Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Zennah was a snowflake. She was dressed in white from top to toe - white canvas combat boots, baggy white trousers, padded white tunic, and her cropped hair, naturally black, bleached blonde. It was the uniform of The Legion Of Light. These were the clothes she had chosen to die in.

     She was on the roof of The Merridian Hotel, one of the highest buildings in commercial district of Noatun City. She had never been up this high before, and despite the eternal clutter of buildings around her, it was a breathtaking and beautiful view. As she considered her position she took in the scenery, thinking first time, last time. To the east, her left, she could see the huge artificial lakes gleaming like mirrors against the flat lands and sprawling villages placed neatly around the manicured shores. The water was shimmers of quicksilver, reflecting the brightness of the sun which seared above like a molten coin. Solar panels flashed on the red roofs of the large houses out there. That was the area where the wealthy and the privileged lived; the areas where ordinary city dwellers needed special permits just to travel to work. Her own home was there, in the affluent district of Woodside, nestling in one of those patches of villas set alongside the middle lake. She had come from there this morning, travelling in on The Network, her ID bracelet clearing her without fuss at every security point. Her father was high up in The party network - she had credit and clearance to take her anywhere she chose in the whole wide city.

     The sunlight was dazzling. Zennah raised a hand and momentarily shaded her eyes, wishing that she had thought to put on a sun visor. Further in toward this central finance and leisure district, sprawling around in all directions, she could now see the coded habitation districts - the zones. The ordinary citizens lived and died in these, often never leaving them from one year to the next. From up on the Merridean the zones looked quite tame and it was hard to imagine they were teeming and festering with struggling lives. The riff-raff, the dross, the derelicts and cattle - that's what her father had told her the districts were for. Security fences and laser ditches zigzagged visibly between zones, keeping people in, or out, according to their credit and party status. Some zones, the worst areas down by the old, drained out river confluence, were little more than prison camps - kilometre upon kilo metre of shacks and shanties, fenced in without even a Network terminal to let people in or out. Away behind the elevator head, inland, the sky was hazed with yellow mist, white chimneys and factories of the industrial complexes there spewing up fumes. She knew that through that haze were mountains, beyond them other huge cities even bigger than Noatun. But of them, even from the top of The Merridian, she could see nothing.

     'Do you believe you can fly?' she said.

     'I know I can't fly, miss. Except in an aircraft or helicopter, if that's what you mean.’

     'No, I mean just you. No technology.’

     'I don't think so, miss.’

     'But not even if you focus, totally; mind, body and spirit all focussed. It's said that some humans used to fly like that.’

     'I believe that's in story books, miss. I wouldn't want to try it myself.’

     She was speaking with the bell-hop; the Meridian lift attendant who she had brought to the roof. Zennah was only fifteen but he was smaller than her, maybe about forty, and she could feel by her grip on his flabby arm that she was the stronger of the two. His red, furrowed face was shining with sweat and he stank of onions. His red Merridian shirt had dark, crimson stains in circles beneath his arm-pits. He was sweating due to nerves and sheer terror. She had already told him that any fooling and she'd throw him from the edge to the street, thirty stories below. Five minutes earlier at the sixth floor elevator desk, she had shot his colleague in the head at point blank range, then demanded that he escort her to the roof. He wasn't about to argue. She was Legion; she had a gun and had used it. This wasn't a young lady who was messing about.

     'I think I could fly, if I put a few more years into wanting it enough. Right to that horizon there.’

     'I doubt it miss. Not that I'm arguing, you understand. Just thinking of your safety. Are you going to let me go now? I brought you up here, like you said.’

     She laughed and tightened her grip on his arm. The barrel of her pistol was jammed up against the back of his ribs.

     'Don't be a silly man. I need you now - you're my hostage. I let you go, and they'll pop me off in a second.'

     She nodded toward the black police helicopter that was circling and buzzing the roof like a gigantic meat-fly, screaming in close, taking a look, backing off again. Another rose up from behind the F-Central rail terminal a few blocks away and circled at a wider distance. She could make out the rising cone of The Death Clock in the square outside the station. There were trees around the clock in the square there, and before she'd joined The Legion she used to meet her friends in the green shade beneath them, sitting on concrete benches gossiping, looking at the boys, watching the news and programmes flicker over the clock's multiscreen, chatting on about make-up and shopping. How shallow they'd all been. Unbelievably empty and shallow. She wondered what the girls would say of her when this situation was over and out. She was probably already on the screens in the square there.

     Sirens wailed up from the streets below. She'd more or less invited the police along, sending a detonated stick grenade down to the lower floors in the elevator, and throwing another from the roof into a side-street the moment they had pushed through the doors onto the roof. There would be police and militia all over down on the street now, along with media crews, scanners and cameras whirring as they went panning, focussing, zooming. That was the plan. Militia and media, vulnerable below. All was running smoothly, except that she didn't fancy killing the bell-hop. She liked the little chubby freak!

     'You could have done with being taller,' she told him. 'You're inconveniently small.’

     A good marks man would see her blonde head above his and pick it off easily.

     'Sorry miss, but height deficiency runs in the family. My folks couldn't afford the DNA.'

     This, she knew, was a little dig at her. She was taller, stronger and more intelligent than him, and prone to fewer killer ailments or diseases. Certainly, she was more attractive to look at, even with her shorn hair. Post-conception screening and the finance to tinker around with her gene codes had seen to that. Still, all that was beyond her control. In most things these days you had no real choices. She crouched lower, keeping her hostage between her and the helicopter. She wanted to be right at the front edge before they did any shooting.

     'Why don't you give it up now, miss? This is getting too crazy. Hell, you seem like a nice kid. You're pretty. You're smart. Look at you, for shit's sake - you've a future there. Let your folks sort this out now and you get back on with your life.’

     She laughed. A future. He was a funny little fellow.

     'What's your name?'

     'What!? My name? John. My name's John. What the hell does that matter?'

     'Do you have children, John?'

     Real sadness flickered in his bloodshot eyes, but he was clever. Cunning. He could have sensed weakness and been feigning.

     'Nope. Did have once. They died. Boy and girl. The virus. Wife too.’

     'That's sad. That's too sad. Look at them all running about down there. Like ants.’

     'I'd rather not look, if it's all the same to you, miss. I don't get along with heights.’

     She laughed, gun trained on the helicopter as if drifted in closer, veering away again.

     'That's funny. Really funny, actually. You know why, John? I'm supposed to throw you off this roof before I go. The Legion have you marked dead for the way you treat the rats.’

     He blanched, paled visibly. The rats. The Legion Of Light were going to all this trouble because of the way he dealt with a few rats? Oh yeah, he kept rats all right. He caught them, some of them right here in the kitchens of the hotel. And bred them. For the rat pits. Entertainment. Dogs and rats, it was a sport. Good betting spin offs. What could The Legion have against a bit of sport?

     'Yes, we know all about you and the rat pits. It's your lucky day though. For some reason that I can't fathom, I like you. You're funny. So play along nicely now, and you live to die another day. We have, as the old saying goes, bigger fish to fry’.

     'Right. That's good news. No trouble. You say, miss, I'll do.'

     The helicopter buzzed in close and Zennah let a shot off over his head. It screeched away left and back, bullet ricocheting off the armour. The pilot laughed at her and went talking to the ground.

     'She means business. I think we've got a snowflake. Any ID yet?'

     'Zennah Louise Maroofs’ the tag. She checked in on her bracelet. Fifteen years old. Today. College student. Only daughter of Mr and Mrs Hector Maroof. Lakeside. Party Member code B.'

     'Oh oh. ...' The pilot steadied the helicopter out of bullet range and zoomed her in on screen. 'Little rich girl gone flip-side.'

     'Yep. They're always the worst.'

     Looks as though she's wired. She's full of top padding. Could be a laser vest but I'd say it's a bomb.'

     ‘We need her back away from the edge.’

     'What do we do with little birthday girl? Pop her?'

     There was a crackle as ground turned to speak to someone behind her.

     'Wait for further instructions,' she said a few moments later. 'We're onto the folks - see what they make of little miss's tantrum first.’

     ‘All right, but I'd say she's too far gone. We've a corpse on the sixth. Stiffs, bombs and rooftops - even for a Code B this'll take some talking out of.'

     'Not our problem. Hold back as instructed.’

     'Yeah, understood. Who's the hostage?'

     'Bell-hop. No mark. Code E Habitation Zone on work credit. Listed for gambling and vice offences in G. Hell, pop him, if you like.'

     'Ha. He's in a bad spot, then. We'll hang back and see how it flows.'

     'We'll let you know as soon as the folks come on scene.'

     The helicopter momentarily zoomed in close again, close enough for the pilot to wink at Zennah and mouth ‘Happy Birthday.’

     She aimed but it was away before she let a shot loose.

     'It's my birthday,' she said flatly.

     ‘Congratulations’

     ‘Hmm’

Zennah had managed to breach The Merridian’s security on the back of today being her birthday. To her now the whole concept of celebrating birth into this world seemed absurd, though a year ago she had enjoyed herself so much, partying and present opening, just like any teenager of her coding would. In a year she had changed so much, had become much older. She could hardly believe she was the same person.

     'This time last year I was a caterpillar,' she said. 'Now I'm a butterfly'

     'Yep, whatever you say miss. But seriously, believe me, you can't fly.'

She had been visiting the hotel café balcony for months now, sometimes with college friends, sometimes with her father, who also liked to drink and be seen there. There was a nice, protected view over the Trinity Square, and no one under Tag C was allowed through the doors except to work. It was amusing and sometimes sobering to watch the frantic life of the city flow by from the one way glass front of café. She had already been pledged to The Legion Of Light when she started frequenting the Merridian café. The Legion were an illegal and notorious outfit, ramshackle and chaotic in some ways, but highly organised in others. She admired their ideals. They stood for what she too had come to believe in. Maybe simplistic, even she thought so too, but a true potential alternative to the State and party grind. International protection for the ever more fragile environment. Protection for all animate life forms. Liberation for all
species held in captivity. Respect for individual rights and freedoms. Basic, decent, humanistic things. The Legion were totally anti-state, and accordingly out-lawed. The minimum penalty for membership alone was five years internment. To protect the larger organisation they now operated in cells of four or five members maximum, and the colleges were a good recruiting ground. Zennah had sought them out rather than them approach her, hanging around certain notice-boards, expressing views that were considered dangerous in the canteens. She hated how the state and city operated, despised all that her father stood for, found it unbelievable the way people and animals were treated as pure commodity. Eventually she had been approached and invited to a meeting. From there she had been recruited into a lower level cell. Zennah's cell leader, listening to her idealistic spouting, seeing the fervour shining in her eyes, had spotted
her potential straight away. Within a few weeks of her recruitment he had contacted a cell up to inform them that they had a probable snowflake on their hands, and with Code B city-wide access. The target had been communicated back the same evening. The Merridian Hotel. Zennah had been trained and nurtured over the six months since then. She had been offered routes out of her decision - no one was forcing or manipulating her to become a human bomb. But despite counselling and long talks about alternative courses of action, she had remained steadfast. And so the plan had rolled smoothly into place.

     She had started going to The Merridian with her wealthy Lakeside friends. She'd lunch with her parents there. Sometimes after college she would go in alone and sit at a corner table, reading or doing homework. Reception staff, waiters, junior managers -they were all familiar with Zennah Mahroof and her influential father. So when she'd booked a set of tables for a small birthday gathering for that afternoon no suspicions were aroused. She had turned up radiant and flustered at the lobby entrance, birthday packets and parcels in bags and under her arms, her gorgeous Soflex ankle length day-cloak shimmering its colours, black high heeled boots clicking over the tiled lobby, a fashionable tech-hood covering her new hair style. Her bracelet was scanned, a mere formality by now, and she was waved through with her parcels and packages - all going smoothly, as planned, despite her pounding heart and clammy palms.

     In advance she had booked a hotel room for the day on her own credit - for storing her gifts and relaxing after the party she'd told the girl on reception, and again no suspicions had been stirred. She was mature. Her family was wealthy. Why shouldn't she be booking a room? She had left some packages - real presents, quite harmless - at her tables, then had the rest taken to her room, telling the waiters she would be down in an hour or so, when her friends and family should begin arriving. Of course none of them would - nobody had actually been invited.

     She had set her packages on the bed, taken one look from the window to see what sort of view the room had, then set about preparing. And from there, to the roof. A quick change into her whites. Explosives and control detonator strapped on and activated. Pistol in working order. Grenades charged. In her cloak and tech-hood, back out into the soft, air-conditioned corridors padding along to elevator shaft D on level 6 - the only elevator that had direct access to the roof. She had approached casually, raising an approving leer from the security guard, a quick glance from the bell-hop. And there she'd uncloaked, discarded the the hood, and shot the uniform before he could trigger the alarm.

     More helicopters and individual micropods were circling the building now. These smaller craft were media - lenses and scanners zooming in on Zennah, frantic news commentators babbling in the tongues of their different audiences. This was what she had been hoping and holding out for. She knew that by now she would be in a dozen laser sights. It was only a matter of time before they tried to pop her; she well knew that parents of substance or not, they would shoot her live on TV just to set an example. Time for her to go.

     'Look after those rats, John,’ she said, then shoved him away, him yelling for her not to do it, to think again, but she was already up over the barrier, on the outer ledge, head right down, a shot thudding into the front of her vest, another from behind skimming a millifraction past her earlobe. Then she was away.

     That evening her parents were interviewed live on State MV. They were introduced as 'the parents of The Birthday Girl' -already she had her tag. Restrained and dignified, but obviously grief stricken, they said that they couldn't understand it. She had such a brilliant future ahead of her. They just could not understand it. Obviously she had been blackmailed, or brainwashed. Why else would a girl with such a future want to do a thing like that?

     Every interview was followed by MV footage of the 'thing like that'.

     The image was beautiful; perfect MV. It was shown for weeks afterwards on news and documentary channels, until State Authorities realised it was having an inverse effect to their intentions. Legion Of Light recruitment had gone soaring, kids citywide flocking to join the movement, with one in four new recruits, desperate to become a snowflake. The Birthday Girl clip was banned and erased. Even stills from it were declared illegal. When the clip emerged again, months later on a news retrospective, it had been altered. It now showed Zennah's head exploding at roof level following the first shot from the police helicopter. She went plummeting uselessly to the ground, falling gracelessly, straight down, thumping harmlessly to the pavement like a sack of lentils, her wire having failed to detonate. But word of mouth was a strong force in Noatun, and the Legion had their copies of the original footage. Witnesses at the time said that she had been smiling as she came down, looking quite gleeful, and that's what the Legion video showed. Zennah, grinning, arms and legs outspread, pistol still in her right hand, falling like a white star. She came gliding in slow motion, an angel against the towering glass front of The Merridian, tiny helicopters far up in the blue high behind her. She was smiling right up until she detonated ten metres above the ground. Not even the police had been expecting that. Down she came, smiling closer, then melting into a blinding white sheet of flame, the screams of those caught by surprise in the incinerating blast quite audible until dubbed over with music.

     Nothing of Zennah was found, not so much as a fingernail. Two MV film crews along with several ground militia were killed in that captured searing moment, and it seemed that several bystanders had also melted away without trace. The front lobby and café balcony of The Merridian, fortunately evacuated moments earlier, were also destroyed. For The Legion Of Light, and for the young free-thinkers of Noatun City and beyond, the Birthday Girl film was an inspiration for years.