Threader

by Rebekah Turner

  threader

  REBEKAH TURNER

  www.harlequinteen.com.au

  To Dion,

  Gimme some sugar, baby

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  About Rebekah Turner

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1

  My uncle is having a heart attack. He’s curled up in the back seat of my little electric Ford hatchback, clutching his chest, face pasty white. Tearing my eyes from the rear-view mirror, I check my map-display. We’ve come from an outer west Sydney town and the only Doc-in-a-Box I know of is at least five more blocks away. My chest squeezes with sympathy pains and a cold fear. Bobby is my only family and there’s no way I’m losing him to something as antiquated as a heart attack.

  ‘Nearly there!’ I shout over the whine of the motor and glance at him in the rear-view mirror. His eyes are shut and he’s panting.

  ‘Indigestion,’ he gasps. ‘Bastard … chicken … curry …’

  A mechanical roar engulfs any other curses Bobby has for his lunch as a cycle gang thunders around the car, cutting me off. I mash a boot against my spongy brakes and Bobby tumbles off the back seat with the unexpected motion.

  ‘Bastards!’ he shouts.

  ‘Calm down, will you?’ I yell over my shoulder, heart in my throat as I wait for the road to clear. One of the bikers slows by our car and waggles a long, pierced tongue at me suggestively. I thank him for his attentions via my middle finger and rev the motor impatiently. The biker laughs and roars off.

  Behind me, Bobby struggles back onto the seat, swearing between loud wheezing breaths. After the last cycle passes in a blur of bright colours and stickers, I inch forward with the rest of the traffic.

  After an excruciating wait at five more sets of traffic lights, the familiar white and blue booth comes into view. I’m lucky enough to find a registered park nearby and help Bobby out of the car. The occupied light over the booth is lit, but the door is open a crack and I can hear someone yelling inside.

  Leaning Bobby against the booth’s side, I stick my head in. A thin woman argues with the medic-droid sitting behind a thick plastic guard.

  ‘But I got these headaches,’ she shouts. She’s got sunken eyes and her jaw works back and forth in a restless motion. I quickly peg her as a stims abuser, but she doesn’t look dangerous, so I stay where I am, vibrating with impatience.

  There’s a ticking sound as the medic-droid rotates its body, indicating a drop box beside the door. Two white tablets tumble into the slot. ‘Headache may be relieved by two paramols.’

  ‘They ain’t enough.’ The woman rubs her needle-thin arms, mottled with old bruises. ‘I need something stronger.’

  The medic-droid shifts again. ‘Your session has expired. Please exit the clinic.’

  ‘It’s still my turn.’ The woman’s bloodshot eyes slide to me. ‘I ain’t leaving yet.’

  ‘My uncle’s having a heart attack,’ I tell her. ‘Please. He needs medical attention, now.’

  ‘Not … heart attack,’ Bobby growls from outside. ‘Curry …’

  ‘I ain’t leaving yet,’ the woman complains. ‘I ain’t got what I need.’

  ‘And you know you ain’t gonna get it.’ My voice is shrill. I’m tempted to use my talents on her, but there are cameras everywhere and I know it would draw unwanted attention.

  ‘Your session has expired,’ the medic-droid says again. ‘You now have ten seconds to exit the clinic.’

  My feet start backing out of the booth and the woman’s shoulders slump. Once a medic-droid gives their diagnosis, that’s pretty much it and with shock-guards in place, it’s bad for your health to stay once you’ve been told to leave.

  The woman shuffles out, growling curses. I ignore her and shove Bobby in. A stretcher slides out from a wall and the medic-droid’s eyes whir as they focus on my uncle.

  ‘Please lie down,’ the droid requests politely. ‘And tell me your symptoms.’

  ‘Stomach ache,’ Bobby wheezes as I help him onto the stretcher.

  ‘Do you have weakness in your arms? Or shortness of breath?’

  Bobby mumbles something and the medic tilts its head. ‘I apologise. I did not understand your answer. Please, can you repeat it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I almost shout. ‘He said yes. You need to give us a ticket and call an ambulance. He needs to be admitted to a hospital.’

  A scanner runs over Bobby’s body in a line of blue, blinking red when it hits his right leg, three inches too short for his frame. During the second Corporate War, Bobby got his leg blown off and the surgeons somehow miscalculated the size of his bio-mechanical leg. But Bobby didn’t care. He still got around just fine and the settlement from the army helped finance his store.

  ‘You are having gastrointestinal disturbance,’ the medic-droid announces. Two tablets clatter into a metallic dispenser. ‘Tum-Burns will relieve the discomfort.’

  Bobby sits up with a wince and takes the tablets. He pops them in his mouth and crunches down, glaring at me.

  ‘I told … you,’ he rasps.

  I help him off the bed, saying nothing. Outside the booth, a small line has formed and a mother with a crying baby steps inside as we leave. By the time we’re back in the car, Bobby’s face has colour in it and his breathing is back to normal. I don’t care that I was wrong. Bobby had a mild heart attack last year and was told to ease off the whiskey and fatty test-tube meat he loves so much. Naturally, he’s ignored the warning. No one tells Bobby Ryder what to do, apparently. Not even if it’s going to save him.

  I start the engine. ‘I’m taking you home to rest.’

  Bobby shifts to stare at me and I wonder if he’s going to start lecturing me on the dangers of seeing a Doc-in-a-Box. Its data feeds back into the government register. They’re always keeping tabs on you. Watching you. Monitoring you. Blah, blah, blah. Bobby’s lectures come in two different forms: sober and not sober. Frankly, the ones he tells over a bottle of enamel-stripping liquor are more entertaining, as they somehow morph into old army stories with Bobby stabbing someone in an unexpected fashion.

  Instead of a lecture, Bobby asks, ‘Did you lock up the shop?’

  ‘Of course I did.’ But I remember I didn’t and Bobby can always tell when I’m lying. He grips the dashboard, knuckles white.

  ‘Josie—’

  ‘I mean … I think I’m sure.’

  ‘Back to the shop,’ he orders me. ‘And bloody step on it.’

  My stomach growls as I trash packaging from the latest shipment of trades in the alley behind my uncle’s shop. Bobby spent the afternoon in a foul mood, snapping at the rare customer who ventured inside. I made a point of keeping out of his way, busying myself with checking stock and filling orders. Bobby’s Collectables specialises
in antiques and is squished between a 24-hour laundry shop and a Chinese restaurant that failed its health inspection twice last month.

  Now shadows grow around me as the day fades in a drizzle of grey clouds and smog sits at the back of my throat like a coat of grunge I can never seem to gargle out. Beyond the alley, there’s a distant glimpse of skyscrapers visible beneath the blanket of pollution settling with the murky twilight. Cycles rumble nearby and I tense, automatically reaching for my twin talents. While I keep them both under lock and key, the effort to release them is as easy as flexing my fingers. Their energy floods my limbs, sparking my brain like I’ve snorted a line of sherbet.

  It wouldn’t be the first time Bobby’s store has been knocked over by a cycle gang. The last two times, I wasn’t around and while Bobby had avoided being beaten, most of the store’s goods were taken or trashed. I swore to myself the next time someone tried to rob us, I’d be there and I’d be ready. What I can do with my talents would be more effective than the cricket bat Bobby has under the counter. But according to my uncle, what I can do could also see me locked up in a government facility, my mind clipped, my freedom gone. But I’ll take that risk. When I was young, my dad, James Ryder, had also warned me I needed to hide my talents. Having one is bad enough. Having two? Much worse, according to him. So I built a large puzzle-chest the colour of lacquered cherries, nestled deep among the foliage of my memories, and shoved my talents inside.

  The noise of the cycles fades down the street and I relax.

  ‘You okay?’

  I give a shriek and whirl, spying a large male figure by the back door. His face is in shadow, but I recognise the broad shoulders under a worn leather jacket and the trimmed mutton-chops. He’s a customer who’s been haunting the store for the last week, occasionally talking to Bobby about books I have little interest in. My tastes run towards classic cyber-punk novels that I read late at night on my second-hand digital slate.

  The guy looks like he’s in his late twenties and has a straight-backed stance that always gives me the impression he’s military like Bobby. So far, he’s purchased six volumes of poetry and two books on the history of firearms in the eighteenth century. Bobby nearly starts drooling every time the guy walks through the door now.

  Not me though.

  There’s an arrogant glint in his eye that fires up something in my brain. I tell myself it’s suspicion that makes me watch him intently when he comes into the store. After all, he could be from a gang, scoping our little shop out. So I keep my distance. Try not to notice the cool undercut hair, with a long, slicked-back top. The tattoos sneaking up out of his collar. The way his broad shoulders sway when he walks.

  Nope.

  I haven’t noticed.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I turn to close the bin I was filling. When I look back, he’s gone. Peering into the deep shadows around the door to make sure he’s really gone, I recoil my talents back inside their home.

  My stomach grumbles again and I try to remember what food is at home. When I last checked, it was a carton of coconut flavoured protein juice and some suspiciously overripe synth apples. Not promising.

  ‘How’s my Josie going now?’

  I look up to see Karla Devereaux leaning over the rickety fire escape of the building next door to ours, smoking an old fashioned e-cigarette. There’s something broken inside of it and every time she inhales, it makes a raspy whirring sound. Karla owns the Crystal Cave and claims to be psychic. Technically, she’s an unregistered TP. I say technically, because Karla is mostly a fraud. I know this because of two things: firstly, the ghost activity during her séances are mostly sneaky mechanical tricks. The second is because my talents are TK and TP, and from reading Karla, I know her TP is marginal at best.

  I give her a reassuring wave. ‘Your Josie’s doing just fine.’

  Karla nods, then lowers her voice to a stage whisper. ‘We still on for tonight?’

  I glance at the back door, making sure Bobby’s not in hearing distance, then return her nod. ‘Regular time?’

  ‘Midnight is always the best time to communicate with the spirits.’ Karla waves her cigarette about and the metal bangles on her wrists clink together. ‘See you then.’

  ‘Josie?’

  Bobby’s frame fills the doorway with his broad, crooked shoulders. The old joints of his mechanical leg grind as he steps outside to see who I’m talking to.

  ‘Just finishing up now.’ I dust my hands for emphasis.

  ‘Hello, Bobby,’ Karla drawls from the fire escape. ‘How’s business?’

  ‘You’re the psychic.’ Bobby peers up at her. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

  Karla chuckles. ‘Ah, Bobby dear. That one never gets old. You should come over and I’ll do a reading for you.’

  ‘No thanks,’ Bobby mutters. ‘This lone wolf is doing just fine.’

  Rolling my eyes, I duck past him and go back inside. Bobby follows, closing the back door and bolting it. He looks pissed and I’m already rallying my defences for a well-worn argument.

  ‘I don’t want you talking to her.’ He stabs an accusing finger at me.

  ‘I can’t say hello to our neighbour?’ I ask.

  Bobby limps over to the shop’s counter, where the daily figures blink on the display monitor. ‘That woman is a phony and you know it.’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ I protest, though he’s right.

  ‘She’s going to get busted by the cops for scamming people with that crap she sells them.’ He fixes me with a glare. ‘You’ve already got two strikes with the law, kiddo. You get one more and you can kiss your dream of getting a Citizenship goodbye.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I know, I know.’

  But Bobby is on a roll. ‘You want your Citizenship? You want to swan around, all respectable-like, high up in a fancy skyscraper? Get away from being trapped down here with the rest of us? Then go get yourself a degree. Get sponsored by a small but reputable company. Earn your points in life. But let me tell you, kiddo, it’s a cold, hard world out there. And once a government or corp has got you in its sights, you’re done. Game over. They’ll clip your mind, shave your thoughts, gut your soul. You’re better off dead than stumbling around like a dead-head droid. You can’t trust anyone, kiddo. Not even God almighty.’

  I hold my hands up in surrender. ‘I hear you, I hear you.’

  Grumbling, Bobby sits down in front of the computer to finish the daily figures, muttering to himself. I turned eighteen a few months ago, so you’d hardly call me a kid, but I let it go. And I don’t mention that to get a job with a reputable company, I’d need a degree. Since I graduated school, Bobby’s talked about how he’ll pay for further studies at a university. That’s the only way to get out of the poverty of the satellite towns, where those without Citizenships are crammed into. Of course, these townships are paradise compared to the downtown and ‘no man’s land’ areas that are filled with outcasts from genetic experimentation, lawless gangs and third strikers. Even the cops don’t go there.

  And once upon a time, the idea of further education had appealed. That was before Bobby’s mild heart attack and the cost of the surgery that came attached with it. I know how much the shop makes and how much in debt we are for the surgery. There’s no way we can afford for me to go to university. The figures just don’t add up, even with me doing a few odd jobs for Karla.

  Wanting to change the subject, I look around the store and see the front door locked, the closed sign up. ‘Was that creepy guy just in here?’ I ask.

  ‘You’ll have to be more specific.’ Bobby frowns as he jabs at the visual display with two fingers.

  ‘That guy who wears a biker jacket and needs a shave?’

  ‘Nobody’s been in here for the last hour,’ Bobby mutters. ‘More’s the pity …’

  Frowning, I head towards the back room to collect my things. Did Bobby not see Leather Jacket? I’ve worried about Bobby since he left hospital last year, snapping and growling at the doctors. It was a startling revelat
ion to realise that he wouldn’t be around forever. My mother, Alice Ryder, died when I was three. Then my father, James, was killed in a car accident three years later. Since then, Bobby has been my whole world and I can’t imagine my life without him griping in the background about one thing or another.

  Out the back, I grab my bag from beside a screen Bobby always has on, slinging the ragged synthetic straps over my shoulder.

  ‘Do you have a talent?’

  A woman smiles at me from the screen. Her eyes are clear, her teeth pearly white, her skin soft and unblemished. ‘Here at the Helios Academy, we can help you fulfil your potential.’ She walks past a group of young people who look my age. They wear neat clothes with the Helios logo, a stylised silver and scarlet sun, and have crisp haircuts and carefree smiles.

  I’ve seen this advert before, but my feet stay put. My eyes are riveted to the screen, listening as the woman talks about the Helios Academy and its founding corp, Galloway Industries. How, if you graduate, there’s a chance you’ll be awarded a Citizenship and a role within Galloway.

  Bobby was right before. I want a Citizenship. Bad. To have one is to be top dog. You don’t eat gross test-tube meat, you dine on organic steaks, cut bloody and fresh. If you lose your job, you’re paid a supplement allowance until you find another. You don’t starve on the street. You don’t have your power cut from the grid when you can’t pay your bills. Your sponsoring corp takes care of you. People respect you when you’re a Citizen. The cops. Your peers. Everybody. It means you’ve arrived, that you’re someone. For someone like me, there’s only two ways of getting a Citizenship: university and then ten years’ service to a corp. Or the more risky option of exposing my talents and getting accepted into an academy like Helios. From there, who knew what my future would look like?

  The advert finishes and a Japanese game show starts up. Heaving a sigh, I head out, hoping Bobby isn’t going to say anything more about Karla.

  ‘I’ll be home late tonight,’ Bobby calls out as I unlock the front door to let myself out.

  ‘You need dinner?’ I ask.

  ‘No. The boys and I are hitting the pub. Frank Accardo’s back in town after doing some off-world work and he’s loaded, so it’s his shout all night.’