Jack and the Beanstalk [SF YA]

CHAPTER ONE - Vinegar and Brown Paper - Part I

I glanced down from my tightrope perch at the speedwalk below and the people going about their business like ants, oblivious to my presence. A wrenching sound ripped under my feet and the conduit separated from the support wires. I fell, grabbing wildly, and caught the sagging power tube. It creaked under my weight and the joints separated. Hand over hand, I pulled myself across the gap. The brick Underground station loomed overhead, but the safety of its wall seemed to grow more distant as I approached. Six meters. Five. Crack! In between my hands the joint broke loose and the wires showered me with sparks. Pinpoints of fire splashed in front of my face; I closed my eyes. Reaching forward, I grabbed the conduit in exchange for the live wires. Pain like hundreds of needles pocked my exposed skin. My hands raced above me as my body swung, reaching, stretching for the wall ahead. I opened my eyes and the conduit snapped, flinging me down toward the wall. It approached slowly or perhaps my time sense slowed.

(Hang on tight, or they'll have to sweep you off the tracks.)

--What about the electricity arcing across my feet?

The wall and I connected. My head exploded in pain. Sparks shot around my legs like a Guy Fawkes celebration. I pulled myself up the remains of the conduit. Normally, with the power line in place, if one stood where it entered the wall, the short rim of a tube could be reached. Now, the tube stuck out a meter and a half up the wall with nothing but bricks to grab onto underneath it. I kicked off my shoes and searched the wall for cracks to wedge my toes in. It took a long time for the shoes to hit, much too long. My arms screamed in pain, not accustomed to this type of exertion. I found toe holds and relaxed my grip on the conduit shaking out one arm at a time while the other held on for dear life.

(You're going to have to climb the brick wall.)

--What? Are you crazy?

(Who's talking to himself? You have any bright ideas?)

I didn't. My feet felt a bit toasty because of the sparking cable. Taking a deep breath, I reached up the wall, feeling painstakingly between the bricks. My fingers fit into a spot; I tugged firmly; the brick held. Letting go with the other hand I found a matching crack. Mortar dust rained down, stinging my eyes, as I dug in deeper with my fingers. I moved my feet one by one into new spaces and gingerly pulled myself up the wall. Hand... foot... hand... foot... repeat. Again I moved upward, one limb at a time. My fingers, strong from working leather, held, but my biceps burned as fatigue set the muscles on fire.

How ironic. To die on one's birthday. It happened to be my 24th. All from a stupid stunt to prove that I could still do what I'd done at 16. Oh, hell.

The tube appeared close enough to grab, but I couldn't chance missing it. A pounding sound caught my attention. After a moment I realized it wasn't my racing heart. A young woman's face popped out the tube, angry, followed by a needle gun.

"Who are you? You've knocked out our power."

"Help me." I pleaded. "The conduit broke."

"What are you doing here? Who are you?" she demanded.

"Name's Jax." Suddenly I was 16 years old again, and I didn't like her attitude. "Now, help me up."

"Who are you?"

"Help me! I ran these tracks before you were out of diapers."

Her face disappeared.

(Great going, Jack, now you've pissed her off.)

--Shut up. I'm trying to concentrate.

So much for help. I picked handholds and hauled my exhausted body closer. I could reach the tube. First my left hand, then my right held the rim, but my grip faltered. My feet clawed at the brick wall as I slipped downward. So it would end here. I'd returned to my childhood haunts to die. My feet swung free; my fingers slid down off the tube's rim, knuckle by knuckle. I could feel vibrations through the edge of the tube--more feet pounding.

Two faces, the girl from before and another of unrecognizable gender, popped out the tube. Oh, she'd brought a friend to watch me die. How nice.

Their arms grabbed mine, their bodies sprawling. My fingers snapped off the edge as they caught my sleeves, grasping at my hands. I couldn't pull myself up. They tugged and heaved getting my arms over the edge. Another figure appeared. I felt a hand grab the waist of my pants and pull me in. My stomach scraped across the tube's edge, and I collapsed into its curve. My arms lay like dead weight inderneath me, as my lungs labored to revive me.

A great booming laugh broke over the waves of heaving breaths. "Jax, you always seem to do things the hard way."

Pushing with my arms and head, I strove to roll over to see who laughed at me. I hate people laughing at me and wanted to kill whoever found mirth at my expense, but my body refused to cooperate with my rage. Arms helped me to sit up. My eyes followed up the arms to find a grinning blond face, Brian Seneca, my American friend. The anger disappeared. A few years older than me, I'd leaned on Brian as a connection to my American parents. I'd been orphaned in the United States and brought to the U.K. at age seven. He'd helped me to adjust during those difficult years of adolescence. He'd also taught me a bit about the gray area of criminal activity. "Brian, am I ever glad to see you."

"Nobody's used this entrance in years. You're lucky I was around. I heard "Jax" and knew it had to be you. Catch your breath and come down to my office, we'll have a beer and you can tell me what you've been up to."

He led me to an office at speedwalk level. The door to the outside announced in gilt lettering: Brian Seneca Printing Unlimited. The door had a brass on wood plaque with the same message. I eyed Brian quizzically.

He smirked as he opened the door and gestured me inside. "No, I haven't gone totally legit, but I am now an official citizen who pays taxes, reaps great benefits from the crown, etcetera. Who'd've thought anyone would want hand printed papers in this day and age."

I couldn't understand the appeal of hand-produced products either, but making leather gloves with two hundred year old machines kept me off the streets.

He ushered me to a warm-brown leather chair, which I sank gratefully into.

"What are you so down in the mouth about, Jax? That adrenaline rush shouldn't wear off for a couple hours. You want a Guinness?"

I nodded, realizing that I hadn't stopped for lunch. "You have some food to go with it?"

"I'll see if my, uh... assistant can find something. Kaz?" He raised his voice only slightly and a voice answered.

"Yeah, boss?" A young voice, young enough to have no gender differentiation, replied.

"Find us some pub grub, okay?"

"Gotcha." The archaic American slang in a cockney accent amused my ear.

"Oh, and some shoes."

"Can I get my own back? They're down on the tracks."

"And get his shoes off the track under the conduit."

"Right."

Brian turned back to me. "Nice kid, sort of reminds me of you but without your respect for authority," he said sarcastically. He grabbed two bottles of Guinness Stout out of a cupboard and glasses off the shelf. "Here's the real reason I came to England." He opened both and carefully poured the thick near-black liquid into the pint glasses.

Neither of us spoke, but he eyed me inquisitively. I didn't miss the significance of the moment. For the first time in my life he eyed me as an equal, not as some still-wet behind the ears infant. It felt good.

"I was thinking about you this morning, Jax. Today's your birthday. 24, right?"

"Yeah, and what a day. It all started last Friday, a day as bland as every other day. At least as unexciting as everyday had been since I'd had my last run-in with the law.

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