens Legs. Underneath the sign was a small piece of cardboard reading Open 24 hours James snickered and attempted to ignore the mild treason.
Inside was a bar-top, obviously, and behind it stood a giant. He must have been at least seven foot in height by James estimates. James smiled weakly. The barkeep returned the smile, admittedly in a toothless and threatening manner. James noticed a sign nailed to the counter, Most reputable pub in all of New Soho. He tried not to think what the other less reputable pubs were like around here.
Now that he was looking properly, the place was reminding him of a pub hed read about in a digi-book preserved from pre-Solarian exodus times. The place was called the Broken drum and later the Mended Drum. He shrugged the thought off.
Excuse me, but was I here last night?" The barkeep frowned at him.
There were lotsa people ere last night mate. James cringed. The barkeep continued. Yew mighta been ere though. I remember someone liek yew was sitting in that booth over there stealin peoples drinks. By all rights 'ee shoulda got the living crap beaten outa 'im, but people thought t'were too funny.
James rubbed his eyes and groaned again. That explained why hed ended up in the gutter... He sauntered out. Then something hit him over the back of the head. Hard.
James awoke to see a jittery young man leaning over him, with a slightly older man giving him a reprimanding.
Look you stupid bugger, you were supposed to dazzle him, not knock his bloody brains out! The younger man yammered, followed by stammering and a little bit of grovelling. The older man continued. I mean, what the hell am I going to do with you? Were looking for a quick credit, not a bloody murder enquiry! If youd killed him, look hes coming round now, if youd killed him wed have the BPA falling out of the bloody sky!
The younger man looked ashamed of himself. The older man prodded James with his foot. Come on mate get up, theres a good lad. Sorry about Number Two here, hes a bit overzealous. James struggled to his feet immediately wished he hadnt. It felt like his brains were about to leak out his right ear and form aquantainces with the pavement. Or at the very least pull some impressive acrobatics.
The older man brushed some wet mud of James coat. Right, now we know youre ok well be having your wallet. The man held is hand out. James gawped muzzily at him. Come on, we havent got all day. James continued to gawp at him.
What? The older man sighed, tapped the younger man on the shoulder and rolled his eyes.
Number Two, lets try again - but! Carefully this time! Number Two hit James over the head with the length of pipe again. He collapsed. As consciousness skulked off for a quick smoke he vaguely heard Number Two being yelled at.
James stirred before waking up, with yet another head splitting head-ache. His battered and abused mind tried to reassert control over itself, only to trip over its metaphorical feet and fall on its metaphorical face. He blinked and looked up. Dry. He blinked. Dry? Where was he? Dry! No rain? Inside? More fog cleared. His heart sank.
He was definitely inside, as the hard hospital cot beneath him and the institutional green paint on the walls attested to. What was worrying him most however, was the view out a barred windows and the words on the sign opposite him. Selly Oak Military Infirmary he read out loud. Out the window was the familiar pouring rain, as well as the unfamiliar cropped grass, and the even more unfamiliar military cadets marching up and down on top of it. Little did he know, he was now on the other side of Planet New London.
Theyd got him... He was in the army. He moaned and looked around desperately. Any ways out? He staggered to his feet, which then capriciously betrayed him and collapsed. Arms wind-milling he collapsed and smacked his head on the neighbouring cot.
He awoke for the second time and tried to stand up. His brain beat him to the draw and paralysed his legs. He cursed himself bitterly before clawing himself back up onto the bed and sinking into a pool of resentment. His head was hurting worse than ever. He put a hesitant hand to his hair and found three kiwi-fruit sized lumps. He groaned.
A door further down the infirmary swung open and a young man with an adams-apple half the size of his head appeared, a doctors coat several sizes too big flapping around him. As he walked his oversized glasses slipped off his nose and he nearly stepped on them. He picked them up and unperturbed continued towards James. James had a sudden premonition that being a patient was a bad thing at that particular moment in time and space.
The young man stopped at the foot of James bed and beamed happily, as if hed passed some kind of great trial by making it to him. The doctor pulled a small ID card out of his pocket and thrust it towards James grinning like an idiot.
James could make out some small letters reading Paul Smith, Northwood chief medical orderly. James shuddered involuntarily. If this guy was the chief medical orderly he didnt want to meet the rest of the circus.
The young doctor spoke, his voice slightly too optimistic, an optimism that could not be called infectious as such, but more a pain in the arse.
Why hello there! I hope youre feeling better old chap! The doctor beamed for a few more seconds. You know, you were awfully battered when we found you! Bruises and all sorts! Still, youll live wont you?
James attempted to groan something to the contrary but was immediately silenced by a second tidal wave of energetic speech. Ah, yes, you -are- James Naylor, though? James nodded slowly, not wanting to upset his distraught brain any further through sudden movement.
Ah yes, jolly good. You never can tell whos who these days can you old bean? James grimaced and shook his head just to humour him. He shut his eyes and cried on the inside. The Army must really be cruel, he found himself thinking, if they subjected their own wounded to this kind of torture. The doctor continued...
Ah yes, well I just need to take a blood sample and A-Ok you for Sorting, then you can jolly well get on with what you signed up for! Jolly good show! He rummaged around in his bag for a second before removing a huge needle. Give me your arm please! The beaming grin was back again, looking slightly manic.
James passed out. Paul looked at him in confusion, then realised he had got the wrong needle out. Putting the large one back in his bag he took a smaller syringe out and extracted some blood. Because he was in a good mood, he left a small boiled sweet on the bedside cabinet and a sticker reading, I was brave when I had my blood taken.
The doctor took out a second machine and got it to run a basic medical check-up. No problems at all. Paul put a few ticks on a list hed been given and bounced out again, humming the chorus of a song hed recently come to like.
Stand up straight you worthless maggot of a soldier! The Corporal screamed. James straightened up a little, but only because he didnt like showering in human saliva. A second man, a sergeant according to his rank slide, was looking at a clip board. James was weighed, the results recorded, reactions tested, results recorded and finally scanned so his metabolism and levels of physical fitness could be determined. The results were recorded. The Sergeant finished jotting things down on the clipboard marched out. He came back holding a hand-held computer and fed the results into it.
The Corporal was still glowering at James who had been issued a set of stand-up DPMs (sans a beret or regimental heraldry of course - he was wearing a 'crap-hat' as most soldiers called them) and was making a good attempt of slouching while standing to attention. The Corporal stomped over and screamed at him again, from an approximate distance of three inches.
James dropped and gave them thirty press-ups and moaned and complained to himself quietly. The Sergeant watched impassively. Even the pre-regimental training had improved his physical fitness to no end. And now, his regiment was being selected; the regiment he would spend at least the next four years with. To say he was apprehensive was an understatement. A bit like saying, the weather was a tad bad the day the Spanish Armada was destroyed.
The small computer beeped. James stopped and looked up in mid-press up, only to be stepped on by The Corporal. Once finished, James stood up and stood at ease. There was a small, gleeful but terrifyingly malicious smile plastered across The Sergeants face. This scared James badly - The Sergeant had up until that point show a detachment from his emotions that made an android look like an ecstatic clown, so that single trace of emotion, that single expression of glee sent a chill down James spine.