The High Track isn’t that far from the water tower. Actually, you can see Guerra’s domain right beside and above you, but you do have to come up by the correct entrance. I’m already out from under the tower, moving up the path behind the big screen and then progressing, via a winding path, to Guerra’s number 3 staircase. I presume the others are following; I’ve never followed someone who was Time Locked, so don’t ask me what they see. But Carine’s used to this shit and I can guarantee she’s not going to lose me. At a guess, Carine is following at a distance and the Tentie is following close. It’s the package that’s attracting it, I’m sure of it, though the package don’t feel squishy, and it don’t smell. But then again, dummkopf, it’s in a Time Locked box. I briefly wonder how the time jumps are affecting the substance inside, but then I decide that’s an avenue of thought I probably don’t want to stroll down. ’Cause if the Time Lock is affecting the substance, it’s also affecting me.
I imagine Carine guiding me in as if she is remote docking a spacecraft. She’ll be able to see the plastic box, if nothing else, although some people claim that the courier appears as a shimmer to people in normal time. I’m not going to look around to find out if I can see her. ‘Don’t look back’ is often very sound advice. I just try to keep walking without puking.
There’s no drama on the stairs. The guards see the box and wave me through. It seems this reality’s not all that alternate. They’re decent stairs. Metal, with a rail. There’s a lot of them. And eventually I’m up, right in the middle of plants and gentility. Guerra’s kept the High Track nice, I’ll give him that. Kept it in its original state, perhaps even improved it, what with the new buildings he’s put in. The supremely optimistic might say that when Guerra’s empire falls, the High Track can be returned to the borough intact and unharmed. I’m not completely sure who actually lives up here. Just Guerra, or a retinue? But right now there’s a stack of people. Or I should say there’s a stack of people in my alternate reality bubble. And I’m guessing there’s a stack of people whatever the particular time circumstance. I know the drill. I find what I think of as ‘admin’ and walk in. There’s a table to the left. Very empty, very obviously waiting for the box. I put the package down, start the process of disentangling myself. This, as you might have guessed, takes longer. I follow the instructions Orange Toes gave me to the letter. Nobody stops me, nobody interferes.
And I step back. A huge wave of nausea hits, I try not to double over, and fail spectacularly. Carine’s there in the room, she gives me an encouraging nod. Or discouraging, depending on which way you want to look at it. And the Tentie’s still close, I can’t believe it’s still here, that it’s up on the High Track, right up in Guerra’s sanctum. Of course, Guerra probably has an interest in the Tenties. The thought has probably occurred to him that they could synthesise whatever he wants. Actually, ‘synthesise’ isn’t quite the right word, and neither is ‘manufacture.’ The Tenties could create whatever he wants. And there’s the thing. Who’d want to put some Tentie-created concoction inside their own body? You’d have to keep their involvement quiet, keep it hushed.
But that’s me done. Box delivered, favours earned. Pats on the back all around.
Only there’s not. Instead there’s Guerra. Himself, in person.
Guerra’s somewhere in the middle-age, bits of grey, a few wrinkles, but looking good. No visible scars, no visible tattoos. Well-dressed, without being showy. UMC shit. And he’s calm. The kind of calm that’s really not. Just like any remarks he makes are the kind of friendly that’s really not.
“Wasn’t expecting you today, Kern Bromley,” is his opening line.
“He wouldn’t come in,” says Carine. “The courier. Wouldn’t move past the water tower.”
“And yet, that’s what he was paid to do,” says Guerra. “And what Kern was demonstrably not paid to do.” Guerra taps the box. “Got any idea of what’s inside here, Kern?”
I shrug, but it isn’t enough. Guerra wants speculation, he’s asking me to play the game and guess.
“Something expensive, something private,” I say.
Guerra nods. “Bait,” he says.
Bait for what is the question absolutely nobody is asking.
The thing is, Guerra’s a little fish. Would never do to tell him that. But there you have it. The biggest fish in a little pond, I’ll grant you. But you’ve got to know there’s far worse out there. And Guerra’s neat; he’s tidy. I’d go so far as to say well-organised. And he definitely likes the pretence of being an up-and-coming businessman. Perhaps he is, so long as you skirt the concepts of ‘legitimate’ or ‘legal.’ The Tentie is hovering close, close enough for Guerra to bat it away. A small, orange cloud has formed above it, a sure sign it’s getting overexcited. The two of them seemed ready for a private tête-à-tête.
“We’ll be going, then,” says Carine.
Guerra nods.
Carine pokes at me and we turn and make for the door. I half-expect, half-hope that Guerra will call me back. Why, I couldn’t tell you. Curiosity. But, of course, he doesn’t call. And I’m better off out of there.
“Thanks,” says Carine when we are halfway down staircase number 3.
“S’okay.”
“You back to normal now?”
“Guess so,” I say. And I am. Yes, I am.
CHAPTER THREE
Green Jay
IT’S STRANGE TO see the big screen in the square, stuck in with the cobbles and the old shops and the market stalls. But that’s Barlewin, lots of old with bits of new pasted on top. The new never seems quite right.
The morning I first saw the big screen light up, the first morning I was here in my greenhouse, I ignored the brain training. I was scared the screen would alert someone and I’d be found just by thinking about it. But I’ve decided that won’t happen as long as I don’t tab the results in. I couldn’t any way: I don’t have a phone or anything like that. But I need to test my brain to see what it can do, to see if it can learn. My score is improving. My memory and vision are good. My maths is fine. I don’t do so well at vocabulary, but I am getting better, trying to learn. I like finding the birds, I like unlocking the names. I pretended I didn’t know them to start with; that I had to work my way through all the letters. But now I know owl, heron, blue jay, seagull, pelican and many more. I know them; they’re not Olwin Duilis’ memories.
Of course, it does not test long-term memory or any type of analytical ability, but for now, it is good for me. I worry that one day I will find that I am deteriorating. But not yet. And if I do, I will ask the Tenties for extra help.
There is someone else who never tabs his results in. I noticed him first because he always stands in the same spot. Him and a friend. Though, in fact, most people stand in roughly the same place. People like to form patterns. They trace themselves slowly into the earth. I have done that too, here in my greenhouse. I don’t think they want to be predictable. But there is something in them that wants the same path, that wants to form habits. The Tenties are not the same; and often there is great misunderstanding if a Tentie takes a spot that a human thinks of as his or hers. But the man that I watch is always in exactly the same place. And he is too fast. He answers the questions while they are still being asked. As if he is Time Locked a little ahead. Although that, of course, is impossible. I don’t think he knows it. Some days, I forget my own training and just watch him. I call him Blue Jay, though I know that can’t be his name.
I’ve taken off my clothes. I don’t need them here and they’re the only ones I have. This way I can sit naked, absorbing the sun, letting myself replenish. I sleep now, too. At first, I didn’t want to—sleep probably meant death—but one day, in the sun, I slept without meaning to. I hope that means I am a little less plantlike, a little more human. Now I let myself sleep whenever I need to. Usually at night, though night can be the most interesting time in Barlewin. Sometimes in the day. I like to lie out under the sun. I imagine my cells growing and renewing. I imagine t
he true me forming. I refuse to let the thoughts of the original intrude, instead I instruct my dreams into new places, places only I could have thought of, and only I will ever be found in.
Crow
THE TENTIES HAVEN’T been with us that long. Five years, tops, though some people like to suggest they were hiding out for a long time before that. Hiding out where, exactly, is never specified. The Tenties are too weird to fit in. The first time I ever saw one, it was riding a bike down our street. No offence, but you couldn’t tell if it was male or female. But even from a long way off, you knew it wasn’t human: something about the way they sway from side to side. And they’re large, you know, lumpy. Well, this was kind of early on. Anyway, this one was wearing a gigantic blue T-shirt and riding down our street singing in that whale song way they have. I guess ’cause it was drizzling; that always makes them happy. And it was kind of spooky, me standing on the front porch, watching this blue thing come closer and closer. As though I was mesmerised, but then I’d never seen one in real life and who could blame me. And I was younger then too. Younger and more impressionable.
“Mate,” it called out in its bubbly way and then it lifted its feet off the pedals and let the bike glide in to stop in front of our gate. Its tentacles were gently waving around its face; that was kind of gross. I knew you were meant to be friendly, but it was just me and this... thing. But I walked down into the drizzle and up to the gate.
“Mate,” I said in return and it wanted to wrap its sort-of arms around me. I didn’t let it. I stepped back before it had a chance. It smelled good. I thought everyone had been exaggerating, or maybe even that they were being sarcastic, but it smelled so good and I was kind of sad when it got back on the bike and went off down the road. I stood there in the rain listening to it sing, watching until it was just a patch of blue in the distance.
And I was right not to have let it touch me. Never got any of the weird scaly shit on my arms and back, never got the feeling like you’d lost something—’cause you had. You know, all that DNA exchange stuff we found out about later.
But hell, I still think about it as a good experience. You know, first contact and all. I was never one for the red writing (which the Tenties couldn’t read anyway) or the protest T-shirts. The Hooks went way too far. Not just the fish hooks in their hair and ears, but more their brand of unsolicited violence. That’s not for me. Not that I ever owned a tentacle hat either, even when they were all the craze. Mac feels pretty much the same way. But I am surprised to see him sitting with a Tentie, down on the seats by the big screen. Brain Training was over, long over, of course. I figured Mac would wait for me. Didn’t figure on him finding a friend.
This Tentie’s a hell of a lot calmer than the one up with Guerra, but Mac has that effect. It’s wearing a green T-shirt with the words Love and Understanding printed in the same font as the Fuck Off T-shirts. Which just goes to show that the Tenties are a lot more aware of what’s going on than most give them credit for.
I don’t know why Barlewin got stuck with a truckload of Tenties, but then probably most every place thinks that. It’s true we’re mostly over the biggest misunderstandings now: the scales, the transformations, etc., etc. I mean, all things considered, we’ve taken this alien thing in our stride, almost gone overboard in our welcoming ways. This one, like most, I couldn’t tell if it was boy or girl. They did their best before they turned up to look as much like us as possible. And God knows they did their best after they got here, to complete the transformation. But apparently, the specificities of gender is one thing they don’t want to change. Thought they were all male at first. Stupid us.
Anyway, the Tentie in the green T-shirt is sitting there with Mac and they’re having a nice, low-key, but fairly intense chat. Which is par for the course for both Mac and Tenties.
“Hey,” says Mac. I want to tell him I’ve just popped through a couple of alternate realities on my way here, but somehow the news seems inappropriate.
“T-Lily, Brom, Brom, T-Lily.”
I nod and the Tentie releases a cloud of something bluey-green. I try very hard not to look amused, askance—anything, really—at the Tentie’s name, which, after all is reasonably sane for a Tentie. And, I guess it means the Tentie is a she.
“T-Lily wants to show us something.”
“Lead the way,” I reply. It’s nice, just for the moment, to have my feet on reliable earth.
We walk up to the west, away from the big screen, up past the Chemical Conjurers, skirting the market shops and into the narrow streets and the apartments. For a while it feels as if the Tentie is leading me home, which gives me the slight greeblies, but then it turns into a particularly narrow alley, offers something quick and sly to a young one by a doorway, and then we are in and climbing up what seems like a thousand stairs.
You’d think I’d be fit, running round, doing good deeds for Guerra. I’m not. If you are truly dedicated, you can get up early, do a round of exercises they show on the screen before Morning Mentals. Not for me. Mac I suspect of surreptitious exercise, and my belief is borne out when neither he nor T-Lily are at all troubled by the endless stairs.
We come to the top at last, up to what looks like a door to the roof. Well, not like a proper door, to a proper apartment. I try not to breathe too loudly. Mac gives me a funny look, which I can’t quite interpret. T-Lily knocks at the door, twice, then three times. Locks are drawn back and the door scraped open. There is a girl, wearing clothes that have seen better days. That probably could be said of us all, but these ones have actual tears and the bottom fringe of her skirt is extremely tattered. The girl is beautiful, but there’s something wrong, something vulnerable, something that will make her too much trouble. The Tentie hugs her and, unbelievably, this girl hugs T-Lily back.
It is only then I notice the room. We aren’t on the roof at all, but in a space that looks like nothing more than an old, abandoned greenhouse. A greenhouse without plants, mind you. A greenhouse without furniture of any kind. If this girl lives here, she’s living a pretty austere life.
T-Lily withdraws from the hug and attempts to introduce us. “Kern Bromley, Mac Limburg.” There is no mention of the girl’s name.
The stranger attempts a smile. Mac steps forward, gently, cautiously, and extends a hand. She takes it, shakes it in a very businesslike manner and then withdraws as if her actions surprised her. There’s a hole in her shirt under the arm. Mac draws off his T-shirt with one quick movement and presents it to her with a bow.
“For you,” he says. “Way too big, but no holes.”
The girl takes it and pulls it on over her rags. And then we stand around, silently, admiring the dark blue tracings on Mac’s shoulders and back. Same colour as the thing on his thumb, and something I’ve never known he had. And I’ve known him for a while.
“Blue Jay,” says the girl. This time she smiles as if she has let us in on a private joke.
To my surprise, Mac grins too. “Do you have a name?” he asks.
The girl shakes her head.
“She is from the printer,” says T-Lily.
“A copy,” I say. Without thought, because really that’s quite rude, but then I’ve never seen a copy this good. Even doubles are fairly obvious.
“A double,” says T-Lily. “But leftover, now.”
The girl is watching us closely, waiting to see if she needs to run, what she might need to do.
“Perhaps not leftover anymore,” says Mac.
The girl smiles at him, again, then looks away.
“How long?” I ask.
“Four weeks,” says T-Lily.
“Shit,” says Mac. I believe I share his sentiments.
“How is that even possible?” I ask.
Mac turns to T-Lily. “You helped her,” he says. And it is nothing of a question.
T-Lily nods. “But...”
“You need something from us?” Mac holds out an arm, ready for T-Lily to put her hands on him, to take whatever substance the girl needs and
the Tentie can’t make.
T-Lily shakes her head, tentacles flailing just a little too much for my liking. “It will help, but she needs something more.”
“Something Guerra has?” I ask. Because I just like to lay my stupidity out on the line.
“Yes,” says T-Lily. And, for the first time, I fully realise what an unbelievably dumb thing I’d done this morning.
CHAPTER FOUR
Green Jay
BLUE JAY AND I are lying on the floor of my room, soaking up the sun. He said to call him Mac, but I still think of him as Blue Jay. It makes me laugh, inside. He brought me new clothes, but we are lying here naked, soaking up the sun like beautiful lizards. I watch the way the sun lights up the tracings on Blue Jay’s body. They are all over him. Growing, I think, although I have not seen him enough to be sure. He has not said what they are. I can guess, if I allow my old memories in. But I have enough of my own mysteries. The person I used to be knows a little about this body of mine. But not enough. I know I can eat, but that it is not necessary and not especially helpful. It comes out the usual way. I have few of the internal organs that Blue Jay does. But I have a skeleton and muscle. Skin and hair. Teeth, lips, tongue. From the outside I am just like him. I touch his skin and I touch mine. It is not different. Perhaps his is hairier. Of course, that cannot be true. Our skins cannot be the same: it is my skin that is keeping me alive. I am lucky that my skin is dark brown; if it wasn’t, you would see the green, and even in this light, the bright light of my greenhouse, the green tinge is clearly visible. Blue Jay doesn’t seem to care.
Green Jay and Crow Page 2
