Come Home
Even now it’s hard to piece it all together. Considering the distance they went to trap me – they must have wanted me in the beginning, or at least my kudos – the longest-working phenomenaut ever. What better way to allay tourist worries? Just look at Katherine North. She’s been jumping for seven years and she’s absolutely fine.
How long had they been planning behind the scenes? Since before the fox jump, certainly, then, the night I died, they were ready.
But it’s hard to see it all clearly when the ache of my stomach has spread up my throat. This isn’t a superficial habit of food any more but real hunger. My muscles feel light, as if someone has taken a huge spoon and hollowed me out. I walk slowly to be on the safe side, one hand against the wall to steady myself.
At last chancing on some industrial dustbins, I rummage. The smell is putrid, nearly all the foodstuffs have a soft coating of fur. As a fox it might be worth a shot but not in my Original Body; falling sick now isn’t a possibility. Still, I pocket some burger buns that the fox might be tempted by. They always were Tomoko’s favourite.
The billboards across the road suffuse the street with a flat unreal light. When I was a kid they were everywhere but I suppose the rise of SpecSpace killed the demand. Now real-world adverts mean serious money, a message that someone is determined for everyone to see whether they want to or not.
Currently, it shows the Prime Minister, watching over the street with a benevolent smile. Uplifting but completely vacuous catchphrases fade in and out of the backdrop. Someone has spray-painted a cock ejaculating into his eye.
Having exhausted the surface layer of this bin, I try the next. Empty drink cans, a shattered old-style TV, carrots turning to liquid in their plastic. I’m about to give up when the yellow of a bread tie catches my eye.
The yeastiness of mould hits me as soon as the bag is open but I sit anyway and tear out the worst bits, working the clumps left through my jaws. Halfway through the bag and I start to feel less giddy, so I pack the rest to cache for later.
I’m standing to leave when I notice the billboard has flickered to the next advert so that the cock now perches atop a familiar logo.
ShenCorp Tourism.
You can be anyone. You can be anything.
Next to it is footage of a bald eagle, swooping to fill the billboard, but just as it threatens to break through, it’s replaced by the maul of a tiger.
Animal Tourism. I wonder how the public are responding to the idea. They certainly wouldn’t be happy if they knew what else ShenCorp was up to but how to show them that without proof?
A mouse follows the tiger. I’ve seen this footage before. What I don’t recognise is that of the bald girl standing to one side. Her mouth moves in silent speech; with Specs I’d be able to connect and listen in but instead I can only shiver.
That nose is lifted slightly, as if catching the scent of prey; the snarling smile painted the crimson of fly agaric, coral snake, dart frog.
The bread has slipped from my grip. I kneel to gather the slices back into the bag, wheezing through the lump in my throat.
My reflection sits on the gleaming surface of a puddle like a black hole but when I lift trembling hands to my face, they find the same sharp cheeks and aquiline nose, the same snarling mouth. Because the face on the billboard is mine.