Chasing Stars

by Helen Douglas

  The sharp raindrops stung my bare skin and I picked up my pace. Now there were a few people on the street, wet and bedraggled like me, huddling under umbrellas or in shop doorways. A car whooshed by, sending up a spray of rainwater as it passed. No one paid me the slightest attention.

  By the time I reached the end of the road, down by the lake, I realised I had reached the pulsing heart of Lakeborough’s nightlife. On the lake itself, party boats lit up like Christmas ornaments were heading towards the dock. Along the shoreline, bars and clubs were emptying out on to the wet streets. Between the street and the lake was a boardwalk; a bronze statue dominated the space. A man – five times the size of a real man – stood triumphantly, his hands holding up a distorted clock that reminded me of a painting by Salvador Dali we’d studied in art class. It looked almost like it was melting or warped, and the numbers were in the wrong places. I read the plaque: Nathaniel Westland, creator of four-dimensional travel, was born in Lakeborough in 2020. I was in Ryan’s hometown. Just knowing that lightened my mood.

  I saw the Peacock Feather easily. It was large and loud, a giant feather pushing through its roof. I headed inside and took a table by the window. It was a diner just like I remembered them from Hollywood films, with bright lighting, shiny vinyl seats and endless coffee. But that was where the similarities ended. Once the waiter – a tall, olive-skinned boy with fleshy arms – had filled my mug with bitter black coffee, I opened the menu and was both startled and disgusted. I’d expected burgers and fries. Or omelettes. Perhaps pancakes. Fried, greasy-spoon, carb-laden stodge. Comfort food. My stomach rumbled and I calculated that it had been about thirty hours since I last ate. No wonder I was hungry. But the first few offerings on the menu did nothing to whet my appetite. Kebabs made from in vitro veal. Cricket salad. Spirulina guacamole. Not exactly what I was expecting. Where were the potato cakes? A flush of nausea threatened, but I pushed it aside. I would find something to eat. I would find suitable clothes. And I would help Ryan. He’d done the same in my time.

  ‘You want the Saturday night special?’ asked my waitress, a bored-sounding girl dressed in green robes that flowed to her bare feet.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Is it vegetarian?’

  She shrugged indifferently. ‘If you want it to be.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And more coffee.’

  The waitress took my menu and glided away.

  The front door swung open and a group of girls came in, dressed in short beaded dresses that looked like they belonged in the 1920s. They grabbed a booth in the middle of the café. I realised I had found the only place where my clothes were not deemed worthy of comment.

  My food arrived – grilled portabella mushrooms with a strange, suspiciously fishy tasting pesto, potato cakes, scrambled eggs, grilled tomatoes and thick, dark coffee. I ate slowly, and watched the people around me at the same time. Reassuringly, people didn’t seem so different in the twenty-second century. The girls still giggled too much around the boys; the guys still laughed too loudly. There was the same kind of flirting that went on back home. I smiled to myself. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to fit in.

  I finished my food and drank cup after cup of coffee, until the world outside my window transformed. The grey light of daybreak became the saturated colour of daytime. The fresh morning breeze blew the rainclouds away, leaving nothing but a drip, drip, drip from the rooftops and the tepid promise of sunshine. And the weary partygoers of yesterday were joined by the bleary early morning workers of today.

  I went to the till to pay. I handed over my flexi-card and watched the waitress scan it across the large thin membrane I took to be the till.

  ‘Would you like to add a tip?’ she asked me.

  ‘Fifteen per cent?’ I said.

  She shrugged in a manner that suggested it was neither too little nor particularly generous. ‘You’re kind of young to be working for the Institute, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t work for them.’

  ‘So how come you have a standard-issue Institute flexi-card?’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s part of a resettlement package they gave me.’

  Her eyes brightened. ‘You’re a time traveller? Cool. When are you from?’

  I wished I hadn’t said anything. ‘I’m not supposed to say.’

  She narrowed her eyes at me. ‘You’re that girl, aren’t you? The one Orion Westland went to save. I heard it on the late night news. He’s been caught or something. Something about saving a girl.’

  I shook my head. ‘That’s not me.’

  I watched as my image and details came up on her screen. She charged the bill to my account and handed me back my card. ‘Just tell me one thing. Is this your first meal in 2123?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Incredible! Eden Anfield’s first twenty-second century meal is the vegetarian Saturday night special at the Peacock Feather!’ She picked up her port-com and aimed it in my direction. ‘Just say what you thought of your breakfast.’

  ‘Err . . . just what I needed,’ I said, slightly bewildered.

  ‘Perfect,’ said the waitress, putting the port-com back on the counter.

  Outside, the first thing I noticed was my face on a giant billboard on one of the main buildings on the seafront. Then I heard my voice. Just what I needed.

  I pushed past the tired, wasted partygoers who were – thankfully – too far gone to realise that the larger-than-life girl on the billboard was me and headed back up the avenue towards the Lakeview Hotel.

  Two blocks later, I slowed down. The streets were beginning to get busy, and shops were opening. I turned left off the main street on to a road lined with bookstores, boutiques and estate agents. I carried on until I reached a department store called Whites. The holographic models in the shop window were wearing what looked to me like everyday clothing for this century.

  I needed clean clothes. I went inside.

  Thirty minutes later I left the store with three bags of clothes, underwear, make-up and shoes. Out on the street something was going on. Reporters, photograph­ers and camera operators crowded round the entrance to Whites, pushing and shoving one another. I blinked in the bright morning sunshine and tried to get my bearings. Was it left or right to get back to the main street and the Lakeview Hotel?

  ‘Eden!’ someone shouted.

  I turned towards the voice, wondering who on earth it could be. A light flashed in my face.

  ‘Miss Anfield.’

  I turned towards the other voice.

  ‘What do you call those clothes? Are you from the wild west?’

  ‘Eden!’

  All around me, cameras flashed and questions bombarded me. I pushed through the crowd on to the street and turned right. The crowd swarmed around me.

  ‘Where’s Orion?’

  ‘People are saying you are the twenty-second century Romeo and Juliet. Are you?’

  ‘How do you like the future?’

  I tried to block out their questions and the running commentary they were making as they followed me. Apparently my clothes were quirky, cool, radical, rare. The personal shopper at Whites had reported that I seemed to like blue. I had eaten breakfast at the Peacock Feather on my own. I was eighteen. I was seventeen. I had copper-coloured hair.

  ‘Have you met the president?’

  ‘Will you be testifying at the trial?’

  ‘Is it true you’re only sixteen?’

  At the end of the T-junction I stopped and looked up and down the intersecting road.

  ‘Do you know where you are?’

  ‘Are you lost?’

  ‘How would you like to be on the big screen?’

  ‘Do you miss him?’

  ‘Are you expecting his child?’

  I said nothing, although I longed to shout at them to leave me alone. I did not want to hear my own voice broadcasting from one of those huge billboards. And then I recognised the Lakeview Hotel, up the hill, just a block away. I turned towards it, but the crowd had moved in front o
f me now, barring my way. I stepped to the side but I was still blocked. I turned around; the crowd had penned me in from all sides. Panic spiked. They had me trapped.

  ‘Come now, don’t be shy. How about a smile?’

  The top of the Lakeview Hotel towered above the other buildings on the street, so close and yet so out of reach. I felt a flush of time lag weariness. I couldn’t pass out here in the middle of the road. Just as I thought I was going to have to kick and punch my way out, the crowd melted away from me towards a black limousine that had pulled up to the kerb. I was about to make a dash for it when two burly men in charcoal uniforms appeared at my side.

  ‘Miss Anfield,’ said the older of the two. ‘The admiral would like to escort you to your hotel.’

  I clambered into the back of the limo. Admiral Westland was sitting on the back seat, his briefcase on his lap.

  ‘I’m on my way to the office,’ he said. ‘But I noticed you were having a bit of trouble.’

  The two uniformed men climbed back in and took their seats, one in the front of the car, one in the rear.

  Westland grimaced. ‘The Lakeview is usually very discreet; I don’t understand how your identity has been revealed. Once the trial is over, I’m sure they’ll leave you alone.’

  The limo rolled smoothly into the stream of traffic.

  ‘When can I see Ryan?’

  ‘Most of his time is taken up with his lawyer. I’ll let you know when you can see him.’

  ‘How is he?’

  Westland sighed heavily. ‘He’s OK. I’ve found an excellent lawyer. Very experienced. He’ll want to interview you before the trial.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘These cases are turned around pretty quickly. There are very few witnesses at a time trial, for obvious reasons. I imagine the trial will be in a week or ten days at most. In the meantime, you should start thinking about what you want to do, Eden. I know you’ve been given a resettlement package, but it won’t last for ever. You’ll need to find a job and a place to live. Get on with your life.’

  ‘I can’t get on with my life until I know what’s happening with Ryan.’

  ‘Listen to me. You need to prepare yourself for the possibility that the court will find him guilty.’

  ‘They can’t do that!’

  He shook his head with an unhappy smile. ‘Yes they can. He may have travelled through time for the right reasons, but the fact remains that his mission was not authorised. If the court finds my son guilty, he’ll be facing a prison sentence.’

  The limo drew to a stop by the Lakeview and one of the uniformed men got out and held the door for me.

  ‘As soon as there’s any news, I’ll call you,’ said Admiral Westland. ‘In the meantime, you need to start building a life of your own.’

  I couldn’t build a life of my own; in the twenty-second century, Ryan was my life. My heart felt leaden. I was out of place and out of time.

  Chapter 8

  For the next three days the vans, reporters and photog­raphers camped outside the Lakeview Hotel. At first, they called my room repeatedly, but then I told reception to block all my calls unless they were from Admiral Westland or the Institute. I stayed in my room, ordered room service and waited for the phone to ring. Admiral Westland had said he would let me know as soon as there was news. Surely he knew something by now? I couldn’t stop thinking about Ryan. What did his lawyer think? What were his chances of being found innocent? Was he scared? Was he missing me? And what would happen if he was found guilty? What would become of me?

  The only people I spoke to in all that time were the cleaner from housekeeping and the room service delivery person. I got a woman from housekeeping to show me how to turn on the TV – I had to scan my flexi-card in front of it to activate power and payment – and spent hours watching movies and the news. Ryan was the main story. Half the commentators, it seemed, felt Ryan would be found guilty; the other half believed he must have had a legitimate mission objective to travel back to 2012. It was clear that none of them had any real information. The only other news story? Me.

  On the fourth day, the phone rang.

  ‘Admiral?’ I said.

  The screen faded up from clear and a boy’s face projected into my room. He looked about seventeen or eighteen, with skin the colour of wheat, and dark hair that gleamed like black coffee.

  ‘No one’s ever called me that before.’ His eyes were brimming with amusement.

  ‘I think you have the wrong number.’

  ‘You’re Eden, aren’t you?’

  ‘Are you a journalist?’

  ‘Do I look like a journalist?’

  ‘I have no idea. You all look like a bunch of hippies dressed for a beach party if you ask me.’

  His eyes crinkled with amusement. ‘I’m not completely sure what you’re saying, but I think you just insulted me.’

  I shrugged. ‘How did you get through? I told them not to connect anyone unless they were from the Institute. What do you want?’

  ‘Sorry about that. I’m calling from Admiral Westland’s office. I’m a friend of Orion. I was wondering if you wanted to get the hell out of that hotel room you’ve been holed up in since you got here.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m holed up in my hotel room?’

  ‘There are about a hundred cameras and journos outside the front of the hotel, updating your status every half-hour. The doormen have confirmed that you’re inside and haven’t left the building in four days. So I’m guessing you could use a change of scenery.’

  ‘How do I get out of the building without being seen?’

  ‘Leave that to me. Can you call reception and ask them to let me up? I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  ‘What was your name again?’

  ‘Peg. Pegasus Ryder.’

  A quick check in the mirror confirmed that I looked like I hadn’t left my room in four days. I was unwashed, grey-skinned, still in my pyjamas. I had a quick shower, ran a comb through my tangled hair and pulled on one of my new outfits, a long green dress with a high neck and no sleeves. The material was soft and light, perfect for the warm climate.

  Right on cue, my phone rang and the face of the receptionist appeared on my screen. I stood in front of the screen and listened for the quiet click that confirmed my face had been scanned and the call connected.

  ‘You have a visitor. A Mr Pegasus Ryder.’

  ‘Send him up.’

  I paced nervously, waiting for his knock on my door, wondering if he’d seen me on the receptionist’s screen. I knew I shouldn’t care, but I really didn’t want Ryan’s friend to form a poor first impression of me.

  He thumped the door with what sounded like the side of his fist.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, opening the door.

  He was tall and thin, dressed in a long sleeveless shirt and loose trousers, a smudge of black eyeliner under his eyes. One arm was completely covered in tattoos, the other completely bare.

  ‘Come in,’ I said.

  ‘Nice dress,’ he said.

  I shrugged. ‘I have no idea how to dress for this century.’

  He had a satchel-shaped bag slung across his body. He took it off and pulled out a short blonde wig.

  ‘It’s my friend’s,’ he said. ‘It’ll help you get out of the hotel without being noticed.’

  He helped me bunch my hair up into a hairnet and then pulled the tight blonde wig over the top. I looked in the mirror. I was transformed. Long green dress and short blonde bob was a million miles away from long red hair and jeans.

  ‘You’ll blend in for a few minutes at least,’ he said. ‘Long enough to get past those vultures at the door. You ready?’

  I nodded, but my stomach tightened. I didn’t want to be anywhere near that crowd of reporters. Peg linked an arm through mine and steered me towards the lift. His skin against mine felt strangely intimate. And yet he made me feel safe at the same time.

  ‘Don’t even look at them when we leave the building,’ he sai
d. ‘Just stay close to me and act like we’re a couple. They’ll be looking for a girl on her own.’

  We walked briskly, arm in arm, through the hotel lobby. As we approached the front entrance, Peg passed me a pair of sunglasses.

  ‘Wear these,’ he said quietly.

  The glasses were large and wrapped around the top half of my face like ski goggles.

  The doorman opened the door for us and we walked through, into the blinding summer sunshine. There was a flicker of interest from the journalists and photographers, but they soon turned away.

  ‘My car is round the back,’ said Peg.

  The car was a small two-seater. He leant towards the retinal scanner built into the dashboard and said, ‘Manual.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked, as he pulled out into the traffic.

  ‘Out of the city. Do you like mountains?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I don’t really care where we go so long as there’re no reporters there.’

  ‘No reporters, I promise. Just a few hikers and – if we’re lucky – the odd bear.’

  ‘I don’t think I care for that kind of luck.’

  He drove quickly, frequently changing lanes to get past slower vehicles. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, curious about this strange boy who was Ryan’s friend. The tattooed arm was the one closest to me, inked in every colour imaginable from his shoulder to his wrist, like a sleeve. There was a golden phoenix rising from the ashes on his wrist, a red dragon curling round his bicep, a mermaid rising from a wave over his shoulder. Every bit of space between the mythical creatures was filled with wild waves and raging flames. His face was all chiselled, sharp angles, and I’d probably have thought he was pretty cute if my heart wasn’t already spoken for.

  We left the downtown area behind, passed giant strip malls and supermarkets the size of aeroplane hangars. The roads were wider and straighter than at home, lined with both tall, leafy trees and massive electronic billboards.