Threader
Authors: Rebekah Turner
threader
REBEKAH TURNER
To Dion,
Gimme some sugar, baby
CHAPTER 1
My uncle is having a heart attack. He's curled up in the back seat of my little electric Ford hatchback, clutching his chest, face pasty white. Tearing my eyes from the rear-view mirror, I check my map-display. We've come from an outer west Sydney town and the only Doc-in-a-Box I know of is at least five more blocks away. My chest squeezes with sympathy pains and a cold fear. Bobby is my only family and there's no way I'm losing him to something as antiquated as a heart attack.
âNearly there!' I shout over the whine of the motor and glance at him in the rear-view mirror. His eyes are shut and he's panting.
âIndigestion,' he gasps. âBastard ⦠chicken ⦠curry â¦'
A mechanical roar engulfs any other curses Bobby has for his lunch as a cycle gang thunders around the car, cutting me off. I mash a boot against my spongy brakes and Bobby tumbles off the back seat with the unexpected motion.
â
Bastards!
' he shouts.
âCalm down, will you?' I yell over my shoulder, heart in my throat as I wait for the road to clear. One of the bikers slows by our car and waggles a long, pierced tongue at me suggestively. I thank him for his attentions via my middle finger and rev the motor impatiently. The biker laughs and roars off.
Behind me, Bobby struggles back onto the seat, swearing between loud wheezing breaths. After the last cycle passes in a blur of bright colours and stickers, I inch forward with the rest of the traffic.
After an excruciating wait at five more sets of traffic lights, the familiar white and blue booth comes into view. I'm lucky enough to find a registered park nearby and help Bobby out of the car. The occupied light over the booth is lit, but the door is open a crack and I can hear someone yelling inside.
Leaning Bobby against the booth's side, I stick my head in. A thin woman argues with the medic-droid sitting behind a thick plastic guard.
âBut I got these headaches,' she shouts. She's got sunken eyes and her jaw works back and forth in a restless motion. I quickly peg her as a stims abuser, but she doesn't look dangerous, so I stay where I am, vibrating with impatience.
There's a ticking sound as the medic-droid rotates its body, indicating a drop box beside the door. Two white tablets tumble into the slot. âHeadache may be relieved by two paramols.'
âThey ain't enough.' The woman rubs her needle-thin arms, mottled with old bruises. âI need something stronger.'
The medic-droid shifts again. âYour session has expired. Please exit the clinic.'
âIt's still my turn.' The woman's bloodshot eyes slide to me. âI ain't leaving yet.'
âMy uncle's having a heart attack,' I tell her. âPlease. He needs medical attention, now.'
âNot ⦠heart attack,' Bobby growls from outside. âCurry â¦'
âI ain't leaving yet,' the woman complains. âI ain't got what I need.'
âAnd you know you
ain't
gonna get it.' My voice is shrill. I'm tempted to use my talents on her, but there are cameras everywhere and I know it would draw unwanted attention.
âYour session has expired,' the medic-droid says again. âYou now have ten seconds to exit the clinic.'
My feet start backing out of the booth and the woman's shoulders slump. Once a medic-droid gives their diagnosis, that's pretty much it and with shock-guards in place, it's bad for your health to stay once you've been told to leave.
The woman shuffles out, growling curses. I ignore her and shove Bobby in. A stretcher slides out from a wall and the medic-droid's eyes whir as they focus on my uncle.
âPlease lie down,' the droid requests politely. âAnd tell me your symptoms.'
âStomach ache,' Bobby wheezes as I help him onto the stretcher.
âDo you have weakness in your arms? Or shortness of breath?'
Bobby mumbles something and the medic tilts its head. âI apologise. I did not understand your answer. Please, can you repeat it?'
âYes,' I almost shout. âHe said
yes
. You need to give us a ticket and call an ambulance. He needs to be admitted to a hospital.'
A scanner runs over Bobby's body in a line of blue, blinking red when it hits his right leg, three inches too short for his frame. During the second Corporate War, Bobby got his leg blown off and the surgeons somehow miscalculated the size of his bio-mechanical leg. But Bobby didn't care. He still got around just fine and the settlement from the army helped finance his store.
âYou are having gastrointestinal disturbance,' the medic-droid announces. Two tablets clatter into a metallic dispenser. âTum-Burns will relieve the discomfort.'
Bobby sits up with a wince and takes the tablets. He pops them in his mouth and crunches down, glaring at me.
âI told ⦠you,' he rasps.
I help him off the bed, saying nothing. Outside the booth, a small line has formed and a mother with a crying baby steps inside as we leave. By the time we're back in the car, Bobby's face has colour in it and his breathing is back to normal. I don't care that I was wrong. Bobby had a mild heart attack last year and was told to ease off the whiskey and fatty test-tube meat he loves so much. Naturally, he's ignored the warning. No one tells Bobby Ryder what to do, apparently. Not even if it's going to save him.
I start the engine. âI'm taking you home to rest.'
Bobby shifts to stare at me and I wonder if he's going to start lecturing me on the dangers of seeing a Doc-in-a-Box. Its data feeds back into the government register. They're always keeping tabs on you. Watching you. Monitoring you.
Blah, blah, blah
. Bobby's lectures come in two different forms: sober and not sober. Frankly, the ones he tells over a bottle of enamel-stripping liquor are more entertaining, as they somehow morph into old army stories with Bobby stabbing someone in an unexpected fashion.
Instead of a lecture, Bobby asks, âDid you lock up the shop?'
âOf course I did.' But I remember I didn't and Bobby can always tell when I'm lying. He grips the dashboard, knuckles white.
âJosieâ'
âI mean ⦠I
think
I'm sure.'
âBack to the shop,' he orders me. âAnd bloody step on it.'
My stomach growls as I trash packaging from the latest shipment of trades in the alley behind my uncle's shop. Bobby spent the afternoon in a foul mood, snapping at the rare customer who ventured inside. I made a point of keeping out of his way, busying myself with checking stock and filling orders. Bobby's Collectables specialises in antiques and is squished between a 24-hour laundry shop and a Chinese restaurant that failed its health inspection twice last month.
Now shadows grow around me as the day fades in a drizzle of grey clouds and smog sits at the back of my throat like a coat of grunge I can never seem to gargle out. Beyond the alley, there's a distant glimpse of skyscrapers visible beneath the blanket of pollution settling with the murky twilight. Cycles rumble nearby and I tense, automatically reaching for my twin talents. While I keep them both under lock and key, the effort to release them is as easy as flexing my fingers. Their energy floods my limbs, sparking my brain like I've snorted a line of sherbet.
It wouldn't be the first time Bobby's store has been knocked over by a cycle gang. The last two times, I wasn't around and while Bobby had avoided being beaten, most of the store's goods were taken or trashed. I swore to myself the next time someone tried to rob us, I'd be there and I'd be ready. What I can do with my talents would be more effective than the cricket bat Bobby has under the counter. But according to my uncle, what I can do could also see me locked up in a government facility, my mind clipped, my freedom gone. But I'll take that risk. When I was young, my dad, James Ryder, had also warned me I needed to hide my talents. Having one is bad enough. Having two? Much worse, according to him. So I built a large puzzle-chest the colour of lacquered cherries, nestled deep among the foliage of my memories, and shoved my talents inside.
The noise of the cycles fades down the street and I relax.
âYou okay?'
I give a shriek and whirl, spying a large male figure by the back door. His face is in shadow, but I recognise the broad shoulders under a worn leather jacket and the trimmed mutton-chops. He's a customer who's been haunting the store for the last week, occasionally talking to Bobby about books I have little interest in. My tastes run towards classic cyber-punk novels that I read late at night on my second-hand digital slate.
The guy looks like he's in his late twenties and has a straight-backed stance that always gives me the impression he's military like Bobby. So far, he's purchased six volumes of poetry and two books on the history of firearms in the eighteenth century. Bobby nearly starts drooling every time the guy walks through the door now.
Not me though.
There's an arrogant glint in his eye that fires up something in my brain. I tell myself it's suspicion that makes me watch him intently when he comes into the store. After all, he could be from a gang, scoping our little shop out. So I keep my distance. Try not to notice the cool undercut hair, with a long, slicked-back top. The tattoos sneaking up out of his collar. The way his broad shoulders sway when he walks.
Nope.
I haven't noticed.
âI'm fine.' I turn to close the bin I was filling. When I look back, he's gone. Peering into the deep shadows around the door to make sure he's really gone, I recoil my talents back inside their home.
My stomach grumbles again and I try to remember what food is at home. When I last checked, it was a carton of coconut flavoured protein juice and some suspiciously overripe synth apples. Not promising.
