A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  Temujin found her place by the kitchen windows, staring into the garden at colourful flowerbeds, barely saying a word to anyone apart from the doctor. They solidified a friendship of trust, having both lost partners—Amunda his wife from spinal cancer years before, only a few months after he entered the Ark. As he dropped potato chunks into hot water and seasoned meat to marinate until it was needed later, they spoke in low murmurs about their memories of beaches they had visited, beers drunk, people they had known. Steam grew on windows, and Temujin would fall into silence, her length of black hair veiling her face. Amunda continued to slice, pouring himself a glass of Prosecco, dancing swayed steps to a song on the radio. If Temujin came back to the present, conversation would flow as before. Quite often, she remained silent.

  Early the third morning, Markriss woke to firm weight on his bladder. Unzipping the sleeping bag, he rolled to his feet and began to tread softly across the carpet. At the door, Apnu growled at his scent, eager to play. Markriss rolled his eyes. Last thing he needed. Cautiously, he stepped into the passage, one hand wrapped around the door, hoping to pull it to softly without waking the others. He looked down the passage into the kitchen. It seemed the dog wasn’t desperate to greet him, and instead was scratching at the bottom of the closed waiting-room door. Rump high, tail wagging. The door cracked open. Dr Amunda emerged, stopping at the sight of Apnu at his feet, taking a moment to adjust his dressing gown, kneeling to stroke her. Markriss heard Temujin’s whisper, knew her laughter. Though it had been only days, years seemed to have passed since she laughed. Mouth open in concentration, he slipped back into the comparative warmth of the living room, pushing the door closed, braced for the anticipated squeak of untended hinges, shoulders hunched once it ceased, forehead resting against cool wall. Long moments passed until the soft pressure of slippered feet took the stairs upwards, dying somewhere above. Markriss gasped withheld breath. Resolved to keep what he had seen from the others, for everyone’s sake.

  Chileshe had become insular. Wandering the allocation with ghosts in her pockets, avoiding Dr Amunda’s pet. She hated everything about it. The smell, the hairs it left behind. The sibilant brush of its wagging tail on walls, the moon-eyed, soppy way it looked at her. The name Amunda gave it, a portent in her eyes. Worse still, the dog actually liked Chile, as though sensing what she planned for it, determined to win her over with purest love. When she entered the room it would always thrust a snout between Chile’s legs, paws climbing her thighs. Amunda, mindful of Chile’s discomfort and even more so the reasoning behind it, began to fear her naked reticence whenever Apnu was there. He’d drag her out by the collar, the animal’s high-pitched, pitiful whine an insertion of discomfort in the otherwise casual atmosphere. Only simple proximity saved Apnu’s life. There was no way for Chile to do what she threatened without the entire house knowing, hearing. Though the others barely gave a damn, Chile wasn’t yet cold-hearted enough to kill Apnu within earshot of her owner. And so a reluctant impasse formed, Markriss keeping half an eye on his wife, the doctor minding his animal. If Apnu got too close, or wandered to a place where Chile had the ability to keep her promise, each steered one or the other away.

  The day Ayizan gave the order they sat around the kitchen table amongst breakfast leavings, flaked croissants and empty cereal bowls, half-drunk mugs of tea. He dragged a hand across his face, stroked his bare chin.

  ‘We’re making the push this evening. Thoughts?’

  Amunda paused, round-bellied teapot in hand. He’d only just refilled it with kettle-hot water.

  ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘Oh, come on, not this.’

  ‘Yes, this. You’re barely able to walk, let alone anything more. If I was practising I’d give you four weeks’ recovery time, most likely six.’

  ‘Well, you’re not, and we all know why.’

  Amunda’s mouth snapped closed, he sat. Poured from the teapot, avoiding Temujin’s eyes.

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. But the longer we’re here the more danger we bring you, and I don’t want another . . .’ Huge sigh. ‘It’s not gonna happen again. Do you hear me? It won’t.’

  Unable to speak or raise his head, the doctor moved the pot around the table, filling each cup.

  ‘We’ve lost our weapons, so everyone needs to gather what you can. Kitchen knives, garden tools, medical stuff. Whatever’s here—that OK, doc?’ A pause, eyes searching over steam. Acknowledging. ‘Thank you. Nothing big, alright? It needs to be small, inconspicuous. Easily bagged. We’ll drop them before the scanners, if we get that far.’

  ‘We’ll need to separate,’ Markriss said.

  ‘OK, go in pairs, one tool each. I’ll go alone.’

  ‘Now you’re really being stupid,’ Chile sneered.

  ‘I said. I’ll go. Alone. OK?’

  Lips twisting, expression bitter, Chile turned on her stool, away from them.

  They discussed the remaining details. They’d travel to the gateway together, at which point they’d pair up, wait for the last minute to drop their tools before they entered, or give them up to the security forces, hoping the ID Capra and his team worked up got them through the checkpoint. If successful, they’d travel to L3, at which point they’d part company and journey alone to the rendezvous point, the doctor’s former medical centre, west L3. That was when Amunda suggested they borrow clothes from his wardrobe in order to maintain their pretence of hailing from a middle-class L3 community. He’d kept particular items of clothing that had once been his wife’s. Although musty, he admitted, they had aged well. Ayizan agreed.

  Following that, the doctor raised a further proposal. Since they were posing as health specialists, and he was the only trained medic, it made perfect sense for him and Apnu to go with them.

  The suggestion caused an instant rift, voices raised over the table. Chile, Ayizan and Xander against, Markriss and Temujin for. Chile blazed anger, flailing hands almost knocking mugs over, spilling hot tea. From the moment the argument began, he and Temujin had lost. Three over two would not be undermined. Markriss sensed Chile was upset about his siding against her, given his knowledge of how she felt about dogs. Ayizan and Xander thought him mad, telling him so. He wasn’t sure why he’d raised his voice to counteract theirs in the first place; it may have been to protect Temujin in some way, although beneath the assertion was instinct, raw, itching. The truth was he didn’t know, and actually believed his gut might be wrong. As they made wild gestures, shouting in each other’s faces, pointing and spitting without realising what they did, Markriss watched Temujin gaze outside, locked in her own thoughts, alone. He followed her sightline into the garden. Wondered if there was anything to see. Did a rose nod, a leaf sway? Probably not.

  It was solid night amongst the hushed blocks of Lixus allocations as they readied to depart. All wore calf-length weather-resistant jackets, woollen coats and sensible trousers, belts that clung, restrictive, scratching at their hips. The men wore cheap, soft-soled trainers. Chile was given gym shoes, while Temujin had kept her boots, unable to find a pair in the house that fitted her. They squared their shoulders, an attempt at looking privileged, heads high and backs straight as the doctor instructed. Their clicking heels and the squeak of old shoes played on Markriss’s nerves, his fists clenched in coat pockets.

  The doctor’s expression had wrenched Markriss’s heart when they stood on the path outside his door, pain aging his stricken face. Loss, always loss where Amunda was concerned. First his wife, then self-control. Conscious thought, medical training, the ability to reason without the injection of drugs into his veins, and then finally, the lost vocation that brought him into the Ark. Now the unkind possibilities of love, however fragile, transitory.

  As they had packed away what little of Amunda’s belongings they’d used, Markriss tightening a sleeping bag into a rolled nylon tube, Ayizan entered, returning to the subject of the doctor’s proposal to join them. He thought Amunda might be bereft without the job of medically
assisting Outsiders and their followers throughout the Quarter. Although many residents needed his support after the Corps raid on the zone, it was too dangerous for the doctor to return, especially if Bandyo worked for the Authority. The Mansion captain would gladly have his head, even if he’d killed Vyasa as an act of simple revenge for the murder of his own men, not part of the retaliation attack of Corps soldiers.

  Markriss pushed his feet into Amunda’s old, worn trainers, one after another, listening. For the bubbling lilt of Temujin’s laughter, Amunda’s soft tread on carpet stairs. The void that followed after.

  Had their 1322 strike been worth it? Though the others might think it too early to say, he doubted. The road shimmered blue with elevated e-lamps. Seven miles west, at the opposite end of the Ark, fires raged as before. He had lived flames and stinging heat. They had changed nothing more than their tenuous grip on mortality. Ascension was their future; its promise wriggled beneath his skin, tingling at his throat. Of that belief he was certain. Though they didn’t speak about it, he refused to accept that any of his companions were fooled. No one had the intention of making it to L3. A plan formulated to contend with their best-case scenario had been implemented for the worst. It was suicide. And they knew.

  Nevertheless, they walked from the comfort of shadow, unspoken thoughts and familiar bodies, away from the immersion of a zone that could easily have been theirs if they had been other people, who lived other lives. Past the quiet blocks of wealthy allocation homes and onto a high street lined with bright shops and restaurants, window displays of elegant clothes, consumer technology and the darkened interior of banks, moving towards the harsh glow of light that was the false promise of the eastern gateway. And while it was impossible to see beyond fierce illumination, a stark white that brought to mind the fury of the sun embedded in a blanket of cloud, they heard the whirr of electric rotors joined as one, the rise in volume as they approached. Shouting, amplified by loudspeaker, echoing everywhere, too loud to make out what was said. They stopped. There was nowhere to go, no place to run. Fingers touched his. Ayizan. He reached left, finding Chile’s. All five, hands joined like paper dolls.

  Inching from blinding floodlight, bristled rifles pointing staunch at their bodies, the Corps soldiers emerged, advancing.

  Markriss faced left. A glass-fronted building block, a collection of square computer banks with screens set up outside the windows, each resembling office filing cabinets, antennas fixed to their apex. The logo on equipment sides, Ark News. Incredibly, that face. Curled hair, unyielding features. Eyes like broken glass. Keshni Myatt watched him, a microphone poised at her lips, the woman beside her lifting a miniature digicam to her eye. Others pointed, mouths forming shapes, emitting words he couldn’t hear.

  Ayizan squeezed Markriss’s fingers. His attention whipped forwards.

  ‘You all run. I’ll distract them. On three.’

  Spoken through unmoving lips.

  ‘Are you stupid, we should—’

  ‘One, two, three.’

  Ayizan let go, limping at the line of soldiers. Markriss felt the brush of clothes, Chile’s hand leave his palm. He wanted to scream, stop them, only it was done. He spun back the way they’d come, forcing his legs to move, and saw Chile run two steps, stutter, arms flying high, fingers tensed, patches of dark red blossoming on her back and shoulders, and he roared her name so loudly the words dragged at his throat, a rock against bare skin. Whistles sped past his ears. He was punched, legs, arms, back, the force making him fall, skinning limbs on concrete, unable to see anything beyond cracks that seemed like deep valleys, he was so close. So close.

  And he rose. Seeing all, his prone body, the dribble of blood leaking from his mouth. The advancement of soldiers, that decelerating surge, the bodies of his friends and beloved laid out in various positions, the spectacular ascendance of their elemental forms, colourful wisps of being. Residents transfixed by murder. Keshni Myatt barking into the microphone. He tried to call their spiritual bodies as they elevated, finding the trauma of hurried disconnection too great, they were caught by the splendour of stinging light above their heads, blindness in their eyes. And yet somehow, he stayed low to the ground. He was free.

  He wanted to go with them. Couldn’t move. Everything was there to be viewed, his ethereal form swirling, and he saw Dr Amunda paused at the far end of the block, tears streaming behind the old man’s glasses and down his cheeks, loose fists holding Apnu’s leash, the dog straining, red material made taut.

  He stared into the yellow eyes of the animal. Bright amber, refusing to leave. It kept him, compelling him. Apnu pulled the leash further, powerful neck reaching for something, and then she broke into a galloping, determined run, not towards Markriss, but a sure diagonal line, leash dragging behind her. Amunda screamed as Apnu ran towards the glass-fronted buildings. Gazing into the building, Markriss saw what the dog had.

  Something shifted in him; he took the chance. Tugging his ethereal body in the direction of the running animal as his physical body placed both hands flat on concrete. Pushing, it stood once more.

  Cameras flashed lightning. Spectators roared fear. Amunda had stiffened, voice caught mid-shout, taking a faltering backward step, mouth alive with horror. The body began to run behind the dog, arms positioned at his sides, stumbling, jerking knees lifting, tethered to the ethereal form darting like a silver fish before it. A thunder of shots. Buzzing drones swooping close, Markriss pushed with quick bursts of energy towards the crowd of media spectators, following the lithe, bounding form of the dog, his physical body close behind.

  Keshni Myatt and her colleagues registered dumbfounded, quizzical gaping, before settling on the idea that it was real, the dog and the dead body were coming at them with equal speed. They dived to one side to avoid Apnu sprinting past, leaping into the shop window. It shattered from the impact of her skull and the rounds of bullets that followed, webbed glass fragmenting sheet ice. Markriss flew his ethereal body through the falling shards, bringing his physical body with him. The deceased carcass jumping the heads of the living, fingers splayed, impatient for his destination. Beneath him, fear, disbelief, wonder, a digicam following his spasmodic, clumsy leap in a ninety-degree arc.

  He landed on the other side. Fell to his knees. A crack, the ethereal body saw white pain. Blood rained from multiple wounds, bullets gouging chunks of muscle and flesh from his back, neck, thighs, sending him to the polished floor. Amongst the dull interior, a restaurant devoid of customers, no lights, tables and chairs bare as empty fields, meals half eaten, herbal teas steaming, the warmth of radiators congealing air.

  Apnu crawled on front legs and back, beetle-like, fur matted in knots of blood, sliding across the polished floor, staccato in motion. The ethereal form heaved at its tether, pulling his body to the dog’s side. A glint of camera. The reflection of soldiers’ helmets collecting below the broken teeth of the window frame. Markriss took no notice, seeing.

  In a corner of the room, gushing silver erupted from floor tiles, creating a roiling churn of energy where it met the ceiling.

  Apnu touched her wet nose against the rush of light, falling limp. Her elemental body emerged, oyster pink, thrusting upwards. Climbing to the ceiling, drawn by great power, dispersing.

  Markriss made himself crawl further, until he was beside the dog’s prone body. Thundering shots rang violence, peppering his shoulders and legs. The base of his head. He clutched back at his spine, sharp with pain. Air whistled in his throat. He reached out an arm, fingers stretched. Brushed Apnu’s fur.

  His jaw opened. Lips moving.

  ‘Good dog. Good dog.’

  Grasping for the cross-stream, fingertips pierced by a thousand tiny knives. Agony. Swift, searing light. He was lifted.

  13

  Emergence. The subtle weight of liquid dripping from his forehead, ears and shoulders as he broke the surface to be freed, appraising the sore, cracked landscape, taking a gasped mouthful of something. Not air, surely, not here. He wa
sn’t quite sure what it was. He paddled his arms and legs in an effort to tread water until he remembered. It was possible to rise further, if he willed it. Arms at his sides, concentrating, body shedding river water as he rose.

  Black-shadow mountains, the trail of purple liquid scything through dark earth like veins. Wheeling spirals of galaxies over his head, improbable in their number. He had reallocated somehow, further up or down the River of Time. He couldn’t tell which. Still, the everlasting land was recognisable, he knew this plane. Asiah. The Taut. The Light.

  He rose until barren desert was far below his feet. He thought it, and was immediately sat on a high outcrop over the riverbank, watching ghosts of faces, landscapes, animals, even whole cities go by. He panted, hyperventilating, trying to catch breath. Frantic eyes darted, trying to find the others. There was no one. He was alone.

  Head bowed, Markriss wept. Grief amplified into enforced pressure in his chest that made it difficult to breathe. For brief moments he couldn’t, forced to cough the pretence of life back into his lungs, inhale more rapidly to make them expand and fall as he was used to. He couldn’t die in this place, yet mortality remained lodged in every action. He existed as he was accustomed to, unfamiliar with the ways of the ancestors who called this plane home.

  Astral forms whipped through the sky in dozens, moving as comets, fiery and swift. Chileshe? Ayizan? Too numerous to tell apart, too rapid, the universe they inhabited too vast to even think of giving chase. He’d made that mistake before. How many had existed since humankind’s first death? How long would it take to find the people he loved?