Equilibrium: Book 1

By Paras Joshi

An ancient prophecy, The largest metropolis in the world . . . A petite small-time robber . . . Meet Arya, a 17-year-old with the uncanny ability to open almost every locking mechanism ever known to mankind. Paid to break into a high-profile government vault, he unknowingly sets in motion events of apocalyptic consequences— The Tamisra is rising; mercenaries and shadow spirits have joined hands with humans to destroy the Equilibrium; and rumors abound of a Maayukh that links the ring, known as Avaasya, to the fate of the world. Racing against time to undo what he has done, Arya finds that time is his biggest enemy and that he can trust no one in this race to return balance to the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9789358561746

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The storm was on the horizon. Carbyn was falling. But only a few who had studied the signals were aware of it.

The air of the metropolis had become thick with innumerable pollutants that its industries were coughing up in enormous quantity—day in and day out. The powers that be claimed that their gigantic machines were benefiting Sealand and were indispensable to its existence. Hence, they could not be shut.

There had been no protests in the country since the Black Autumn of eighty years ago, when activists were thrown into prisons and totalitarian censorship was imposed on the press. Thereafter the People’s Party of Carbyn—which had been in power for two centuries—had permanently amended the Constitution, banning all opposition.

Six years after the Black Autumn, when the corrupt bureaucracy demanded that all the poor be restricted to one part of the city, the People’s Party wasted no time in issuing orders to demolish all the slums of the metropolis and relocate their dwellers to the north-western district—which, over time, became famous as the Northern Grid. Once the entire operation concluded, the party more or less forgot about the Grid and left its residents to the mercy of the rest of the city, which began to exploit its denizens immoderately.

The overcrowded Grid soon became a ghetto where laws were suspended and the fear of the state was restricted only to the boundaries. Its elderly and handicapped were reduced to skeletal wretches and had to rummage in the garbage for food and clothing. As a result of years of neglect and abuse, the Grid also became a hotbed of illegal activity and a fertile breeding ground for criminals.

Lately, the Grid had become too notorious and dangerous for the government to ignore and for the police to contain. Some weeks back, a government agent who was visiting the Grid to investigate the murder of an industrialist had been kidnapped. His body was found in a drain some days later. Before that daughter of a bureaucrat was abducted from her college in broad daylight. She was rescued from a brothel that stood in one corner of the Grid weeks later.

All attempts to clampdown on the Grid so far had failed stupendously—not only because crime had embedded itself impenetrably deep into the district’s fabric, but also because they were mysteriously met with internal resistance. Apparently many business giants and political bigwigs depended on the outlaws of the Grid for their integral grass-roots functions. Even though the Grid was itself in crumbles, it was the foundation on which the skyscrapers of the rest of the Carbyn stood.

In the ruins of Old Carbyn, the Gurujana Council had been convened for the first time in fifty years. The crisis at hand was grave: the world would soon face an almighty force, which no computer, no machine, no mechanical wizardry, would be able to hold out for long. The peak of civilization was close by now, and so was the Day of Judgement. Sealand needed to be ready to fight the apocalyptic battle, and for that they needed the Ring of Aavaasya, the Ring of the Legends, the only power that could contain Tamisra—the force that sought to overthrow Laghut, its nemesis, and thereby destroy the Equilibrium of Sealand.

On the second floor of a dilapidated building in Old Carbyn, the Gurujana sat in a dank room, deliberating with an old man whose back was bent with age. The old man was garbed in grey and held a crooked staff in his right hand. Before him, on seats fashioned out of stone, sat the wise Gurujana, the five Great Elders, the five Saatvika, the Wielder of Five Elements: the lanky Ayrof, his black mass of hair falling to his shoulders, dishevelled and unkempt; the tall and broad Sthir, his eyes filled with a strange determination; the athletic Jalayu, his bright, blue eyes surveying the room patiently; Fyir, the shortest and the youngest of the five, his face a spotless white, his hair cropped short; and Manyu, the oldest of the Gurujana, who had lived more years than he could remember and seen more things than he could recall.

‘You know what looms over us, Lærer,’ Fyir, who sat in the middle, was speaking. His words resonated in the dark shadows around them. ‘The Day of Judgement draws close. We need the Aavaasya to stop it. We need it to restore the Equilibrium.’

Silence hung over them for a while. No one spoke. The five Elders gazed intently at Lærer, who seemed lost in thought. Finally, he came out of his reverie, and spoke, ‘I know what draws close, My Lords. And I know how dire our need is to find the Ring. But it was lost, My Elders. We have been seeking it for the past five centuries now, but in vain. When it hasn’t been found till now, My Elders, how will it be found now?’

‘The Ring has eluded us so far, Lærer, because it wasn’t the right time,’ Ayrof, who sat on Lærer’s left, replied. ‘But now that the Loop is drawing to an end, and our need is more urgent than it ever was before, it will want to be found itself. There have been disturbances in the elemental planes. We have all felt it—small ripples that have affected our abilities.’

Lærer nodded. Even after years of rigorous training under the Gurujana, there was so much he was still unaware of.

Manyu, the eldest of the Great Elders, cleared his throat, announcing his intent to speak. His skin was wizened and his hair wore many greys. He had lived through centuries waiting for this day to come. When he spoke, it was as if the universe itself became quiet to listen. ‘Mankind has reached its peak, Lærer.’ His voice was grave, his gaze unwavering. ‘It is time.’

Lærer was reminded of what he had read in the scriptures over and over again for years, until the words had been branded into his mind.

The Day of Judgement;

When Mankind will Reach its Peak,

Time Will Reset,

And Never Will a Conflict Ensue.

‘The Ring of Aavaasya must be found before the Day of Judgement, so that the Loop can be untied and the world saved. The Tamisra must be contained, and Maayukh, the Wielder of the Five Elements, must be reached.’ This was what the Gurujana had taught all the scholars who studied the scriptures under their guidance.

‘You wish to assign this task to me, My Elders?’ Lærer asked, his eyes fixed on his staff.

It was Jalayu who answered. ‘You, of all our accomplices, our combatants, Lærer, know the most about the Ring, about the Cycle, about the Day of Judgement. Nobody is more capable than you for this task, Wise Lærer. Follow these disturbances to their source, old friend. Keep your eyes and ears open. It won’t be long before the Ring makes an appearance. I assume you know where to start looking?’

Lærer nodded again. This won’t be easy, he thought. He studied the Elders one by one, weighing the odds. It was a herculean task, one that would probably yield no results. But it had to be done.

In a dingy, dimly lit alley of Northern Grid—a part of Carbyn famous for its skyrocketing crime, where more people lived on the streets than in slums, where food was more likely to be found in the trash than in the shops—a visitor walked, looking for something. In contrast to the shabbily dressed men who crowded the streets here, he looked dapper in a black suit. A striped blue tie hung neatly around his neck, and a pair of slick aviators rested securely on his nose-bridge. His hair was combed backwards, every strand cemented in place by a thick layer of scented hair gel. His face was clean shaven and his nose sharp and pointed.

It was well known that no man—and especially those who appeared to have a hint of money about them—ever left the Northern Grid unscathed. They were either cornered and mugged or brutally beaten and thrown in the gutter. This is why women never entered the Grid. The ones that did could never seem to find their way out.

The Grid was home to all sorts of criminals: thieves, contract killers, extortionists, thugs, impostors, hackers, pimps. They were all part of larger underworld groups, many of which operated from outside Carbyn. Seedy establishments populated the Grid’s markets, and its clubs and taverns were packed with alcoholics and drug addicts.

The visitor, though, seemed oblivious of the Grid’s reputation. He walked coolly, with measured footsteps. He attracted curious stares from many passers-by, but he ignored all of them, almost as if they did not exist for him or as if he could not see them. There was something about his bearing that immediately conveyed that it could be hazardous to accost him. Despite this, some intrepid muggers kept an eye on him, waiting for him to turn into a deserted street.

He paused at the bend in the alley to take stock of a small, rickety building on his left. A plasma board that hung above its backlit glass door declared what it was in orange neon lights: Northern Grid Drinking Hole. Each time the door opened, the entire block shook with the ruckus of laughter and voices coming from within.

After sizing up the place for a minute, the visitor approached it. The backlit door slid sideways to welcome him.

The place was a carnival of heavy metal music and blinking multi-coloured lights. The stench of vodka, beer, whisky, marijuana, and all their concocted variants hung heavy in the air. Unlike outside, there were some women in here, those who had never been able to escape the Northern Grid. While some of them were draped over men, rocking sensuously to the beat of the music, others were making blatant sexual overtures to strangers. Everyone had a wasted look about them.

The visitor spotted the barkeeper behind the long counter at the other end of the establishment. He stood with a pitcher of beer in his hand, his eyes fixed on a blonde girl swaying by herself on the makeshift dance floor in a corner. He was a large, bald man who sported a bushy moustache that tapered off at the ends, one of the more retro styles of the day.

The visitor made his way through the bar and asked him, ‘Are you the barkeeper?’

The man looked at him, his bloodshot eyes trying hard to focus. ‘Yeah, I am. What do you want?’

‘I’m looking for an antique shop. I’m new to the place—’

‘You won’t be much longer,’ the barkeeper interrupted him and let out a burst of laughter. ‘You will be stripped of all your money and even that suit you’re wearing the moment these bastards have taken a good look at you. You’ll sleep in the gutters all your life.’

The visitor remained expressionless. ‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘As I mentioned, I’m looking for an antique shop. I need goods to trade. Valuable, old goods which—’

The barkeeper sniggered, interrupting him again. ‘You couldn’t find an antique shop?’ he said. ‘Let Jordan tell you something. There’s a saying on the streets here, If you throw a stone in any direction in the Northern Grid, it’ll most probably break the window of an antique store. So do us a favour. Turn around, walk outta that door, and you’ll see an antique shop right in front of you.’

‘No, I’m looking for an experienced dealer, someone who can find the rarest of the rare stuff at short notice. You know anyone?’

‘Efficient, eh? Let us see.’ Jordan considered the stranger’s request for a moment. ‘Well, there is a shop down the alley, at the next corner. It’s called The Antique Shop. Clint, the man who runs it, is a genius—’

‘And quite imaginative,’ the visitor murmured, his lips creasing into a cold smile.

Jordan did not get the stranger’s backhanded compliment. ‘Yeah, it’s the best one around. Even I bought three vases from there once, about two weeks ago.’

The visitor nodded and extended his hand to Jordan, who shook it gingerly. Then he readjusted his aviators, turned on his heels, and strode out of the door.

Jordan was left gaping behind him—a thousand arthja note lay in the palm he had used to shake hands with the stranger.

The day had barely begun when they first started arriving at the nondescript first-floor office of the book-shop.

Sabina was the first one to arrive. Tall and skinny, she was the architect of their numerous getaways. She also excelled in the art of disguise and worked part-time as a ballerina. Anthony, the gang’s logistics man, the one who was responsible for the smallest details of their operation, came in next. He owned a lean and muscular physique and worked as the deliveryman of Mr. Hooter, the proprietor of the establishment and the leader of the pack. Short and balding, he was already sitting in a small chair in the room.

Upon entering, they acknowledged each other only with weary smiles. On phone, Mr. Hooter had told them this was going to be their last meeting and also their biggest hit yet. After this, they could all retire to a life of luxury somewhere far from the poverty and grind of Carbyn. After today, they were all to go their separate ways and never meet again.

The three—along with Arya—formed the most flamboyant gang Carbyn had ever seen. They had pulled off the most impossible of heists with ridiculous ease. Their dedication and commitment to thievery were laudable, their skilfulness at disguise and eluding the police extraordinary, and their stories were shared and re-shared in every nook and corner of the Northern Grid with the same interest with which political scandals were discussed in the Central Sector. Yet, no one apart from those closest to them knew where they could be found or what they looked like. In their many years of operation, they had all managed to keep their identities under wrap. They worked the angles on CCTVs and aero scanners so well that their pictures had not made it to any police records ever. However, their last heist had been a close shave. A series of mistakes on all their parts had almost landed them in the Incarcerators—the infamous prisons of Carbyn where unspeakable pain and torture was meted out to criminals.

The bookshop office was remarkably uninteresting. Apart from an old wooden office table and three chairs, it was devoid of any furnishing. Its walls were a dull grey, the paint on them peeling off at many places. Spider webs hung everywhere from the ceiling, its dwellers spying on the odd trio who presently occupied the room: Anthony, who stood over the table, going over maps and other papers, his nose almost touching the sheets; Sabina, who sat on one of the chairs, checking her iRadio phone; and Mr. Hooter, who sat with his eyes closed, meditating upon what was to come.

It was a while before he opened his eyes and looked around the room. ‘Where is Arya?’ he asked on noticing that the youngest and the most pivotal member of their gang was missing.

‘He’s late, again,’ Anthony said, without looking up from the papers.

‘Must be caught up in some work,’ supplied Sabina.

‘This is not the first time. He has been disregarding deadlines and schedules for some time now. And on more than one occasion, we have nearly been busted because of him,’ retorted Anthony.

‘But, at least, he doesn’t forget to take jammers with him to—’

‘Enough!’ interrupted Mr. Hooter. ‘This is the last time we are meeting. Let’s not bicker. We need to act like a gang, for this last hit more than ever.’

‘But we cannot start without Arya,’ Sabina said quietly.

‘Very well, then. We shall wait for him.’

The visitor emerged from the Northern Grid Drinking Hole and started walking in the direction indicated by Jordan. The crowd had thinned, and the Grid would become increasingly unsafe now. On his way to the antique shop, a group of peddlers by a trash can fire hooted and whistled at him, but he walked on unperturbed. At the next corner, he came upon a nondescript three-storey building whose only entryway seemed to be a small rickety door in the centre. A wooden sign hung above the door. It said:

The Antique Shop

Since 3511

Serving You for Fifty Years

The man walked forward and pushed the flimsy door open. It was dark inside, and he had to remove his aviators to be able to see anything. The only source of light in the shop was a lampshade, which hung low over the counter from the ceiling. Behind the counter on a wooden stool sat a lanky old man, whose skin hung loose over his bones like caricature artwork, and whose hair was all grey and patchy. Over his half-moon glasses, he surveyed the late-night customer and asked, ‘What do you need?’

‘Are you Clint?’ the visitor enquired, walking up to the counter.

‘Yes. What do you want?’

The visitor looked around at the walls. They were lined with glass cabinets whose shelves displayed many old-world artefacts—vases, pots, paintings, sculptures, mirrors, and so on. A fan creaked above, tired and hopeless, making slow currents of air. ‘These are all stolen? Illegal business? The cops never visit your shop?’

The old man frowned at the visitor, affronted. ‘Listen, if you’re not