Chapter Two
‘Home’
“We won,” proclaimed Mr Tide as he burst through the door of the office.
I sat behind my desk, daydreaming while flicking through a pile of paper work that I’d already organised twice, once alphabetically, then in date order. I was bored.
Mr Tide’s large entrance startled me, and I knocked the paper work to the floor.
“Congratulations, sir.” I cheered as I began to collect the scattered documents.
Mr Tide frowned. “Imagining other things, Crey?”
“Yes sir. Sorry sir.”
He took off his coat and threw it over the back of his chair.
“Waste of time. What more could you want? Don’t forget our slogan Mr Parthy. A voice for the working class. Could you imagine a more honourable job?”
‘Clint and Tide’ was a small law firm just outside the city. The firm dealt in minor work disputes and accidental injuries. I’m no lawyer; my job entailed serving drinks, making appointments and running errands.
“I’m sorry sir. It won’t happen again.” I put the disorganised paper work back on my desk.
He collapsed into his seat and began to tap the computer keyboard. “What’s wrong with this thing?” he asked.
“I’ve been trying to get them on all morning, but none of the computers are working.”
“Well that’s unusual.”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaned back on his chair, and I heard the squeak of springs as they resisted his weight. “Crey, when Mr Clint and I started this firm, do you think we would have been successful if we’d allowed our imagination to overrule our senses?”
“No sir.”
Mr Clint retired shortly after I started working for the company, but Mr Tide seemed to be defying the test of time. I suspected he’d work until the day he died.
After less than one phase in the job I quickly learned my employer placed little credence in the company slogan personally, and was more focused on the jobs that paid. Regardless, he did represent the ‘unimportant people’, and through either talent or pure luck, won most of his cases against corporate companies. I always tried to be enthusiastic and polite, but I found the job tedious and dull, often going through the motions while dreaming of a more exciting life.
“You could go far, Crey,” Mr Tide spluttered. “Knuckle down, stay focused, and in a few cycles you could be where I am, provided you put a stop to your pointless imaginings.”
“But sir,” I contested, “surely there’s nothing wrong with imagining new things, and trying to be more than you are.”
“We all strive to be more than we are,” he agreed, “but it’s equally important to know your limitations.”
I found his advice disheartening.
“Yes sir.”
“There isn’t much going on, and the computers aren’t working, so why don’t you go home? Take the rest of the afternoon off, and I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you sir.” I picked up my coat and bag, and began to leave when Mr Tide’s phone started to ring. He answered it in his usual enthusiastic manner.
“Hello. Clint and Tide, a voice for the working class. Mr Tide speaking, how can I help you?” There was a short pause as he listened. I saw his face drop. “The High Darlon Council…? Yes, Mr Parthy works… Hang on.” He looked at me. “Off you go, Creyson.”
Curious as to the mention of my name, I left the office, gently closing the door behind me.
I’d left Danton one phase earlier. I now lived in a compact habitable unit on the outer limits of Trans Central. I was extremely fortunate to have a dwelling so close to the Capital. Most Valirons lived in the many communal villages far beyond the umbrella of the city.
Valiros has a strict class division. This doesn’t simply include your heritage or wealth, but also your physical location. Where you live indicates your work and social position within the social order. In essence, the closer to the city you live the higher status you hold. The main city habitable units are reserved for the higher classes such as government officials, and military hierarchy. I was none of these. I’d inherited my unit from my grandfather who had worked as an aid to the High Darlon Council. His position entitled him to certain benefits, one of which was a modest unit on the edge of the city border. Just before his passing, he bestowed his home to me, and I was more than happy to take responsibility of his humble estate. No-one questioned the decision or demanded the unit be vacated, so I’d not raised the issue.
My grandfather was a proud individual. He often appeared detached, sometimes downright impolite, but he had a generous heart that had been hardened by the traumatic journey my family had travelled over the cycles.
He lost his life partner (my grandmother) only half a cycle after their bonding ceremony. Her illness was quick and painless but unexpected. Since then he’d lived an isolated existence. The disappearance of his daughter (my mother) half a cycle ago had not helped his disposition.
The day my grandfather died, he called me to his bedside. Although the lights above still shone bright, the day was a dark one. Nurses flitted back and forth, plumping pillows, changing medication, all in an attempt to make the aged Valiron comfortable. Their presence seemed to annoy him; he never did like a fuss being made.
“Crey,” he beckoned, his voice weak and frail. Wanting to appear strong, for his sake more than mine, I wiped my tears and feigned a smile.
“You need to rest,” I encouraged.
“Plenty of time for rest, Creyson.”
“Can I get you anything?” I wanted so much to ease his discomfort.
“Nothing.” He winced in pain. “All I need you to do is listen.”
“I really think you should rest.”
“Listen. It’s your responsibility, Crey.”
“What is?”
One nurse was drawing the curtains while another was flicking through his medication chart.
“Can’t I get a little privacy?”
They smiled at him but didn’t leave. “They’re just doing their job, grandfather.”
“You always were the diplomat.” A brutal cough stole his breath. “I pray I’ve prepared you for what lies ahead.”
“You’ve raised me well. Don’t worry.”
“My dear Crey, I’m not talking about….” He slid himself further up the bed pushing his back against the pillows. Leaning on his elbows, he lifted his body towards mine. “Our world is a perilous place. Your faith and trust shelters you from seeing the truth. You’re innocent, and that is your weakness, but your imagination can be your saviour.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Once I’ve passed, they will begin their plan. I’ve protected your identity, but the day may soon arrive when great demands are made of you. Remember my teachings. Trust no-one, especially him. He’ll try to be your friend, mislead you, but his only alliance is to the darkness.” Another cough. He shuffled back down the bed, rested his head on the pillow, and took my hand in his. “Remember this; speak and be heard, Creyson Parthy. Speak and be heard. It’s the only way to save us.” He squeezed my hand a little tighter. “All that I have is yours.”
His grip released, he closed his eyes and drifted away. The final member of my family had gone. I was alone.
I didn’t understand his final words, and there wasn’t a chance to ask to whom he was referring. I attributed his strange ramblings to his ill health combined with powerful medication; but it did appear his final wish was for me to inherit his possessions, and that also included his modest home.
When I say modest, what I actually mean is small, really small. The efficient unit consisted of one sleeping cubicle, a cooking compartment, a minute cleaning booth, and a main living area. Minimalism was a running theme. Clutter leads to mess, mess leads to disorganisation. A tidy appearance is compulsory, comfort an indulgence.
The walls were white and bare except for a single framed, written passage that h
ung on the wall in the living area. It was my grandfather’s favourite proverb, written more than twenty cycles ago by one of our greatest literary minds, Haldon Franz. The passage read;
“A dream for one can be a dream for many.
If I dream of a new future, could I imagine a new present?
One dream can be forgotten, two can be ignored.
But if there were four then six, they should never be discounted.
A dream for one can be a dream for all.”
These words meant little to me, but my grandfather held them close to his heart. He would often quote the passage to me before I slept. This particular passage was one of Haldon Franz’s less popular, mainly because it suggested following your dreams, which is far too illogical for a Valiron.
I walked through my front door, slipped off my coat, hung it on the coat rack, and dumped my workbag on the floor. The unit was silent. It still didn’t feel quite like home, it felt as if I was just visiting, and at any moment my grandfather would burst through the door moaning about this and that.
It was strange to be home in the middle of the day. The mid-afternoon light poured through the small living area window flooding the room with its stark, almost clinical rays.
I changed out of my grey suit, hanging it neatly back in my wardrobe, and put on a fresh pair of grey slacks, and a white, fluffy jumper that made me feel warm and cosy.
Not wanting to waste the afternoon, I had a little spruce around the unit, changing the bed, dusting the living area, emptying the bins, and clearing out-of-date food from the cupboards. I tied up a bag of rubbish and carried it to the disposal container at the rear of the property.
My small, usually well-kept, garden had overgrown slightly. I’d neglected it over the past phase. As well as potted flowers, a small table and chairs, and one wilting fruit tree, the garden also housed yet another of Valiros’ most guarded secrets. The Trojan Device.
The Trojan was an ugly hunk of metal that seemed to fight against all that Valiros strived to be. There were no smooth edges, no arcs or circles. The device was obviously never intended to be beautiful, and nor did it pretend to be. They were considered unattractive pieces of equipment that constantly ruined the suave appearance of the landscape.
The device stood at over three metres tall, dominating the ground that surrounded it. Creepy, angular shadows were cast in all directions. Layers of triangular jagged metal overlapped to create a terrifying, spiky cocoon shape that all amassed to a sharp single point at its top. There were thousands of the contraptions scattered throughout Valiros doing nothing except being unsightly.
I lifted the lid on the disposal container and dumped the rubbish inside. Before returning to the unit, I stood and stared at the device. I’d often considered covering the monstrosity from view, but this was unwise considering the so-called ‘importance’ of the unsightly apparatus. As others had discovered, any attempt to hide, disturb, or hinder the Trojan would lead to severe punishment at the hands of the Trojan Keepers, an assembly of individuals dedicated to the preservation of the hideous devices. They were above the military, and beyond the reach of the government; they were an untouchable group shrouded in even more secrecy.
Those who have challenged the Keepers or interfered with the Trojans have been taken to correctional facilities never to be heard from again. I suspected these stories may have been invented in an attempt to ensure the Trojans’ ambiguity, but I wasn’t willing to take the risk.
A tiny green light flashed at the Trojan’s tip. I couldn’t remember noticing it before, not that I’d given the device that much attention.
I didn’t know what the Trojan Device actually was, and totally clueless as to its purpose. Of course, there were many theories, or rather myths, concerning the Trojan Devices. One of the most popular of these was that the Trojans played a part in ‘The Change’; how or why was never made clear. The High Darlon Council had no official statement or position, so speculation was rife. Personally I didn’t care where they’d come from, I just wished one of them wasn’t sitting in the middle of my previously well-maintained, pretty garden.
I walked into the cooking compartment and flicked the switch down on the kettle. After a couple of minutes, I realised the water wasn’t boiling. I pressed my hand gently on its side to test the temperature, but it remained cold. I flicked the switch several more times before checking it was connected to the wall socket. I was baffled. First, the failing lights, then the computers in the office, and now the kettle.
Suddenly I heard the bubbling sound of boiling water and the hiss of steam spurting from the spout.
“That’s weird,” I said to the kettle.
I made myself a soothing hot drink and walked out of the cooking compartment.
I’d just sat down on the sofa ready to catch up with the day’s events on the viewing terminal, when suddenly there came three mighty knocks on my front door.
Creyson Parthy & The Trojan Attack Page 2
