An Other Place

by Darren Dash

  I try thinking of something else to bribe them with. When I come up blank, I resort to brute force, take a swing at Bryan and lash out at Phil with my feet, but they’ve been expecting this and subdue me with an embarrassing lack of fuss. Bryan swipes aside my clumsy punch, Phil kicks my legs out from under me, then the two of them are on my back, pinning me to the floor.

  “Try that again,” Bryan says pleasantly, “and we’ll carry you out in pieces.”

  “Bastards,” I sob, grimacing into the rough cabin carpet. “I’ll pay you back for this. I’ll unleash an army of animals on you. See how tough you are when you’re staring down a lion’s maw.”

  “He’s crazy,” Phil mutters.

  “Of course he is,” Bryan agrees. “He wouldn’t have come all the way out here if he wasn’t. Ordinary folk don’t bother with this place. No reason why they should. All drone hold men are loopy.” Bryan manhandles me to my feet, twisting my left arm up behind my back. “You going to give us any more trouble?”

  I shake my head tearfully.

  “We don’t like doing this,” Phil says comfortingly, playing the good cop this time round, “but it’s our job. If we helped you, it’d mean the chopping block if the Alchemist found out. And he would.”

  “It’s OK,” I moan. “I understand.”

  “You don’t hold it against us?”

  “No,” I whimper.

  “Good man,” Phil says and tells Bryan to release me.

  They walk me off the plane, closing the doors as they leave. We descend the steps and the two off-loaders start rolling them away.

  “Can I watch the drone hold taking off?” I ask.

  “Taking what off?” Phil frowns.

  “Can I watch when it flies away?” I clarify.

  The men laugh uncertainly.

  “Flies?” Bryan snickers. “How could a thing that size fly?”

  “Well, how does it leave, then?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Beats me. We turn our backs and sooner or later it’s gone.”

  “You mean you’ve never seen…?” I stare at the plane. “Can I hang about until it goes? I won’t try to get on. I just want to stay and watch.”

  Phil and Bryan exchange questioning looks, then shrug. “Sure,” Phil says. “No harm in that. But if you spot the Alchemist, scarper, and if he catches you, you never saw us and we never saw you, alright?”

  “It’s a deal,” I agree and settle back to watch the motionless metal bird.

  After hours of determined scrutiny, in which the plane shows no signs of activity, my eyelids begin to droop. I yawn, sit up and slap my cheeks. I wish I had someone to talk with. Mannie would have sat by me and told tall tales to while away the hours. He was a nice bloke, even though I didn’t get to know him well. He wouldn’t have booted me off the plane, not like sour old Cain and Abel, the officious pair of…

  My eyelids droop again and this time close. I come close to falling asleep but at the last possible second snap awake. I take several deep breaths and blink rapidly. I won’t let sleep spoil things for me. I’m not going to miss this. I’ll stand here as long as it takes and won’t budge until…

  The plane’s gone. I stare at the space where it should be, then check the rest of the airport, in case I’m just disoriented, but it’s nowhere to be seen. I don’t bother with the sky — I know I won’t find it up there amidst the blackness. My shoulders slump and I turn towards the buildings. It isn’t meant to be. It’s no coincidence that the plane disappeared while I was momentarily napping. Whoever controls the flights in and out of here doesn’t want to share the secret with me. By now I’ve learnt to accept such disappointments as par for the course.

  Departing via the departed Jess’s office, I head back to the city, walking slowly this time, in no rush, enjoying the dark monotony of the uncomplicated tunnel.

  NINETEEN

  I don’t feel like masturbating these days but continue all the same, since I have no better way to kill the time. I trudge the familiar, anonymous, unexciting streets, study the forms I’ve given life to, feed and drink from drones when my body demands. Deep thoughts are rare and unsought. I prefer the silence of mindless acceptance. Thinking only brings suffering. How sweet the world would be if we could all tune out and leave our brains on standby. Ambition and inquisition are the whip-cracking, back-riding scourges of humanity. To the devil with them!

  Time has passed but I’ve no idea how much. That’s a question for the inquisitive. Who in their right mind cares about time? Who wants to know that he’s a minute more removed from the womb, one day closer to the grave? Only the interested. Only the aware.

  Awareness is my foe. I shun it, recoil from recognition, sink down within myself, where images have no names and thoughts mill around like sheep on a desert island. I aim to be like the drones. They’ve got the world sussed. No cares, no worries, no future, no past. I must sink down as deep as they have before I can truly know peace. Down, down, down…

  Sunk. Nestled snugly on the ocean bed of consciousness. Stray shoals of eel-like slivers of insight disturb my rest every once in a while – as they do now, when I pause to reflect on my lack of reflection – but most of the timeless time I’m lost in the still, calm, murky waters of tranquil nothingness. Bliss.

  I’ve retreated so far within myself that for days on end I fail to take notice of the growing rivers of humans passing by as I wend my dazed way through the streets. Perhaps if one had stopped or spoken to me, I might have reacted sooner, but they’ve been slipping past like drones, silent, expressionless, naked. I might have initially overlooked them even if I’d been fully conscious.

  No specific encounter disturbs my waking slumber. Rather it’s the cumulative counts registered by distant parts of my brain — there are just too many tiny, mental pings to ignore, even in my zombie-like state. Those are people, my brain notes repeatedly. Those are people. Those are… And so on, until the information becomes an irritant, forcing me to rise on the bubbles of cognition in order to investigate the situation and quell the flow of unwanted stimuli.

  I’m reluctant to rise. Part of me fears that if I surface, I might never return to the depths of the lost. Sinking this deep within myself hasn’t been easy. The curse of humanity – dreaded intelligence – may combine with my self-protective drive to counter further attempts at immersion. Though I don’t want to, I’m sure I’ll learn from this experience, maybe making it impossible to replicate. Still, rise I must. As little as I care about the city and its denizens, something inside me still needs to know.

  The city appears more vivid after my virtual leave of absence. Drab walls now glitter with promise. The monotonous sky arcs over everything like a wondrous gateway to eternity. The weak afternoon sunlight feels as if it’s bronzing my bones. The rough stone pavement could be a dance floor and my feet could belong to Fred Astaire. The people look…

  Ah! The people. They’re why I’ve returned. I almost forgot about them on the way up. I abandoned the peaceful depths of oblivion to check on the humans. I can’t quite remember why I should be so interested in them, but I’m sure it will come back to me.

  I watch them filing past, men and women, moving stiffly, eyes thin slits in their faces, breathing lightly, in no hurry but proceeding with purpose. They operate singly, though in certain places – outside factories and boarding houses – they converge and stand in silent crowds, waiting stoically like trees in anticipation of rain.

  What’s interesting about these humans? Why should their faces and forms have disturbed my slumber and dredged me up from the placating depths? In their somnambulistic appearance, they’re not that different to the hordes of drones. What is it about them that…?

  Of course. They were extinct. I begin to remember the changing of the sun and moon, the coming of the lykans, Cheryl, death on a Holocaustal scale, my aimless wandering, the absence of humans, how much I longed to find one to talk with and share my woes with and dance with and have sex with and…

  I hurry
towards the nearest human and stop, breathless, smiling nervously, trying to think of something to say. “I… I’m Newman Riplan,” I finally wheeze. The man stares straight ahead and doesn’t acknowledge me. I step back, deflated. Have I offended him? I approach a different member of the species – a beautiful woman with a kind face, long legs and delightful breasts – and try engaging her in conversation, but she blanks me as well.

  I try several more, none of whom spares me as much as a glance. I’m starting to panic – is something wrong with me? Am I so hideous that nobody will talk to me? – when I realise they’re not just ignoring me, they’re ignoring everything, the drones, the animals – a few of which have already attacked and made their first kills – and each other. These people are like I was, adrift within their forms, living but unconscious.

  Happier now that I know there’s nothing personal in their aloofness, my mind settles into the fleshy conduits of its old stomping ground and I ponder the scenario. I check a few of the humans in closer detail, thinking that perhaps they’re elaborate drones, but they seem to be real. Flesh, bones, eyes, tongues, teeth, sexual organs. But where have they come from? Why so mechanical? And what are they waiting for?

  The humans seem to be emanating from the same place, somewhere to the west of my current position. I decide to track down the source and set off, heading into the flow. (See? Back no more than a couple of minutes and already off on another bloody quest. Intelligence should be outlawed.) I stop humans occasionally and ask questions – I’d even welcome an old, “Where do you think you are?” – but none displays any sign of awareness. Silent, stony-faced, detached.

  The trail leads to a huge square. There are four openings into it, each guarded by a phalanx of wolfers. Those on my route of approach study me cautiously as I draw near. Their leader barks at me to stop when I’m about ten metres away, and stop I do. “Who the hell are you?” he shouts.

  “Newman Riplan,” I answer meekly.

  “Where did you come from?”

  That makes me smile. “Where do you think I came from?” I taunt him.

  He glares at me. “What do you want?”

  I shrug, figuring if the wolfers are part of this, their boss is probably mixed up in it too. “Is the Alchemist nearby?” I ask and he nods. “Then I want to meet him.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to meet you?” the wolfer growls.

  “In that case I’ll trot along and leave you be.”

  The leader mutters something to his troops, then disappears into the square. I spend the time while he’s gone examining my nails and beard, surprised by their length, realising I must have been out of it far longer than I imagined.

  The wolfers part sharply and a naked man strides through their midst. They close ranks again and the man passes me by, paying me no attention, instinctively knowing his path.

  The leader’s smiling when he returns. “It’s OK,” he tells his troops. “The Alchemist knows this guy, says we’re to let him in.”

  The wolfers slide aside. If this is a trap, I’ll have a hard time getting back through them to escape, but I’ve no choice but to press on. I didn’t struggle all the way out of my coma-like state just to study my nails and chew split ends.

  As they close behind me, I spot the Alchemist. He’s in the middle of the square, clad in a simply awful pink outfit. “Stay there a minute,” he shouts cheerfully and I stop. Through one of the other openings into the square, a handful of wolfers are dragging a panther. They have it noosed and roped and are trying desperately to avoid its thrashing limbs and claws. They manoeuvre it to the centre of the square, where the Alchemist waits patiently, smiling like a dentist.

  The beast stops struggling when it’s brought before the Alchemist and stares at him suspiciously but harmlessly. The wolfers remove the noose and ropes, pause for breath, then retreat and head off in search of their next animal.

  The Alchemist smiles down upon the majestic panther and spreads his arms. The pink billows of his costume flap in a light breeze. The Alchemist brings his arms together again and places his hands over the ears of the panther. He bends down as the creature opens its mouth. Showing no fear, the Alchemist presses his teeth to the animal’s lower lip and gently bites it. Then he raises his head, a pearl of blood on his extended tongue, and spits the panther’s blood down its throat. Stepping back, he removes his hands, reaches into a huge sack of sand lying by his side, and sprinkles a measured pinch of grains over the beast’s head.

  The panther stands transfixed, then shakes its head and howls. A second later, as its scream is dying in the air, it convulses and falls to the ground, mouth working itself open and shut, foam making a rabid mask of its lower face. The Alchemist stands calmly over the writhing animal, not even blinking.

  A cloud of dust begins to envelop the panther, and then I realise it isn’t dust, but sand. A tiny, swirling sandstorm blows around the animal, obscuring it from sight. It builds up to a funnel about two metres in height, then all of a sudden stops and drops in a hail of individual grains. At the centre of the scattered sand, the beast stands erect.

  Only it’s no longer an animal.

  It’s a human.

  I watch as the woman – short and frumpy, lacking all of the agile grace of a panther – raises her palms to the Alchemist, who kisses them both. She smiles once, then assumes the blank expression common to all I’ve seen on my way here. She turns and walks towards the northern exit. The wolfers part, let her through, close ranks once she’s gone. By the eastern exit another group of hunters are dragging in one of my masturbation-spawned animals – a large pig – and awaiting the Alchemist’s nod.

  “Would you mind hanging on a while?” the Alchemist asks me. “I’m rather busy at the moment.”

  “Take your time,” I tell him, squatting against a wall. I lean my head back and close my eyes. “I’ll grab forty winks. Give me a shout when you’re ready.” And with that, as if what I’ve witnessed was no more spectacular than the unwrapping of a box of chocolates, I slip instantly asleep.

  It’s dark when he wakes me. The square’s deserted, save for several wolfers acting as bodyguards to the Alchemist.

  “Work over for the day?” I ask, getting to my feet.

  “Yes,” he says. “It’s too dangerous to hunt at night. I know the animals don’t attack you but the rest of us are not so fortunate. Come.”

  He leads the way to a boarding house which the wolfers are using as a base. The downstairs floor has been converted into a nourishment house and a makeshift waiter takes our order as we wend our way to the Alchemist’s table. It’s been a long time since I dined indoors. I hope I don’t make a fool of myself.

  “You’ve changed since our last meeting,” the Alchemist comments as we wait for the meal to arrive. “You were unhappy. Confused. You seem to have adapted to our way of life in the interim.”

  “Hadn’t much choice,” I tell him. “One must change when faced with change. It was either embrace the madness or be swamped by it. There was a third option – total retreat – which I tried and was enjoying, but I knew it couldn’t last. I’m too inquisitive, that’s my problem.”

  The waiter brings our meal and departs. We tuck in. It’s nothing grand – they obviously don’t have professional cooks on the books – but far better than anything else I’ve been treated to recently.

  “How went your quest?” the Alchemist enquires as we eat.

  “Which one?” I snort. “There have been so many, I’ve lost track. Do you mean the quest to find out where the people of this city come from?”

  “No,” he smiles, “I know that now. I’ll forget it again, but for the moment it’s not a secret to me. I meant the quest to find a way out, to discover where the city lies in relation to your other world. Any luck?”

  “Nope,” I say brightly. “Hit a blank wall.”

  “Oh,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I laugh. “I’m not.”

  I ask if this is how the city
has always populated itself, if the people present when I arrived were products of some other outsider’s masturbational frenzy.

  “Yes,” the Alchemist replies, “this has always been the way. Men arrive from an other place every so often. Some don’t learn the ways of creation and pass from the city along with its natural inhabitants. Others figure it out but choose not to act upon their knowledge, and they too pass unmarked. Then there are a rare few, such as yourself, who serve to regenerate the city after it’s been purged.”

  “What happens to the men like me?” I ask. “Do we pass as well?”

  The Alchemist sighs. “There’s a saying among your people — all things must pass. So it is here. Nothing lasts forever, not even the Alchemist. My time is finite, the same as yours. Eventually I’ll be replaced by a younger man who’ll assume my identity and role. Like all the others of this city, I’ll be forgotten.

  “But you’ll be remembered,” he says, patting my arm comfortingly. “That’s the glory of creation. These new citizens will treasure the memory of Newman Riplan, because you sired them. They’ll recall the yarns you spun, even though none was present to hear them. They’ll remember the strange man who asked odd questions and tilted at imaginary windmills. Public car drivers will, at certain times, say to their passengers, ‘Newman Riplan once travelled in this car,’ and their passengers will nod sombrely and study the vehicle with interest, even reverence.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” I remark drily. “Well worth all the misery and effort.”

  “I don’t know about wonderful,” the Alchemist says, “but you should take some measure of pride from it. As you’ve noted, the present is all to the people here. They have no real concept of pasts or futures. In this realm, legacies are unheard of. The greatest and wealthiest leave no more to mark their passing than the smallest and poorest. Nobody will remember me or those who fill this boarding house tonight. In the marathon of time we’re also-rans, each and every one of us, but you will be glorified by remembrance as long as the city stands.”