The desert sun shone fiercely in the midday sky as James Island made his way through the bustling crowds. The market heaved with the calls of merchants vying for the attention of passing people. With shouts of bargains, arguments and laughter, the languages and tonal range of the Sab Sina Market's patrons roared as one glorious mess.

Hot, spicy aromas bombarded James as he passed a stall with hanging meats. The short, unkempt woman behind the counter called out to anyone who neared, spouting offers in several dialects. James tried to mentally name all the animals he could see hanging, knowing all but two of them. He had gotten better.

A soft breeze thankfully cooled the light sweat on his face. It had taken him a while to adjust to the persistent heat that smothered the city of Tyken Town, and he often wondered if his discomfort was his body's way of telling him it wasn't accustomed to such heat. But by the time he figured that out it would be snowing.

James wondered why Tam, his foreman, had asked him to collect supplies on such a chaotic day. But if there was one thing James had learned in his time working for Tam the Man, it was how to follow orders, however insignificant they seemed. This was the least James could do for the man, after Tam had taken him in, given him a job and a place to live, when James had nowhere else to go.

A group of men standing by an apothecary stall caught his eye. Dressed in light weather-worn armours and loose fitting clothes held tight with thick straps, their large non-sheathed swords hung low from their belts. Possibly on their way to an exciting, dangerous and important mission. It troubled James to see people with weapons so casually worn. What kind of people would need their swords in a marketplace? Hunters, soldiers, mercenaries, he guessed, as they didn't look like any lawmen he'd ever seen, especially as they weren't carrying rifles.

Pushing his way to the edge of the crowd on one side of the market, James gave himself more room to move. He ran a hand through the sweaty underside of one of his toughlets, the metal bands of compartments that stored various tools and equipment along his forearms, letting the air cool his hot arms.

He could now see the dull orange sign of his destination. The words Erry's Electrics flickered in the distance.

Wading through the rowdy crowd outside, James entered the small confines of the store.

Roughly square shaped with a domed ceiling, the dim store had a dusty smell that reminded him of rusting electronics. While they were mostly for display, one of the defunct mechs—a blocky humanoid shape with large shoulders and thin arms and legs—lay in the corner, hollow eyes watching the customers in its inactive bliss. James had often wondered if there were security cameras within the eye sockets.

The owner of the store was a wiry gangly man with strong veiny forearms and long dirty hair, named Erry Boscida, whose dark-red skin gave away his Canarrian heritage.

James browsed the shelves while Erry finished with a customer. The cool air in the store felt refreshing on his face and armpits, making him realise just how hot he had been. He picked up a handful of power screws—the ones he kept running low on—from a shelf container and continued to peruse.

A low roar came from a monitor in the corner. James guessed it was showing a sport of some kind, though its volume, the only sound in the store besides the air unit and Erry and his departing customer, was too low to determine which.

"What'll it be?" Erry's gravelly voice croaked as he approached.

"Hi, Erry. I'm here for Tam's order. Tam Borral?"

The store owner's eyes narrowed. "That's right. You're one of Tam's. 'Sai, how goes it?"

Been coming here for over a year now, and he still doesn't recognise me. "Going fine, Erry," James nodded, smiling. "How's business?"

Erry Boscida shrugged and frowned. "What can I tell ya? If it ain't the Judges raising my prices, it's these raal-brained know-nothing freshlings opening up their cheap hami's all over the place. And don't expect them to help when you go running back to them with a burnt-out power coupling or synthetic drive-core. If they're even still there when you go back." He grunted as he snatched a hammer off a shelf and wiped it with a faded cloth.

"So same old, then," James said, familiar with Erry's rants.

Erry shook his head dismissively, wiping the vines of loose hair from his face. "You kids..." He replaced the hammer. "So I've got your order back here."

He brought out a small sack from behind the counter, which made a loud clanking sound as it dropped onto the desk.

"And these power screws," James said, raising them. Erry nodded without looking as he scribbled on a small pad, his extra-long little finger nail scraping on the paper.

Erry's hand shook as he scribbled; a sign of old age, although James knew from the dark splotches on the backs of his hands that it meant something else. Likely a form of Hoodro's, the skin condition that could be fatal if left untreated for long periods, common among some Canarrians and Canthians. James hoped it was a mild case, as he didn't want to think of Erry as being ill or in pain, despite the man's crude exterior. Tam's father had a similar condition, although his was a strong case and he'd had to visit the specialist doctors in VictoryCity on several occasions.

James inserted the stubby screws into a compartment on one of his toughlets. The clanging screws rang in the quiet store until he clasped the partition shut and rendered them soundless.

The hum of the corner monitor grew as a crowd roared with the fuzzy sounds of celebratory trumpets. At this Erry shot a fist in the air, scraggy hair flapping as he looked up at the monitor.

"Aaooooh! There it is!" he declared. "There it is, sonny. That Calvin Fisskle does it every time. My money were on him from the start, I tell ya. Who'd you have?"

James searched for the words, debating how to tell Erry he didn't know what he was talking about, but found that none came, and so ended up just looking at the old man awkwardly.

Erry was taken aback. "You do watch 'em, don't ya? Just coz they don't show 'em on the major channels here in town don't mean you can't find a cast to see 'em on."

"I ain't familiar with this one," James admitted.

Erry frowned, looking at him incredulously. "What you mean? How can you miss 'em? Ain't no one never seen a Jump Race before."

"Well I ain't from around here, remember?" For once James had a good reason for not knowing something, as Erry knew he had moved to the city only two years earlier.

"But still, sonny. Just where'd you come from that you ain't never heard of a Jump Race?"

"Well... far from here." James was the one to frown now.

Erry considered him for a moment, and nodded. "I see. You're an itchy one, young man. You know that? Doda knows, sometimes I wonder just what you know."

James gave a weak smile. He picked up the B-splinters and dropped them into the sack with the rest of the tools. "So do I."

He thanked Erry and left the electrical store, not looking back.

A rumble thundered above as a shuttle pod crossed the bridge outside the store, casting animated shadows for a moment as James joined the crowd. Pushing his way through, he now saw they were watching a large screen hanging from the bridge, showing the race that had just finished.

He intended to make his stop back at the construction site brief, wanting nothing more than to dive into his current read, The Legendary Rise of Canaan, a historical book with particular emphasis on the various myths and legends of Carnan.

***

The framework of the parking station tower currently stood at four of its intended five levels. Dozens of workers went about their business as James approached the construction site. A motorised drill rang in the afternoon air over the knocks and buzzes of various equipment at work. He felt a warm sense of comfort and familiarity as he walked through the site.

Motors whirred as a stomping worker mech moved near a stack of concrete slabs. Its large blocky arms loaded the slabs onto a loading trolley, the eye bulbs on its small head flashing its status. James held his gaze a moment, still uncertain of the few robots they had labouring on sites. He had little interaction with mechs so far, although he felt a strange distrust for them almost instantly. Perhaps it was the uncertainty of what went on in their heads. James thought it strange that an entity could exist for a specific task and not have any other purpose. He considered them mindless slaves, and was troubled by the thought.

As he looked around, wondering what to do with the sack, Helena Jositt rounded the building and approached the work station ahead of him. The contract architect carried coloured binders on top of the hefty design booklet that was always with her. She paused, her eyes glazed for a second before blinking and shaking her head.

"Oh, hi, sorry, didn't see you there. My mind's all over the place. I thought: who's this guy now? Anyway, how's it, James?" She grinned ear to ear, showing a mouthful of teeth as she placed the binders on the desk. There was a slight gravely undertone to her light voice, a sign of tiredness.

"Hey, Helena," James responded. "Tam's out for the day, right?" He knew the foreman was away, although he asked the question as an easy route of conversation, which was preferable to any awkward silences or more personal talk. Although right then he knew he should have begun with a pleasantry instead of getting straight to business.

"Right, he's overseeing the set-up of the big fancy new site in First Hold."

She smiled as she rubbed her hands together, trying to remove a patch of ink from a palm. Her tanned heart-shape face gleamed with a light sheen, thin lines under her heavily lidded brown eyes.

James was secretly glad Helena had been overworked lately, as it meant she was more likely to spend time on site, and he enjoyed her company whenever they happened to meet.

"So what're you up to?" she asked, adjusting the band holding up her wavy sun-dried hair. "Or are you just feeling the wind?"

"Just dropping off a supply order for tomorrow," James said, holding up the small sack. "Tam didn't mention where he wanted them."

Helena nodded dismissively, pressing her hands against her lower back and letting out a sigh. James noticed the widening gap between the buttons of her white blouse as she stretched and decided to look away before he was caught looking. "Give 'em here," she said, extending a hand. "I can drop them in Tam's office before I head out tonight."

He brought the sack up, and then held his hand back, raising an eyebrow. "I dunno about that, handing over sensitive Rimas materials to a contractor. What would Old Man Rimas say if these ended up on a black cast or in the high markets in Rio?"

Helena showed another big toothy smile. "He'd probably say as much as he has to say about anything else. How do you know I wouldn't keep them for myself to use in the construction of my own spacecraft, which I can make my escape in?"

James smiled too, happy his playful joke was reciprocated. "A spacecraft out of a few screws, bolts, and wedges? That'll be a nice trick. I could use your services sometime."

She raised a thick eyebrow. "You couldn't afford me." Although her voice was still pleasant, her smile had lessened considerably, and she now looked away.

James reeled internally, having hoped for a better response to his attempt at flirting. "But I guess I can afford to take the risk," he told her, and handed her the supplies.

She placed the sack on the work station and picked up a cup of juice, nearly spilling the contents as she did so. "Don't worry, you can trust me." She had to raise her voice at the end as an electric saw came to life somewhere further away, the whirring motor drowning out her last words. Her southern accent was more prominent when she shouted. James tried to remember where Helena said she had come from. Somewhere south of Medropon, around Corefield or Memassi. One of the Silver Sands regions, anyhow.

When the saw stopped, James took a small step away and said, "Good to know. I'll leave you to it; looks like you've got plenty to get through." He nodded toward the workstation.

"Aye," she said with a loud sigh. "You know me, stuck to this place while they need me." She placed the cup down carefully with both hands and picked up one of the coloured binders. James took this as a sign she was done talking.

"Enjoy your juice," he said, and then wondered why he had said it, wishing he had said something better.

"Thanks," Helena said as she sat down, pulling blueprints from the binder. "Enjoy your work."

He nodded and left her, not wanting to explain he had the rest of the day off. He had realised a while ago that, having spent so much time with his own company, he shared little details about his activities with others. There was also a danger of sharing too much with other people. Perhaps he preferred talking to people like Helena who weren't often around, someone he could keep within the boundaries of small talk and none of the deeper getting-to-know-you talk.

He found his personal chest along the corner wall of the communal space, and collected his book from within it. Looking over the various mythological beings depicted on the cover, he felt the warm and reassuring feeling of spending the rest of the day stuck in its pages.

He left the construction site thinking he would make the most of his half-day off, not knowing his life was about to change forever.

[Continued in Part Two]