Dream Chasers (Dystopian Scifi Series Book 1)

by Stark, Logan

  ‘This way,’ she said, pointing at a door. They made their way over, Makaratzi gazing around in awe, at how different the floor was compared to the ones below (and this is the hundredth one, he thought). She held the device in her hand up, pressed on it, and smiled.

  ‘Yes,’ a voice replied.

  ‘Mr Makaratzi is here to see you.’

  ‘Let him in.’

  She opened the door and waved for him to go inside. When he was inside, she gave a smile goodbye and closed the door, off to do her many other duties.

  There was silence, and fire crackling broke it, a fireplace on the right, burning freshly put logs. The room was somewhat empty, minimalistic. Kiln sat behind a glass desk. He pointed at the chair behind and told him to approach.

  ‘It’s great to meet you, sir,’ Noni said, approaching the table while noting the wooden Dream Infiltrator model on the table.

  ‘Please, sit.’ Kiln got up as Makaratzi sat down. He went over to a cabinet, rattled it open, and removed a katana from the many other swords. ‘Do you know why you are here?’

  Enthusiasm made him nod, and he tried keeping his excitement under control. There was no need to act like a little boy receiving a present for the first time, no need at all. His father had taught him that a person should accept good fortunes gracefully, to appreciate the good in life with a warm heart. ‘I’m here to help Yoamo Corporation succeed even further, sir.’

  ‘Is that why you think you are here?’ Kiln asked, laying the sword on the table.

  Makaratzi felt his heart slowly sink into his stomach. He stared at Kiln without much expression. He was trying to think of an answer to his question, and it felt as if he were on a timer to do so.

  Logs snapped in the fireplace. They both stared at each other, Kiln waiting.

  ‘I apologize,’ Noni said. ‘I must’ve been foolish for thinking—’

  ‘For thousands of years our ancestors looked upon the sword for answers. It kept them safe, gave them comfort, and fed our ancestors whatever they needed. The East has a saying, “The tongue is more to be feared than the sword,” which I believe is what our land needs now more than ever. You see,’ Kiln got up and turned around, where a kettle and two cups were. Liquid trickled into cups. ‘The time for swords has long dissipated.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Would you drink with me?’

  ‘Of course.’ He took the cup from him and peered inside. Broken branches drifted with scattered leaves. A twirl of white rose, and Noni knew the scent well. ‘Thank you for the green tea.’ They sipped together, peering at each other over cups.

  ‘The East will dominate the world with its tongue. Already, the West murmurs behind closed doors, talking about our greatest invention yet. They realize the potential of Dream Energy. They realize what we are capable of. And with Yoamo Corporation spearheading the way, leading our civilization in the direction we need to go, the world is at our knees. Do you understand what this means?’

  He wiped green tea from his lips. ‘I understand.’ He was trying to understand where this was heading, trying to put the puzzle pieces together in his head, just like he had done when he was four years old, when his mother had bought him a puzzle box with a thousand tiny pieces. A voice in his head, his father’s voice, told him to be patient; a flower can’t be forced to grow.

  His patience paid off. Kiln crossed his fingers and peered over them. ‘I have heard of your problem solving skills, Makaratzi, and I want to put your skills to good use. I am inviting you.’

  He waited for him to carry on, but silence forced Noni to ask: ‘Inviting me to what?’

  ‘There will be a great divide in Tokyo. It’s something you need to understand. There will always be a divide among things, and Lower City will be the divide in our chainmail. Upper City will be the place for Dream Energy creation, and Lower City will be our servant.’ Kiln stood up, raising his cup for a toast. ‘This is where I’m inviting you, a place among the spearheads of Tokyo. Accept my offer, and you will be relocated to a different part of the city, the Upper City.’

  He couldn’t believe it. All the hard work, all the sacrifices, this is what he was waiting for, a glimmer of hope for his desperation. His father had been right, a bright future lay ahead. Noni stared at Kiln’s cup, about to say something, when he thought about his father who lived in the lower parts of the city. He felt confused all of a sudden, a feeling of uncertainty. What was going to happen to his father? The man was old and frail and his only family.

  ‘What is your answer? Are you ready to help Tokyo?’

  ‘There’s something I need to know.’ Makaratzi laid his cup on the desk, tapping the glass. ‘I apologize for not accepting your offer hastily, but a question needs answering.’

  ‘Of course,’ Kiln said. ‘What do you need to know?’

  ‘It’s regarding family. In this case, my—’

  ‘Your father, yes.’ Kiln ran his fingers along the sword’s edge. ‘I heard the man suffers. Is this correct?’

  How does he know about my father? Makaratzi thought.

  ‘Don’t look so surprised. Understand this, we are not inviting everyone into the Upper City of Tokyo, only the elite. So the people we do invite we have to investigate thoroughly. We cannot have weakness in our place.’ Kiln swiped his hand over his machine.

  ‘Yes?’ the secretary asked.

  ‘Bring in the file.’

  Alissa Ralph walked in with a file in her right and a tablet in her left. She gave the caramel-colored file to Kiln, asked if he needed anything else, and when Kiln waved his fingers, she walked out.

  Kiln slipped a photo from the file. ‘This is your father, sixty-one, Solhan Makaratzi, a retired fisherman from Hitachi. He’s currently in hospital, yes?’

  Noni took the picture and studied it. His father looked happy in there, a lot better than how he looked now. In the picture, his father was holding a fish almost as big as him, smiling at the camera with squinting eyes. ‘My father is a sick man, yes, suffering from arthritis and stage one dementia.’ Noni was grateful for the opportunity, but seeing a file with his family information made his brain ache for answers. ‘May I ask what all this is for, sir?’

  ‘I have already told you. We aren’t inviting everyone into Upper City. We have to thoroughly inspect the people we do invite. You are one of the few in this building selected for the honor, Noni. Your abilities, we could do with it.’ Kiln slid the file over the desk. ‘Question is, do you accept our one-time offer?’

  ‘Will I be able to take my father with me?’

  Kiln leaned forward; his chair creaked. ‘Of course.’

  Then the answer is simple, Noni thought. He’ll take his father to a better place, a place where he could take care of him. ‘I accept your offer, sir, and I thank you very much.’ Noni bowed his head. ‘What do you expect of me?’

  Kiln had his fingers crossed behind the table again. ‘Welcome to the elite, Noni Makaratzi.’

  -9-

  Voices hammered around in his head, calling for him to wake up, to stop whatever he was doing. The desperation in the calling voices was noteworthy, something Peter’s brain had registered even before consciousness had taken hold. His eyes were closed, and even though a part of himself told him to open his eyes, he knew it wasn’t possible, just knew it. His whole head felt like a heavy, burning rock. His vision behind closed eyelids was of colorful dots: pink, yellow, green, and every color imaginable, all flickering around him, sparking and exploding brightly, like fireworks up close. He could smell something burning nearby, thick, black smoke. Maybe it was a house … something big … he could hear the roof collapsing inward, destroying all the contents inside in a loud smack. The voices around him danced, asking him to wake up, demanding that he do so before consequences kicked in.

  What consequences? Peter thought. It was the first thought to make it through his brain in clarity, like cold water on a hot forehead. He tried opening his eyes and failed. He felt hot liquid sliding down his nose and realized it was bloo
d, a lot of it, spilling in droves down his nose and lips and chin. And then he remembered where he was and where he had been. He had successfully infiltrated someone else’s dream, a man called Noni Makaratzi, a worker at … at … some tall building in Upper City. The images were still drifting around his memory, vaguely, bright spots of color appearing and disappearing, only to come back when he mustered enough willpower. Blood from his nose trickled into his lips, his mouth filling with red, hot liquid that tasted of matured wine, the dry and bitter kind. The urge to cough the blood from his mouth consumed his thoughts. He had to do it now or die the worst way possible – drowning and gargling in a mouth full of hot blood.

  Open your eyes, a thought told him, or maybe it was someone else. Open your eyes, a thought said again, and this time he knew it wasn’t his own but someone else’s. The voices around him urged – screamed – for him to wake up, or else … he was going to die. The voices were muffled in distant sound, and it reminded Peter of having his ears under a heavy pillow. Or maybe that’s because something was pressing on his face, squeezing his nose inward.

  Was something wiping the blood away from his face?

  No, that something was a hand squeezing his throat. He couldn’t breathe. Air turned into thorns, the big, sharp ones, which trundled up his throat, scraping the insides. He needed water. Something to make the dryness in his throat go away. And he was in luck – warm blood spilled down his throat, coating the inside muscles like chocolate spread on cake.

  ‘Open eyes or die!’ a voice screamed next to his ear. The screaming holler awoke color in Peter’s dark mind. First, there was a single white dot idling in his black vision, far on the horizon of nothingness. Second, the white dot exploded in size, turning from a dot to the size of a house. Then, whiteness overwhelmed his dark vision, shunning every bit of dark shadow until there was nothing but bright white.

  Peter woke up. He opened his eyes and jerked forward. While coughing for fresh air, he noticed the pool of blood on his lap. Please let it be not my own, he thought. Please fucking please. Fucking please.

  ‘Inject him with the sedative,’ Midori Kuro said, standing under a dim, bronze light, the dragon tattoo on his arm alive. The dragon spewed a listless fog from its mouth, and the listless fog twirled around Midori’s arm. There was evil in the room, and Midori was it. How could a tattoo be alive? Peter thought. Something like that wasn’t possible. Or maybe he was seeing things. Yes, this must’ve been the case.

  -10-

  He woke up strapped onto an upright bed. He could breathe like a normal person, and for that he was grateful. The heaviness in his head was no more. The blood on his clothes gone (the pool of blood on his lap, gone). Unfortunately, gratefulness was short-lived.

  The men had taken off their black coats and were playing basketball on the court, and by the look of them, they’ve been playing for some time. Their faces drenched in sweat, having a lot of fun. And here he was, Peter thought, strapped on a bed, wishing he had never come here. He looked up at the ceiling of the retired gymnasium and heard rain falling, and that’s what he thought until he saw the ventilations, which were making a clattering noise. Peter was deep in thought, trying to understand and remember what had happened. A voice spoke next to him. He looked to his side, startled. It was him, the homeless guy whose dreams he’d infiltrated. The realization made Peter choke for words.

  ‘You are …’ Peter said. The homeless man had his face caked in dirt. Curly hairs hung over his face like snakes’ dead skin. His eyes were barely open, a bit dazed, trying to locate the voice that was speaking to him. ‘But,’ Peter said, ‘you look so different now. Your name is Noni Makaratzi.’

  Homeless looked up – his turn to be startled. He was looking at Peter as if he were a ghost. ‘How do you know my—’ Homeless sneezed snot over his chin. He shook his head a few times and studied Peter. ‘You saw my dreams. You saw my past. Didn’t you?’ Before Peter could answer, Homeless shook his head again and sneezed. ‘My name is not Noni. I am not him, not.’

  Peter forgot about everything around him: the fact that he was strapped in a bed, his friend who had been shot, the Yaramati gang members playing basketball, and the painful excitement of him Dream Chasing for the first time.

  ‘Then who are you?’ Peter asked.

  Homeless Man shut his lips and chewed on them like a giraffe chewing on leaves. He cocked his chin down and smeared his nose on his tattered shirt. Satisfied that the mucus was gone – the other line of mucus already crusting on his chin – he raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t suppose your Asian friend has any more of that white stuff? You know, right? The good stuff. Makes you feel good.’

  Ohko was long dead, a forgotten memory, or maybe a memory forced away for later inspection. ‘No. No I don’t have any more of that stuff.’ It was clear that Homeless wasn’t in the best frame of mind. Maybe they had done something to him as well, but Peter knew it was his fault, because he was the one who had infiltrated his mind and dreams, and in the dreams he saw the real Noni Makaratzi, not the man sitting here in front of him.

  Doors clapped open. Footsteps approached. Peter tried looking over his shoulder, but there was no point – they were already behind him, a fresh batch of men wearing black coats and automatic weapons.

  ‘Glad to see you awake,’ Midori said. He had a different shirt on, another white, but this one was different because it had a logo with the letters T.K.M in black on the right side of his chest. His hair appeared glossier as well, black with white reflected lines. Maybe he had a shower, Peter thought, or maybe he’d killed someone and had to change his shirt.

  Midori walked around the upright bed and tapped his fingers on the steel. ‘You didn’t die. Good.’

  ‘Am I free to go?’ Peter asked. The casualness in his voice must’ve been really funny for these guys. Everyone burst out laughing, except Midori, who was smiling. He glanced over his shoulder and asked, ‘What do you guys think? Shall we let the man go?’

  ‘Not when he’s our ticket to power,’ someone said from behind.

  Ticket to power? He looked at Homeless, who had no fucking idea what was going on, probably still wanting the white powder. ‘What’s going on?’

  Midori made his way around the Dream Infiltrator. He waved two fingers in the air, in an inward gesture, and a man approached holding an expensive looking black case. Midori took it without looking at the man, and the man bowed and walked away. ‘Peter, oh Peter.’ He pulled a chair closer, legs screaming. He sat down, laid the black case on his lap, and touched Peter’s knee. ‘I’m afraid you’re Yaramati’s property now. And no one, I mean no one, messes with Yaramati’s property.’

  Peter felt the pressure on his knee disappear. He was trying to understand what was going on, and he had a pretty good idea already. Damn you, Ohko, Peter thought. Why did you bring me here? He also thought about his mother, who he was supposed to see that day. She was probably at the train station right now, looking around with a broken heart for her only son.

  ‘You must still be confused,’ Midori said, staring at the case on his lap. He reached for it and gently stroked it. ‘Let me assure you that no harm will come over you.’

  ‘Tell me what’s going on.’ Peter looked to his side and saw eyes staring at him. Those weren’t caring eyes; those were abiding eyes.

  ‘Do you know what a farm is, Peter?’ Midori clicked the latches on the case.

  ‘I want to—’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Homeless said, scratching his chin on his chest. ‘I need a go, you know.’ Laughter came from the men with the machine guns. Homeless laughed with them, and returned his focus to Midori. ‘I need the toilet. Think I’m going to, if I don’t.’

  Midori looked at two of his men, who had their coats open and hands in their pockets. ‘Escort our guest. You know what to do.’

  With faces devoid of expression, they nodded and made their way over. They began untying the ropes from Homeless.

  For some odd reason, Peter felt his chest cons
tricted. His breathing quickened. He heard laughter in the background, but maybe that was in his mind. They were going to kill the man. They were going to take him out somewhere and shoot him in the head. No, Peter thought. ‘What are you going to do with him?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Homeless said, rubbing his freed wrist. ‘My head’s still a little woozy. Think I’m going to throw up, you know. Need to get out.’

  Midori smiled at him.

  ‘No, wait.’ They started escorting Homeless past them. ‘I said wait!’ Peter screamed. That made them stop, and that made Midori look. ‘Where are you taking him? You are going to kill him, aren’t you?’

  Homeless looked at his escorting partners, questioning them with his eyes. Surely they wouldn’t do such a thing to a man who needs the toilet? Homeless must’ve been thinking.

  ‘Why don’t you lower your voice,’ Midori said, eyes locked on Peter. Midori pointed at Homeless while keeping his gaze locked. ‘What we do with him doesn’t concern you.’ They began escorting Homeless again.

  ‘Wait!’ Peter yelled. He knew he was playing with danger, but a part of him believed that he had some leverage over these men, especially after Midori had said something about him being property of the Yaramati. Peter was going to play his trump card: ‘If you kill him, I won’t do shit for you, and – and I mean that.’

  For the first time Peter saw concern break over Midori’s face, which didn’t last long. Midori stood up. The metal chair whined. He gently laid the black case on the chair, and that’s when his whole body jerked with movement. He made his way to Homeless, ripped him from the escorts, and pulled the pistol from his waist. He pressed the tip of the steel against Homeless’s neck. This was not the Midori from a moment ago. Peter saw a vague image in his mind, an image of Midori’s dragon tattoo coming alive, smoke drifting around his arm.

  ‘Here is your first lesson about the Yaramati.’ Midori pushed Homeless away, hard enough for Homeless to stumble over his feet and fall to the ground.