GREEN JAY AND CROW
DJ DANIELS
“That old, old question – what does it mean to be human? – is given a new configuration by DJ Daniels: what does it mean to be human or otherwise?
And it’s the otherwise that really counts, in a brilliant story that celebrates existence and survival on the newfound edges of life, and love. The fight back against disposability starts here!”
Jeff Noon, Arthur C. Clarke Award-winning author of Vurt and the Nyquist series
An Abaddon Books™ Publication
www.abaddonbooks.com
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First published in 2018 by Abaddon Books™, Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK.
Editor: David Moore
Cover Art: Pye Parr
Design: Sam Gretton, Oz Osborne & Maz Smith
Marketing and PR: Remy Njambi
Head of Books and Comics Publishing: Ben Smith
Creative Director and CEO: Jason Kingsley
Chief Technical Officer: Chris Kingsley
Copyright © 2018 Rebellion. All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-78618-158-9
Abaddon Books and Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
CHAPTER ONE
Green Jay
I THINK OF it as a ripple, a ripple of favour and exchange. Of course, the effects spread wider than I can see—there is intersection and interference—but this is how it goes as far as I know it, how the ripples flow in the little world of Barlewin. Sometimes I imagine I’m a bird, that I can follow them along, but there’s no need for that, not really, because I watch closely and I’m beginning to know this place well.
First of all, there’s a package that enters Barlewin, up by the water tower usually. I’m still not sure why the couriers feel safe there, maybe it’s the protection of something so large. The feeling you can hide. Perhaps because you’re hidden from the gaze of the man painted on the water tower, the one with the huge head and the large eyes and the crazy hair and the comb. It’s hard to tell if he’s friendly or not.
I can tell who has a package because there’s a certain kind of walk that lets me know something’s going on. It’s not a determined walk. I see plenty of that. Along with the shy, timid, don’t-take-any-notice-of-me kind of stuff. This walk is sure, but relaxed. Deliberately relaxed. It says, I’m in control and there’s nothing going on. Except there is.
More often than not the package changes hands close to the water tower. But the walk doesn’t change, it’s passed on to the next person in the relay. There’s no favour, not yet, just a delivery. Drugs, it’s probably drugs. And if it is, the parcel will most likely find its way to Guerra. Once it’s there with him, it’s all potential. All expectation. The package will be broken up, and later, at night, Guerra’s people will take the smaller parcels back out into the world. Then there will be smaller, moonlit ripples.
Sometimes the package is something for the robots. I love the robots. They call themselves the Chemical Conjurers. Their package might contain chemicals for their routine, or it might contain other stuff people know better than to ask about. Though people usually don’t think the robots would do any harm. And for those who know, the robots can be bribed to provide a distraction (a smoke, a smell, a spectacle) at the appointed time and place. They did it for me once, and I still owe them. But they don’t often have deliveries from human couriers. They like to get their packages by delivery drone. It amuses them, I think. I’ve seen them set up mazes, see if the drones can find them, but they mean them no harm. Once, when one of Guerra’s people tried to catch a drone, they sprayed him with something cloudy and dense so it could fly up and away.
Sometimes the courier walks in the other direction, goes north of the water tower. The farms are there, scratched-out places to grow tomatoes and spinach and beans and whatever else. Maybe the package is worms, or fertiliser. Most likely it’s not. Most likely it makes its way to the shipping container at the side of the farm and hides between the spades and the secateurs and the rope. I don’t like to think about the farms.
I can always tell if it’s something for the Tenties by the look on the courier’s face. She’ll be walking fast, not even bothering to look relaxed. The package will be soft and squishy and the courier wants it out of her hands, she wants it gone, whatever it is the Tenties have asked for this time. Those deliveries make me laugh. The Tenties are crazy. I love the way they change. Every week there’s something new and they never get it right. They know enough to realise I’m not real, but not enough to ignore me like the others would.
And sometimes the package makes its way past the big screen and the market shops and into the tenements. Up alleys and through doorways where there are special knocks to get in, or certain words to say to a man sitting to the side. Then there are stairs, there are always stairs, and a search for the right number. If a courier was looking for me, they’d need to climb up and up: I’m as high as Guerra. And in this room there’s lots of glass to see out, down to the streets. That’s how I know about the packages.
But there’s never been one for me.
Crow
I’M STANDING IN front of the big screen for brain training. Morning Mentals. In theory you could defer it for later, do it at work, at home, log in on the train, whatever. But most everyone figures that if you’re at least seen looking up at the big screen, then you’re probably taking part. I mean, it’s nice of the government to care so much for the state of our mental health. You don’t have to tab your answers in. I never do. There’s not much point. No chance of me reaching the 10,000s, of pulling off the prize. Mac could. Mac gets it right, gets it faster, gets it supersonic. Better than anyone I’ve ever met. But he never tabs in. There’s some days he’ll not even bother with his phone, just talk it, calling out the answers. Almost before they’re asked. That’s if it’s something like arithmetic or word making. He’s a genius. But he don’t like to share. At best he mumbles something about patterns. But he won’t talk about it. Just waves his thumb in the air. The creepy right thumb with the dark blue circular print on the base. Looks something like a blood blister, but it’s not. He won’t say what it is, where he got it. I’m not going to ask.
Brain training’s early. Not that early, but early enough. Especially if you’ve been up the night before, looking after concerns. Rarely your own. Or perhaps always your own, as an underlying theme, in that you want to eat and sleep without too much worry. But for me that usually means errands for Guerra. Not many other choices. And there it is. No angelic life path. Not if you stay in Barlewin.
Guerra’s business model encompasses a number of streams, some almost legal; but if you had to describe his empire in one word, it’d be drugs. If there’s ever been any consistency in human nature over the course of time it would have to be devotion to a transformed state of mind. So that’s our night, Mac’s and mine, delivering, collecting. Mostly it’s peaceful. You may not believe that, but mostly it is. Not everyone’s a hate-filled, violent psychopath, though most of us delude ourselves to some extent. Mac carries this ridiculous knife in his wallet. The thing’s folded up lik
e a credit card. He took it out once and showed me. Yes, it works. Works good. Can’t see anyone giving him the time to take it out of his wallet and unfold it, but you never know. It makes him feel better. Two ways: one, he’s carrying a knife; two, he’s not really carrying a knife. Mac’s thought process is a thing unto itself.
But he’s the brains. There’s no cash exchanged in these transactions, understand. Mac keeps track of everything. He’s the one who remembers the names, the numbers, the keywords, the passes, the locks. And I’m the something else. Suits me fine.
In any case, I’m standing here for Morning Mentals, poking randomly at my phone, no matter where the birds are or whatever it is you’re meant to be looking for. ’Cause my peripheral vision’s just fine, and right now it’s more interested in what’s happening under the water tower. It used to be guarded, but nobody seems so worried about that any more. Ol’ Stick Man painted up there, he can’t see what’s happening down below. There’s a courier under the tower, looks like he’s not from around here, don’t recognise him anyway, and he should’ve known better than to wear bright orange shoes like that. The ones with long toes and the weird soles. Most probably he can shimmy up the water tower if he needs to. Won’t do him much good, but there it is. Some psychological crutch thing like Mac’s credit card knife. But it’s the other person under the water tower I’m really interested in. This one I know, Carine. The orange toe man won’t be worried because she’s a girl, but he should be. Carine is fast. And she’s mean. But she’s usually calm. There’s some kind of an altercation taking place, which is not Carine’s style and, despite the shoes, is probably not this man’s either. He’s still holding the package. She’s not even making a grab for it.
Mac’s mumbling numbers to himself. The training’s moved on to maths bubbles and I hadn’t even noticed. Don’t want to disturb. I leave him there and walk up to the tower. Taking my time, watching close. Wouldn’t hurt to have Carine owe me a favour, but wouldn’t want to piss her off either.
Shit, there’s a Tentie there. Didn’t see it before. That’s what all the fuss will be about. This one’s got its tentacles pulled back like dreads. It’s kept its beak but adapted the rest of its face to look more human. Standard Tentie look of the moment. Nothing’s ever clean with the Tenties. Don’t dislike them, but they give me the greeblies. And it’s never simple. Don’t let none of them hug me; never did, never will.
“Stay back, Brom,” says Carine without even turning round.
“Someone’s got to take it,” says Orange Toes.
The Tentie starts forward. “Don’t,” says Carine. And probably she means the Tentie, but maybe she means me. In any case, there’s no way I’m going to take the package. I can see it now. It’s Time Locked.
A Time Locked package is a shit of a thing. Luckily, they’re rare. Pretty damn expensive, I’m guessing. But the thing is, it’s locked in all sorts of weird ways. First, it’s locked to the courier. Don’t seem so bad. But a Time Locked package has a habit of jumping back and forward in time, just like it says. Did it once; carried something in Time Lock. Makes you feel like shit. Like, fucking disgusting. You can barely function, you’re just hanging on, waiting for it to shift back to normality. So, it’s bad for the courier. Then you have to find someone to hand it over to. Which is almost impossible, almost nobody will take it, even the person it’s meant for. You can unlock yourself and put it down, yes, but usually a Time Locked package doesn’t contain something you can just leave on a desk and go.
And then there’s the unpacking. The package will keep jumping around merrily in time as it sees fit, at random moments until someone decides to unlock it. And that person needs to know exactly how to do that. Codes and synching and shit. No idea really, but it’s complex. Of course, that’s the least of the problems for the courier, and most probably the courier don’t know the answers to those questions, not if the security’s worth anything. But there it is. Expensive, wanky, weird shit. And Orange Toes wants to give it to one of us.
“You take it in, all the way,” suggests Carine.
“Nup,” says Orange Toes. “Water tower exchange, that’s the deal.”
The Tentie moves forward again. I’m not sure if the alien is just intrigued by the Time Lock or is attracted to whatever’s in the package—which means something organic if that’s it—or, for some unknown reason, the Tentie wants to get in good with Guerra. Or maybe Carine, though that seems unlikely.
“No,” says Carine. And she looks like she’s ready to walk away. The Tentie gets even closer.
“I’ll take it,” I say. Don’t ask me why. Don’t.
Carine stifles a groan; Orange Toes stifles a grin.
“Done this before?” he asks.
I nod, and he starts the transfer under Carine’s watchful gaze. Which, considering, doesn’t take that long. I already feel disgusting, so I’m pretty sure I’m in Time Lock. There’s no Orange Toes, no Carine, no Tentie. But the water tower’s still there and I can see the path up to the High Track. Away we go.
CHAPTER TWO
Green Jay
I WAS MEANT to come to Barlewin, but I was never meant to stay.
Even that’s not really true. This body was meant to come to Barlewin, and it had jobs to do and people to see, all directed by the impulses of someone else. Mostly as a tourist, mostly here for fun, memories it could take back to its original before the body died. I try not to think about the original. Olwin Duilis. I’m not that person. But I rely on her knowledge. I have to. Otherwise I have no way of negotiating the world; otherwise I would never have been able to escape. I use her knowledge and build on it and bury what I don’t need. I am becoming more and more myself.
I don’t want to admit this, but I’m more of a plant than a person. Doubles don’t need to eat. A bit of sun is all they need. So in my top floor glass house, I’m okay. And the Tenties look after me. We have our own exchange of favours and rewards.
I saw it happen once, a body being created. More than once, to be honest, but I don’t like to watch anymore. First a protective skin emerges from the 3D printer. It looks like a bubble, it’s translucent but very tough. Too many copies were destroyed without it. They’re too vulnerable, the process is too slow. Then the body comes. Most of the time it’s a blank. Maybe it would have been better if I’d been one of those. They’re empty; it would have been easier to form myself inside one of those. But I’d never have survived. They don’t last for long. I’m only here because I’m a double.
It’s usually Tenties that load the printer, fill it with biostuff. Because they love it and they understand it and they can adapt materials if something is short. Everyone else is grossed out. Even me. Even though that’s how I was made.
But it’s the robots I love the most, because they’re the ones that understood, they’re the ones that allowed me to escape. I was drifting through the market shops, blending in with the people, trying to think of a way to disappear. They saw me there, told me about this place, created a cloud of grey smoke so that I could slip into an alley and then up to this room. I had some money to bribe the boy at the door then. How did they know who I was, what was needed? I like to think they recognised another new soul. If I am wrong, it means someone knew what I would do, and wanted to protect me. Or wanted to keep me close. I try not to think of that.
In my dreams, there’s someone out there, the original, looking for her body back. Although she’s older now and her body is falling apart. If she finds me, she will snatch me. She knows I must have come to Barlewin. But she will not think I stayed here. She will not think I survived.
Crow
THE THING TO do with a Time Locked package is to keep moving. That way, it jumps less often. Moving complicates things, I guess. Can’t say I understand it. A Time Locked box is moving between one of several time bubbles. Little bubble realities that come and go, and are usually sufficiently like ours that everything stays on track. Some say alternate realities, and that all you’ve got to do is n
ot change anything and then you can pop back. Which is probably bullshit meant to scare couriers, but what do I know.
The thing is, it’s not really time travel. I mean, the jump’s only a matter of a fraction of a second. 0.63 seconds at the most, I’m told. By Mac, who should know. Which is shit-all time to affect your past or your future, let me tell you. 0.63 seconds is pretty useless. But you can’t really affect things because you can’t interact; that’s the whole point. Otherwise someone would just put their hand out, leave it there until the parcel moved into phase with that particular future. No, it’s never in phase. It jumps around.
And that is the other point of the plastic box. Not just a torture device for the courier, but an interface so that it can sit on the desk, or what have you, and wait for you to come and open it. So that you can see that you’ve still got something to come and open. Freaky shit.
And apparently in all the alternate realities that we visit, the box and I, I’m taking it to Guerra. Guerra lives up on the High Track. Old freight railway tracks, coupla storeys high, believe it or not, fell into disrepair, remodelling by upstanding citizens—when such people existed—and, voilà. Something beautiful, something green and flowery, something to be proud of. You could visit and look down on the dump of a place you called home and almost feel good about it. Until a few years ago. When Guerra held a party up there one night, told the regular security to have the night off, brought in his own people, and never left. Well, that’s the rumour. Truth is probably more complicated than that. It’s nice up there. It’s the same rain that falls on him—if anything, he’s filtering it for us—the same polluted haze that drifts up and around, but somehow it seems cleaner up there.
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