Pollen

by Jeff Noon

  According to my investigations, the woman was Coyote’s ex-wife. Her name was Twinkle. She was purely human, and just twenty-two years old. Sixteen years old when she first met Coyote. He didn’t even have a taxi at that time. He was just a strung-out wanderer of the streets, searching for something. Twinkle had a thing about dogboys. She had known a good robodog named Karli when she was small, and maybe this was the cause of her obsession. She couldn’t get enough of them, and Coyote was the best she’d ever met. They had loved and laughed, and married in June. Done all the right things, given birth to a half-breed, made a home in Bottletown. And then Coyote had found his black cab and things were looking up, until he had started looking down, taking dangerous rides, coming home with wounds to show Twinkle. Twinkle had had enough of wounds in her childhood, now she just wanted a blood-free life. Differences had led to quarrels, quarrels had led to arguments, arguments had led to divorce. Isn’t that the way?

  The puppygirl’s name was Karletta. Four years old. She was the daughter of Twinkle and Coyote. And wasn’t she beautiful? A peachy human skin sprinkled with dark spots. Karletta was holding tight of her mother’s hands, keeping her steady through the slow movements of the coffin’s journey. She had a dog’s love for her owner, even though the only part of her that really betrayed her origins was the set of lovely whiskers that sprouted from her cheeks. She sneezed just then, and I wanted to run to her, take her in my hands of smoke, hold her close, wipe her wet nose for her. Twinkle did the wiping for her, and I was jealous. Can I really have felt such things?

  Now the coffin had reached the graveside, and the dogs were panting, sneezing, even howling. Not the howling of hunger, but the howling of compassion. I put aside all discomfort caused by the sound of dogs in order to scan the crowds for Boda. Cops over by the chapel-of-rest, gun-loaded against possible dog-trouble. No sign of a map-headed girl.

  The coffin was being lowered into the earth, the preacher-dog was chanting his litany…

  Whiskers to whiskers, bone to bone…

  A movement from the cops. Dogs howling from the trees next to the chapel. Something going down? I did a check on the mourners. Everything peaceful this side, but now I could see one of the cops, plain-clothed, separate himself from the group. He strode towards the trouble spot, that confident swagger…

  Claws to claw…

  I could see Twinkle grasping Karletta to her breast. A lovely movement. Beyond that the big cop moving through the waves of heat, his edges blurred so that they looked like fur…

  Zero?

  Dust to dust…

  What was Zero Clegg doing here? He’d spent all morning telling me how redundant this graveyard trip was. I looked down into the grave…

  Twinkle threw a single dog violet onto the top of the coffin. A blue flower with spurs of yellow. I looked up…

  Zero disappeared into the haze.

  Roberman Pinscher is walking back from the ceremony, over towards the gates of the graveyard where his Xcab is parked. He’s worked the system so that he could be off duty for the Coyote’s funeral. Some canine correspondence working. It is at this precise moment, some few steps away from the cemetery’s Nell Lane entrance, that the robodog gets an unscripted thought inside his head. His name is being called up inside like a plume of smoke…

  Roberman…

  Roberman makes three low growls that could only be translated as something like, ‘Robotic-Jesus-Dog!’

  Don’t be scared, Xcabber.

  Roberman’s looking all around to catch the talker, growling, ‘What-fare-calling?’ Translation: ‘Who’s there?’ But seeing only tombstones surrounding him, each with a message of death.

  It’s Boda here.

  Growling to himself, ‘What-fare?’

  I’m listening. I’m in your Shadow, Roberman.

  Growling, ‘Who-this?’

  In your Shadow, dog-rider, talking to you. Come looking, driver. The big elm tree to the left of you. That’s right. Keep searching. That’s right. Just beyond that gravestone there, that’s right.

  Roberman walks past the gravestone, and then around the elm tree, where there is a woman waiting for him. Long blond hair, cowgirl boots, flared gingham skirt, bolero jacket. Roberman is running then, away from the vision, even as the tendrils of an intruding Shadow reach into his mind…

  I got back to the station after the funeral only to find a message from Kracker on my desk. I was to report to his office at the soonest possible. When I got there, Zero was already in attendance. He had a pollen mask on his face.

  ‘You bastard.’ I set on him straight away, disregarding Kracker’s presence.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What were you doing at Coyote’s funeral, Clegg?’

  ‘Sibyl…’ His trembling voice was muted by the mask. ‘I wasn’t…’

  ‘I saw you there. You told me it was a no-clue zone.’

  ‘I was just trying to…’ Zero started, a big sneeze coming out of his mouth despite the mask. Muffled.

  Kracker spoke up for the dogcop. ‘Officer Clegg was only trying to keep the peace, Jones. That was my initiative. I was fearful of a dog-riot, and nobody can handle the dogs like Clegg. He was there on guard duty.’

  ‘You’re keeping something back from me,’ I said. ‘Fuck the both of you. I want the whole story.’

  Kracker brought his fingers up to a newly risen bruise on his forehead. He stroked at the wound. ‘My wife hit me.’ Apologetic. His tight mouth played around the tip of a thermometer. His thin, shaking body was perched on a leather chair. He told me to sit down. I said I would prefer to stand.

  ‘You’re still looking for Coyote’s killer, Jones, even though we’ve found the Zombie who did it.’

  ‘You know it’s not a Zombie killing, sir. The Xcabber Boda is tied up in some way. You’ve heard what Gumbo’s saying about her movements on the morning?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what the Gumbo YaYa thinks. It doesn’t matter what you think, Jones. It doesn’t even matter what I think. Keeping the city in peace is more important. I’ve closed this case down. Clegg is now exclusively dedicated to the Gumbo search. I can’t have that pirate messing up the cop-systems. As for you…’

  Kracker turned to look at the poor dogcop. Zero sneezed again, rather loudly, and Kracker said to him, brusquely, ‘I have finished with you, Clegg. You may leave.’

  Zero climbed out of his chair, sneezing and crying his way to the door, and begging the Master for forgiveness. The door closed behind him. Kracker turned his dry gaze on me. ‘Sit down, Sibyl. Come on, let’s be friendly.’

  I sat down in Zero’s vacated seat. The upholstery was still warm from his body.

  ‘So then,’ Kracker started, ‘Columbus has already told me that you attended Coyote’s funeral this morning. Your Comet was lodged on the map at that time, that place. This is why I called you in.’

  ‘You’re very close to Columbus these days, sir?’

  ‘You know how it is, Jones…the Cops and the Cabs, working together for the common good.’

  ‘It’s a very admirable slogan, sir, but may I ask—’

  ‘May I ask what you were doing at the funeral of that dog? That was an unauthorized journey.’

  ‘Clegg was there.’

  ‘On my authority.’

  ‘I was looking for driver Boadicea, sir.’

  ‘And you found…?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Good. Very good.’ Kracker’s mind was distracted, I could tell that from the drifts of smoke moving through his Shadow. He was holding some deep secrets from me, and the pressure of keeping all that dark mesh in place was making his brain hurt.

  In the world of fluidity the dark mesh was a solid stop sign, a blocked road on the map, a door closing on smoke; a kind of anti-Vaz that the thinker could set in place against an intruder’s eye. Kracker’s hands were playing with the thermometer, tapping it on the desk where a closed folder rested, and then replacing it in his mouth. He pulled it back out and gazed on
ce more at the scale. A frown creased his thin face. ‘I’m worried, Sibyl. Very worried.’

  ‘You’re catching the hayfever, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘Not yet, thank God, but I’ve got twelve officers down with it already. You’re not feeling any pains yourself?’

  ‘Not at all, touch wood.’ I tapped at his desk.

  ‘Good. Excellent. Clegg is suffering badly. You saw those tears? All that snivelling. Most unbecoming for a public guardian, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I’m sure he’s doing his job correctly, sir. He’s a good cop.’

  ‘Quite, quite.’ Kracker paused then, briefly, as though composing his thoughts. ‘Can I be honest with you, Sibyl?’

  ‘I’d prefer it.’

  ‘Have you any idea what this position entails? Chief of Police? Can you possibly imagine the pressures I am working under? I have many people on my back. Many, many people. I don’t just mean the criminal elements, I mean also the Authorities, and the public watchdogs, and the mad dogs themselves, and the robos and the Vurt-people and the Shadows. And various self-appointed guardians like that blasted Hippy Gumbo fellow. And the Xcabs of course. Sometimes I feel like the whole of the city is crouching on my shoulders. Sibyl, you must have noticed, my shoulders are very weak.’

  I didn’t say anything. Through the office window I could see the City shimmering in the heat haze. The roads were melting, the buildings were fuzzy with yellow growth.

  ‘I’m pure, of course.’ Kracker continued. ‘You know that. No robo, no dog, no powers of the Shadow, no direct access to the Vurt. Too much Fecundity 10 in my veins of course, but apart from that…sometimes I feel like I’m the last real person alive in this city. Purely human. Sibyl…all of these hybrids look to the cops with their problems. This is why I employ people like yourself: Shadowcops, and robocops, and dogcops like Clegg, and Vurtcops like Tom Dove. But the world is getting very fluid these days. Very fluid. Dangerously so. There are doors opening between the species. Fecundity 10 is partly to blame, of course, as I know to my cost. I have twenty children, and all of them demanding upkeep.’

  ‘Twenty-one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Twenty-one children, sir.’

  ‘Well, never mind that. I don’t want to become maudlin. These pressures are here to teach us about life, are they not? And do you know the very worst of my worries? No, no…it’s not the rising crime rate, it’s not the fever. Even the imminent dog-riot I can live with, having made a career out of quelling emotions. No. My worst pressure is the Xcabs. Yes. You looked shocked. Good. Xcabs are at my back all the time. I mean Columbus of course. But what can I do? Without the Xcab map, I cannot police this city. They are my burden. Let me tell it like it is, Sibyl…I’m in their pocket. We all are, all of us cops. Do you understand.’

  ‘I’m trying to, sir.’

  ‘Good. This is what I want. Spirit. You’re a damned fine cop, Jones.’

  ‘What exactly are you asking of me, sir?’

  ‘Shadowcop Sibyl Jones…I dearly want to find this Boadicea.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Please, hear me out.’

  ‘But you wanted the Coyote case closed down?’

  ‘It is closed. The Zombie killed Coyote. I can make the public buy that. Don’t worry. Gumbo YaYa is a ton of air. Dangerous air, for sure, but I can deal with it. There are other things…well, let me be plain. Columbus is demanding the return of Boda and, more specifically, her cab.’

  ‘Columbus? Christ—’

  ‘Sibyl, please, no profanities. Xcabs are important to us. Never mind. I can understand your anger. What I’m saying is quite simple. I have been leading you on a lie, Jones, and that hurts me. But rather myself hurt, than your good self.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Gumbo is right about Boda’s whereabouts, Monday morning. She was at the park. But no, I believe Gumbo is wrong about her being the killer. I do believe she knows something about how Coyote really died.’

  ‘So you sent Clegg on that trail? Without telling me?’

  ‘I had to. Much to my cost. But that dog is too ill to conduct such a major case. No clues were coming home.’

  ‘Why couldn’t you send me?’

  ‘Xcabs are ashamed of the way that Boda broke away from them, and of the damage she made to the map. Columbus is fearful of the public turning against his business. He can’t afford upsets like Monday’s map-chaos. The people will find alternative transport. And if Columbus can’t afford it, then neither can we.’

  ‘What’s wrong with this case?’

  ‘Sibyl, I cannot police this city without the Xcabs’ map. This is why I’ve agreed to help Columbus get Boda’s cab back on the line. He can’t run the map without a complete system. Now listen closely, Sibyl Jones. I want you to find Boda’s cab for Columbus.’

  ‘Why me? Why now?’

  ‘I believe that you have the best qualities for the job. Boda’s crimes…theft of a vehicle, and damage to the city’s map. Need I remind you, Jones, these are serious misdemeanours. Also, possible knowledge of Coyote’s killer. This will be our part of the deal. Columbus gets the cab. We get Boda. This will be your case alone. No obstacles.’

  ‘Why not earlier?’

  ‘You have to ask?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Your Shadow isn’t strong enough for me, Jones.’ He pushed the closed folder over towards me. ‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘We downloaded it from Columbus.’

  Inside the folder was a six-by-four photograph, with the words ‘Xcab Driver: Boadicea’ printed along the bottom, followed by a cab number. It was taken prior to the head tattoo; a sweet, innocent face even with the Xcab shave.

  It only took one look, the years peeling away from a teenager’s face.

  And then Kracker let the black mesh away from his mind, and I saw there the thoughts he had kept from me.

  ‘She’s my daughter?’ I asked.

  ‘Because Boadicea is your daughter, Jones. Exactly. Her real name is Belinda, I believe? This is why I didn’t want you on the case. Too personal. I told Clegg as much. Surely you had an inkling?’

  ‘Jesus-Fuck!’

  ‘Quite.’

  The world was slipping away from me.

  ‘Why should I want to arrest my own daughter? Sir?’

  ‘Because she has broken the law, Officer Jones. Isn’t that good enough for you? You will follow every order, as is your duty to the public. But there’s more. And this is secret knowledge, Jones. Boda had the Shadow in her, before Xcabs took over. But you know this already, of course, you gave it to her yourself. You know what this means? We cannot afford the cost of a Shadow being involved in the killing of a dog. If the dogs should learn of your daughter’s true nature, well…you can imagine the possible consequences, Officer Jones. She would be lynched. I want that rogue driver brought in. Maybe then we can eliminate her from our enquiries. This is a normal case, Jones. We will follow the procedures of law, but we must be discreet in the application. I will give you all the support you need, I will even give you Clegg as back-up, despite his illness. But only you can finish this case, Jones. A mother’s instincts, and all that. Who else could find that miscreant?’

  I stood up, accepting the mission. Taking one firm, official step closer to the edge.

  The evening of that day, Roberman is working the six-till-two night shift at the rank. At 9.07 he is directed to a pick-up at the Manchester Ship Canal, Old Trafford dock. The moon is making a low play at the water, breathing ripples and junk. Roberman gets out of the Xcab, disconnecting his system. Now he’s standing on the shore-yard, waiting for the shadows to lengthen. No passenger in sight, only the wind and the litter, until a far-off figure steps out from behind a rubbish dump and one of the fleeting shadows plumes itself from the jigsaw of darkness. Roberman receives the Shadow more easily this time, knowing of nowhere to run to. He’s growling in his thoughts at the sight of the faraway girl, turned on, confused and angry. ‘That you, Boda?’ he thinks
, letting the thoughts travel over the Shadow-paths, free from Columbus’s prying Hive-mind. ‘Really? You back, Boda? What do you want from me?’

  Come closer.

  Roberman walks over to where the girl is loitering against the side of a busted skip.

  Boda is waiting there for him. She has Country Joe’s blond wig pulled down tight over her features, and a look of desperation in her eyes. They have a conversation then, robodog and rogue driver, in perfect and human English; Boda shaping all of Roberman’s growls into clear pictures, via the Shadow.

  ‘You’ve got the Shadow?’ Roberman asks in this newly clean voice of his.

  ‘I’m pre-cabian, Rober. I can hear you thinking.’

  ‘Leaving the Hive like that. It was cruel of you.’

  ‘I was forced into leaving.’

  ‘You think I care? Well, fuck you, traitor.’

  ‘Columbus is the traitor. He tried to have me killed.’

  ‘Columbus wouldn’t do such a thing.’

  ‘I need your help, Roberman.’

  ‘Eat Shadow-shit.’

  ‘I’m sorry for leaving you.’

  ‘Are you? I guess you’re missing the map, Boda?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘So how are you getting around?’

  ‘By fast-track.’

  ‘Dog-Jesus! Do those rattle-buses still run? Didn’t they tear the tracks up years ago?’

  ‘I’m changing, Roberman. I liked the map, but I love the free roads more. I’m stronger now. I can’t come back to Xcabs. Columbus is a bad guy.’

  ‘You’re asking for trouble, Calamity Jane.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m a gun-toting, hell-for-leather bitch from the plains who’s heading for danger.’ Boda pulls out the gun stolen from Country Joe. ‘I need to talk to the cab-boss, pronto.’

  ‘Cab-Jesus! Put that away!’

  ‘It’s a Colt .45, Rober. You like?’

  ‘Put it away! Just…just stop pointing it at me!’