Take Us to Your Chief (9 page)

And there was no dawn or rising sun. The sun never moved, except to recede into the distance. The ship's chronometer told him when “dawn” was, but that was an arbitrary choice by headquarters. Of course, Mitchell could rationalize things however he wanted. He remembered an old saying stating that home is where you hang your hat. Well, dawn could be whenever you got up. The problem was that when you started rationalizing too many things, the significance of the original action wa
s diminished.

Also, how was it possible to honour the Four Directions when there were none out here? No north, south, east or west. Just the endless, horizonless expanse of space. There was a planetary plane, even a galactic plane, but that was rationalizing things again. Some Aboriginal nations in North America believed there were actually Seven Directions: the original four, plus up, down and wherever you were standing. Up and down complicated things even further, but Mitchell was still fairly confident he knew where he was on that seventh direction. One out of seven… not a particularly good battin
g average.

Other bits and pieces of conversations with Papa Peter came flooding back. The man gave thanks to Mother Earth and Father Sky on a regular basis… This was another difficult reckoning. Mother Earth was very far away. In fact, Mitchell was closer to the backside of Mother Mars—if a planet named after the god of war could be given such a maternal designation. As for Father Sky, it all depended on how you defined sky. Blue, filled with oxygen, nitrogen and various trace elements, with clouds and high-flying birds? Or simply everything above Mother Earth? It was all getting s
o complicated.

Sitting in a storage locker back on Earth—he could even remember exactly where he had gingerly leaned it against a side wall—was the hand drum Papa Peter had sent him. Made of moose hide and cedar with a stylized painting of an otter on one side, it was one of Mitchell's most treasured possessions. He had listed it on the content form for objects he planned to bring along on the mission, knowing full well it was unlikely to be allowed. And he was right. First of all, it was made of non-sterilized animal and plant matter. Second, it was bulkier than personal belongings were permitted to be and would therefore take up precious space. Third, it was just weird. Launchport had a thing agains
t weird.

His supervisors and the technicians who serviced the vehicle he toured the solar system in pointed out in very specific terms to the frustrated astrosurveyor that because of the extremely delicate calibration of many instruments on the ship, any unauthorized and unanticipated vibrations within the hull could be catastrophic. Bottom line: no drum and especially no playing th
e drum.

No sweet grass. Not even a lousy dream catcher. Space was meant for atheists or people with little spiritual inclination, it seemed. But then Mitchell remembered there had been Christian astronauts, Muslim ones, and probably a smattering of other faiths. Delaney, an Irish Catholic woman in his training program, had said all she needed was a cross around her neck and her faith in God, and she was ready to face the universe. Papa Peter would probably say it sounds harder to be a good Native person i
n space.

“Are you okay? You seem unusually quie
t today.”

Mac's programmed rising tone at the end of a question usually irritated Mitchell. Today, it barel
y registered.

Of course he was quiet. Who was he going to talk to? He hadn't reached the point of talking to himself yet. After a month on the mission, to relieve the tedium he had found himself humming songs he remembered from his childhood, but Mac kept asking questions about the function of humming and the meaning of the songs. Mac had been programmed to be interactive as a means of keeping the minds of crew members lively and engaged. Mitchell wished he could find that program in Mac's hard drive and erase it. He knew where he was. He knew what he had signed on for. He didn't need a computer trying to be human. Nobody needed that. Besides, small talk had always annoye
d him.

“Is this related to the death of you
r grandfather?”

Closing his eyes, Mitchell struggled to answer without registering anger. Mac was highly unlikely to be hurt or insulted, but reacting irritably to a machine asking a question was one of the first symptoms of a long-term astrosurveyor losin
g it.

“Yes, it is, Mac. Could you leave me alone for a while? It's a huma
n thing.”

“
I understand.”

Does it really? Mitchell wondered. Or was that some preprogramme
d response?

“But I have taken the liberty of researching your grandfather. I hope that is al
l right.”

The anger was returning. Why would Mac have done that? Mitchell felt almost… violated.

“I thought you might like this. Nine years ago, your grandfather appeared at a National Aboriginal Day celebration in Ottawa. He was part of something called a drum group. I have found thirty-two minutes of archival video of his performance. Would you b
e interested?”

Mitchell opened his eyes, completely surprised. On the screen was an image of his grandfather sitting around a drum with half a dozen other men. What seemed to be hundreds of people, a mixture of Native and non-Native, were gently swaying and singing along with the traditional song. The familiar skyline of the nation's capital stood proudly in th
e background.

He had never really understood the nature of traditional Anishinabe music, its words and meanings, but that was indeed his grandfather swinging the drumstick, being as Native as Native could be. Mitchell even recognized a few of the other men seated beside Papa Peter from his occasional visit to Otter Lake. The only problem was the silence. Drum music wasn't silent. As his grandfather once said, it needs to be heard, celebrated, felt and sung to. Instead, all Mitchell heard was the sterile hiss of the ship's constantly recycle
d air.

“Mitchell… You are still silent. Did I do somethin
g wrong?”

“No. No, just unexpected. Than
k you.”

Kindness and concern from a computer? This was not the kind of service he expected from Mac out here cruising the asteroi
d belt.

“Perhaps you would like t
o listen?”

Nodding before he spoke, Mitchell focused the view screen on his grandfather. “I sure would, Mac, but you know the acousti
c restrictions.”

“I believe you were issued headphones upon assignment to thi
s ship.”

Again, surprise. Mac was right. Somewhere in one of his service lockers were headphones. Standard equipment but rarely used. Since each ship usually held only one crew member, there was little need for the privacy that headphones provided. Mitchell listened to a lot of music, but the feeds had been specially modified to not agitate the ship's sensors. For a true audiophile, it was sacrilege, no different than serving a tofurkey at Thanksgiving. Feeling eagerness for the first time in a long time, Mitchell manoeuvred himself around in his compartment, opening one locker after another. His mission now was to find th
e headphones.

“I believe you'll find them in the compartment right above the doorloc
k display.”

Once again, Mac was right. Mitchell's appreciation for the computer wa
s growing.

“Mac, you are a lifesaver.” Mitchell plugged them into the prope
r input.

“A bit of an exaggeration, but I will accept the compliment. Enjoy.”

“Thanks, Mac.” Mitchell felt real gratitude to the automated voice and programme
d personality.

“All in a day's work. I will take care of business while yo
u mourn.”

Putting the headphones on, Mitchell could hear Papa Peter's voice rising above the others' and feel the pounding of the drum. He could feel everything his grandfather was washing over him. It was good. Song after song made him realize that even though he was only one quarter Anishinabe, he could be fairly confident he was the only Anishinabe out here in the asteroid belt, possibly the only one outside of Earth and the three space stations. This was the only drum music for millions and millions of kilometres. This was
a responsibility.

As his grandfather used to say, he'd better step up and represent, because he was a hell of a long way from home. Mitchell started humming, his fingers beating a rhythm on the plasti
c console.

As promised, Mac watched over Mitchell as he visited with hi
s grandfather.

Dreams of Doom

I know this will make me sound like I'm crazy, but I'm not. At least I hope not. Everything I am about to tell you is true, no matter how crazy it may sound. I can hear them approaching, so I will have to be quick. I don't know how long this will stay online, but hopefully, by God's or whoever you may believe in's grace, these few minutes are enough to get the story out. A few minutes is better than no minutes. Read this as fast as you can. Print it out if possible. Spread the word any way yo
u can.

My name is Pamela Wanishin and I work… used to work… for a small Aboriginal newspaper called the
West Wind
, located in Otter Lake, a small Ojibway community in Central Ontario. We covered the usual political, social and environmental bullshit that happens in First Nations communities and the larger Aboriginal political universe. Nothing extraordinary or particularly award-winning. Just the minutiae of Aboriginal life. In the world of investigative journalism, we were hardly
a threat.

Of course, that was when the
West Wind
still existed. Three days ago, our funding was mysteriously cut. Asbestos was found in our building, which is odd since it was built fifteen years after asbestos was banned. Four of our staff are in jail. Two reporters for possessing four kilos of weapons-grade nuclear fuel, found in a large gutted deer hanging to cure in their backyard. Two other employees for wanting to join
ISIS
. One-way plane tickets to Turkey were found in their underwear drawers. And one intern is missing. The authorities say they have evidence she was selling government secrets to foreign powers. Strange when you consider she didn't know the difference between Australia and Austria. But the government is never wrong, right? I'm all that's left… And I don't know for ho
w long.

First things first. Four days ago, a package arrived at our office. Sally, our part-time combination reporter/receptionist/
IT
person—a proud Mohawk woman we were told planned to travel to the Middle East to become a jihadi's bride—dropped it on my desk with
a thud.

“It says ‘Editor.' I guess that's you.” Our job titles were kind of loosey-goosey, and it was Thursday, making me th
e editor.

The plain, medium-sized package looked so innocuous. Brown wrapping paper, almost like butcher's paper, no label, no return address, just our address in a childish, hurried scrawl. Sally looked on as I removed the packaging. Inside a small cardboard box, I found what appeared to be a broken and crushed dream catcher, with a thum
b drive.

“How peculiar,” was Sally'
s reaction.

The mystery was mounting. The reporter in me was intrigued. Mysterious packages from unknown sources didn't usually arrive with a thump on m
y desk.

“Well, let's take a look” was Sally'
s suggestion.

Otter Lake is an Ojibway community, but for various reasons, Sally found her way here and became the community Mohawk. There are very few jobs where being nosy, bossy and clever is actually an asset. Working at a small monthly newspaper is one of them. Looking back, it's nearly impossible for me to picture her in a burka, subservient to some overbearing, narrow-minded guy with a rifle, eating hummus and figs. Sally didn't like any of those things. Most Mohawk women wouldn't. Actually, most Native women wouldn't embrace that lifestyle, not for all the bannock in the world. But the authorities found incriminating emails and a dress pattern for a burka in her bottom drawer, amid all her sweatpants an
d thongs.

“Okay,” I agreed, and plugged the thumb drive into my computer. My firs
t mistake.

It took about three seconds for it to open and the files to download. Wow, I thought. There were a lot of them. All different kinds. Most seemed to be tech files, dealing with harmonics and frequency modulation. Others were schematics of antennas and crystal vibration rates. And then there were the reports on testing and research, many bearing the logo of Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada. I scanned as quickly as I could, until I heard Sally's voic
e again.

“Okay, I'm bored.” The future enemy of the state stepped outside to have
a cigarette.

Our newspaper had already been put to bed, as we say in the business, ready to be sent out to the printers. So I had some spare time to look this stuff over. Everything that popped up on my screen was puzzling. And what was it doing at our newspaper? We had a few discreet stringers who worked for the government, and they were good for the occasional leak or substantiated rumour, but this seemed a little out of our league. Still, I was hooked. I read and read. It was late in the day, and I was happy for something interesting to make the remaining time pass quickly. I was barely conscious of Sally and the rest leaving for the night as I sat there, reading file after file, and then rereading them. Comparing some of the test reports with the anticipated results. Some of these reports were decades old; others were dated just a month ago. Whatever these people were up to, it had been a long time in the planning. But I'm getting ahead of myself… It seemed this was important enough for somebody to steal all these files, most of which were clearly marked “Classified,” and then send them to me. But why me? Why the
West Wind
? And what the hell did a trashed dream catcher have to do wit
h anything?

By about ten that night, after I'd gone through just a small portion of the files, the accumulation of information I had so far amassed was beginning to answer a good number of my questions but also to generate quite a few more. And the answers were not pleasant. In fact, they wer
e horrifying.

Finally aware of my growing hunger and the waning hours, I went home, clutching my computer and the thumb drive closely. Above my bed hung a small, unassuming dream catcher that an aunt had given me three years ago when I got my job at the
West Wind
. I set myself up on my bed with a bowl of day-old hangover soup and some tea, the dream catcher hanging over me as I continued to pore over the files. Each successive file made me increasingly uncomfortable. Looking back and forth from the construction schematics on my screen to the dream catcher over my right shoulder, I was struck by a realization. The dream catcher's circular construction, with the hole in the middle of the lacing, resembled an eye. Not knowing what else to do, and feeling a bit silly, I put the dream catcher in a drawer in the spare room down in th
e basement.

I live alone now, ever since Larry and I broke up a couple months back, in a house I rent from my uncle. It's kind of small, just the essentials, near the lake and pretty isolated. When you spend all day working in an office and talking with people on the phone or in person, you learn to treasure your alone time. Upon reflection, that may have been a bad decision. Living alone, unfortunately, means living alone, by yourself, nobody else. I was a good quarter-kilometre from anybody else, looking at what I was sure were classified files. Maybe this level of intelligence is why I never rose above middl
e management.

I fell asleep. Like a bad acid trip, dream catchers of all different sizes and designs paraded through my unconscious mind. I remember several chasing me, dive-bombing me like rabi
d eagles.

I woke with a start the next morning, my head buried under a pillow for protection. After a brief internal debate, I decided to call Sally and tell her I wasn't feeling well. With the paper already finished for the month, it would be a slow week anyway, and I thought a day finishing up that voluminous list of files might be mor
e productive.

Still in my jammies, I prepared a plate of toast with peanut butter and another cup of tea. I grabbed the notepad I'd been jotting down notes on and began to leaf through it, refreshing my mind and confirming what I had read, not dreamt, the nigh
t before.

Looking through the warren of files and charts, one phrase had kept coming up. Project Nightlight. What an odd term. I knew what a night light was. I had one for years as a child after a bat found its way into my bedroom one night. It wouldn't protect me against bats, but at least I would be able to see them coming. But Project Nightlight… What the hell was that? As the reporter's adage dictates, when in doubt, Google. It was a mistake that would come back to haun
t me.

I typed the two words into the rectangular box and pressed the return key. The search engine searched. And searched some more. A good twenty or thirty seconds passed with nothing much happening. I tried again, but now my keyboard seemed uninterested in what my fingertips were telling it. My laptop had frozen. Then, a second later, the screen went dead. Two seconds later, the power in the entire house went down. Three seconds later, my heart was pounding in my chest. Normally I can believe in coincidence, but not tha
t day.

Living in the country, you get used to power failures. I had a supply of candles and flashlights hidden somewhere for just such an emergency. But there were no thunderstorms anywhere in the area. The sun was streaming in through my kitchen window. My first thought—or prayer—was that maybe somebody had hit a hydro pole or something. It had been known to happen. Growing increasingly nervous, I looked out my window and could see Clyde and Shelley's house on the other side of the small bay. I could see their porch light was still on, and so was the flashing marque at the gas station near the highway, so there was still electricity flowing into the reserve. It seemed only I had no power. I took out my cellphone. “Networ
k unavailable.”

Every reporter, whether they work for some supermarket tabloid, a city newspaper or a Native paper, harbours a certain amount of paranoia. It comes with the job. Mine, by now, was no longer “a certain amount.” It was raging like teenage hormones on prom night. Over the last ten hours, I had been reading as much as I could cram into my brain. And I had developed a few conspiracy theories about what all that info meant, with the comfort and safety of knowing nothing like that ever really happens. Especially in Otter Lake. Yet another mistake
I made.

As I searched my kitchen drawers for a flashlight so that I could go down into the basement to check the breakers, my cellphone blurbled, a sort of half-hearted ring. It glowed, seeming to have a life of its own. Picking it up, I could see an app downloading. By itself. What little I knew about cellphones told me they are not supposed to do that. Finally, it stopped. Download complete. A moment or two passed as I watched the phone, waiting for it to come to life and declare its sentience. Instead, it rang, normally this time. However, the image on the screen indicated it was a Skype call. I didn't have Skype on my phone. But now it seemed I did. What an uncomfortabl
e coincidence.

Very, very hesitantly, I pressed the answer button. One of the few times in my life I hoped it was some telemarketer calling. Standing in the dark of my house, I sai
d hello.

There was no response. No image on the screen either. So much for Skype. Again, I talked to the phone in my hand. “
Ahneen
. Is anybody there?” I don't know why I said hello in Ojibway. No Ojibway I know would know how to do anything remotely close t
o this.

Still no response from my once best friend, now an alien phone, though I thought I could hear the sound of slight movement. Of course, it could have been my imagination. At that point, I think I would not have been surprised if Frankenstein's monster, the Wolf Man, the Terminator and the prime minister of Canada had all poured into my living room. That, I probably could have handled. But this, the not knowing, the mystery—this was pure hell. I do not do creepines
s well.

“Okay, I'm hangin
g up.”

“Hold on. One second please. I can't read as fast as I onc
e could.”

It was a voice. A man's. Older. Educated. He sounded white and slightl
y distracted.

I was way too uncomfortable for such a beautiful morning. “Who ar
e you?”

I heard the man clear his throat. “Okay, I think I'm up to speed. My apologies. You took us quite by surprise, and I had to scan a lot of material in a remarkably short period of time. How's the weather out there? It looks like we're expecting a storm b
y mid-afternoon.”

This man seemed to be an awfully polite mystery. Everything about this whole thumb drive incident was throwing m
e off.

“No clouds.” I didn't know what else t
o say.

“Ms. Wanishin,
I believe…”

“How do you know m
y name?”

“Oh my, that would take far too long to go into. Let's just say… I work for the government. But enough about me, let's talk abou
t you.”

I did not want to talk about me. Most definitely I did not want that. Everything was wrong. I was standing in my kitchen, in my jammies, talking to somebody from the government who had managed to hack into my cellphone. Only the day before I had been transcribing audio from the band council meeting, the most hated part of my job. Never thought I'd miss doin
g that.

I put my phone on speaker and set it down on the counter, beside the empty Shake 'n Bake box from Tuesday's dinner, and backed away. I knew the device itself wasn't the problem, but I still didn't want to be touchin
g it.

“It's about the thumb drive, isn'
t it?”

There was a small chuckle at the other end. The voice sounded well mannered, even amiable. “Well, I guess even that much must be obvious. Yes, it seems somebody in our department has been very naughty and peed in our Rice Krispies. We believe we know who it is and are in the process of taking steps to deal with the leak, if you'll pardon th
e pun.”