Jack and the Beanstalk [SF YA]

CHAPTER FOUR - Magic Beans - Part 1

With an hour left I headed for the Inter-Continental Rocket port, feeling invincible, my own fate and many others in my hands. Somehow this had a very restoring effect. Everything up till now had just been preparation. For once in my life I had a purpose, something to live for besides life itself.

The trip would have taken 15 minutes on a normal day, but Mike and Brian had both emphasized secrecy so I decided to take the long way. The I-Con port lay to the east of London, as far away from Heathrow Airport as possible. I entered the underground, its quiet tunnels often calmed my mood. After today I didn't plan on seeing them again. I hiked quickly, not so fast that I'd arrive at the next station out of breath, but briskly enough that my blood flowed. Half a kilometer down the tunnel a sound stopped me--footsteps behind me? I ducked behind a power box and waited. One minute. Two minutes. Nothing. I chuckled. This cloak and dagger stuff must be working on my imagination. I reached the next stop and ducked into an air access vent that lead to the surface. I climbed, trying not to hurry, but the excitement of the day grew.

When I reached street level I listened carefully at the grille that served as a doorway. Hearing nothing, I flipped a lever Brian had installed years before. The grille swung up and out. I followed and it closed behind me. I spun in a circle, surveying the alley. No one.

Leaving the alley I sauntered toward the nearest speedwalk half a block away. The speedwalk, crowded this close to supper time, provided me with ample cover. But something, a tingle on the back of my neck, recalled my earlier feelings of being followed. I glanced back, my gaze sweeping the lanes, as I stepped to a slower track. I recognized no one. A few, a bum in rags, a violently dressed young punk, and a man in a suit, didn't appreciate my gaze and glared back. Not likely behavior for a tail. I'd tailed people for Brian in my younger years, but he'd have no reason to have me tailed.

--Relax, Jack. Don't you trust anyone?

(Not when you've been burned like I have.)

Transferring back to the fast lane I increased my stride. Forget stealth, I thought. I simply want to be there. The sense that someone watched me dissipated as I reached the I-Con fields.

Brian had already purchased my ticket, so I proceeded directly to the launch area. There she sat--the Robert Goddard. I mounted the ramp to the I-Con, admiring the graceful curves of her minimal wing surfaces. It reminded me of paper airplanes from my childhood--a weight on the front and just enough wing surface to keep it headed in the direction thrown.

Once aboard, the steward strapped me, none to gently, into a chair and told me not to leave my seat. The shipboard offering of reading material lacked substance, so I flipped on the screen to video and scanned till I found an interactive adventure cartoon. It turned out to be somewhat more exciting than a literature exam.

The countdown commenced; to my surprise, I found myself holding my breath. A low rumble announced the initial ignition, I waited, my heart beating fast, for the force that would shove me into the seat. It never came. The boost disappointed me; it lacked even the power of circus sideshow rides I've been on. The feel of several gees would have to wait; the I-Cons remain as all that is left of the once-booming rocket trade. The Skyhooks put the "riding a bullet to orbit" launches out of business. Not for the first time, I thought that many great things are lost for purely economical reasons. I glanced around noting the other passengers' indifference to the ride. 

On arrival at the Payan I-Con Fields young uniformed guards efficiently hustled us onto a bullet train that unceremoniously deposited us in the middle of the world's largest trading center, 44 seconds later.

Seems like a waste as the train can't even get up to top speed in that distance. Guess they figure if they drop the tourists in the market they'll spend most of their money before they can find a hotel.

Singapore had once been the name of the city that had also become the name of the country. Now the whole country was the city. Between the I-Con landing fields, the skyhook platform, the still-functioning airport and the thriving seagoing trade, it had grown into the world's biggest metropolis. The city, built in tiers, imported earth for each layer and seeded it with various semi-native plant life. Though few of the people ever go up to the top of the city and the sun there are a profusion of green parks available to them.

When we reached the marketplace, the bullet train doors opened and a recorded voice announced, "Departure in thirty seconds." I let myself be shoved out the doors. Smells of assorted spices assailed my nose while the hum of many languages haunted my ears. The populous ebbed and flowed in front of me. A bit too crowded for my liking. And I had thought of London as large. The stalk, this modern Tower of Babel, built backwards from the stars down to the Earth, would finally carry the common people to the heavens.

Just as in London, automobiles had been outlawed in the early years of the century, so the streets became gigantic speedwalks, floating their sea of humanity from one side of the city to the other. I stepped onto the leading edge and tried to get my bearings. People carried belongings on their heads as well as hats of all sorts and sizes. Many people towered over my average stature without having anything on their heads. I pulled my IDs from my jump-bag and slid them into my inside jacket pocket. I sealed the jacket despite the heat and with a resigned shrug waded into the waves of people.

Holographic directional signs floated overhead, multi-colored, detailed pictographs showed destinations. As I passed under the first one I spied the skyhook compound pict, a large-based stalk disappearing into the clouds.

They built the Singapore stalk on the highest point on the island, a gigantic granitic hill called Bukit Timah Peak, so finding the compound proved easy. Much more easy than becoming accustomed to the incredible mass of humanity. The quantity of people in the streets made London seem like a backwoods village. By the time I arrived at the compound fences I'd reached sensory overload. Stepping back out into the simple sun I opened my jacket and breathed a few deep breaths of welcome relief. The shadow of the stalk lay off to my right bisecting the compound fence.

Rumpelstiltskin may have spun straw into gold, but that seemed obvious compared to the people who spun simple sand into glass thread so fine as to be invisible. Perhaps the emperor's new clothes could have been made of such a cloth. Threads woven together created a material so strong, and so beautiful that I could do little except stare at the sun dancing off the stalk, creating rainbows and opalescent reflections.

When my mind kicked back in I surveyed the compound. It looked deserted; I didn't see any guards. Protecting the stalk seems wasteful, sort of like guarding Mt. Everest. With the building of their first Skyhook on Jarvis Island in the Pacific Ocean, the Japanese showed its' safety from sabotage. They even exploded a dynamite bomb equal to a pony-sized nuke inside the stalk. It left a hole where it found the path of least resistance, and produced some beautiful harmonics that the sensors on the unmanned station above received.

The grass seemed clean and undisturbed so I decided a nap would be nice. Finding a shady spot behind a power transformer and out of the view of anyone near the stalk, I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. It felt good to relax, but rest was nowhere near. I went over the plans in my head. Simple. Yeah, simple as pi.