Singing the Dogstar Blues (3 page)

In the reception room Gazza was sitting at his desk, staring out Dr Hartpury. She was staring back, but smiled when she saw me come through the door.

‘Hi, Joss. How have you been?'

‘Fine,' I said, my voice squeezing past the lump in my throat. Hartpury glanced at Camden-Stone's room, putting two and two together. She touched my arm.

‘I believe you're scheduled to see me in half an hour. I'll be briefing you so we can talk about it all then, okay?'

I nodded. The console sounded and Gazza stirred into life.

‘Professor Camden-Stone will see you now, Dr Hartpury.'

Hartpury nodded to him, but kept on talking to me.

‘Meet me at my office at eleven. We'll go right over to your quarters.'

‘Right,' I said.

By this time Gazza was actually standing up, ushering Hartpury into Camden-Stone's room. Hartpury walked a few steps then stopped. Gaz hissed with impatience.

‘Oh, and Joss, congratulations on being chosen to partner Mavkel. You must be very pleased,' Hartpury said.

Yeah, over the moon. Gazza murmured something about the professor waiting. Hartpury winked at me then the door slid shut behind her.

I needed a drink. The interview with Camden-Stone had sucked everything out of me. Even my teeth felt limp. I had about forty minutes before my session with Hartpury. It wasn't enough time to get back to the Buzz Bar. The mess hall would have to do.

I jogged to the mess, going back over the interview. Camden-Stone had a talent for flattening people. He'd get along well with my mother. She always made me feel like loser of the year. Had I even been close to the chosen twelve before she'd paid my way? Maybe I could get into last year's records and check out my standing. Maybe Hartpury would know. Maybe I should just contact Ingrid and tell her to stay the hell out of my life.

The mess hall was crowded with time-jump students on the mid-morning break. All of them were wearing the small gold circular arrow: the badge of the Centre for Neo-Historical Studies. I brushed my hand over mine. Whatever Camden-Stone said, I'd worked hard for it.

A short heavy-set fourth year walked by balancing four steaming containers in his arms. The spicy smell of coffee made me dry swallow. Why wasn't the bev-machine queue moving
faster? I checked out the groups of people huddled around the tables while I waited. One small group of sixth years looked me over. The word
alien
jumped out of their whispered conversation. Chaney and four of his friends were in the corner, playing a VR game. Tonio was sitting at a table next to them, slightly apart from some third years. He looked in my direction. I waved. His eyes slid over mine, avoiding contact. He was probably still burned up about the partnering.

I punched up a cold juice, pressed my finger across the payment pad, and collected the container. The juice cut through the furriness in my mouth as I walked over to him.

‘Hey Tonio, how you doin'?' I asked, pulling a chair up to the table and sitting down.

He smoothed down the back of his hair and I noticed his forefinger was stained blue. The idiot was hitting the Bliss-sticks again. Everyone knew they chewed up your brain if you got hooked.

‘I'm okay, I guess,' he said. He looked over at Chaney, his leg jiggling against my chair.

‘I hope you're not twisted about me partnering the Chorian. I know everyone thought we were going to pair up,' I said.

He shrugged.

‘I'm with Sara, now.' He stood up. ‘Look, I've got to get going.'

He looked about ready to jump out of his skin.

‘Hey, Tonio, you still hanging around with that comp screte?' Chaney's voice called out. He wasn't wasting any time getting me back for that karate chop yesterday.

Tonio and I swung around to face him.

Comp screte. It wasn't the first time Chaney had used my
birth as an insult, but it still stung. I remembered what Master Roland, my Tai Chi teacher, had taught me. Take a deep breath and let the air clear out your anger. He was a comp too, so he ought to know how to handle it. Once, when another class member called me a genetic monster, Master Roland had taken me aside.

‘Don't make their fear your truth, Joss,' he said. ‘They've been made by genetic pot-luck. We're made up from the best of six or more people. No wonder they're jealous and a little bit afraid.'

For a while after that, I felt kind of special. Then it hit me: I wasn't even a proper comp. Ingrid says she only used one donor and kept the genetic manipulation to a minimum. So, I'm not a comp, but I'm not a real-kid either. It was a no-win situation.

I ignored Chaney and breathed deeply, focusing on my breath as I exhaled. What a waste of time. I still wanted to throttle him. No wonder Master Roland never let me go on to the master level.

‘Come over here with us, Tonio. You should mix with your own kind. What would your mother say if she knew you were sniffing around comp waste?' Chaney said.

The mess hall went quiet. Tonio's leg was doing double time. He glanced at me, then settled for staring at the floor, his face white. I tensed up, feeling a vertebrae crunch in protest. I had two choices, a civ-libel charge or a fight.

I've never had much faith in the civ laws.

Chaney took off the VR visor, enjoying centre stage.

‘So, what's it going to be, Tone? Us or them? You've got to choose.'

Tonio looked at me for help, but this time he was on his own. I was too close to losing it.

‘I think,' he said, and swallowed painfully. ‘I think we should all try and get along.'

The Chaney camp screamed with laughter. Jorel started to imitate Tonio, swallowing between every word. ‘I', swallow, ‘think', swallow, ‘we', swallow, ‘should', swallow. He collapsed into giggles. Chaney raised his voice above the laughter.

‘I. Think. We. Should. Ban comps from the Centre.' He looked at me. ‘What do you think, Aaronson?'

I met his eyes. They were a strange light blue. So pale that there was almost no colour.

‘I think we should ban bigoted scum,' I said, moving forward in the chair.

‘Okay, that's enough,' a dark-haired sixth year said, catching me by the shoulder. He turned to Chaney. ‘I want you and your lot out of here. Now.'

Chaney shrugged.

‘We've finished anyway.' He drained his cup and strolled towards the door, his friends following in a close pack. As they filed out of the mess, a few people clapped.

Everyone started talking again. I breathed deeply. My last breath had been aeons ago. The sixth year dropped his hand from my shoulder.

‘You shouldn't take the bait,' he said, smiling to take the cut out of his words. ‘That guy just wants you to do something stupid so he can civ-suit you. Let this kind of tox ride, or it'll eat you up.'

‘Yeah? How would you know?'

‘I'm a comp too.' He offered his hand. ‘Kyle Sandrall. And you are?'

‘Joss Aaronson,' I said, shaking his hand.

‘You're the one who's partnering the Chorian, right?'

I nodded. He leaned forward, lowering his voice.

‘I'm glad one of us got the job. That'll show them, hey? There's quite a few comps in the course and we're all behind you. Sometimes we get together, have a bit of blast. Why don't you come along?' He kept eye contact a few secs longer than normal. The invitation was for more than just a party.

‘Sure,' I said, knowing that I would never take him up on his offer. ‘And thanks for your help.'

Kyle smiled and waved, moving towards his group of friends. I watched his smooth confident walk. He looked like he had the world all worked out. Nice bum, too.

‘I'm sorry, Joss,' Tonio said, touching my arm. I turned back to him. He was finally looking me in the eye. ‘I'm not very good at confrontation.'

‘Well, you tried,' I said.

He bit his lip, staring at the scuffed table-top.

I stood up. ‘I gotta get going.'

There was still twenty minutes until my meeting with Hartpury, but I didn't want to hang around the mess. My stomach was burning for food, so I walked up to a vacant foodie. The 3D display promised ‘delicious cuisine in less than a minute'. I chose a tempeh jaffle and hit the button. Sauce? Yes. One of those tart plummy ones that burn your mouth with acid sweetness. Plum sauce always reminds me of Louise. She used to make prawn rolls with her special plum sauce every Friday night when I came home from boarding school.

The machine whirred as the jaffle slid onto the pick up tray. I ran my finger across the payment pad. It beeped at me: try again. This time I pressed harder, moved slower. Maybe I was out of credit. No, Ingrid never missed a payment. The light
switched to green and the thief cage slid back. I picked up the jaffle. The heat burned me through the cellulose packaging.

Louise was the closest I ever came to having a full-time father. She lived with us for about five years, until Ingrid switched back to men. I was seven when Louise moved into our big apartment in Mall 15. She was small and fine-boned, with a precision cut bob that turned bruise-blue in the sun.

Back then, I looked a bit like Louise so people often thought I was her kid. It used to give Ingrid the scretes. Louise was number three daughter of one of the big Japanese families, but she didn't pull any company line. In fact, she'd flipped the finger at her family and gone her own way, making fancy hats for hyphen society. Louise always told it how it was; she was straight and blunt. Too blunt, Ingrid often said after Louise had left us.

The plum sauce in the jaffle was a shocker. It was so sweet my jaw ached. Louise would have shaken her head slowly, the black bob swinging across her face in two sharp lines.

‘You need tart plums that are still a bit green. Not ripe ones,' she once told me. We had been at the old Queen Vic market buying fruit for the famous sauce. She picked up two plums and gave one to me.

‘Here, press it like this,' she said, pushing her thumb into the top of the plum. It gave way and the edge of her fingernail reddened as it cut into the flesh.

‘This one's too ripe,' she said. ‘Only choose the hard ones. They're tart and that's what holds back the sweet taste. It's the combination of the sweet and the tart that makes the whole.' She tossed the plum she was holding back on to the pile. ‘You're selling the old screte again, Bernie,' she said to the fruitman.

That famous plum sauce was just like Ingrid and Louise; the joining of opposites to make a whole.

My taste buds must have some kind of cell memory because every time I bit into that sickly jaffle, they longed for the taste of Louise's sauce. I hadn't had it for about six years. That's a long time to go without something you love. I dumped the jaffle in a nearby recyc and walked out of the mess. Time to get my duffel out of the hire locker and head up to see Hartpury. I'd be early, but there's always a first time for everything.

Hartpury's office was in D6, one of the original Melbourne University buildings. It was classified National Trust, so not too many changes had been made to it over the years. D6 was one of those twentieth-century boxes with lots of dark glass and grey concrete. The architect must have been having a personal crisis.

I stepped into the old style elevator and pushed the sixth floor button. The door ground across its tracks, jumped backwards, then finally closed. The stairs were probably a better bet, but I was trapped now. The floor numbers lit up across the panel as the elevator clunked past. I tried to look at the row of black buttons instead, but my eyes ended up watching the numbers. Riding one of these boxes takes a lot of trust. For all you know, you could be falling to your death or about to be launched through the roof. So you put all your belief in those little numbers marching across the top of the doors. Number six lit up and the doors slid back. Trust had been fulfilled. I was on Hartpury's floor.

As I walked along the corridor, I heard Hartpury talking to someone, her voice sharp. The old-fashioned hinged door of her office was partly open.

‘I can't believe he dragged up that guidelines meeting from last year,' she said.

‘Joseph is a man who bides his time.'

It was Dr Lindon's voice. He was the other psychologist for the Centre and Hartpury's boss. Ten-to-one they were talking about Camden-Stone. I stepped to the side of the door, hidden from view.

‘He quoted me word for word,' Hartpury said. ‘Well, I think it was word for word. Even I can't remember exactly what I said.'

‘You can bet it was word for word,' Lindon said. ‘Joseph has perfect recall. I tested him myself.'

Hartpury spoke again. Her voice was lower, pitched for dangerous talk. I leaned closer.

‘You've known him a long time, haven't you, Bob?' She hesitated. ‘Have you noticed something a bit strange about his attitude towards the Centre?'

‘Strange? What do you mean?' Lindon was hedging.

‘He seems to be borderline obsessive. He takes any criticism of the Centre as a personal insult. He actually threatened me with an official reprimand over this guidelines thing.'

There was a long pause. My back was beginning to ache from leaning forward. Lindon's mech-legs whirred as he moved across the room.

‘If I were you, I'd leave this alone. Joseph doesn't appreciate people raking up his past for common gossip.'

‘What past? You can't leave me hanging like that,' Hartpury said.

‘Do you know the story behind the Centre?'

‘I've read through the usual stuff. Mainly that history by what's-her-name.'

‘That's only official hype. It doesn't come close to telling the whole story. If you're really interested, do a cross-ref on Sunawa-Harrod and Joseph. Go back about twenty years. It'll all become clear then.'

‘What will become clear?'

‘Why Joseph is so driven.'

‘Driven's an interesting way to put it.'

‘In a way I suppose you're right. He is obsessive,' Lindon conceded. ‘But I also think the Centre is the only thing that's keeping him alive. I bet you didn't know that he's in constant pain, did you? You do that cross-ref, then I think you'll understand. Now, are you going to have a cup of tea or not?'

Lindon's tone said the subject was closed.

‘Sorry, I can't. I'm settling Joss Aaronson into her new quarters and briefing her.'

‘Of course. Now, that will be an interesting little experiment. Personally I couldn't think of a worse combination. An alien and a delinquent.'

‘Joss is okay. She's just got a strong personality,' Hartpury said.

Good ol' Hartpury. Defender of Joss Aaronson and small furry animals.

Lindon snorted. ‘It's a pity she won't be paired with Bel Hussar-Rigdon. He would have been a steadying influence.'

‘He would have driven her mad.'

‘Well, we've always disagreed on that one. It's a dead point now, anyway. Come on, cheer up. Don't let Joseph get to you. He's just letting you know who's boss. I'm sure he won't put a reprimand through.'

The interesting goss was over. I knocked on the door just as Hartpury pulled it wide open. Well timed.