Light Shaper (12 page)

Barrow woke up. He did not jump up in bed or cry out or any of that. He merely opened his eyes suddenly, a single drop of sweat running down the side of his brow. He stared up at the motionless ceiling fan that had broken down several months ago. His apartment was quiet, and golden light was streaming through the grimy window on his right. He breathed long and deep until he was convinced that his heart rate had gone back to normal. Only then did he allow himself to move, sitting up and tossing away his sweat-dampened sheet.

From the corner of his eye, Barrow thought he saw something move in the shadows. Something dark that had been watching him as he slept. He shivered and looked more closely. He was alone.

He closed his eyes briefly, half out of bed, as he tried to banish the memory of that awful recurring nightmare. He hated it, not because it forced him to remember but because of how helpless the dream made him feel. A little bit of it carried over into the real world every time he had it, and Barrow couldn’t stand it.

He stood up. He was completely naked because of the heat, and as he walked up to look out the window, his muscular form was clearly outlined against the sunlight streaming in from outside. Barrow ran a hand through his damp hair and shook his head as if that would help to dislodge the residue of anxiety the dream always left in him. And the anger. It was a horrible kind of soul-consuming anger born of helplessness, one that he had for many years directed at himself. In response to the surge of emotion, he reached up with his right hand to clasp the half-melted key that hung from his neck and said a wordless prayer, as he had learned to do after each time he had the nightmare. It didn’t help much, but the ritual was soothing in a small way. It helped him calm down, helped him let go of that rage.

Barrow stretched, deliberately taking his mind away from the dark memories of days long gone with practiced smoothness. He thought about the fact that he should probably invest in a proper air-conditioning unit if he wanted to survive the coming summer in Aurora. His apartment was in the worst possible position, the west-facing façade of a very tall structure sandwiched between two other buildings. Barrow had a decent enough view of the city below, but the heat trapped by the buildings got caught in the middle, making the room’s temperature stifling even in winter. Having the window open actually made things worse, since the air outside was often hotter than inside, as well as very dry. The one good thing about this place was that the plumbing was good. Barrow always had cool water to shower and wash his face, which he did several times a day.

Barrow went to the bathroom and relieved himself. When he was done, he glanced at his watch casually and did a double take. It was almost evening.

Confused, Barrow called up the time on his phone, and it confirmed that it was sunset time already, which explained the heat and also the color of the sunlight reaching his window. Shadows were darker at this time of day. The reds and golds and oranges were deeper, richer. Barrow opened the window and stuck his head out into the hot city evening. Nightfall was an hour or so away. He had slept through the entire morning and early afternoon.

He turned on the shower and escaped into the blessed coolness of the water pouring forth from above. He took his time, enjoying the sensation as well as making sure he was clean. Afterward, he shaved quickly and trimmed his short beard. For maybe the fifth time that month, he thought about shaving all his hair so he would be cooler in the awful heat, but he decided against it. He looked good with his hair like that, short and neat without being too military style. He had gotten the red hair from his mother, and it was the same fiery shade as the sunset outside his window. He liked it, and so for the fifth time, he decided against shaving his head bald.

He felt hungry and a little woozy from the change in his body’s schedule, but he imagined he would be okay with it in a couple days. He was a night-shift Otherlife Security Guard now, and he had to start living like one. How hard could it be to teach himself to sleep during the day and be awake at night, after all? Besides, having a schedule like this had its advantages. He was not due at work for another four hours. It was plenty of time to go to the gym, have a good workout, and come back to change. Which reminded him.

He toweled dry, already feeling hot again, and knelt in front of a minibar next to the shower in his bathroom. He opened the door, and a little light inside flicked on, illuminating dozens upon dozens of little glass bottles that were clearly labeled with the many different chemical compounds they carried inside. They were set in neat racks, each one identified according to the day it would be used and also to its date of purchase to ensure that Barrow did not waste any of the doses by overlooking something he had bought some time ago. His organization system worked well, and it had become so automatic that he reached inside, grabbed two different vials and an unopened disposable syringe, and closed the door without even a second look at what he grabbed.

He set the little vials side by side on the bathroom sink and opened the syringe. He expelled all the air from it and then picked up the first of the vials. He punched the syringe inside it, puncturing its seal, and extracted the entire liquid until it was ready to inject. The liquid was colorless, and it looked like water, although it most definitely wasn’t water. When Barrow was certain he had gotten every last drop, he discarded the glass vial and punched the now-full syringe into the second vial. He pushed down with his thumb, expertly emptying the contents into it so they would mix with the liquid inside the new receptacle. When the mixing was complete, Barrow flicked the vial slightly with the tip of his finger and then extracted the mixture back into the syringe. When he had it all, he extended his left forearm and found a vein easily, outlined as they were against his clearly defined muscles.

He injected carefully but quickly and emptied the contents of the mixture into his bloodstream. When he was done, he carefully pulled out the syringe, dumped it in the garbage, and swabbed at the pinprick with some alcohol and cotton. Then he walked back into his bedroom/living room, still naked, and stopped in front of the full-length body mirror that hung there.

The light from the sun seemed to set fire to his hair, and his eyes were emeralds glowing with defiant intensity as he looked at himself. It was not about vanity for him, not anymore. When he had lost everything he had, Barrow had discovered that the only thing he could depend on was his own body. The only one he could count on was himself. After he had gone free, he had continued working out as he had been doing while he was serving time, and the rewards had been immediate. Looking strong made him feel strong, and for a while it had been the only thing keeping him safe while he had been just another unemployed youth in the streets of Aurora, trying to stay clear of the gangs that controlled the slums and find a decent job where they would not mind that he already had a criminal record.

Barrow grinned as he realized the strange symmetry that had led him to land his first security job so many years ago. If he hadn’t looked big and threatening, he never would have gotten it. Afterward, he had simply kept going. He had kept building up his confidence along with his body until it was like armor he wore, except it was his own skin. When he looked now at the clearly defined abdominal muscles, at the massive shoulders and thick neck that were his, he felt he was looking at something he had built from scratch, something that was his own and nobody could take away. He liked that. He flexed his right biceps just for the heck of it, and the feeling of strength was like another living dimension to his reality, something that kept away the terrors and the emptiness of the night.

Except now he would not be sleeping at night anymore—he had a job again. The thought gave him a little thrill. He was actually excited to work in this new schedule, awake when everybody else was asleep, and asleep while the world was a chaos of busy streets and burning sunlight outside. He would be making good money as well, and he wouldn’t even be working a full eight hours, at least not in real time. It was perfect. Otherlife was the first stroke of good luck he had had in a while.

He got dressed in a pair of shorts and a loose-fitting T-shirt with the sleeves cut out so they wouldn’t bother him where he was working out. He walked the two steps that separated his bed from his tiny kitchen and quickly blended his first meal of the day. He drank it all quickly and packed a turkey breast sandwich for later, eager to get to the gym and work out, and left before the sun had set in the sky.

The streets were busy. Barrow lived on the outer edges of Aurora, in a zone that up to ten years ago had still been part of the slums surrounding the city. It had since been gentrified, although not very successfully, and the outcome had been an area of boxy and cheaply constructed apartment buildings where hundreds of people lived at the very edges of civilization. Barrow didn’t mind. He had been in worse places when he was younger, and he still felt that having a place to call his own was an unbelievable luxury.

He passed one of the dilapidated but still serviceable city parks that somebody had built to try to make the area look a little less dreary. Out here, where water for public use was strictly rationed, the only plants that still grew in the unforgiving soil were spiny, short, and squat. People were using the park, though. Now that the sun was going down and the unbearable heat of the day was finally over, the busiest time of city life began. Barrow spotted a couple of people headed for the Skytrain and Otherlife, but most others were simply hanging around, drinking something cold, and enjoying the respite from the sun. Barrow’s practiced eye picked out the homeless among them. Many were regulars, although some of them had likely wandered in from the slums despite the danger of being discovered and sent back, or worse. They were harmless, for the most part, and posed no danger to Barrow. Even so, being alert in this part of town was usually a good idea—even if people tended to be intimidated by the sight of you.

It was therefore very surprising to Barrow when somebody sneaked up to him effortlessly and tapped him on the shoulder.

He spun around and nearly punched the man before recognizing the haggard, familiar face.

“Hey, hey!” the man protested. He had white hair and was short but wiry. Several of his teeth were missing. “Easy, big guy.”

“Streaker,” Barrow growled. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

The man called Streaker snickered good-naturedly. “You’ve softened up, Barrow. When you ran with your little slum gang, nobody would have been able to catch you unawares. You were as twitchy as a rabbit. And about half as big.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“That’s what you say every single time I come visit. In my book, fifteen years is not a long time. You were a stupid young man then, and you’re a stupid young man now. Only thing that’s changed is how big your arms got, what with all the ’roids you must be taking.”

Barrow stopped walking and turned to face the older man. He had his hands in his pockets, but his posture was threatening.

“Shut up about that. Tell me what the hell it is you want, and get lost.”

Streaker rolled his eyes skyward. “It warms my heart to see how thankful you are to the only guy who took you in when you were a homeless punk out in the streets. Such respect I get from you, my boy.”

Barrow said nothing, but his glower was enough. Streaker held up his hands placatingly.

“Okay, okay. Jeez, don’t rip my head off. I just came with a message. From Randy. He says he got your next batch of the good stuff to keep you healthy and strong, but they held up the shipment for inspection, and he won’t be able to move it for a week or so. He can’t come to you personally, so he sent me as his envoy.”

“Really? He sent you.”

“Hey, I am trustworthy! Do you see me drunk yet? No, and so you know you can trust me.”

Barrow grunted.

“Don’t worry, though. Randy assured me that he will have your stuff delivered to you before you run out.”

“Why the delay? Normally this doesn’t happen.”

“I know, but Randy knows his business. They’ve stepped up security lately over at the docks. Don’t know if you’ve heard, but people have started going missing around the city. Things explode for no reason, and last night one of those little traffic drones crashed straight out of the sky into a street packed with people. Didn’t kill anyone, but it was a minor miracle. That’s what they’re saying on TV anyway.”

“Is it terrorists doing this? Primes?”

Streaker shrugged. “Beats me. Most people think so, but it hasn’t been proven. In the meantime, though, security is tight, and Randy can’t move around illegal cargo that easily. He just told me to come say that you will get your stuff as soon as possible.”

“Okay. Tell him he better come through, or I’ll have to find somebody else, even if I have to go all the way to the Night Market.”

Streaker nodded enthusiastically. “Will do! And now my mission is complete. Ahem….”

He held out his hand, which was grimy, the fingernail on his thumb way too long.

“You want a tip?” Barrow asked.

“For my troubles,” Streaker added helpfully.

Barrow frowned, saying nothing, and after a couple seconds of tense silence, Streaker backed up a step. Then Barrow grinned, reached into his pocket, and took out a couple of bills. He slapped them into the older man’s hand.

“Now get lost,” Barrow said. “Go back to the north side before the local winos see that you have money for booze outside your territory.”

Streaker beamed. “Yes, sir! Right away. I always knew it, you know?”

“What’s that?” Barrow asked.

“Out of all of those kids, you were the only one to get out of the slums for good. You’re a city man now! I always knew it. See you later, boy!”

He left quickly, but in that expert way that professional Auroran homeless people had, so as not to draw too much attention to themselves when they didn’t want to be spotted. Barrow watched him go, shaking his head slightly. He didn’t doubt the validity of the message, but he knew he would be seeing Streaker again in a month or so, when he would be all out of money again and in desperate need of some booze. Barrow helped him when he could, not because he liked to do it but because what Streaker had said had been partially true. Streaker had helped Barrow out during his first few weeks on the streets. Barrow felt he owed him for that, and he did not like to have debts with anyone.