Green Jay and Crow

by D. J. Daniels

  Alternate Reality Three: I run away. Not feasible. Not even close.

  Alternate Reality Four: I move the box, switch to some other time bubble and get the fuck out of here. Three flaws: the box will still be visible, I’ll probably be stuck to it and last, but not least, there’s no way to do that.

  Why am I even debating?

  “Know what to do?” asks Guerra. Which is more of a prod than a question. He looks again at a small screen he’s carrying, but then looks at me expectantly.

  “I know what I did last time,” I say. Which is about all I do know. You would think Guerra would be better informed, or at least have a set of instructions, but he seems to be winging it. Pretty much just as I am. But then, that is supposing that his purpose in having me here is to have the box moved.

  I walk up to the cupboard and fiddle with the top of the box, all the time aware of Guerra’s watchful eye. On top of the box are two pads that unhook and attach to your hands. The hands slot in to panels at the side so that they’re pretty much encased in plastic. So you’re physically holding the box and also connected to the box by the pads that are still attached to the box by some sort of cords. That’s the limit of my technical knowledge. Unhooking yourself is more complex, and someone has always told me how to do it. God knows what will happen at the end of this particular trip.

  “All ready?” asks Guerra.

  “Yep,” I say. With the confident tone of someone who has no idea at all.

  I slide my hands into the panels, pick up the box, experience the familiar failure of my body to cope with the mangling of the correct order of things, and think, shit, Mac, this better be worth it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Green Jay

  IT IS STRANGE to walk outside after all this time in the greenhouse. Blue Jay and T-Lily have found me clothes so that I don’t stand out. I worry that my skin is too green, that everyone will know, but the day is cloudy and nobody seems to be looking. That’s good, I think. A good thing. Brom is up there already, we need to hurry, but we’re taking the long way around. It’s safer, Blue Jay says. Staircase number 2 is not so heavily guarded, and it’s in a place where the old railway line curves around, so that it will be harder to see us climb. Someone has painted a large hand on top of the posts the High Track rests on. As if a giant was holding it up. I trust that giant, somehow.

  I like the feel of the air around me, but I miss the sun of the greenhouse. Outside it is murkier, there are shadows and clouds. We manage the staircase; the guard is sitting down, having a smoke, his back to the stairs. We sneak up behind him and he doesn’t even notice. I feel exposed on the way up, but there are vines halfway that offer some protection.

  The High Track is beautiful. It’s a shame that someone like Guerra owns it, that it isn’t for everybody. There are seats and paths and plantings in patterns and you can see out over Barlewin and a little beyond. From where we are standing, I can see apartments, the tip of the big screen and some of the water tower. The markets are too low to see from here. And so are the warehouses which hide in the middle. In the other direction, there is more city; mostly small houses. It’s the edge of Barlewin, and the beginning of somewhere else. Somewhere nicer. I let those memories drift up for a moment, but then I press them down. We need to get to the package.

  It took Brom so long, it is almost too late, but Blue Jay is right, it is a miracle he has done it at all.

  A few steps on and Blue Jay stops. He points to the right. There, very visibly, is my greenhouse. It seemed so hidden, to walk to it requires so many turns and alleys and corners. But here, on the High Track, it is close, very close. It makes my heart doubt, but we cannot go back now. We are close to the main administration, a building that Guerra has obviously added to the High Track. He has tried to make it fit, but everything else is so delicate, so natural, that this large building stands out painfully. There are more people around, and Blue Jay nods to them and they nod back. No-one’s stopped us so far. But we need to get right inside. I reach for the two plastic interfaces Blue Jay found for me. They are nestled in my pocket, waiting to connect me.

  There is the door. There’s no sign of anyone here, no security, not even a Tentie. It’s too easy; surely there is something wrong. Blue Jay and I both stop. I place my hand on his chest, to feel his heart beating. I have no choice but to walk into the building, but he could hide, he could leave now. I love that he doesn’t.

  The first thing I see is the plastic box, mid-air with a shimmer around it. It means that Brom has the box, that it is jumping through time again. It means I have a chance. I step towards it, but Blue Jay holds me back; Guerra is there standing in the shadows to the right. He looks up. “I’ve been expecting you,” he says, and he shows us the screen he is holding. There are our faces, or in my case, a face that is not really me, but that Guerra thinks is mine. A face that is close enough to mine to trap me.

  “I see you’ve brought me Olwin Duilis’ renegade double, Mac,” he says.

  “Her name is Eva,” says Blue Jay. He is brave and true, but there is no point. I don’t wish to speak with Guerra. I concentrate instead on the box.

  “She’s not real,” says Guerra.

  “Then how has she survived this long?”

  I take a step towards the box.

  “You’d not be here, except that she won’t survive for much longer,” says Guerra. “Let her stay; I’ll care for her, make sure she has everything she needs.”

  Another step. He doesn’t look at me. Neither of them do.

  “Why?” asks Blue Jay. But we both know the answer to that. Because Olwin Duilis has asked him to, has paid him to. Another step, another. Too greedy. Guerra reaches out, grabs me.

  “Because,” says Guerra. “That’s all you need to know.”

  “Don’t hurt her,” says Blue Jay. And then he runs, he flies, because there is nothing else he can do. I understand.

  Crow

  SO FAR, ALL I’ve been experiencing is various views of Guerra’s admin. If I didn’t feel like throwing up, I’d go as far as to say I was bored. I’ve walked the box back and forward around the room. I’ve put it down; I’ve tried to unlink myself. Quite a few times. Tried and failed. Monumentally failed. So all I can do is wait. I’m still holding on to the box, because I don’t really know what else to do and I figure that Guerra is not so stupid that he don’t have a plan at all. I mean he actually does need what’s inside this box, so surely he’s not going to let me fart around with it for too long. There’s a moment, not a long one, but it’s happened more than once, where I’m not inside a building at all. There’s grass under my feet and leaves tickling at my hair. It’s only a moment, but it’s there. Which just goes to show that Guerra isn’t everywhere.

  I’ve been bouncing around like this for a while now, and, apart from the nauseous feeling that pervades the whole experience, I’m getting restless. There has to be a way to get offa this train. Surely someone will unlock the box. If Mac and Eva have made it there, they’ll try. That was the whole point. Even if they’re been discovered and Eva’s well and truly under Guerra’s thumb, which, almost inevitably, she must be.

  There’s something like a stripy cane flitting in and out of my vision. You know me, poor impulse control, next time it comes around, I grab it. Got nothing better to do. Can’t hurt. Can’t make things worse. One hand’s holding the box, still slotted into place, the other hand’s holding onto the stripy cane. And if I thought I felt bad before, now I feel worse. But there’s no letting go. And then, ladies and gentlemen, I pass out.

  The first thing I’m aware of after that is something itching at my nose. Something fluffy that I can flick away, but which comes back to taunt me. I open one eye, am dismayed by the amount of bright light, see that it’s a piece of grass that’s got overexcited and produced something like a flower. I think about sitting up, decide against it and wriggle to the side so that the grass is no longer touching me. I close my eye and, in the peaceful darkness, I think about what may
or may not have happened.

  That don’t take long; I have no idea. I do know one thing, I’m no longer doing a Time Dance. Actually, I know two things, I’m no longer holding the box. It takes a while, but eventually curiosity overcomes me and I open both eyes. Can’t see much. A bit of sky, a bit of leaf. Moving my head hurts, but the view to the right provides pretty much more of the same. The view to the left may contain a plastic box. I sit up slowly, orienting myself to the left. I groan. It’s a whole new battered feeling. Different from being Time Locked, but not better. Well, perhaps better. In that I’m hoping this feeling is residual; that the only way, as they say, is up. Possibly that’s overly optimistic.

  Yes, the plastic box is sitting there. Fully in view. Looking, perhaps, not quite as pristine as it used to. I do not want to touch it. I can see the marks on my hands where the pads were attached. They’re not pretty; it’s a combination of graze and burn that’s just beginning to heal over with that silvery grey shit. The left hand’s worse because it’s the one that was still holding onto the box. So yes, my hands are hurting, but I hadn’t really singled them out from the rest of my bodily aches. I have now.

  I find a stick, poke at the box. It sits there, as it always does, impervious. But the thing is, I can poke it, so it’s stopped jumping around and it’s here with me in the wherever this is. Well that’s my reasoning and I’m probably wrong, but if the box is still jumping around, at least it’s doing it on its own time.

  This place, all things considered, looks pretty much like the High Track. I’ll go for a walk in a minute, have a proper look. But as far as I can tell, from my admittedly not vast experience, that thing about alternate realities being full of interesting shit is a crock. There’s no monsters, or castles, or magic, or what have you. Disappointing, perhaps, but on the plus side, in this particular time bubble there’s probably no Guerra either.

  I stand, I groan, I stretch, I persuade my feet it’s okay to walk. I leave the box where it is. Frankly, someone else is welcome to it. The High Track looks, to me, just like it always does. I’m not an expert, unfortunately, but the path winds around much as I remember it, there are the tall fluffy grasses I first became acquainted with, some bizarre hedges, places to stop and see the world, mosaics, mazes, all the artistic shit you’d expect. And seats. Fantastic bloody seats and I take advantage of one and sit down. I’m looking across at buildings. If I stood and looked over the edge I’d probably see the market shops. But I can’t be bothered. The apartments look right. I can see the greenhouse the double is living in. That surprises me, but it makes sense. Guerra has probably been keeping an eye on her all this time. The whole thing smacks of a set-up. You’d think Mac would be smart enough to see it.

  This seat is painted with red stripes, something that I’d not immediately associate with the High Track. And it makes me think of that candy striped stick I grabbed onto. And only now, for the first time in my slow, slow brain, I think about who might have been holding the other end of that stick. On the corner of the armrest, someone has painted a pair of lips in the middle of a red circle. Only the circle has been chopped in half, so that one side is lower than the other. Which pretty much symbolises how I feel at the moment. The circle that is, not the lips. Don’t know what the fuck the lips mean. And this symbol, I’m reasonably sure, does not belong on the High Track I know. Definitely not pre-Guerra. That aesthetic was arty, but not this kind of arty: more leaves and twigs and woven things. Nature arty. This is… Alice in Wonderland.

  Right now, I don’t care. My brain hurts too much to think for long. There’s no-one here that I can see. No OCD rabbits or addicted caterpillars or cats with nothing better to do than to smile. No-one at all. I close my eyes and lean back. There’s a nice breeze up here on this High Track. My hands still hurt, but the rest of me is recovering. I sit here for a while, but it doesn’t take long before I’m bored. I move from the seat, which suddenly feels like foolishness, and walk the six or so steps towards the railing. Another place to lean. It feels as if I could almost touch the buildings across the way. I look down. And yes, sure enough, there’s the market. Is it any different? Can’t say I’ve ever observed it from this angle. But I see people; that’s a comfort, I suppose. I look for the familiar brown awning of the coffee hut, and yes, I think I see it.

  I begin to feel slightly ill from dangling over the edge. My body has been fucked up. I straighten up, and then I see it: Eva, looking straight at me. It’s a painting, of course. An idealised Eva with her head in her hands, surrounded by all sorts of green and with her hair floating up and around artistically. The look on her face is… questioning. Not that she’s in a position to be asking the questions. It’s me, that has that right, to my way of thinking. But the disturbing thing is, looking at that picture, it’s almost as if I’m inside her head. I don’t like it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Green Jay

  GUERRA LETS ME go, with a push towards the box. It’s what I wanted anyway, what I was trying to do, but he is the type of person that likes to show he is in control.

  I take the two interfaces out of my pocket. Guerra watches me. He’s like a hawk, ready to pounce, but so far he is letting me do my job. I peel the plastic off the back, place one on my left hand and then, with more difficulty, one on my right. I feel a flicker of triumph. This body is right-handed, though I am only a plant. I am right-handed. I do not care what handedness Olwin Duilis possessed. I am right-handed. But that doesn’t matter now.

  I close my eyes for a moment, still my mind, I need to let the memories come up. I have kept them there, just below the surface, almost ready. I step into the space that Brom is in. I think he is on the other side of the box, but it doesn’t matter. Not at this point.

  The box has flickered out of sight, but that happens, especially when someone inexperienced like Brom is holding it. I’m not too worried. He’s tried to free himself of the box, I’m sure of it, and that makes things harder, but not impossible. It should be easier for me, far easier than for Brom. The box is meant for me.

  I put my hands where I think the box is, I imagine I can feel it. I let the interfaces do their work, guiding me, finding a moment—it needs only a moment—when they can sense the box. And it’s there, I can feel it. I can touch it. And then… no, it is gone. This is strange, but not entirely unexpected. I try again. But now, there is nothing. No pull, no hint. The box is gone.

  Brom has taken it. He has stolen it. The Crow. Prince Crow. I must give him his due. Thief Crow is perhaps a better title.

  I turn, face Guerra. He is still watching closely, but his face has changed.

  “It’s gone,” I tell him.

  “Gone?”

  “There is nothing there. Kern Bromley has stolen it.”

  Guerra laughs. “How is that possible?”

  I begin to carefully peel the interfaces from my hands, return them to their casing. I only have this one pair and it seems likely I will need them again. “I don’t know how it is possible, I just know that is what he’s done.”

  “It’s not possible,” repeats Guerra.

  “Possible, impossible. That is what he’s done.”

  Guerra takes a moment. He is annoyed, but he is poised. “You need to stay with me,” he says.

  “No, I need to go.”

  “You’ll not survive.”

  I shrug.

  “And if the box comes back?”

  “I will not wait here.”

  “Yes,” says Guerra. “I think you will.”

  People appear at the doorway, people who were not here before. One of them is a Tentie and she comes towards me and touches my arm. An act of sympathy, I suppose at first, but then I feel dizzy, tired and I feel myself drop into her.

  Crow

  LOOKING AT THE markets has made me hungry. Not famished, about-to-die hungry, but my curiosity is piqued. I have money in my pockets. And my phone, though God knows who I’d call right here. I decide to test out the shops, see if the coinage I have wil
l buy me anything at all. I think about walking all the way down to staircase number 2, but, seriously, I can’t be bothered. I know how to blend in, even if I am making an entrance down from the High Track.

  I wander back through the grasses and the mosaics and what have you and casually descend staircase number 3. The food smells are getting stronger. There’s breakfasty stuff: eggs, rolls, coffee. Shit, I want coffee. But—and this is where I didn’t think things through—there’s no big screen. Nothing to hide behind. Not that anyone seems to be noticing. The markets here have covered the whole of the space where the big screen usually stands. There’s no indication that any cars ever use the road at all. It’s all bustle and shops and people and food. It all looks vaguely familiar, but there’s nothing I definitely recognise. I wander past a few stalls, as if I’m just looking, gauging my options. But really I’m trying to scope out the nature of the currency. It looks right. No way to really tell without picking some up, but it’s right enough to maybe pretend that I made a mistake if I hand the vendor the stuff that I’ve got. And the prices don’t seem so out of whack. I could always try some liberation discount, but I like to make a good impression on my first visit to a reality.

  I decide on pancakes. Not health food, but then, perhaps it’s the best thing for a body that’s just jumped out of its normal space and time. Who could say? I get three with maple syrup and ice cream and even some berries. The exchange of money goes without a hitch, and I have a moment or two of happiness, stuffing food into my mouth. I wander, just looking, blending in. I think I’m pretty successful. Disappointing to see there’s no Chemical Conjurers. On the other hand, no Tenties. Well, none out at the markets anyway.