HOMECOM

ING
At each stop the carriage doors clattered in their metal
sheathes; hydraulic hiss shuffling myopic morning
commuters, jacks; queens and aces high. Rolling dice
with Ozone and sweat; the blast of heat and fetid junk
from the gap between platform and carriage edge;
conspired with memories lost in olfactory vaults to bring
water to the corner of his eye.
The woman across from him crossed her legs in short
skirt hiking and he averted his eyes; not wanting to play
that particular game.
He fought the panic that fluttered in his chest, letting out
a long held breath in slow deliberation.
He held the fear of losing it in public (a guaranteed spike
on electronic monitoring file somewhere within Reason)
close to his chest to stop his mind from wandering into
tank traps and tripwires set by childhood fears and
parental neuroses – the enemy within.
The fear of exposure lurked in every averted eye; every
melancholy gaze with briefcase on knees to shield; every
glimpse of unprotected thigh; every fearful glance at the
passing parade of humanity.
The Igneous was wearing off for sure now and the faces
around him began to return to form; melting like wax to
reveal.
If they sensed his fear they’d be on him to feed for sure.
He locked his eyes on the passing countryside as the
stops grew less frequent and the passengers fewer; green
hills in the twilit morning; uncaring beauty; ominous
implications.
Razor-wire fences; hedgerows and stone walls; divisions;
partitions; bloodlines feuds and landowners’ dynasties;
the rise and fall of empire etched on landscapes of green
reclamation; flashed past in cold disregard for the
Maglev’s arcing hum.
As they approached the coast the smell from the plankton
farms entered through the ventilation and he held his
breath once more, afraid of the memories’ menacing
nausea.
He left the train at Utopia Sestri, feeling the cold through
the soles of his boots, hoping that the greatcoat would
cover his deformity.
The Sniffers at the turnstile eyed him coldly; he felt their
scrutiny pass across his mind briefly – a worm in an
apple – as they checked his butchered chip. He hoisted
his bag feeling the hard angle of content against his
shoulder.
The road between Utopia and Golgotha was deserted and
he was going to have to walk it since nobody dared
venture out during Reason for fear of being branded
unpatriotic. In times like these the last thing you wanted
to be was unpatriotic.
He hitched the bag once more, nothing in there but 3 sets
of standard issue desert camo, boots and body armour he
wasn’t going to need anymore; a carton of cigarettes
wrapped in plasti-lead to shield them from view and a
holo of Cynth taken three years previous on the day he’d
shipped out. If it hadn’t been for the cigarettes he’d have
ditched the lot into the sea when he’d disembarked from
the Leviptron at Point Vega.

The Voice of Reason spoke quietly from the plasmembra;

blue light flashing through from the living room as she
dried the dish she’d used to feed. She dared not turn the
volume completely down. She chewed at the inside of
her cheek unconsciously trying to picture his face. Three
years and everything was different; nothing had changed.
She wished she had a cigarette; it had been three days
and she couldn’t find place for her hands.
She walked through to the living area; Reason’s eyes
seemed to follow her as she crossed the room to stand at
the window. The blackout curtains blocked her view but
she stood nonetheless, imagining herself gazing out at a
country road that led up to a cottage where a waiting war
wife tucked children up in bed in anticipation of her
returning husband. Imagining a world where children
played in the field.
Fantasy lives in the head while reality bites in the gut;
she felt the tears start, as they had done more often than
normal these last few days.
She wished she had a cigarette.
The road was smooth and dark; the light from the moon
cast everything monochrome. He could see the town’s
silhouette on the horizon – he’d dreamed of this moment
in colour. Dreamt as the night sky had lit up green in his
visor; as the ground had crumped beneath his vehicle;
dreamt as his dreams had been invaded and violated by
the reality of Reason’s Defense Campaign; dreamt while
trying not to see the bodies that littered his waking life
with blood and bone.
The road was smooth and dark between the deserted
fields of potato and cabbage where the women toiled to
feed the nation.
He tried to picture her face in his mind; he wondered if
she’d changed in the time he’d been gone. His heart
raced once more; too fast for comfort and he dropped the
bag at the side of the road and leant over, hands on knees
as the dizziness…
Something had got into his head; into his body – it sat at
his centre - a dead weight, even though he’d not eaten for
days.
He retched on the side of the road; mucal fluid hung a
teardrop in the moonlight.
Golgotha’s Neighbourhood Watch flagged his chip as he
crossed the bridge at the edge of town. They sent out a
Friendly.

Her reverie was cut short by the door buzzer and she
rushed across the room to meet him, her heart fluttering
in uncharacteristic girlish expectation.
The eye emblem on his cap identified him as
Neighbourhood Watch. She recognised his face from the
obligatory town-hall meetings where resolutions were
made for the security of the town and its industry.
“Cynthia 7533291?” his tone hid a time bomb, she held
her thoughts cold. He flashed a holo at her, “Do you
know this man?”
Her legs lost all strength and she braced herself against
the darkened doorway.
“His chip was damaged; we failed to get a positive on
him… I’m sorry”

© Pisces Iscariot 2006