To Porter
Memories are the key not to the past, but to the future.
Corrie Ten Boom
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT PAGE
CHAPTER ONE
MY MIND BURSTS the surface of now. Reality shimmers around me. I’m sucking in hard, head dropped back, when I tip and stumble forwards. I’ve been too long gone to catch myself, and the floor rises to meet me. The hard boards hit my shins and palms with a sharp thwack, but even the pain is sweet. I am back, and wild alive.
An empty room greets me: off-white walls with reverse clean shadows where our comscreen and photo pads used to hang. There’s no bed anymore and no armchairs. Not even the rugs remain in this room that Mum and I used to call home.
A series of alarms spark in my mind but I take it all in, hands against bare thighs. Mum knew that time skippers always return to the same location; she knew I was coming back here. She’d never move out.
Not unless she had to.
All that remains is the empty frame of the kitchenette and the potable tap reaching over a wide hole in the bench. The sensor has been removed, so I have no way to access water. My hand lifts to rub a fingertip along the scar at the back of my wrist: proof that I have a chip just like every citizen. Except my scar hides a chip that’s not mine.
My eyes track to the entrypad beside the door. It’s still there, at least. But I decide not to head out yet. Mum might have left a message, some clue about where she’s gone, so I peer inside the familiar cupboards, brushing my fingers over the dark spaces at the back. Maybe she wedged a slip of paper in some corner or scrawled some words out of sight.
Nothing. Maybe she packed up years ago.
Maybe the police were watching.
I’m not even sure how far forward I’ve jumped, whether I’ve made it to 2095 or not. For a moment I think of the darkness of the tunnel, where no time exists. The dream world where we have no form. My heart slows as I remember the moments when I lost my focus, forgot even who I was. But I force the fug away.
I’ve made it back. Now I have to find a way out of this room and to the cave at the park, stashed with everything I’ll need.
The police could still be watching, I remind myself. Until I work out what’s going on, I have to be careful. I turn towards the window, assessing my options. Judging from the sunlight against the glass, it must be late afternoon. Spring, perhaps, or maybe early summer. It’s not so cold, even though I’m naked. I think for a moment, and then pad towards the window. Flip the latch and try to lift it.
It doesn’t budge. I push harder and it rises with a jerk. Instead of clear space I find a strong-looking metal mesh covering the window. My muscles tense. The mesh wasn’t there when I jumped from 2084.
I take a breath and push back the panic. This doesn’t prove anything; the mesh could be from a past I’ve escaped. Maybe the police have given up and shut the file. That’s the whole reason I skipped this far.
There’s only one way to find out.
I cross to the door with fresh determination. They won’t stop me. I’ll find Mum, maybe even catch up with Kessa, or at least the twenty-four-year-old version of her. Weird. And sort of wonderful. The others would be due to return, too, as long as we all timed it right. Echo, her parents, Boc.
And Mason. Warmth flares in my chest and ripples outwards at the idea of seeing him again. I didn’t expect to see him for ten years, but I’ve caught up now. At least, I hope I have.
The sensor clicks in response to my swipe and the door jolts, but the pad replies with a double beep: no go.
Maybe my chip needs updating.
Or maybe the police programmed the door this way.
I have to stay calm, think straight. I try a manual override. The process comes to me easily, and as I punch the keys I can’t help wondering whether Alistair still lives in the room next door. He taught me everything I know about hacking and would be way old by now, but he was on top-level rations with medical support to match. He might still be around.
I finish the override, but the pad returns another double beep. Dammit.
My arm drops as I turn to take in the room again.
Nope. I swivel back. The only way out is through this door; I have to work out how. Use your brain, Scout. If it’s been programmed not to open, there must be a way to re-program it. I’ll hack my way past the sensor lock.
I’m able to get into the back-level coding, at least, but finding their block for the unlocking segment is tricky. I’ve been searching for about five minutes when I hear a dull clunk from somewhere else in the house. The door jolts faintly in response to a change in air pressure.
My attention zeros in on the stomp of footsteps along the hall: more than one set, moving fast.
I’m backing away as the door slides open to reveal Federal Police in black fatigues, stun guns raised at me.
I gasp at their speed, at my fresh fear. After so many years, they’re still watching for me. I’ve been illegal all my life, but stealing the chip also makes me a crim.
At least I can buy some time. They might have me trapped but they still can’t catch me.
My fists clench, and I disappear.
Three days later I’m back, more clear about the time that passes with short jumps. Pretty sure, at least. Now that I’ve seen the empty room, I don’t want to skip more than a few days ahead.
My mind swirls with unanswered questions. What year is it? Why isn’t Mum living here? I need to see that she’s okay, work out what’s going on. Maybe I haven’t managed to skip ahead the full ten years. Or maybe I’ve been gone even longer.
I land solidly on two feet this time, ready and alert. Breathing hard. They’ll be watching again. My guess is there’s an alert set to register my chip the minute I come back. But unless they camp outside the door, they’ll need time to respond. Judging from last time, about fifteen minutes.
A swirl of wind rattles against the window. It’s cooler today. I’m at the door and ready to try for a manual override but my first tap is greeted with silence. Not even a double beep.
I close my eyes. Please. Swallow, and try again.
Desperately I punch at the pad, faster and harder until I’m randomly tapping everything and nothing. None of the sequences has any effect. The sensor’s not just locked – this thing’s disabled.
A flash of frustration, and I rest my forehead against the pad. Think, Scout. Think.
I need to find Mum, make sure she’s okay, but I can’t get out of this stupid room.
My eyes drop to the scar on the back of my wrist, hating the chip right now. It’s the reason I was caught before I jumped. And it’s the reason they know I’m back now. Each time I jump they see me disappear on the grid, and the exact moment of my return is visible as well. It’s the chip that’s giving me away.
I push my thumb hard against back of my wrist.
It makes n
o sense, what I’m thinking about doing. Growing up without a chip I was just a nobody from nowhere, with no rights, no life. I hesitate, but the longer I think, the more sure I become. As long as the chip is in my wrist, I have no chance to get out. No way to reach Mum. Decision made.
Okay. Game on.
It’s early morning when I return the next day, 5am or maybe 6. Pale light from the window makes it easy enough to see. My eyes adjust in seconds.
The potable tap is as good as dead with no sensor to turn it on, but I’m not planning to drink. The top lever unscrews easily before I start on the metal cover. It’s the spout that I’m after. Not even sure what I’m unscrewing, I just keep going until a bunch of different parts lie scattered on the bench.
It’s an old spout, some sort of metal. I test its weight in one hand. It should be enough.
The window’s old-style, as well. I start about three paces away, arm reaching back before I throw the spout at the pane with all I have. It clunks to the floor, leaving a chink in the glass.
Another throw, harder this time.
It clunks to the floor again. Same result.
If Alistair were still living in the next room, he would have heard me in here, might even have heard the Feds a few days ago. I listen in to the early chirps of dawn, but no other sounds reach me. No stomping along the hall. Yet.
Throwing doesn’t seem to be working so I grip the end of the spout and use it like a hammer. Tapping at first, then pounding. Bashing.
Finally, the glass splinters and cracks. Now that it’s been weakened, it’s easy to break the glass, punching it through then pulling at tapered segments. They fall at my feet in pieces. I pick one that’s long and narrow, a sharp blade.
Don’t think too much.
I breathe out through gritted teeth and press the blade against the back of my wrist. The skin dimples inwards, but doesn’t break.
This is going to be harder than I thought. I lift my eyes to the ceiling for a moment, then bite hard on my lip as I focus again. The blade presses deeper, my skin now red but still intact.
Come on, come on. If they see the window broken, there’s a chance they’ll work me out. I don’t have much time. My teeth clench, anger growing at my own stupid fear.
It’s only when I glare up at the ceiling again that I’m able to push harder, bolder, forcing my focus away from where I feel it most.
The pain is blinding when my skin finally gives, but somehow it’s easier without watching. I’m making progress now, cutting into the flesh of my wrist. The hurt is within but also outside me. It’s as if I’ve brought myself to the calm of meditation before a time jump. I’m resting at the edge of the tunnel without dropping in.
Wetness against my foot makes me glance down and I’m struck with the truth of what I’m doing: blood dripping in narrow streams, white tendons against seeping red.
Jagged sobs rise from somewhere deep. I didn’t realise those sounds could come from me.
Blinking though tears, I cut deeper, working my way around.
There’s a crunch of glass against chip and suddenly it’s too much. I’m crying outright now, smothering a raw scream in my throat.
I sink to my knees as the chip falls on the boards in front of me, a blob of flesh and metal camouflaged among drops of blood.
Relief flickers in the knowledge that I’ve made it through. I’m out the other side. Tears keep falling, more from the horror of what I’ve done than the pain. They mix with a stream of snot that I wipe against the top of my arm.
Pinching the chip between thumb and pointer, I carry it to a far wall, then change my mind and leave it in the back corner of a kitchenette cupboard. They’ll think I’m hiding in there, if only for a few seconds. It will lure them into the room, I hope.
I’m about to turn away when I stop. One last look at that woman’s chip and the silent promise I made to her once: I’ll make it count for something.
I can’t believe it’s come to this.
Now, I wait. I’d planned to stay beside the door, but the blood stain stands out dark against the floorboards. Wiping it only smears the smudge wider. My wrist keeps dripping even though I’m pressing my other palm hard against the wound, so I shuffle closer to the kitchen bench and lift my arm above the hole where the sink used to be. Can’t let any more fall on the floor and give me away.
It seems like ages before I hear the faint click and slide of the front door. That was more than fifteen minutes. Although my sense of time could be messed up. The shock of what I just did could have thrown my judgement.
I press the wound against my stomach, cradled by the other arm, and shuffle to the entrypad. Boots thunder along the hall and I have to force myself not to skip away. I don’t disappear. Not yet.
Be brave, Scout. Stay calm.
I’m just inside the door, senses straining, as they reach the other side. The lock disengages with a beep. Before the door slides open, I’m gone.
I’m away just a few seconds, maybe eight or ten: long enough for them to step into the room, but not long enough for them to work out what I’ve done.
The Feds are in front of the kitchenette when I return. One has a gun aimed at a cupboard and the other is crouched on one knee, his head at an angle as he peers inside. The door has been left open, just as I’d hoped.
In a flash I’m out and padding up the hall. My feet barely sound against the floorboards; perhaps they won’t even realise what I’ve done.
My old override works first time and as the front door engages I hear them react, a shout above shuffles and movement. I’m tearing up the front path and into the dawn light, sprinting with all I have. The bush at the front gate has expanded; it’s scraggier too, scraping my good arm as I cut the corner. No way I’ll let that slow me down.
Flashes of detail hit me as I streak down the street: walls and window frames have weathered in a blink, and the house a couple of doors down from us has disappeared completely. In its place is a high block of flats, the walls a kind of smooth moulded polymer that I’ve never seen before.
Already past the flats, I duck down the front path of the neighbouring house and almost trip over a homeless woman, her sleeping shape a lump of blankets that I barely manage to clear in a leap. She gasps and jolts awake. ‘Whasgoingon?’
No time to stop. Panting and grunting, I make it over a side gate then pause to check behind me.
Too slow. They saw me take the corner and are coming fast, leaping over the woman as if she wasn’t even there. If she’s illegal she may as well be invisible.
A tent sits in this backyard with an annex attached to one side. A skinny guy is standing in the doorway, and he jumps back and flips the tent flap closed as I dash past.
The back gate slows me again, and by now I can hear the police calling to each other as they run.
‘You go left!’
‘Try to cut her off!’
These backstreets are familiar territory. At least, they used to be, because when I bolt down the next alley I’m met with another of those smooth walls. A smaller block of flats has been built in the middle of the lane as if some kid playing Urbancraft just dumped a 3-D model house in any old gap. It’s blocking the lane and I have to pull up, panting and panicking at this sudden dead-end before I scramble over a wall.
The thud of boots echoes behind me, still coming. Still close.
These walls and gates are slowing me down. I have to find somewhere to hide.
My hand is wet with blood, still dripping. I’m even leaving them a trail of blood crumbs to chase …
It gives me an idea.
At the next gate I hit it hard with a clang and a rattle, smearing blood on the top rail as if I’ve climbed over. But instead of climbing, I sneak sideways past a scraggly rhododendron, through a gap in the fence and into the next yard along.
I’m off-grid, so I just have to stay out of sight.
I crouch low in the gap between the fence and metal shed wall, hugging my throbbing wrist as I listen fo
r the rattle and clang of the gate. I hold my breath, fighting back the instinct to keep running. Just stay calm, stay low.
Silence.
One voice calls, ‘That way’, and footsteps echo on the cobblestones in the alley. Just one set, I’m pretty sure, and they fade as he races off. They must have split up.
A minute passes. Two.
Five …
The footsteps don’t return.
I’m pretty sure I’m safe now, sort of. But still I stay hidden, crouched low and naked while blood slips down my forearm to drip from the point of my elbow.
It should be 2095, but I’m not sure if I’ve made it that far. I have to find a way to the cave in Footscray Park and the stash hidden there. Clothes, bandages. Even a first-aid kit. I have to seal this wound before I pass out. And now that I don’t have a chip anymore, I also need one of the compads we left there, to get around like I used to when I was illegal.
Then I’ll find Mum.
CHAPTER TWO
BY THE TIME I stand stiffly and crick my neck, sunlight is shining on the bare patch of ground beside the shed.
My wrist throbs from pressing so hard with the heel of my hand, but that’s nothing compared to the way it pools blood when I remove the pressure. Each thought is a drifting balloon, and I concentrate on holding tight. Can’t let myself pass out. I need to stop the flow, but that’s easier said than done. I’m wet, sticky red all over. Blood splattered so far while I ran that it looks like I’m bleeding from every part of my body. A wide smudge on my stomach has dried to a cracked dark red.
Nice. If anyone sees me they’re going to run the other way and call the police. Though perhaps not in that order.
I’ll be able to clean up using the underground spring in the cave, but to get there I have to cross Ballarat Road.
It would be easy if I still had the chip in my wrist. Or access to a compad. But without either of those I need to blend in enough to follow someone across the road. Not easy when I’m bloody and naked.
Okay.
It’s still morning, maybe eight. Voices trickle down from some of the flats but not many people are in the street. I stay low and keep to the back lanes in case the Feds are waiting around. It doesn’t take long to make it to the end of the street, and Kessa’s house.
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