A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  Markriss smiled, though he wearied of the question. ‘Any day now, my friend. Any day now.’

  The broad man stepped back. The tram, a golden D at its pineal, trundled forwards. As a group, men stood aside to let the women, one with a halo-afro’d child of seven or eight, board the tram. Markriss went last.

  The journey was pleasant, in spite of the overhead advertising displays, which he found distracting most of the time. Companies had started experimenting with hologram technology and it was no fun to be shocked by the illusion of being splashed with speedboat water, or sprayed with fine earth from a quad bike. Most mornings, he sat with his arms folded and eyes closed, rocked into his morning meditation by tram motion. By the time he reached his stop, the L4 centre of Tibisiri Square, Markriss would be ready to tackle whatever his editor had in mind.

  This morning, undeterred by the squeal of tram wheels, Markriss began to meditate, breathing interrupted breaths for ten-second counts of five successive intakes, until the floor opened beneath him, and he descended.

  The rattling of the tram became louder, cutting into his trance, making him wince, its frenzied rock becoming so violent he was nearly thrown from his seat. As his eyes opened with a start, Markriss blinked surprise. Instead of sitting relaxed, his simple visualisation had resulted in him riding a dirty, rusted goods lift, the only passenger inside. His stomach plunged as though he were on a roller-coaster, something he hadn’t felt since he was fourteen, or falling through a pocket of air during an Outer City helicopter tour, a feeling of his innards left somewhere over his head, plunging with nothing to stop or catch him. That clogged physical presence of loss balled in his chest felt greater, overwhelming. He hacked and coughed, alive to abject grief.

  Another visual jolt. He was back inside the mildly rocking tram, his jaws wide open as though he’d screamed. He almost thought he had; looking around he saw no evidence of having caught anyone’s attention, except for the halo-haired boy watching from across the aisle, eyes crinkled with amusement, the action figure in his hand forgotten, having found a better source of entertainment.

  Markriss sat back in his seat, heavy-breathing, ignorant to the buildings rolling by outside the tram windows. Heart a steady thump of muscle at his chest, mucus clogging his throat. He thought back on his morning, the weeks before. The park visualisation. The goods lift. The hooded figure of the old man who’d begun to appear in his dreams for the last few days, for no reason he could decipher. There was no such thing as coincidence, the Cartesians said. Physical became mental and vice versa, they were inexorably linked. If he’d begun to actualise visions on the astral plane with the power to override his sleep program, it was because his former experiences on the physical plane had taken paramount importance. The past, no matter how successful he was at evading it, had changed his circumstances for ever and finally caught up with him. The visions could be taken as a need for acceptance. Perhaps he needed to learn how to be open to them, no matter how painful or intrusive they might be.

  His fingers rested on the soft plastic seating either side of him. The boy across the aisle poked out his tongue. Markriss responded with an upward thumb, meant as a joke, although it made the boy uncertain. Eventually, sneering, he looked away.

  The D trundled towards the busy square, already full of people. Markriss got up, grasping the overhead handrails, heading for the door. The tram eased to a stop, emptying steadily, leaving only the mother and child. Hissing doors closed behind Markriss, the vehicle rolling towards the L4 Eastern Gateway, where it would terminate.

  Tibisiri Square, better known as the hub, or ‘brain’ of the level—indeed, the Ark as a whole—was Inner City’s epicentre, the location that stood for everything the building was and had ever been. The name ‘Tibisiri’ derived from a traditional fibre woven by Arawak women in what was the modern-day Caribbean, previously known to the West as the Southern Isles. Used in the context of the square, it suggested the threading together of unions and corporations that created Inner City.

  The secondary buildings were set in a quincunx, each on a separate corner, like dots on dice. In the centre of the square, the dominant and largest of the buildings was the headquarters of E-Lul, founders of the Ark. To the north was Ark Media, where Markriss was employed, and Ausares Corp, the E-Lul subsidiary whose primary concern was the manufacture of sleeper pods. To the south, just across from the D-tram stop, were Kyba Network, who ran neural communications, and the Inner Dinium Architects’ and Builders’ Union, comprised of designers and construction planners alike. In the early days of the Ark, neural communications were part of the Kemetian Temple and formed one faction, until the Temple moved to a separate building two streets away. Religion and scientific technology struggled to make peace ever since.

  He walked the pathway leading to E-Lul Corp. The square was animated with playing children, dog walkers, young couples and workers eating lunch-hour sandwiches on benches. Between each building, playgrounds had been built. Markriss was overcome by the bittersweet white noise of pre-school enjoyment, stung by thoughts of Ninka doing similar things. He watched the children play as he passed along iron railings, fascinated by their leaps from roundabout to climbing frame, slide to see-saw. The inevitable tears of an infant being comforted by their parent, hugs and promises of later treats. Markriss wished he could stop to learn more; temple priests advised that children had the ability to divine the future inadvertently via play. He found he was struck by the contradictions between his silent dream of his brother and the constant flux of thudding trainers over screaming joy. Yet he was already late.

  E-Lul rose above him, broad as a temple and twice as large, equally imposing, lion-brown brick and onyx statues on the grass beside the path. A wide flight of stone steps in front of the building took visitors and workers to the reception, and elevated ramps were built on either side. On the grass a few yards from the swing-door entrance, a raised platform was set with slim speakers and slide-screens, a translucent lectern at its centre. While the stage was empty, the rows of plastic seats beyond were full of chattering people.

  A wide slab of a man. Black tunic and black visor, jawline rigid, he stepped in front of Markriss, blocking his way.

  ‘If you’d like to come this way, sir.’

  He gestured at two upright metal poles three metres apart, side lights blinking white. Another slab of a security guard waited at their rear, a woman. High-level Corps soldiers, no doubt.

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  Markriss walked between the machines. A loud beep. Red light.

  ‘Can I look at what you’ve got in your bag, sir?’ the woman said over the guard’s shoulder.

  ‘Oh, sorry, sure. I know what it is. I forgot to take out my slide.’

  ‘Let’s have a look anyway, shall we?’

  They riffled through his bag, finding the snacks and the sliver of plastic. The woman ran a handheld scanner over his slide. It beeped green.

  ‘OK, go and try again. Take your bag with you.’

  Markriss did as he was told. No beep.

  ‘Perfect.’ Bag chest-high, ready for him to take. ‘Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr Denny.’

  Apologising, smiling in all directions, Markriss slipped into the front row, nodding hellos, easing his way between knees and too-full bags, trying not to hit anybody with his. He fell into the seat beside Keshni.

  ‘Bloody hell, you, about time! Thought you’d decided to stay in bed.’

  Keshni looked impeccable as usual, pale slacks and a brown shirt that gleamed, tied-back hair and sunglasses. He could almost believe it was summer.

  ‘Nearly did. Thanks for the wake-up call.’

  ‘What are you like?’

  ‘Seriously, I was getting up, promise.’ Markriss laid the slide on his lap. He thought voice memo, primed to record.

  ‘Anyway, no worries, you’re fine. It’s absolute calamity on L1 apparently. They’ve bought you time.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ he said, kissing her cheek. She offered th
e other with a grin. ‘Sorry, didn’t even say hello.’

  ‘Typical Mark, too busy to notice I’m here.’

  ‘Oh, come on. That’s never happened in your entire life.’

  ‘Really?’ She gave him a theatrical look over her glasses, eyes rolling.

  ‘Anyway, what do you think the odds are of getting the Corps to go total lockdown?’

  ‘Haven’t they done that?’

  ‘Partially. I mean the whole package, completely ransack the place, evict the lot, or bury them in the Blin. It’s what the animals deserve.’

  Markriss shrugged, crossing his legs.

  ‘How far can they go? No more than they have, surely? The Temple is already up in arms.’

  Another look, Keshni peering over her sunglasses longer this time.

  ‘Mark, you’re not trying to suggest they’re being excessive, I know you’re not. If they have to kill them all to get things back the way they were, then it’s a done deal, surely. Just don’t tell us about it; give us some old crap to write like they sued for peace or some such nonsense. Say no more.’

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  Cameras flashed, people stood, Keshni and Markriss with them. A moment’s wait before Hanaigh E’lul paced onstage, a supplicating palm waving over the crowd. He was short and athletic, glacial eyes and swept white hair, seemingly closer to sixty than the late forties he actually was. Gaunt, with the impression of someone who had lived many lifetimes in one body. Markriss was drawn to his composure, the stillness with which he held himself. He’d seen Hanaigh speak on many occasions, at press conferences and public meetings and on the slidescreen when he hadn’t been able to make events, always with that dedicated, confident energy, those quick-fire bursts of life the CEO–governor could barely contain. Nothing like he seemed at that moment, without his usual charm and care-for-nothing bluster, clutching toughened plastic, devoid of a smile.

  He stood behind the lectern, right eye blinking twice to switch the microphone on. The twitching silenced his audience.

  ‘Ladies, gentlemen, members of the press. Thank you all for coming, we greatly appreciate it. I know how difficult it was for some of you to make the arrangements at such late notice.’ Keshni elbowed Markriss in the ribs, grinning. He ignored her. ‘Please, sit.’

  They followed his request, Hanaigh taking a moment to look over the crowd, uncharacteristically stern. A distance away, Markriss heard an elongated yell that sounded like a young girl. Possibly from one of the four playgrounds. The retinue of plain-clothed security, some ten guards keeping varied positions around the stage, moved their heads in multiple directions like the blind.

  ‘As you’re no doubt aware, unrest has plagued our lower levels over the last few weeks without pause, or any chance of communications with the offending factions. What started as a vicious bomb attack on one of our most prized media outlets has escalated into a threat more serious than any of us could have anticipated. Everyone knows the details, I’m sure, but I’ll repeat them for those watching at home. A little after 2.25 a.m. on the twenty-eighth of November, a series of three gas explosions took place within the L1 media building 1322 that houses Ark News along with a number of other multimedia subsidiaries. Unfortunately, a menial worker, Pious Majeed, was killed in the attack. On-the-ground surveillance, animal and tech spyware told us the attackers were an organised street team-cum-terrorist group, fledgling, yet numerous and hugely influential, calling themselves the Outsiders. While our combat teams sought to bring the leaders to justice, and managed to take down one of their most prominent members, the majority of the terrorists escaped.

  ‘At 11.33 a.m. on the thirtieth of November, the leaders were apprehended at the Eastern Gateway, where they launched an attack on our soldiers. After a vicious battle those leaders were taken down. Now, we don’t know what they planned, but from IDs found on their persons it can only be assumed that they were attempting to escape to one of our upper levels, not trying to attack the gateway. That much, I think you all know.’

  Hanaigh turned right and then left, indicating the slidescreeens on either side of the stage.

  ‘Early this morning, after the series of bomb attacks on media outlets on multiple levels—which I’m sure you’ve all heard about and I’ll go into more detail on later—we had a meeting where it was decided to release the names and identifications of those involved in the original attack, so we might engage the public in tracking down who they are affiliated with, and have a chance of stopping whoever might strike next.’

  Slidescreens burst into life. A studio photo of a relatively young man grimacing with distaste, narrow, wizened eyes. The surrounding press teams murmured loud. More flashes sparked. Keshni muttered a few words to Markriss, although he barely listened. He pushed forwards, slide forgotten on his lap.

  ‘If you’ll permit me to continue.’ Hanaigh’s voice rose, waiting for chatter to die. ‘Please, if you’ll permit. Thank you so much. To my right, we have Nesta “Ayizan” Sahu, Outsider captain and, from our gathered intel, a prime instigator of the first attack. Well respected, highly intelligent, charismatic and dangerously violent, Sahu dominated the street teams of his quarter by subverting the teachings of the Metu Neter and Temple, which proved extremely popular with his surrounding Charlton community. A highly dangerous man.’

  Hanaigh turned to his left. Another photo, a woman. Her stare dark and unbroken, even in death. A martyr’s gaze.

  Markriss began to shake. He sat on his hands to still himself and stop anyone from noticing. His slide fell onto the grass with a soft thud. He left it. Keshni looked down, then away, busy typing notes.

  ‘This is Sahu’s accomplice and spouse, Raymeda “Isirah” Khuti, killed with Sahu when he and three other followers attempted to storm the gateway. Strong-willed, very well regarded, particularly by the women of the quarter, Khuti was a former Outer City teacher and facilitator before she turned to agitating for reform. She was long known as an aggressive voice of protest against the Ark, and was involved in numerous politically inclined groups before she entered. As I speak, we’re still piecing together how she managed to infiltrate our protocols to gain access to housing, menials, things of that nature.’

  Much as he wanted to look away, Markriss could not. He saw a dance of stars in Raymeda’s eyes as she spoke of the undernourished moon and romance: how dissimilar from the death gaze in front of him. The cries of owls and rustling of leaves, the heat of her body against his skin and static of her fingertips, rough blanket threads beneath their unclothed bodies. They were young and unwise, it was true, yet had there been hope? He couldn’t remember. His mind continued to assert that there were no coincidences, which he accepted as an actuality because he was seated amongst his peers, staring into eyes he knew, and a woman he did not, knowing the pod had projected his astral body into the park where they consummated their relationship, though not the reasons for him encountering things that were not there, and had never been: that streaming light, his brother. He remembered what happened between himself, Raymeda, Misty and Nesta in Burbank Park, how it changed him for ever. Most of all the bitter fact that he’d forced it from his memory ever since.

  Hanaigh E’lul continued to speak, Markriss struggling to retain what the CEO was saying as he listed the remaining Outsiders killed by Corps soldiers—Temujin and Vyasa Broin, Xander Lewis, T’shari Nefer. Too much, way too much. He didn’t recognise the others besides T’shari, him only with a vague recall that he almost discounted as mistaken, although the cold eyes of each face stirred him regardless. Markriss couldn’t keep still. He was jittery, it was difficult to concentrate. After a time, Keshni noticed his unease. He sensed her glances and pretended he hadn’t seen her.

  His attention was only roused when Hanaigh spoke of that morning’s attacks on L1, 2, and 3. Ark News buildings on each had been the main targets, although TV stations and subsidiaries such as equipment suppliers and pod stores were also targeted. Six bombs in total were detonated within minutes of each other
, largely in buildings closed and unoccupied for the night, although seven people had been injured and one additional death was recorded, a security guard doing his rounds in a media establishment. No one had claimed responsibility for the attacks, yet the homemade devices and gas canisters set off by wireless detonation meant the most likely suspects were either Outsiders themselves, or Outsider affiliates – although it was far too early for copycats, and so the latter theory was unlikely. So far, no one had been apprehended for that morning’s explosions. Part of Hanaigh’s reason for holding the press conference was to announce a number of measures to combat terrorist assaults on Inner City buildings. First, the immediate lockdown of lower-level Poor Quarters, including a blackout, evening curfew and martial law until the assailants were caught.

  Raised voices, camera flashes. Keshni pressed against Markriss’s shoulder, clouding him in Burban perfume, whispering, ‘Didn’t I say?’ The heat of her breath and the clamour of bodies as journalists got to their feet, firing questions, made him tense with claustrophobia. Hanaigh pushed his hands downwards, without answers. Waiting for them to acquiesce.

  ‘One more thing,’ he said. For a moment an echo of the death-gaze Markriss had witnessed in the eyes of his old friends marked Hanaigh’s. ‘I have one more thing to say. Given that so many events have been mishandled, and the criticism I’ve faced from the day I inherited this task—rightfully, some may say, though I’d counter that I inherited many of the problems—I’ve thought long and hard about what I can do. A leader must lead, I’ve always believed. And when a leader strays down a wrong path, who should be blamed? The followers? No. I believe in truth, and I stand by that to this day. “As above, so below” has been our mantra for centuries, and will be for centuries more, yet have we made it so? We have not. We see that truth today, in the admittedly vile actions of others, although it is no less apparent in spite of what they’ve done. With that in mind, I hereby tender my resignation . . .’

  Uproar, bodies rising around Markriss: Keshni, his peers, everyone. The noise of a thousand questions, the jostle of legs and movement forcing past him. Markriss remained seated. On the grass, his slide was buried in mud at one corner. He picked it up. Brushed the screen. The machine was still recording. He placed it on his lap once more.