Excerpt: 1. Dreamwalker/ 2. Rowing through clouds

DREAMWALKER

Harrison pulled over into a wedge of reflected blue LED that lit his usual spot. He turned off the ignition and sat on his bike a moment. The city was a dark presence at his back. The air smelt of heat, rotting seaweed, carrion and the old motorcycle smell of his copdome: engine oil, ozone and slighty rusting steel. His partner Rick would arrive in the parking lot any moment now, but until then he had a precious few minutes to himself.

It seemed that, recently, he craved more and more moments like this. A Just Alex moment, he called them, with Detective Harrison just a name on his badge, not a presence he felt obliged to inhabit.

Time to move on, Alex.

He’d never loved his job, but at least he had one, which was more than you could say for half the sorry buggers he usually escorted down to the station. But there had to be a point where being absent from himself was going to cost him something. Or worse, cost someone close to him.

But without his job, what was he?

A lonely alcoholic. End of story.

The skype spluttered, visuals off.

“Yeah Harrison,” he said into the mic.

“Suspect heading north on West.”

“The Weasle?” Alex had the bike moving.

“Most likely, but the can’t get a proxim reading.”

“Coburg’s known to have a jammer and a doctored chip.”

“Single cylinder Blue Hondex CD.”

“Who’s he with?”

“Second vehicle a black Ducatshi CD. New.”

“Gang money?”

“Looks like it.”

“At least that confirms our suspicions. We’re onto it.”

He gunned it back onto the street, and like a ghost, Rick’s three-wheeler pulled out of a side street and they formed up. Alex punched priority, and the clot of traffic parted for them, and they sped across town. The flashing red blip of the Blue Hondex in the corner of their visors, turned abruptly.

“What does that look like to you Rik?” Alex asked.

“They’ve got a tap into the grid.”

“Yep, that’s what I thought.”The red dot turned again. “Feel like going Offline?”

“In this traffic?”

“We’ll cross the bridge, then go solo.”

“You’re gonna get us killed. Or suspended.”

“Either way… You up for it?”

“Shit.”

“I take that as a yes. Sparkes!”

“What’s up, Harrison?” came the voice of the GPS tech.

“We’re going off-line. We need you to recon us.”

“Fuck, thanks a lot. Rader will nail my arse.”

“Fire or glory Sparkes.”

“When?”

“Ashfield bridge.”

“Intercept?”

“Ten minutes?”

“No can do. What about fifteen?”

“I owe you.”

“You sure as hell do.”

#

It took two minutes to reach the bridge and they crossed with a clot of traffic streaming together like schooling fish over the filthy waters of the Rhodes River. When he followed Harrison into the four lanes of traffic heading west Rik had a moment of fear.

“Ready boys?” whispered Sparkes. She was as nervous as they were.

“You ready Rik?” Harrison asked.

Rik risked a look at the readout on his visor. The road was a steady stream of bikes in both directions. There were even a few cars and trucks spanning the narrow bike lanes.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Let’s do it.”

Their blue flashers went on, mute, as though afraid to take a breath. Rik rode Harrison’s tail-light like he was a pillion passenger. If Sparkes forced a gap there would be a fraction of a second, three bike-lengths, but was it. For the next five minutes, Rik had to be a machine. He had to be one with his bike, with Harrison and with the voice of Sparkes. No independent thought.

“Right, eighty,” said Sparkes.

Rik swerved immediately into the gap he trusted was there, and increased his speed. Harrison’s tail-light was like a red eye, and it filled Rik’s vision.

Swerve, slowdown, speedup.

They ran the line between lanes for a heartbeat before Sparkes moved them further right.

“Split right.”

Rik stayed where he was while Harrison swerved into the right lane.

Now they were duelling, and swerving independently between the traffic.

As Rik moved left into a blackspot, he felt the slice of steel too close. It would take only a minor mistake by either himself, Alex or Sparkes, and they would have a pileup. But they were no joy riders, Sparkes could pull subtle priority on the grid. It was up to Harrison and Rik to do exactly as the tech told them, and for the riders around them not to panic and to keep to the grid.

“Left at the lights. Suspect, two sets of lights away.”

“This is the best bit. Time to cause a scene,” Harrison said. “Can you give them an amber on the next lights?”

“Can do.”

Police priority had cleared the road behind and ahead of the quarry.

“There’s the Hondex. Where’s the Ducatshi?”

“I can’t see it boss.”

“We’ll have to let it go, and nail the Weasel. You stay this side of the lights and pull him if he runs.”

The light turned amber. Rik and Harrison pulled into the intersection.

Rick slid to a stop, cracked his dome and was off his bike as Harrison dropped his LP and slid diagonally across the intersection. The Hondex saw the downed LP too late. He tried to swerve, but lost control and dropped the Hondex. By the time Coburg had cracked his dome, Rik had sprinted across the road and he shoved his colt6 through the crack to within inches of the guy’s face.

Harrison was crawling from his own downed bike as, seconds later, six LPs cruised into the intersection and formed a cordon.

Rik cuffed Coburg. “Get to your feet.”

“Am I being arrested, or what?”

“What does it look like?”

“You haven’t read me my rights.”

“You don’t have any. Your chip is non-functional.”

“A malfunctioning chip isn’t an offence.”

“Nah, but a black chip is. You should ask your GP for your money back, your doctored chip is a dud.”

Alex wandered over.

“What’s up boss, you look worried.”

“I’m just wondering where that Ducatshi is.”

“Harrison!” A tall officer with a milityary haircut and a kind face strode over.

“Gray, how’s it going?”

“You go off grid?”

“Yeah.”

“You could have warned us.”

“How?”

“I dunno, but I nearly crashed my bike because of you.”

“Sorry Gray, I know how much you love that heap of shit.”

A rifle cracked, and everyone hit the ground. Rik pulled Coburg down with him.

“Anyone hit?” Harrison called.

Murmurs to the negative. Rik looked over at Coburg who was smiling.

“See ya later fellas,” Coburg whispered. He had a hole in his jacket, right in the centre of his chest near his heart.

“Boss! Coburg!”

Coburg’s face paled, then seemed to melt. His clothes seemed to fill with mist, then collapsed.

“That’d explain the black chip, then.” Harrison muttered.

Rik knelt next to the deflated pile of empty clothing. “Fuck, I hate Walkers.”

#

Harrison’s cubical reflected the man. Pens tidily porcupined out of a pen holder stamped with the company’s blue logo. Stacks of unread films in a stable tower. Those to be actioned were arranged in order of priority in a second stack, covered with a fine gauze of dust. Nothing sentimental, no photos of a loved one, a souvenir or quirky possession. No-one lived at this cubical.

Absent was the word that came to Alex’s own mind. A vacancy of soul.

Yet work was done, somehow. Alex was a respected detective, but he left no trace of himself behind. Laughter did not slosh from him. He didn’t leak personal details of his life. No-one saw behind or through the wall of Detective Alex Harrison. Not even Rik, who had been his partner for three years.

Alex never had a drink with the boys. Not that he didn’t drink. He drank a lot, but alone, in the privacy of his own losses and failures.

Behind Alex, a mobile rang.

He heard the smiling voice of de Vaughn answer. He couldn’t hear the conversation, but de Vaughn’s answers were like secret sunshine, and hushed with intimacy and love. “Love you. See you soon…”

Gray passed his cubical on the way out. He nodded at Alex.

Alex tried to feel jealousy, a surge of resentment for his colleague, but there was nothing. He wanted the intimacy de Vaughn had, but he had exhausted his ability to know what desire or passion felt like. He jerked off to hardcore pornography — visceral, meaty shots of female anatomy — but it was just an animal need. He no longer felt, or desired anything. It was an urge that came upon him, like eating or drinking, but it no longer meant anything, and he couldn’t seem to summon the energy to even want to get it back.

He undocked his desk, folded it and slipped it into its carry case, hefted his backpack, then powered down his cubical. It vanished into the surrounding darkness as if it had never been.

Alex was the last to leave, with only the emergencies on to guide him to the stairwell, and he had the sense of being the last man alive on a deserted space ship.

~

ROWING THROUGH CLOUDS

Gula waits. He has refined patience to an art form.
Hensh, however moves like a restless wind, blundering from one end of their shared cell to the other. It is only six strides for Gula, but Hensh makes a journey of it. He is much shorted than Gula, and has a bad leg. When he reaches the stone wall he turns awkwardly, his bad leg lagging behind. Then he sets out again, cursing and muttering to himself.
Gula listens to the scuff and drag of Hensh’s arrhythmic gait and the coughing swear-words of the northern provinces. He listens for the sound that he has been told to listen out for. He waits.
It will be soon, but Gula is still undecided about what he should do. His purpose has been unclear from the start. The reasons he is here, the series of events that brought him to this place.
Is his purpose here complete? Is tonight an opportunity, or a test? A reward or a way to lure him away from the path.
“Fire!”
The choices is forced onto him. He must act now, or do nothing.
“Fire, Fire!” the alarm is taken up by more frighten voices.
Hensh has stopped pacing. “Well big man, what will we do?”
The chance won’t come again for the cripple. The question is, whether Hensh should be inflicted on the free world again. But his cell-mates’ deeds are not for Gula to judge. Frredom awaits him, or not. They could well both perish in the fire.
The smell of smoke is alarming. It’s too thick, too black. It is a fire that will eat its way through the complex like a ravenous beast.
Hensh bangs his plate and cup on the bars of the door. “Help! Help us!” he screams.
He is not play acting. If they do not get out of the cell, they will inhale great cottony lungfuls of smoke and die for want of air, or be burnt alive.
Guards swarm like ants, dashing indecisively between rescuing prisoners and putting out the blaze. Gula can hear panic in the shouts of inmates and wardens.
The guard Kip, runs into view, and unlocks the latch. “That way!” he points.
Gula runs past Kip towards where buckets of water slop along a line of men. Gula knows he cannot leave while lives are in danger.
Smoke burns his eyes, and he ties a wet rag over his face. He is strong and takes the end of the line, running with the full bucket banging painfully against his hip, and throws the water onto a burning roof. He runs back to the line and passes the bucket to a bearded man whose name he does not know. Another bucket is shoved at him and he takes it without question. Feet pound, the dirt is slippery with spilt water. The air is a furnace of black smoke and flames leaping skyward.
A hand clamps down on his arm like steel.
“We’ll not save it!” the guard yells. “The infirmary is ablaze. Come!”
For another hour, Gula runs, carries, hefts water into the ravening maw and runs some more. His back aches, he is streaked with charcoal and sweat, and his eyes feel like they are on fire. Injured men in beds are carried out of the infirmary building and laid out on the dirt yard like corpses, many have hacking smoke coughs, and others are weeping tears of relief and from smoke stung eyes.
In all the choas, Gula has not seen Hensh, nor Zil and Fahrea who lit the blaze. Several others are missing, and Gula knows that he has probably left his run to late. Soon the guards will assert control and escape from the hole under the stone fence near the vegetable gardens will no longer be feasible.
As if fate answers his dilemma, Kip runs up to him. “We need aloe for the burns. Take Zahir with you.”
The bearded man whose name he had not known, emerges from the clump of ragged men. He is face is streaked with sweat, soot and fatigue. He stumbles and Gula catches him before he falls.
“Come,” Gula leads them through the darkness, their way lit by the fires still raging in the cell block. Whatever the outcome of tonight, there will be no cells for the men to pace for a while. The shadows before them dance and sway like demons clutching at the darkness.
The gardens are a good distance, and now the cold night air hits Gula and the sweat on his face and body make him shiver.
“I’m tired and I can’t see a thing,” Zahir complains.
“Take my hand,” Gula says.
Zahir’s hand is sweaty and thin. He’s trembling with shock, exertion, and the suddeness of the cool night air.
When they reach the gardens, Gula leads them to the aloe beds. He pulls the fat stems, being careful not the prick himself on the sharp spines. He likes the way the cactus leaves pop as he rips them off.
He hands the aloe to Zahir who seems to tired to do anything but stand there. Gula crawls around on his hands and knees searching for more of the plants. A line of needles bite him, and he snatches his hand back. He feels forward again and harvests another armload.
“Will that be enough,” he says?
“Give those to me, and I’ll take them back.” Zahir hold his arms out. “I’ll tell them that you’re looking for more.”
In the darkness Gula can’t see Zahir’s face. Does he know about the bolt hole?
“You go,” Zhair says, “before they notice you’re gone.”
“What about you?”
“I’m too tired to run and hide. I like three meals a day and a roof over my head. I’m not like you. I have only two more years and then I’m a free man. You go, or you’ll die in this place.”
“Thank you Zahir.” Gula places his hands on the man’s thin shoulders. “May the gods bless you.”
“And you, Gula. I would normally spit on a murderer rather than help him, but you’re okay. Now go!”
Before he can change his mind, Gula stumbles through the darkness towards the southern corner of the yard.
He swims through the pile of rotting foodscraps that cover the entrance to the hole. He is a big man and almost gets stuck in the tunnel. Then he is on the other side, slimed with rotting cabbage. He pushes compost and dirt back to fill the hole, then sprintes away into the darkness smelling like a dozen dead things.

#

Ryn’s life is filled with absences.
When she moves around the house sweeping or tidying she stumbles on fragments of her past that jolt memories of those who are no longer in her life. She chops the onion finely, remembering how her husband always chopped them crosswise making small crescent moons, whilst she cuts them into half rings. She sweeps the hard-packed dirt, the broom head whisking over the slight dip on the floor where Xhar tried to bury a dead rat. The small flap in the back door for Xhar to come and go as he pleased has been bolted closed for so long that the hinges are rusting. There’s something final about having locked it against the scavenging coonarries, as though an admission that she’s lost hope of Xhar and his master ever coming home.
In the bedroom, she straightens the cover sewn by her sister who lives three days ride to the south. Her mother lingers in the framed sketch by her bedside. Her father’s curved Hamadi sword hangs on the living room wall.
After breakfast she feeds the chickens and collects a handful of small sweet crabapples. Then she goes down to the shrine under the redwood that overlooks the river, and places three of the fruits in the stone bowl. She knows the two coonarries who live in the tree will haggle and fight over the fruit, but she thinks her ancestors must allow the pesky creatures to share in their offerings. She lights incense, kneels and says a prayer for her grandparents, her mother and father, then walks back to her empty house.
It is nearly midmorning, and she knows she will have a visitor soon. Yet no amount of loneliness will convince her to accept Hiko’s proposal.
The Captain of the local Lands Guard is a handsome man, a little older than her Jukyr would have been. He is rich, in village terms, and owns several acres of holdings over on the hill where the soil is black with vigour and goodness, and a permanent stream runs through the property.
She was once attracted to him, but he pursued a girl from the next village and made a fool out of himself over her beauty. In the four years since Ryn has been widowed, Hiko has been with many girls, but married none of them. He is extremely eligible as a bachelor, but something about him doesn’t ring quite true with Ryn.
She never avoid him, but nor does she court his attention. Perhaps that is what he likes about her.
Now Hiko is almost middle-aged, and Ryn can’t help feeling that he is scraping the bottom of the slops bucket to find a wife, and she will not stoop to marrying out of loneliness.
Hiko calls around every other day, bringing her some delicious tid-bit. Smoked fish from the Lilluwarra, sugared plums from Djungarra, or flowers from his gardens.
Ryn receives these with grace and gratitude. It adds spice and pleasure to her solitary and frugal existence.
She always receiveds him on her front porch, too ashamed to ask him into her bare sitting room with its dirt floor and unpainted furniture.
They sit in a wicker chair that her Jukyr had woven from river reeds that grew along the boundary of their property. Hiko always sits too close, and smells of cloves and leatherwood oil.
He often holds her hand, and his touch is soft and feminine. She wonders if he is good in bed, and if this was the reason so many girls went to him. Or perhaps the reverse was true and it is why the handsome captain was still unmarried.
“It’s a beautiful day is it not?” Hiko says. “When the sun streamed through my curtains this morning and fell across my bed, the warmth of it against my cheek made me wonder what it would be like to wake up beside you.”
He puts Ryn’s hand to his cheek. “I imagined your naked body in the bed next to mine, tattooed with shadows and golden light.”
He meets her eye. “Will you not reconsider?”
“No,” she says. “I am still in mourning.”
“How long will I have to wait? Another year?” He pats her hand. “When you are ready, all you have to do is say the word, and the village will be decked with white flowers.”
Ryn sees Hiko’s aide appear in the street beyond the baker’s. He is running and shouting.
“Captain! Captain!”
Hiko looks up. “Looks like Manju has his turban in a twist.”
Manju reaches them, and hunches forward his breath sawing away in his chest. He lifts his head. “There’s been a break out at Okuwara. Ten missing. Three of them murderers.”
“Enough!” Hiko puts up his hand and fixes his second with a stony gaze. “Call a meeting of the village guards. In the Principal’s offices in ten minutes. Go!”
Hiko turns to her. “I must go.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and brings out a small, paper wrapped package. “A little something. I hope you enjoy.”
He bows to her, and Ryn watches him go.
Entering her house, she suddenly feels vulnerable and alone.