Andy inspected the can. DESPERATION PERSPIRATION was written on it in a loud font. There was an image of a bear roaring. "Wow, cool."
"Stay safe," Clara said, her voice faltering a touch.
"Nothing to worry about." Andy gave her the thumbs-up and closed the door behind him. He walked toward the town's rear, where the settlement stooped at the mountain's base. Passing through the marketplace, Andy glanced into the boots of lorries, cars, and wagons, ignoring the traders trying to coax him closer to their wares. His money was only good for one thing tonight. The smell of ale lured him toward a tavern, but he veered away. He wouldn't be welcome in any pub under the sky after the gunfight earlier. The Underbelly was the only place he could get a drink.
Sunlight gleamed above the satellite tower on the mountain's peak like a giant heavenly arrow pointing down into hell. At the mountain's base, carved into the rock, was a tunnel large enough to slide a stack of tanks through. The tunnel's maw was reinforced with a steel rim, like the barrel of a massive cannon. Banners clung to the roof like loose teeth, waving in the wind. Some kids kicked a ball against the rock face, playing in the chalk. A drunk stumbled out of the tunnel and fell to the ground. The onlookers didn't seem to notice, nor did they bother Andy as he passed them into the candlelit throat of the Underbelly.
The tunnel inside was ribbed with a hard plastic material, like the rough throat of some massive beast. The sound of chatter and music echoed through the cavern, merged and confused. It washed over Andy in waves. The tunnel's huge railway track had been dug out and repurposed years ago, replaced with wooden walkways. On either side of the tunnel's interior, shacks rose three stories high to the roof. Bridges spanned above his head. Women in corsets and colorful makeup waved to passersby from bridges and balconies. Men hooted at them, raising beer-bottle salutes.
A child ran up to Andy, holding his hands out begging. "Spare a spike, mister?"
Andy sighed. He knew the score—behind every child beggar was an old ringleader, banking on the charity they earned. Andy gazed into the shadowy eaves of a nearby shack. Two men slumped in rickety chairs, watching the street impassively. It could be them, or it might not. What did it matter? Andy was staying out of trouble tonight, not ridding the streets of scum. If he did that in the Underbelly, there'd be nothing left. Not even him.
"Sorry mate." Andy patted the kid on the head, turning to leave.
"Please mister." The boy grabbed the tail of his leather jacket. Andy snatched his wrist and breathed sharply through his nose, eyes wide with anger. But the boy was small, and frankly, just trying to get by. He and Clara had been the same once, scrounging what dregs they could. The boy looked scared. Andy softened his grip and bent in close.
"Listen kid, I've got something you can keep for yourself."
"What?" he said, and though he shrank away, his eyes were bright and curious.
"Advice." Andy winked, putting his arm around the kid and leading him off toward the nearest bar. "Learn how to kill for yourself, 'cause soon, you won't be small anymore, you'll be done with begging, and someone will try to use you for something else… They'll work you to death in the mines or on farms, or get you in a gang to do dirty work." Andy unscrewed his hip flask and took a swig. "Nah. That's not a way to live. Learn to kill for yourself, kid. That's the only way to be free."
Andy offered the flask to the boy. He took it in both hands and sniffed the cap, scrunching his face up in disgust. "Eww."
Andy snorted, taking back his flask. "Suit yourself."
Andy ventured deeper into the tunnel, beyond where the light from outside could penetrate, until only the light of lanterns pierced the shadows. He stopped at every boozer along the way, trading credits for whatever the strongest thing they had was, and a pint of beer to chase it.
Alert: Contaminants detected, his AI chimed. Tolerance activated.
"Good luck," Andy replied. He handed the barman the engraved bolt he carried. It was a specific shape and size, scavenged from the railway that once ran through the settlement and the countryside beyond. All Andy knew was that he could trade it for booze.
"What was that?" the barman asked.
"Cheers," Andy raised the wooden mug and drank.
After the sixth bar, Andy swayed down the track. By the tenth, he was stupefied. His journey derailed into an alcove off the central tunnel. He lounged in a canvas hammock, draped in cloth and shadows, listening to the symphony of the Underbelly, sipping pure spirit from a corked, coconut-shaped bottle. The air was damp and still. He closed his eyes and let the booze sink in. With it came flashes of the day. The nightmare he'd had before recalibration in the AMC chamber. He couldn't remember the specifics, nor did he want to. It felt like there was something his subconscious was trying to tell him—warn him about. Something deeper than the AI voices, deeper than his DNA. Andy shivered. He didn't want to know.
"Why don't we have that sort of technology?" The voice reached Andy, growing louder as the speaker approached. Two people entered his little alcove and took up hammocks at the opposite side. The old lady came out with two coconut shell drinks—seemingly the only thing they served here.
"No one does. It's not real."
"It's got to be a little bit real."
Andy peered out of his cocoon. The light in the alcove was dim, but his eyes were well adjusted. The speaker was a young man with curly hair, tall and skinny like Andy. His companion was a bulldog of a man, short and muscular with a buzzcut.
"Why do you suppose that?" the man with the buzzcut swigged his drink.