Gravity sends you out

“Gravity sends you out”. Said Wayne, “And in your re-entry manoeuvre gravity will send you back, there is absolutely nothing to worry about, in fact you are our one thousandth traveller, welcome to the future and your future!” Tom steadied himself and held on tightly to the travel belt, at the same time he heard the countdown in his ear piece, 10, 9...he heard white noise intruding and closed his eyes. The countdown continued, his eyes still shut tight but now behind the visor that had descended to cover and protect his face and shoulders. It was a funny feeling, at one moment there was a floor beneath his feet, then it was gone but there was no sensation of falling, more like floating, standing on a mountain top, or even walking on water. The kind of thing the Young Gods had done back in the other seasons, when it was safe, or so he'd heard.

A long time passed but Tom was stoical, stuck, obeying the last orders and waiting for the next, for clearance, for the re-entry. Finally it came, the accent was foreign and hard to make out. “Traveller One Thousand, you are he, the Mister Tom from the past. Welcome to your new future. Please keep you visor on until the sanitisation process is complete, please remember and recall your briefing material. Do not be anxious, be steady, you have arrived safely but we must complete our processes.”

Tom waited, alert, ready to see. It was warm and there was a strange humming sound that surrounded him. From some place Tom could not perceive a long silver needle emerged. For a spilt second he panicked, he saw it coming but there was no time to think. As the visor unlocked and rose mechanically the needle twirled and entered the middle of Tom's temple killing him instantly.

“That is another milestone for us.” Said Wayne over the coms link, “a thousand products safely delivered, ready to be harvested. Useful organs and spare parts for retail and the rest tastes just like chicken.”

Cougar 4 Sale

Life is a constant struggle between conflicting appetites and needs. The bright shiny things, the practical requirements, the voices of good sense, stewardship and reason. Things I don't want to say, things I don't want to listen to, ideas I'd just rather not have. But they are there and they exist and you can stumble across them as you casually search, thumb pages, click and peer into the electric gloom and see beyond the dull image and find a life and a passion that goes beyond, that transcends something, that is not ordinary because it's formed from the dreams of others as they meet the dream and aspirations you now own in all your weak, simple and fragile essence. I am of course referring to that pure and painful moment when you stumble across a fine looking and well maintained low milage Cougar hidden within the deep recesses of Autotrader and on sale tantalisingly close by but unfortunately in Glasgow. I think of my credit card, my balance and my numerous other issues and commitments and walk slowly away. “Best left where it is” says a still small voice that may well be either God or the Devil himself.

Shadow of the smoothie

It was an inspirational moment, he was caught up in that great white beam of madness and genius as the impact and wonder of this creative process washed over him, overwhelming and rendering him senseless. Everything was adrift and moving, there was traction but no friction, the experience was like gliding on ice over fire under water in space into a clear glowing sun that was all giving and and all consuming. Heaven or as close as it comes. It was of course vanilla, cream, banana and passion fruit. He had now invented and tasted and been transported and nourished by the world's greatest ever smoothie experience. It can happen, it should happen and it probably will happen, one day, but maybe not to you.

Drifting

We were watching sea, watching from our open boat, we floated with no direction. A journey made of imaginary circles, we copied the sun and the planets, we shaped ourselves on orbits and arcs but without taking aim or having ant sense of where we were. Bobbing like a thrown away champagne cork on the deepest and blues sea, caught between skies and water in a huge peaceful sandwich in lazy currents and waves generated far away and now lost without a destination. How strange to be lost a sea, of all places. No reference in the day other than the sun tracking across the top of the blue mirror. At night we saw the shapes of things and the glinting star light of the lost planets and Milky Ways. Shooting stars missed us by thousands of miles as they burned bright for on last time. We listened for their splashes or ricochets but they were already over another continent. When the sun rose we watched the sea some more looking for signs, hoping for wonders.

I closed my eyes and imagine people ashore, noisy pubs, endless talk and chatter, the roar of traffic and background music. The pull of the moon and shadows of some big city, brighter lights that shut out the stars. Maybe conversation, walking home alone, the smells and sounds and the grip of claustrophobia, hectic lives and pursuits, passion and petty crime and all going about their business. I can't really imagine any of this, the effort is exhausting, we are afloat, too far away for things to be real, in too deep. Too much water under us, too much sky above us and land is a distorted memory. One day we shall drown, all of us, lungs full and choking before the black honesty falls upon us and our names leave us, until that day comes we will dip our fingers in the water, enjoy the cool splash and just drift away.

Labyrinth

Rory leaned back onto the wall, he was alone in the room, the room that was no longer steady, no longer a room attached to a building attached to the ground attached to the earth. The room was no a trampoline, on a gyro, slowly turning, groaning almost with the effort of a new movement and carrying Rory around with it. Rory felt the room move, the spin speed increase slowly. He tried to focus on a spot on the wall, on the water cooler, on a PC screen, on the carpet tile, but they all wee spinning, a fluid and unstuck, all at odds with each other, defying gravity and other natural laws.

Rory was going with the flow, standing still but now moving, transported like a leaf or a feather or a Pooh Sticks stick stuck in the currents. Rory held his ears, as if pressing on them would fix the problem, then he held his chest, as if breathing regularly would calm the spin. Then he held his tummy, his crotch. He bent over and held his knees. Then he stood straight, tall and gripped the wall with his palms, eyes closed, eyes peeking, eyes open. He was on the wall, like a fly on flypaper, stuck to the spinning wall. Like a wall of death without the bike or speed or centrifugal force. Travelling still but getting nowhere, that's Labyrinthitis for you. A chronic condition, a force of nature, Rory was caught.

He closed his eyes, he sucked up the dark, time was passing, time was travelling around him, here he was wherever, here he was going, deeper into himself. Deeper into the illness, further into the condition, into the lair of that dark insect bite itself where sleep is stolen, peace is shredded and pain and discomfort settle on each shoulder and hold a conversation across the top of your head. He heard a snort, he felt the animal sweat, he opened his eyes slowly, the disease gripped him, all over. Chronic and putrid, the fear came and manifested itself, here comes the night, here comes the beast. There are the yellow eyes, hungry as the ancient beasts and the wolves of the forrest. Half bull, half man, all wild exposed and real. Here is the Minotaur, here in the Labyrinth.

Rory awoke the next morning, he was hurting and his nose was twitching. “What's that smell?” he thought, “bullshit I guess.”

Priscilla

A thought in a box, in a nod, in a moment. A journey in red and blue with many miles on the broken clock. A long and pleasant journey I should say, whisked away by myself over hill and highway from the bottom to the top. I put myself under some scrutiny, some pressure, apply a little fear, here and there. Poisoned and sweet. That's what you get when you become that person driven by a fear. It made me wonder, as I reflected, whatever happened to Priscilla Presley?

Driving backwards

The journey back to the city was uneventful, I wandered why I'd come this far. Banner had promised information, he was gone, I had to dig a little deeper. The fact that no police were (as far as I could see) still in pursuit was a perverse worry. They'd been on special orders in coming after us and that, for some reason wasn't known by the HQ core. A split had occurred, teams were disjointed, working on their own lines of investigation, mine having just fractured for the time being anyway.

I abandoned the prowler in a dank alley, wiped down the controls and powered it down. They'd catch it in the morning when the homer came up on the system, by which time I'd be long gone underground, in some rat hole, smoking, eating, drinking, checking out for the next batch of slimy clues. A neon said "Chinese Food", there were symbols, marks - it was a brotherhood joint. I could recuperate in here and blend into the run down decor and faceless interior. Eastern language brokered broke down deals, they were all too busy to notice me. That'll do nicely, I was shaky. It'd been a while since I'd been involved in any kind of fire fight, at least two men had died today. I lit a cigarette and thought of their mortality and pondered my own humanity. I was weak.

Two good shots

They didn't believe me, even though I'd said nothing. I gambled that they were greasy cops, out of town, on hard pay. They'd not have the appetite for a proper fight. I took up a point at the back of the car and fired two shots. One hit the prowler and the back end puffed up and exploded in an orange and blue ball. The force surprised me and I was knocked backwards, it surprised them more and they ran back to the manager's office, the most substantial building in the area. The second shot took a ricochet from the prowler's front end and hit a gas tank over by the pound. This time the blast was too big, I was carried away my chest thumping and starved of air. Three or four policemen just fell flat, two others rolled like rag dolls. That was the end of their fighting.

A cloud of dust and noise was everywhere, this was confusion. A few people were shouting or crying, a radio splattered tones and words from some vehicle. I headed that way. There it was, an empty prowler, keyed up and alight. In seconds I was moving, through the debris and dust, one stray shot cracking a mirror, another bouncing from the front grill. It was too late now, I was gone. Headed somewhere.

We don't believe

"Christ, this awkward," said Banner, "there wasn't a body here when we closed up." The policeman's corpse had been there behind the door for sometime, it had desiccated in the dry heat, the air was pungent with a heavy scent of death that was almost pleasant, but both of us shivered as we breathed it in. Banner clambered across the wreckage inside the room, there had obviously been a scuffle before the fatal fight, desks were turned over, papers and files strewn across the floor, cracked electronics, wires and splinters. Banner picked up a communicator and handed it to me, "Police issue."

I switched it on, immediately I realised my mistake, it glowed red and gave out a sharp beep. "It's homing!" shouted Banner, "this is a set up!" We both ran back to the vehicle, somewhere in the distance I heard an air-skimmer's engine start up. "They're very close!"

There were two orange flashes in front of us, in the hundred yards we'd travelled they'd caught us. I felt the shock and vibration, my chest heavy with the pressure of the blast, I looked across and Banner was slumped across the controls, eyes empty and we were still and suddenly sideways in a ditch. "Agents!" I cried out through the com mike, "It's Rick, City-Pass 231-678A!"

"Stand by the vehicle for processing. We don't believe you!" Screamed the metallic reply.

Some sequences shortened

I was walking away from the noise, walking from the steam, from the steady drumming of the rain, processing the day my head. The neon flickered like some passing affair, the traffic had thinned and I had lost track of time. A bar doorway opened up on my right and I wheeled in without a thought, automatic transmission. I ordered a bottle and sat in a deep pool of artificial light. I drank for some time, there seemed to be no effect, nothing to reach until I arrived at tired level of numb self parody and unawareness. I felt safe here but my fingers were rubbing on the but of the gun it was an unconscious action, it was a part of who I had become.

I watched the other customers, all quietly unfamiliar and bland, all in hiding, all in plain sight. I took in the faces one by one, at least the features I could make out. An older man sat across the bar, he reading something from a dull screen, his lips were moving, forming unspoken words. His mouth curled at the corner as if every other word carried some amusing message. I looked at his eyes, they were on me already. I touched my nose, he nodded, picked up his drink and his screen and walked over to join me.

“I'm Banner. There are many things in this life I find difficult to understand, I've lived sixty five years, been loved and spurned, been hunted, found and set free. Now I'm here, sitting across from you, a fugitive and a conundrum. You know that they'll put a bounty on your head, you know that they wont let you go. You know all this?” I just grinned and took a sharp slug of the whisky. The old man continued, “I think we can help each other out, I think we both have something the other needs, I think we can make an arrangement...the police are about ten minutes from barging through that door, they have a new charge sheet, new evidence, same old story. They're dealing with some minority activity in Teasel, then they'll come over...for you.” I was again aware of the gun butt and safety against my finger, the cold metal was warm.

There are moments when time stands still, you wish something would happen, a lightning strike to clear the air, a line to cross, rivets popping in the steel core of your brain. I was tense and counting and it was now nine minutes, he was looking at me. “We need to go very soon.” We both stood up, he nodded to the barman, my eyes were on the door and the traffic flashes. “I do have transport,” he said. He clicked the fob and the gull wing opened, I lowered myself in, he was surprisingly nimble and behind the wheel in seconds. I turned and saw the blue and red of police lights. We were gone as they pulled up. We were gone.

I thought how small a part of my life this moment was, riding in this car, stilted conversation, headed out into some other part of the night. Escaping from shadows and flashing lights, while all the other events, the deaths, lives, warnings and crimes all orbited around in my head in a scattered and disorderly jumble. The car sped on, the rain lashed and daylight and sunshine seemed foreign concepts now impossible to believe in. That was where she lived, in some warm sunny place where colour was natural and the edges of reality were clear beyond any traffic buzz and blur. That was where she was. In harbour, I was still at sea.

An hour's driving without conversation took us past the city limits and into the Quarry Area. I may have slept. We moved between great chunks of rock, broken landscapes and scattered boulder fields. Raw materials had been gathered from here when the first cities were put together, the concrete and plastic mix that now stood in a rain lashed pattern, stolen rocks that were clad with the shards of millions of years of geological action and modern shame. The time of development had been relatively brief, now we were running down the clock and large parts of this landscape were desolate and in places returning to some wilder past. He turned up a dirt road and pulled up at a battered prefabricated site office building. As grey as the rock, weather beaten and forlorn. Signs warned and vehicles rusted, materials stood unsold, uncollected in piles. I imagined the scattered papers, worn clothing, dusty dirty cups and plates and other skeletons that must be inside.

Banner fumbled with a key and key-code and the door moved but there was a resistance, he pushed on it with his shoulder, I imagined a body stooped behind. My eyes were playing and scanning everywhere, dry blood was pumping, the wide open spaces were hemming me in, I was uneasy. The door gave way and opened. Inside wasn't as bad as I'd expected, someone had been here recently and it was clearer and a bit more clean than I'd expected, well clean apart from a fine layer of dust that seemed to cover everything. “We're safe here, you're safe here,” that was all he said.

In life it can take quite an effort to make a thing happen. You have to start, you have to move yourself, you have to break through that stubborn barrier that says “I'm staying here, I'm not moving.” Of course that can happen quite quickly and with little warning but it's when you stop, lose the momentum gained in the chase, it's hard to make up that speed again, hard to restart and get running. Now here I was, melting away into the conspiracy and game set against me and hiding, doing what they'd expect. I knew deep down none of this was going to work and I had to know what it was Banner wanted from me. There were still overdue and outstanding conversations.

No custodial sentence

I was almost happy, this time, unexpectedly I'd avoided a custodial sentence. The judge had summed up, he'd summed me up, he got to the point and held back, he was that sharp. They handed my gun back to me at the check out, I hadn't expected that either. "We'll see you again soon enough Deckard", said the bulldog faced cop on the door as he chewed a cigar and spat as he spoke. I didn't even bother answering, I just looked out into the gloom to see if any taxi lights were approaching. The traffic was thin, no yellow glow so I just took up the rhythm of the rain and walked along the running, splashing gutter. Somehow that seemed appropriate. Today might be Tuesday or Thursday, it might even be my birthday if ever I'd had such a thing, whatever day it was there were grounds for celebration, all I had to do was find a warm bar.

98 years ago

This what Europe used to look like, tough, angry, intolerant, industrious, divided and made of cast iron. Over the years a few things have changed but the overall shape and the glowering, ugly faces remain and Britain is very much an island.