It’s a risk, heading out, but for now there’s no question that Mason and I are sticking together. Before we leave I find the first-aid kit in one of the bags and smother the wound with ice-cold cream that makes my wrist go numb. We finish by sealing it with gauze and surgical tape the same colour as my skin.
Together, we make our way along the path leading towards the entrance, not speaking now that we’re out of the safety of the cave. Even with the skin-coloured tape I’m careful to keep my wrist out of sight, holding my hand behind my back or crossing my arms, just in case.
We’re almost at the entrance gates when we see a woman with wispy white hair up ahead, standing in the garden bed. She reaches an arm deep into the brambles of a blackberry bush and pulls back, battling with a strand of thorny stems stuck to her sleeve.
As we pass she examines something dark and shrivelled pinched between her thumb and pointer finger: a berry, I think.
Mason glances her way but she doesn’t seem to notice us, dropping the berry into her mouth then squinting into the thorns again as she swallows. We continue past without speaking but something else comes with me: a damp sort of guilt at what’s going on. We’re walking past with a backpack full of water. If the woman’s hungry enough to be foraging for the dry, seedy blackberries on those parched bushes, she’ll be thirsty too.
How upside-down is this? I’m illegal, but I have access to as much water as I need. Right now, I’m the one who’s lucky.
I’m glad when we make it through the entrance gates, past the blackberry bushes. Mason strides towards a rack near the park entrance, manoeuvres an old bike out and straddles the seat. ‘C’mon. Not exactly a Ferrari, but it’ll get you there.’
I sit side-saddle on the bar between the handles and Mason, snuggled between his chest and arms. One of Mason’s arms is against my back as he pushes off with a gentle, fluid movement that makes me feel as if this is the exact place in the universe I’m meant to be.
The bike path is busier than I remember. Some are ridden by preschool kids pedalling like mad, but you can tell from the robotic way the bikes steer and turn that they’ve been programmed where to go.
Mason follows the track beside the canal, then he turns left along Maribyrnong Road. As the incline begins, the bike slows and Mason’s breathing becomes sharper, his body rocking with each turn of the pedal.
A quarter turn of my head. ‘Want to swap for a bit?’
‘Nah.’ Pedal. Pant. ‘Nearly there.’
When we reach the top of the rise, the city unveils itself before us. For a few minutes I get a clear view past the business district, towards Brunswick and out to the northern suburbs and beyond. I can almost trace a line between the old and the new, the familiar and the foreign. Beyond the northern streets, the city has been transformed. The old urban sprawl of period buildings and multi-storey offices has been replaced by rows and rows of those compact polymer flats in the areas destroyed by fire. From here they seem too neat, unnaturally clean.
We top the rise and I catch a view of the city skyline before we begin the descent, flying now, passing slower cyclists.
Everything suddenly seems lighter as Mason calls, ‘That’s better, hey?’
‘Yeah!’ My cry is left behind in the wind.
As we reach an intersection crossing one of the main streets, chanting fills the air and we flash past a row of police wearing riot gear. My head follows them as we pass, trying to make sense of it.
We reach the bottom of Mason’s street and I lean slightly, anticipating a turn. I’m caught off-balance as he keeps riding a few metres past the beginning of the road.
‘Playing it safe,’ Mason mumbles, his chest pressed against my shoulder as I recover my wobble.
At the end of a back alley, we stop. Together, we climb off and begin along the laneway with Mason pushing the bike. We’re quiet now, but acting as casual as possible. Don’t want to give the neighbours anything to report in case the authorities come asking.
A couple of houses away from Mason’s, he stops and checks both ways. Then he lifts the bike over a neighbour’s back fence. I can’t help but notice the muscles in his arms, sleek and defined. A bush rustles from the other side as it catches the bike.
I’m first over the fence. There’s a mass of weeds back here, all tangled in each other so it’s hard to get around. Great hiding spot for the bike, though.
Once Mason makes it over I follow him, shuffling sideways along the fence line, leaving the bike behind in its bushy hiding place. We reach the fence bordering Mason’s house and I climb over, jumping down behind a brown fir tree. Mason is part way over as I step out from behind the tree and check out his bedroom window on the second storey, remembering. And also trying to see how much has changed.
The blinds are drawn, the sill maybe a lighter shade of grey than I remember. I squint; it looks like some sort of security sensor has been set up on the corner of the window, a thick fibre like a flexible pencil. It bends in a small curve as something triggers the system, its movement catching my eye.
A bird. All my senses immediately go on high alert. As I watch, the sensor curls like a worm lifting its head, tracking a pigeon hopping along the ground. This is a movement sensor, not like the ones triggered by a chip. It’s the sort they use to detect stray dogs. And illegals.
With a sharp inhale, I grab Mason by the forearm. ‘Don’t move,’ I hiss.
M
ASON’S BODY STILLS
beside me; he doesn’t need further explanation. I keep watch on the sensor above us as his hands press on my shoulders. Again the sensor shifts, still tracking the bird, so I push back ever so slightly: a sign that it’s okay to sneak away.
Slowly Mason guides me towards the safety of the fir tree, working in tandem so that we’re checking in front and behind at the same time. As soon as we’re out of sight, the pressure eases and we pull out our compads.
The history I find makes me feel like throwing up. A few hours after I returned, three motion sensors were set up around Mason’s house. I tag the workers who installed the sensors and trace their day’s work: around the room I shared with Mum, Karoly High School and a local cafe.
There’s even one at Kessa’s house, but I must have been there before they came. I didn’t have much reason to visit the cave while I was chipped, so I’m lucky they didn’t pick that as a location I might visit.
‘This way.’ Mason grabs my hand.
We climb back over the fence into the neighbouring yard, and sneak along the side fence until Mason stops and checks his compad. While I was checking for the other motion sensors, he must have been mapping out a path that we could take to his house without being caught by the sensors.
With a sharp rock, Mason scratches a cross at this spot on the fence: an indicator for next time. We climb over in silence, cautious now as we track a diagonal line to the side wall of the house, then shuffle sideways until we reach the door of a utility room and slip inside.
In silence we head up the stairs, relief growing with each step we take. In here, we’re safe.
We reach the main part of the house, and Mason lets his head drop back, clearly relieved.
‘I knew they’d be watching, I just didn’t realise …’ I drift off, frustration still burning, because I’m not the only one they’re trying to find. Mason’s chance of being caught has just shot through the roof because I’m back.
‘Not your fault,’ he says.
‘How long until your folks are able to do a long jump?’
He turns away and starts stashing the water bottles in a cold cupboard. ‘They’re ready now. Pretty sure. Mum’s last day at school is this Friday. Dad’s already halfway though handing over at work. He’s told them he’s been transferred.’
‘Okay … okay.’ I’m nodding as a kind of reassurance. ‘You’ll be able to leave soon.’
Mason turns to consider me, a bottle in one hand. He doesn’t answer for a while. Then he turns back to the cupboard. ‘Not without you.’
‘But, now that they’re watching even closer …’
‘It’s not me I’m worried about,’ Mason mutters into the cold cupboard. He closes the door and turns to face me again. ‘At least I have citizen status. If they do catch me, at least I’ll have rights.’
I try to swallow my next thought away. ‘But … why do you think they’re trying so hard to catch us?’ I’m pretty sure I already know the answer, but I want to hear Mason’s take on this. ‘I mean, it looks like they have their hands full already. And I’m illegal with no access to rations. There’s not much I can –’
‘They have proof that you stole a chip, so they can use that as grounds to lock you away. And you can time skip. If they catch you, they’ll have no restrictions on the tests they can do …’
‘So you think this is happening because I can time skip?’ It’s not a question, really. I’ve started to suspect this ever since I came back.
‘And me. We’ve had more legal advice since I’ve been back. People who are witness to an accidental death like Amon aren’t normally targeted as closely as I’ve been.’
‘So they want to test you, too. Even though you’re a citizen?’
‘Don’t know. But probably. They know we can time skip, but they don’t understand how. I bet they’re dying to know what’s going on.’ He takes a breath and crosses his arms. ‘Imagine if more illegals learnt to skip. Or even citizens. They’d be harder to catch. Harder to control.’
‘Yeah.’ The longer I’ve been back, the more I’ve begun to wonder whether I could teach more people to skip, at least show them what’s possible.
‘So …’ Mason lifts his eyebrows, as if trying to lighten the mood. ‘Just don’t get caught, yeah? Easy.’
‘Sure,’ I mumble. Fine. No problem.
He turns towards the boiler and flicks it on. ‘Let’s eat something before we head back.’
‘Thanks, but I’m okay. I ate at the cave.’
He acts as if he didn’t hear, just pulls out a couple of mugs and a jar of syrup. ‘C’mon.’
I can tell he’s not going to give up. I cut a path past the dining chairs to find a spot on a stool at the bench. Mason places a mug in front of me and turns back to the cold cupboard, pulling out a storage container and scooping some sort of porridge into a pan.
Warmth from the tea spreads through me as I enclose the mug in both hands and sip. It’s almost too hot but just enough below burning to swallow. This is good.
I sip quietly until Mason places a bowl in front of me. He perches on a stool and hooks one foot on the rung, leaning against the bench as he scoops up mouthfuls with a teaspoon.
I put down the mug, not sure what to do. It used to be rude to accept rations, but things are different now. Different in 2089, but also between Mason and me. And the truth is, I need to eat.
He stops chewing and pushes my bowl towards me, one last gesture of reassurance, so I accept and give it a stir. The porridge is made with oats and some other grains I don’t recognise. I take a small bite and chew, sort of testing. There’s something else in there, beans maybe, or small chunks of meat. I pick up another spoonful and examine it surreptitiously on the way to my mouth, not wanting to seem rude.
‘They’re grubs,’ says Mason, grinning. ‘But don’t think of them like that. Just think of them as lab meat or something.’
I look back at the spoon. They’re curled up head to tail, like the shrimp I tasted once on Alistair’s birthday. I push them around the bowl, then take another mouthful. They taste a bit nutty and fleshy. Not bad, really.
I take one more bite, chewing slowly, savouring the warmth. Then I let go of the spoon and push the bowl towards Mason. ‘Here, you finish it. I’ve had enough.’
‘Just think of them as chunks of meat. You need to eat.’
He thinks I’ve stopped because of the bugs, but that’s not the reason. It’s what the bugs mean that made me push the bowl away. This is the food that people eat when they don’t have enough, the diet of the desperate. I know enough about living on low rations to understand the decisions behind this meal, the cost versus nutrition ratio, the agony over portion sizes.
And besides, I already know what it’s like to owe that sort of debt. I’m not going there again.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘But I’m okay. I’ll find food some other way.’
A pause, before he breathes in. ‘Scout, you were the one who thought up the blocking script that is keeping me safe now. You told us about the underground spring. Do you think I owe you because of that?’
I frown. ‘Of course not.’
‘So …’ He lifts his eyebrows, like I’m a kid being taught a lesson. ‘Keep eating.’
I roll my eyes, but I start scooping and chewing again.
After another mouthful, Mason says, ‘You know, this time I’ve had living without rations …’ He pauses. ‘I just don’t know how you did it your whole life.’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. When you’ve never known anything else, you get used to it, I guess.’ But I get what Mason’s trying to say. Right now, he’s living a life that I know only too well. No access to any of the rations that people all around you take for granted, depending on the help of others to survive.
Mason drains the rest of the porridge and leaves the bowl on the bench. ‘All my life, I always had food and water, anything really, with a single swipe.’ Again, he stops to look at me. ‘I didn’t really know how to handle it when I went off-grid. But you … being illegal has made you smart, resourceful.’
By now I’m shaking my head, the spoon left in my empty bowl. It’s not being smart that helped me get by; it’s simply that I had no choice.
Mason turns his head as if suddenly unsure. ‘I think …’ His eyes stay on the bench. ‘I get now why you never told me you were illegal.’
Neither of us speaks for a moment. I’m not sure what to say. Even now, it’s hard facing up to the secret that came between us, the truth that I hid.
Mason lifts his head to me. ‘I never would have turned you in, so I couldn’t understand why you didn’t trust me.’
‘I know … I did trust you. It was just …’ I guess I didn’t know
how
to trust him.
‘But I get it now. I mean … now that I’ve had these past eight months with the chance of being caught constantly hanging over me. My whole focus has been on keeping out of trouble.’ He jerks a shoulder. ‘And I guess I did start to rethink the stuff you said …’