Singing the Dogstar Blues

by Alison Goodman

  Let’s face it, linguistic theories are a bit tedious at the best of times. At three in the morning they’re unbearable. I tried to move towards my bedroom, but Mav was practically rubbing noses with me.

  ‘Mav, move back. You’re crowding me,’ I snapped.

  Mav jumped backwards, his ears stretched back against his head. He jangled some kind of apology. Well, I finally had my space. I just didn’t feel too good about it.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit tired. You’ve just got to remember that humans don’t stand so close as you do. It gets on our nerves.’

  ‘You don’t like being close?’

  ‘Not all the time. Sometimes we like to be close, sometimes we like to be left alone,’ I said.

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘It means to be without anyone else around you.’

  Mavkel nodded.

  ‘Show me its symbols.’ He patted the back of the couch.

  I traced out the word, sounding the letters.

  Mav made a triumphant sound.

  ‘See, alone has one in it. If you separate the word it becomes all-one. It is very true. To be alone is to be all one.’

  It was a nice theory. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he had put an extra l into the word. Mav stepped closer to me, then remembered and pulled up.

  ‘I have felt very alone since Kelmav went,’ he said.

  I nodded. Sensitivity warred with curiosity. Guess what won. ‘How did Kelmav die?’ I asked.

  Mav didn’t answer for so long that I’d thought I’d really screwed up. I was about to apologise when he quickly touched my hand, his ears drooping, uncertain. I’m not too keen on touchy-touchy kind of stuff, but Mav was obviously hanging out for some contact. I took his hand. He quickly twined his two thumbs around my fingers.

  ‘In the sun storm,’ he finally sang. There was a croon in his song, like an old ballad. ‘Kelmav died in the fires.’

  Mav held the last note for so long, it became a keen, his proper eyelids dropping over his eyes. Suddenly both sets of eyelids flicked back.

  ‘I should not be doing this,’ he gasped, his thumbs digging into the back of my hand. ‘Music is for healing.’

  ‘If singing makes you feel better, isn’t that healing?’ I said.

  I wriggled my hand, trying to relieve the pressure of Mavkel’s grasp. He tightened his hold.

  ‘I am alone,’ he cried and the final syllable stretched into the tears of a blues chord.

  Each note dug out my own loneliness, forcing it up into my throat until I ached from holding it back. Then Mav started to weave around the melody. He was swaying, his ears wrapped tightly across the back of his head, both eyelids closed. I recognised the song. Mav was singing my Dogstar Blues, harmonised and heart killing.

  There is a carving in Rome called the Mouth of Truth. You put your hand in the stone mouth. If you’ve lied, the mouth grabs your hand and bites it off. My hand was in the grip of truth, wrapped tightly by two thumbs, unable to move. Mav was showing me too much truth. But I couldn’t move. All I could do was listen. My hand aching. My throat aching. Knowing that my own blues could never be the same.

  Close Call

  I woke up the next morning with a skull ache that would have had an elephant hitting the pain patches. Mav must have bounced some heavy sub-harmonics off me while he was singing. Hot strong black coffee was in order. But Mav was probably in the kitchen. What could I say to a guy who’d let his soul hang out in my face? ‘Nice day, isn’t it’ just wouldn’t make the grade.

  I pulled a regulation T-shirt over my head and found my jeans under the bed.

  No, my best course of action would be to ignore the whole thing.

  I jammed my feet into my boots.

  But what if he brought it up?

  I walked over to the door. It slid open and I peered around the corner. Well, he wasn’t in the lounge room.

  ‘How ya doing, Joss? You’ve got three comm-messages waiting,’ the computer said.

  I grunted, making my way towards the kitchen. No Mav there, either.

  ‘Do you want me to play your messages?’ the computer asked.

  The kitchen looked the same as it did last night. Dishes stacked near the return hatch, Readers scattered over the table. Usually Mav cleaned it up every morning in some kind of crazed ritual. Maybe he wasn’t up yet. Great explanation, except he didn’t sleep. I leaned against my food dispenser and pushed the coffee button.

  ‘Computer, where’s Mav?’ I asked.

  ‘Mav left the suite at four am. Do you want me to play your messages?’

  ‘All right, patch the first message through to the kitchen console,’ I said. The screen moved around to face me.

  Where had Mav gone at four in the morning? Hopefully he was all right.

  The food machine beeped and the cage slid back. I picked up the coffee container.

  So far no one at uni had given Mav any aggro. Chaney and his gang had been very quiet. Too quiet. They hadn’t even had a go at me for a couple of days although I’d caught a few sideways looks and sniggers. Chaney was probably plotting another round of revenge for that karate chop at the partnering ceremony. Time to plan a counter strategy.

  I peeled back the pull-ring on the cup. The heating mechanism kicked into action, pushing steam out of the drinking spout.

  The console screen flickered then lit up with Lenny’s face.

  ‘Hey Joss. We’ve been having a bit of trouble getting hold of you. One of your friends is in town. Why don’t you come around on Saturday night and catch up on all of the news. Bye.’

  His face faded into the CommNet logo. I took a sip of coffee. If I read Lenny right, he’d contacted a spyder for me and set up a virtual meeting at the Buzz Bar on Saturday night. Brilliant.

  ‘Next message,’ I said.

  The screen went black then suddenly Ingrid was smiling at me.

  ‘Hello Joss, darling,’ she said.

  ‘Message freeze,’ I said. Ingrid stopped mid-word. She was looking great. Must have had her eyes done again.

  ‘What time did this message come in?’ I asked.

  ‘At seven-sixteen,’ the computer said.

  The console clock read twenty to eight. The first time in two years that Ingrid had contacted me personally and I’d slept through it. What a loser.

  ‘Continue message.’

  ‘So, you’re turning the big one eight tomorrow,’ Ingrid said. She raised her eyebrows, trying to look interested. ‘I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make it back for the party. I’ll send a pressie by courier. Hope you have a wonderful day.’

  She looked away, listening to someone off-screen.

  ‘Oh, yes. Darling, see if you can talk Professor Camden-Stone into letting me interview you and Mavkel. It would be such a coup. I’ll speak to you soon.’

  She held her palm up to her mouth and blew me a kiss. It got lost somewhere along the data line.

  The CommNet logo cut her off.

  ‘Computer, keep that message.’

  I didn’t have a current 3D of Ingrid. The picture of her blowing the kiss would be good to download onto my holo unit. I blew on the coffee. Still no Mav. If he didn’t show soon, I’d check with the duty guard.

  ‘Okay, that message is saved,’ the computer said. ‘Do you want the third message?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  For a moment I didn’t recognise Louise. She’d grown her hair long and the sharp planes of her face had rounded out.

  ‘Joss, neichan, how are you doing? It’s been so long.’ She bent down and picked up a baby.

  ‘I want you to meet Mr Perri Akinaro, my little boy.’ The baby made a grab at her hair. She pulled her head away then kissed the tiny hand.

  ‘I know it’s your birthday tomorrow. I was hoping you’d meet me for a coffee to celebrate. How about Mario’s in Mall 14? About eleven? Give me a call.’

  She recited her call code, waving the baby’s hand goodbye. The screen cleared into the logo.
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  Louise had finally got in contact. A splash of hot coffee stung my fingers. I dumped the container on the bench. Handy hint for the day: don’t start shaking with a cup of hot coffee in your hand.

  I told the computer to rewind and freeze the last frame of the message. Louise looked ultra happy with her baby. Had Ingrid ever looked that happy with me? They used to fight about babies. Louise had wanted one. Ingrid always said no way, one kid was enough. So Louise had to make do with me. Now she had her own kid, so why was she bothering to call me? After six years, too. Perhaps she’d been waiting until I was a legally an adult. I wouldn’t put it past Ingrid to have legally restrained Louise out of spite. Or there was the other option: Louise just hadn’t wanted to see me until now. But I didn’t like to think about that one.

  I would call her and say no. I told the computer to link me into the CommNet. The call-code request flashed up almost immediately.

  Maybe I should have a quick chat with her, just to let her know I was doing fine. Just to be polite. I repeated Louise’s number and waited. A stranger appeared on the screen.

  ‘Hello. Can I help you?’ she asked.

  She was stocky, with eyes that were big and widely spaced. High arched eyebrows made her look like she didn’t believe a word anyone said. Was she Louise’s new partner? If she was, then Ingrid beat her hands down in the looks department.

  ‘Louise called me,’ I said. ‘Can I talk to her?’

  ‘You must be Joss. Hi, I’m Barb.’ She smiled. ‘I’m afraid Lou’s not here right now. Do you want to record a message?’

  Damn, she wasn’t home. A message was polite. Yes, I’d leave a message. I nodded.

  She punched a key on the console in front of her.

  ‘Okay, go ahead,’ she said.

  The message logo came up then counted down to the recording.

  ‘Hi Louise,’ I stammered.

  What was I going to say? I couldn’t get anything out. My pause lengthened into a silence. I had to say something, quick.

  ‘I’d love to meet you. Eleven at Mario’s is great. See you then.’

  I signed off. So much for righteous indignation or grace under pressure.

  The coffee was at gulp temperature, so I finished it while I punched up the breakfast menu. I was waiting for my bowl of cereal when Mav walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Hello Joss. Are you well?’ he asked. Not a hint of embarrassment about last night.

  ‘Fine,’ I said casually. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Rowley is teaching me slang.’

  Rowley was one of the night guards and a seriously hard case. She was probably teaching Mav the kind of slang that would get him killed in a bar.

  Mav sneezed, wiping his noses with a handful of tissues.

  He looked at himself in the chrome siding of his food dispenser.

  ‘Look, I have wiped my noses so much they have no Toqua on them.’

  His usual covering of white powder stopped three quarters of the way down his noses, leaving stripes of sparkly white skin. He looked like he had dipped his noses in glitter.

  ‘So what’s this white powder for?’

  ‘It is Toqua,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the Toqua for?’ I asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar guttural sound.

  ‘My home is much hotter than this world. Toqua stops our skin burning from us.’

  ‘It’s a sunscreen?’

  ‘Yes, but I am making too much. I think it is the common cold. It is not bothering you, I hope?’

  He rubbed the side of one ear. I think he was embarrassed.

  ‘No, it’s okay.’

  ‘Can your doc-tor medicine take away these sneezes?’ he asked.

  I shook my head. ‘We’ve never found a cure for the common cold. You just have to wait it out.’

  ‘Refmol cannot chant the cold. Refmol is very annoyed.’

  The food dispenser beeped. I pulled out my cereal. This stuff was so heavy it would keep a whale going all day.

  ‘We’ve got our first physical training class today,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard they’re pretty tough. Better stock up on carbos.’

  ‘What are carbos? Do they taste good?’

  I didn’t fancy getting into a lecture on human nutrition.

  ‘Just eat something that will give you lots of energy.’

  I shoved a spoonful of cereal into my mouth. It wasn’t bad for something advertised as a high energy gut-filler.

  Mav flicked through his menu options, punched in a code and waited.

  Everything about Mav was a bit heavier than a human. Arms a bit chunkier, shoulders a bit wider, legs a bit shorter. The whole impression was strength. He’d be a good friend in a fight and would probably blitz the arm wrestling competition. Was he good looking in his culture? Maybe they didn’t even consider looks. Remembering the Elders with their huge jowls, I’d say Mav was movie star material. Then again, they probably didn’t have movies. I spooned up a huge mouthful as he collected his food from the delivery tray.

  ‘Joss?’ he sang hesitantly.

  I grunted. My mouth was too full to get a word out.

  ‘I am happy you heard the healing song. I am much less alone now.’

  I swallowed quickly.

  ‘I’m glad you’re feeling better,’ I mumbled.

  Mav smiled, keeping his secondary mouth closed. He was learning. He picked up a handful of food in the scoop he had made out of his thumbs, pushed it into his secondary mouth, mulched it, then closed the primary mouth over it. Grisly. I smiled back, making a mental note to never again chew with my mouth open. We finished eating in silence.

  Time-jumped

  Half an hour later, Sergeant Wolfendon and her merry men arrived to take us to PT class. I was under my bed looking for my other gym shoe. Mav was calling out helpful suggestions from the living area, but somehow I didn’t think my shoe would have jumped into the air duct or crawled down the waste-disposal unit.

  Wolfendon wasn’t so sympathetic.

  ‘Get a move on, Aaronson. No one’s late on my watch.’

  Now there was a woman who badly needed the stick extracted from her bum. I picked up my other pair of jeans. Maybe the shoe was stuck in the leg somewhere. I had a habit of pulling everything off at once. Wolfendon’s armscreen beeped and she walked back into the living area, murmuring into the voice pad. I felt along the jeans leg and pulled out a pair of undies.

  ‘Okay Aaronson, you can stop looking,’ Wolfendon said, standing in my doorway. ‘There’s been a change in plans. Instead of PT this morning, your class is touring one of the labs.’

  I threw my jeans back on the floor. What a rush! We were finally going to see one of the Time-Jumpers. Maybe even touch it. I’d seen loads of holos, of course, but not the real thing. Only Centre personnel and students got to see the real thing. I picked up my badge and traced the gold circular arrow. Well, from now on, I was a Centre student and in six years I’d be a qualified time-jumper. Then the fun would really start. I could go to the jazz joints of the 1930s, see Toots Thielmans record with Quincy Jones, even sneak into the famous Rogue Henry/Dada Wells jam session.

  That was my plan, anyway. I’d applied to specialise in music history — Blues and Jazz — but you don’t get confirmation of your main research area until second year. According to my calculations, I had a good chance of getting the go-ahead. There were only six other music specialists in the Centre: four Classical, one Eastern, and one Rock. The place needed a Blues/Jazz expert.

  Wolfendon and her men surrounded us in a protective diamond and we marched out of the suite. Mav was so excited that he was trying to bounce and walk at the same time. The guard beside him nearly got pushed through the virtual wall by a high-flying ear joint.

  ‘Do we get to use the time mover today?’ Mav asked, as we scanned out of P3. He sneezed, barely catching the double load of snot in a wad of tissues.

  ‘Time-Jumper,’ I corrected, ‘And no, we don’t even get inside one until the end of second year.�
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  He made an odd noise, a combination of a high A and a raspberry. My sentiments exactly.

  The four labs were in the Daniel Sunawa-Harrod Building which was in the dead centre of the university. The Time Building, as it was called, had no windows and only two entrances, front and back. The security measures were supposed to be somewhere between paranoid and homicidal. Dr Harris, our class coordinator, was waiting beside the front entrance.

  ‘Good morning, everyone. Sergeant, the rest of the class have already gone into the T2 lab as you asked,’ he said.

  Wolfendon nodded.

  ‘Okay. Allman and Greene,’ she said to two of our guards, ‘you scan into the building first and secure the area. Report in when it’s clear.’

  Mav watched the guards scan through the security tube. He was jiggling up and down on the spot, his ears close to his head. I think he was a bit nervous about going through the full body scan so I smiled at him reassuringly. Wolfendon’s armscreen beeped. She acknowledged the message then turned to Mav.

  ‘Right, you scan through first,’ she said.

  Mav stepped forward, still rocking on his heels as the tube door closed. He didn’t have to do the retina scan of course, not having a retina, but he was bouncing so hard that the body scan rejected him three times. In the end, I had to grab him by the shoulders, push his feet flat on the scan pad and threaten dire consequences if he didn’t stay still. He finally scanned through.

  It was my turn. I stepped on to the scan pad and the tube slid shut. A calm computer voice said, ‘Please do not move. Level 3 scan in progress.’

  I immediately wanted to scratch every part of my body. I tensed my muscles and shut my eyes as the scan light swept up and down.

  ‘Please position the retina scanner over your right eye. Do not blink.’

  As usual, my eye started to water before the scan was accepted. I kept on thinking of that bit in Bleeders where the guy gets his eye sliced out by a booby-trapped scanner. Gross.

  ‘Please place your wrist-band against Port A for access authorisation download.’

  I pressed my wrist-band against the grid and waited.