by Anna Silver
Zen’s assertion that there could be another, unknown dreamer among them flitted through London’s memory, but she quickly pushed it aside. She realized now it wasn’t just guilt that kept her from considering the possibility, but fear. It was a variable too terrifying to take in. And she wasn’t going to burden the others with it.
“Maybe it’ll pick up again tonight. You said you thought you willingly ended the dream last time. Maybe you willingly kept yourself from dreaming last night,” Avery suggested.
London hadn’t considered that. Had her own fear of facing Degan kept her from dreaming?
“It’s possible, I guess,” she admitted. “Although, I didn’t really mean to do that. I didn’t even mean to end the dream with Degan.”
“Not consciously,” Avery said. “But the subconscious is something altogether different. It’s the part of your mind that’s most active while you’re dreaming,” she added.
“Where’d you hear that?” Kim asked her. “Sounds like a load of crap.”
“I’ve been reading.” Avery rolled her eyes at him.
Books were one of the most expensive commodities in Capital City. Since reprocessing began, many had been lost or destroyed in order to make paper for ration tickets and the toilet. Schoolwork was done in class on school-owned netbooks. Scrappers valued books above almost anything else. There was a Capital Library, where you could go and read the books on little wooden podiums, but they were literally chained to the shelves. Even Kim’s itchy fingers were out of luck. Their school kept a library of its own, very small. Those books had a sensor inside that went off if you tried to take them out of the room. But a private collection was unheard of among their class. Avery’s class was something different. Her dad loved books, and he kept a small shelf of them in their place at the Rise.
“I wanted to do some research about what’s happening to us. Capital Library has some books on mind studies and a few of them mention dreaming,” she added.
“Who studies minds?” Kim laughed.
“No one anymore. That’s very pre-Crisis.”
Something about Avery’s research had the hairs standing up on the back of London’s neck. “Why didn’t you tell us you were doing research?” London asked her.
Avery stiffened. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
“With everything that’s going on, do you really think this is the time to look up books on dreaming at the library? What if someone followed you?” It wasn’t like Avery to take initiative that way. The whole thing made London nervous.
For a moment, she thought she saw Avery’s innocent eyes go hard, then it passed. “No one followed me,” Avery said firmly. “But you’re right. I should have said something,” she added more gently.
Zen gave London an agitated look. “So what did these books say?” he asked, diffusing the tension.
Avery smiled at him. “They say that the mind is made up of two parts: the first mind, the conscious. And the second mind, the subconscious. The first mind is the part we think with. It communicates with normal language—words. The second mind is the part we dream with. It communicates with symbols—pictures. Kind of like a dream language. And it’s very impulsive.”
Avery was on a roll. She threw a notebook on the table and flipped to a page in the middle where she’d scrawled the image of a snake eating its own tail. “It’s called the Ouroboros. I found it in a book at the library by mistake. That’s what started me on this research. I thought I made it up myself, but it’s part of this picture language. They all are. Every one of my drawings is an impulse from my second mind.”
“That’s great and all,” London swilled another sip of coffee, “but what does that have to do with the fact that no one was visited by their Otherborn last night?”
“Think about it, “Avery said. “If it’s supposed to be your turn to dream, but your second mind is afraid, it could be acting on impulse—shutting the dream off so to speak.”
“So I’m doing it but not doing it at the same time?” London asked.
“Precisely,” Avery answered her.
London scowled. “I’m not sure that helps me.”
“I just think we shouldn’t press it is all. We shouldn’t try so hard. Maybe the Degan thing was a fluke. Maybe we need a break from dreaming for a while. I mean, if you’re scared.” Avery twirled a lock of smooth, brown hair around her index finger. “You seem to be. I know I am.”
London leaned back in her chair. Avery, the eternal scaredy cat. But why go to a public library and look up the very subject she was so afraid of? Avery was smart. She did well in school and was guaranteed a stellar assignment someday because of it, not only because of her parents. But she was pretty stupid when it came to street sense. It was just like her to be completely paranoid about something and, at the same time, dumb enough to risk exposing herself.
Rye tapped a finger on the notebook, pointing to the snake. “Didn’t you say the creep who netcommed you was called Kingsnake?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Sooo, don’t Kingsnakes eat other snakes?”
“How would I know?” London balked.
Avery closed the notebook and slipped it back into her satchel. “And how do you know for that matter?” she asked Rye.
Rye shrugged. “I think I’ve seen it on TV. One of those old nature shows the Tycoons love to play so we’re too afraid to venture outside city walls.”
“They work,” Kim shuddered.
“Anyway,” Rye went on, “they’re like cannibals. Means they eat their own kind.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?” Zen asked.
“Didn’t remember until just now, looking at Avery’s picture,” he replied. “And that means Avery’s Ouro-whatever is a message from her second mind. A message about Degan’s murderer.” Rye was beaming with confidence over this connection, but Avery only looked confused.
“That says what exactly?” London asked him dryly.
“That says the murderer is one of us—an Otherborn.”
London gulped a mouthful of coffee, nearly choking. Maybe they should have been paying more attention to Avery’s sketches all along. “How many of those notebooks you got Avery?”
“Lots,” she answered. “B-but I don’t think we should get carried away. Rye’s got an idea, but there’s no way to prove if he’s right.”
“Degan was only just murdered. How many notebooks would you say you’ve filled in the last couple of weeks?” Zen asked, picking up on London’s train of thought.
“I don’t know. One. Two maybe. I don’t really think there’s anything in there that’s going to help us though,” Avery answered.
“But you just said—” Kim started.
“I know what I said,” Avery cut him off. “But I just meant that London was closing herself off to the dreams because she was afraid. And maybe we shouldn’t push her so hard.”
Rye smiled at Avery. “I think we should look through those drawings just the same. Maybe we could come over to your place this afternoon?”
Before she could answer, London interrupted. “It’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I want to talk to Ernesto first. He sold us the netbooks, he told me how to sign on to Invisinet. Maybe he knows who’s capable of crashing my combox.”
“Where are we going to find Ernesto?” asked Rye.
London gave him an appraising look. “In the tunnels.”
“I hate it down here!” Rye whined as they picked their way through hordes of people crowded into the below-street-level maze. “I feel like a sewer rat.”
“Would you shut up,” London admonished. “I’m trying to focus.”
“It’s just so tight,” he continued.
“It’s like five feet wide in here. What’s your deal? You didn’t have to come.”
“And let you traipse around unsupervised with a murderer on the loose?”
London registered the note of real concern under his sarcastic tone. Even among the pressed and rushing bodies in the
tunnels, she could feel her heart skip and a blush rise to her cheeks. “Aww, you goin’ soft on me, Roanyk?” she crooned.
“Don’t say that here!” he scolded.
London laughed. “Relax. There’s only like ten miles of these things, he’s bound to turn up soon.”
“Not helping,” Rye grumbled.
London understood where Rye was coming from. The underground tunnels were a color coded labyrinth below the streets that the Scrappers operated out of. The air was heavy with bad breath, Scrappers and homeless weren’t known for their good oral hygiene. The walls were damp, it was hotter than being outside, and it was lawless. You never knew what was waiting around the next corner. But regardless of the unpleasant stench and close quarters, people flocked to the tunnels. Everything in Capital City was rationed, even kids. You needed a license, or papers, or tickets to get even the simplest necessities—a comb, bread, babies. But scrap was another story. Nobody kept tabs on scrap. Serious Scrappers brought stuff into the city from outside, digging it out of the Houselands surrounding the city walls to trade in the tunnel markets. A veritable bazaar had taken residence down there among the homeless and unassigned, with ramshackle tables and crates displaying everything from discs to old toys and books. The tunnels were a treasure trove. Few could resist their temptations.
Among the tunnel markets, the Tigerians dominated the yellow tunnels. And among Tigerian Scrappers, Ernesto was king.
“Look!” London tugged at Rye’s sleeve. “I think I see him over there in the yellow and black striped shirt.”
“Those are their colors.” Rye nodded. “But there’s a lot of that down here.”
“It’s him. I can see his face now. Come on.”
Ernesto looked up from behind a card table covered with illegal netbooks, phones, and netcards. Behind him rose a pile of amassed wires and batteries. Stacked rows of plastic crates stretched on either side, full of things like plastic buttons, rusty screws, and “change,” a type of pre-Crisis money. Once upon a time, people just churned stuff out whether someone was going to use it or not, and rations were unheard of. It seemed a strange way to live. Though London wasn’t sure the alternative had proven any better.
“Wa’s up, lil’ Lo?” Ernesto greeted them with typical street slur.
“Hey, Ernesto,” London responded. “I need to talk to you.”
Ernesto mouthed his bobby pin, pushing it from one corner of his gap-toothed grin to another as he eyed Rye cautiously. His mole-like eyes were dull and hard to read in the flickering light.
“This is Rye,” London told him. “He’s cool. Scrapped him a netbook, remember?”
Rye nodded brusquely.
Ernesto grunted, seemed to decide he was all right. He looked at London. “Wa’s wrong? You get somethin’ else confiscated?”
“No, not this time,” London huffed. She’d managed to talk Ernesto into scrapping her an illegal phone last year when she found a bottle of aspirin someone had dropped on the electric rail. It was a good deal for her, and she used an ungodly amount of flirting to get it. Then Principal Carmichael caught her with the phone in the hall. When she couldn’t produce the necessary papers, he confiscated it, snatching it up with his bloated, pink fingers. Luckily, he didn’t turn her in. Probably because he’d pocketed it for himself.
Ernesto grinned, “Lil’ Lo. Always one a my best customers. Can’t keep her shit, daz right.”
“Cut the crap, Ernesto, I didn’t lose anything. Someone hacked into my netcom account.”
“Impossible,” he said.
“No, apparently not impossible. You’re the biggest netbook Scrapper in Capital City. You got me started on Invisinet. Tell me who could do something like that? Who could hack into the Capital City intranet and find out someone’s netaddress?”
“Aww, lil’ Lo, flattery will get you nowhere,” Ernesto crooned. “Do I look like a scientist to you? I don’ know that shit. I just sell the stuff, okay?”
London tapped her foot and crossed her arms. “You’re holding out on me, Ernesto. I can feel it. Who runs Invisinet, huh?”
“Lo, if I knew, I’d tell ya. I don’t know shit like that. The intranet is government business.”
“You mean Tycoon business,” she corrected.
“Same thing,” he said smugly.
London considered the Scrapper for a moment. She was hitting a brick wall. Either he didn’t know anything or he wasn’t willing to say. In any case, it didn’t look like she’d get the information she needed today. Maybe if she returned in a week or so with something worthwhile, a couple discs or an old clock, she’d manage to coax it out of him. Anything metal. Scrappers loved metal.
“Friend of mine was murdered this week. Outside Dogma. You know about that?” she asked, deciding to change tack.
The gangster rubbed his thumb against the side of his nose. He was short and nimble and his neck was draped with layers of old bicycle chains, like necklaces. They left a thick black smudge on his skin. The Tigerian crest was tattooed boldly on the inside of one forearm: two tigers facing each other, reared on their hind legs. Black and yellow.
“I mighta heard something,” he admitted coolly.
“Was it one of yours? A Tigerian hit?” London pressed.
“Hell no,” Ernesto scowled. “What do we need to be killin’ useless kids for?”
“I didn’t think so,” London told him. “You don’t know who then?”
“I ain’t got a clue. But it sounded nasty. You better watch yourself, Lo’.” He emphasized this last part by bringing his voice down close to a whisper and leaning in.
She started to ask why but Rye grabbed her elbow. “Come on, London, he doesn’t know anything. Let’s go.”
Ernesto shrugged and straightened back up. His eyes told London that whatever he’d been about to say was for her ears alone. She’d have to wait and come back again without Rye.
London tapped Ernesto’s table casually and nodded her goodbye. She’d be back. She turned and walked reluctantly away with Rye.
“I don’t trust him,” Rye said after a while.
“He’s a crook, sure, but Ernesto’s straight. He’d tell me if there was something to say.”
“No, I don’t think so, London. You’re kidding yourself if you think that guy gives two shits about you. You’re just meat to him. Besides, there was something suspicious in the way he told you to watch yourself. And I thought of something else, too. One of those symbol things Avery was talking about.”
London rolled her eyes. “What now?” Yet again, Rye was analyzing everything to a fault.
“Black and yellow, their colors. That’s also the color of the Kingsnake I saw on TV.”
“Now I think you’re getting carried away,” London said, dismissing his concerns. “Those are Tiger colors. You know, the big cats that went extinct before the Crisis?”
Before he could reply, a large group of people moved past them, and they both fell silent. The group had a strange smell, even for down here, like smoke and grass, and their eclectic clothes were unusually patched and stitched. There were about ten of them in all, mostly young adults—teens and twenties. They were visibly dirty, and their skin was stained a deep dusty brown from the sun. A blonde-haired girl in a fitted vest looked back over her shoulder at Rye, her green eyes seeking him out in the crowded tunnel. London jerked him along.
“Who are those people?” he asked as he stared at their backs disappearing among the swarm of Scrappers and shoppers.
“Outroaders,” London said knowingly. “From beyond the city.”
SIX
Bludgeoned
Tonight was to be London’s return to Dogma’s stage, but it would never happen.
They hadn’t played since Degan’s murder, and London hadn’t even been by to check in with Pauly, per his request. She was anxious to reassure him that everything was fine, even if it wasn’t. That she wasn’t mixed up in any trouble and she hadn’t done anything else New. She’d had some time to think
since she played her song for him the other afternoon, and she honestly felt bad about scaring him. Pauly was so good to her, the father her dad had failed to be. He didn’t deserve all the worry she caused him. And there was no point in torturing him over how screwed up her life had become…she had become. She’d memorized a new song from the Replacements disc he gave her, Bastards of Young, and tonight she planned to play it for him to make up for all the grief she’d caused. But first, they were headed to Avery’s place to scour her notebooks for clues, passing Dogma on the way.
London noticed the police tape first, slapping mutely at the late morning air. It brought her to a brisk stop. She’d had enough black and yellow for one week.
They’d already scrubbed and reopened the alley behind the club a day or two before. This tape was new, and it was pulled in a dozen directions across the front door of Dogma.
“What happened?” London demanded from an onlooker, a swell of urgency in her voice.
“Crime scene. Another murder.”
Her breath caught in her throat, and a terrible, clawing panic rose in her chest. She shot Rye a wild look and bolted for the doors, but a police officer caught her up short before she could tear through the tape. He held her back by one arm. “Ain’t no one allowed in there, Miss.”
“You have to let me in!” London shouted, her eyes already wet and darting around like those of a frightened animal. She tried to pull away from the officer’s grip, her legs spread as though nothing in heaven or earth could make her back down, but his hands were large and strong, and he was clearly not budging.
“You family?” the officer asked, annoyed. He wore a smirk that said he figured not.
“Yes!” she insisted.
The officer gave a snort. “And how are you related to the deceased?”
London’s heart sunk at the word deceased, but she rallied a mouthful of attitude. “Dunno. Who’s dead this time?”
