BEYOND THE LOOKING-GLASS: Book One in the BEYOND Series by Gordon Rothwell

ONE
     
    The aerobus lurched through the morning air, as the driver made sure to hit each and every thermal as he careened forward. Damned abie , Kellen Marlowe thought. They should have scrapped these relics years ago.
    From his window seat, Kellen looked up from the bus lane to the commuter lane looming just above him. It was clogged with a flock of affluent office workers flying through the air to jobs in 200-story glass monoliths downtown.
    He couldn’t get a clear look at the people soaring in the lane above. But he could see them in his mind’s eye. They’d be all decked out in their skintight, ermine-lined flying togs. Checking the morning news on their holographic goggles. And hitting their belt- hooked propulsion buttons to cut off any other commuter blocking their way. What a bunch of elitist idiots. If I had a shotgun I’d fire off a blast and scatter them like cornfield crows.
    Kellen switched his gaze to the horizon. Storm clouds were gathering there that
    were almost as dark as his mood.
    He felt a sudden sharp jab in his arm. A raspy voice bellowed at him.
    “Hey, man, don’t I know you?”
    He turned his head to see a giant hulk of a man sitting beside him. The mug had a face not even a mother could love. His bushy, unruly hair was slicked back with sweat and cheap pomade. He had an ugly red welt where his left eye used to be. And he hadn’t bothered to cover it with a patch. The joker sported a three or four day old stubble beard. And his grey uniform was severely rumpled and skunkish.
    “What?” Kellen asked.
    “Yeah. I remember you. Those sea dogs on Pequod Two thought you was something special ‘cause you’d been on TV. They all called you The Prophet. I was one of them cons manning the cleansing vats, while you and those other dogs was having fun diving for sunken treasure. That’s how I lost this here eye. Hydrochloric acid splashed up in my kisser. And it was so long eyeball.”
    The man stared at Kellen with his one good eye. It was creepy.
    “Don’t you know me? Name’s Jake Cardiff.”
    Cardiff. Now he remembered. He wasn’t like the others on the Pequod. Not an author, poet, professor or politician. Jake was a street thug. A hired leg-breaker. And he must have flunked an assignment and got sent to sea on the next prison ship leaving Port Stockton. Cardiff was nobody’s pal.
    “Sorry,” Kellen replied. ”I don’t seem to recall you.”
    “I’m Jake. We were both on that old seagoing prison bucket that was salvaging steel plates off ships at the bottom of San Pedro harbor. And computer chips and copper wiring from all them sunken high rises on Wilshire Boulevard. It was right after the big “Crush and Gush” of Oh-Four. Man, I thought them quakes and tsunamis would never stop. Take another gander at this mug. I’m good old Jake.”
    Kellen turned his face back to the window, hoping good old Jake would get the hint. It didn’t work. The ex-con kept yakking.
    “Got my release three weeks back. After all I done for them guards during each voyage out, they still made me serve all my time. That’s gratitude for you. I remember you got your sentence cut to practically nothing. You must’a had some slick lawyer to pull off that trick.”
    Kellen didn’t respond.
    “My parole officer got me this here job. How is it?”
    “You may wish you were back giving acid baths.”
    “Aw, come on. They say it’s a cinch. Because I got only one good eye, they assigned me to the trash burners. Sounds like fun. I love destroying stuff. What they got you doing, sport?”
    “I’ve got two good eyes. So they made me a reader and a sorter.”
    “Lucky stiff. A desk job. You won’t get fallen arches.” He ran his meaty paw through his slicked back hair and stared at Kellen.
    Kellen kept peering out the bus window, hoping the guy would take the hint. But after a long silence, Cardiff wriggled in his seat, and leaned over. “For a guy who made his living talking to folks on the boob-tube