Corvus Page 2

  “Church?” George thought about it, looked into the amber at the bottom of his glass.

  “You don’t have to join all the committees and clubs and such. You can if you want, that’s up to you. But just come to church, be seen at church. How do I put this?” Robert looked toward the ceiling for a second, then back toward George. He tasted the whisky again. “It’s good for the career.”

  6

  RICHARD HANDED THE COURT CLERK HIS platform. She scanned in his Notice of Fine and gave it back. “If you don’t want that directly deducted from your account, you have twenty-four hours to register for Fine Option. You can work it off.”

  He looked at the notice — eight hundred dollars. If that was deducted there wouldn’t be much if anything left. “Where?” he asked.

  “Third floor.”

  He never saw her face. She never looked up.

  The girl at the Fine Option window had a nice face, smiled at Richard when she registered him, scanned his platform, downloaded directions. “It’s about a hundred hours. I gave you inside work. Kind’a cold out there this time of year to be picking garbage.”

  “I don’t mind the cold.” He read the directions — Scattered Sites. He’d heard of it, a soup kitchen across the river. Not so bad, and his schedule was decent, all evening work.

  On his way out of the court building he looked for the raven that had been there that morning, the raven that talked to him. It wasn’t there.

  He looked away from the building, out across Lac La Ronge. It was calm, a bit of ice on the shore, the ice’s whiteness in sharp contrast to the grey-black water. There was a time when this lake would freeze completely across. He’d even seen pictures of trucks on the ice. Not anymore. By April he’d be back to work out there. Paid work. He was one of the lucky ones, employed. Well, employed during the summer.

  He drove a skimmer, his own, harvested algae, brought loads of it to the depot where they turned it into animal feed and fed it to cows at the cow factory. It was beautiful work, out on the water all day, and there was a sense of purpose to it. Not just the product, the payload, it was more than that. He was cleaning the lake, something it couldn’t do itself anymore, too much nitrogen, too much heat, not enough species that ate algae. Left alone, Lac La Ronge would become a stinking green slough like the other lakes, the ones that were too small to harvest, their surfaces covered with a thick green layer that choked the life out of the water beneath.

  But that would be April, maybe earlier, maybe later, depended upon the weather. Richard checked the sky — mostly clear. It was one of those days when an arctic high-pressure system drifted this far south. No wind. That was a good thing — no wind. It didn’t seem like there was such a thing as a gentle breeze anymore. If there was wind, there was a storm. If there was a storm, get your ass into a shelter.

  He looked back toward the court building once more — checked to see if the raven might have come back — before he turned south on La Ronge Avenue and walked away with his hands in his empty pockets, thinking about the raven.

  7

  WHEN LENORE CAME OUT OF THE court building she too looked to see if the raven was still there. It wasn’t.

  8

  GEORGE RAN A CALCULATION THROUGH HIS platform based upon 5.5%. The program automatically assumed interest rates, inflation, and hundreds of other variables pursuant to standard accounting principles. It projected seven years.

  He closed the platform. Seven years. That may as well be a lifetime. Seven years. He had no idea where he would be in 2091. Anything could happen in that time. A storm, cancer — war could break out again. He put the platform in his breast pocket before he got to his vehicle in the parking lot. He thought about not driving, about the two glasses of whisky with Robert, decided he was sober enough — the vehicle almost drove itself anyway.

  He was on the eight-lane headed east, just a bit north of Egg Lake, needing a piss.

  “Next exit.”

  “Little Hills Village in six kilometres,” the vehicle replied.

  “Make exit at Little Hills Village.”

  He let the vehicle make the lane changes, and the exit, and only resumed control once on the side street. The sign said Carsil Organic Recreational Vehicles. The business looked like it would have a public washroom.

  The heavy glass security door opened slowly after George scanned in his platform and the system determined he wasn’t a threat. He was fully aware that it also read all his personal data, which would include his financial situation and whether he could afford their product.

  The sales representative who met him before he made three steps into the showroom was only slightly disappointed when George asked directions to the washroom.

  “Just past the Hummingbirds on the left, sir. You’ll see the sign.”

  The salesman had positioned himself to catch George on the way out. Obviously his platform had told the man that this potential customer was solid green.

  It might’ve been the whisky, might’ve been the need to talk to someone, might’ve been the dread of going home to an empty apartment. Whatever it was, George was happy to be led around and shown the various organic recreational vehicles, ORVs.

  The sales rep — Paul, he said his name was when he shook George’s hand — was good at what he did, knew his business, knew its history.

  “It started with robotics, with the move away from hydraulic or electronic systems into organic systems. Carsil was the first to develop functional synthetic muscle. It evolved from simple prosthetics to exoskeletal vehicles, to what you see here — Leonardo Di Vinci’s dream realized.”

  “I don’t know. You’d have to be in pretty good shape to fly one of those.” George stepped back a bit to better see all of the bird. It was larger than he’d imagined. Then realized — of course, it would have to be for a person to fit inside of it, put your arms out inside the wings and fly.

  “It’s not your muscle that drives it.” Paul spoke easily, friendly. “The bird flies itself; all your arms do is give direction. That’s the beauty of it. Synthetic muscle coupled with microelectronics. Imagine that this was a living bird, which it mostly is, and add computer controls. Carsil doesn’t build ORVs, they grow them. Now take this . . . ” Paul indicated a Raven, all black with a strong hint of blue along its back. “This ORV has all the genetic properties of its original. New this year. We’ve really come a long way with genetics.”

  “I still don’t know.” George stepped back another half step. “If I was to do this, I don’t think it would be a Raven.” He looked around the show room. “More like that.” He pointed high on the back wall.

  “An Eagle, well of course, that’s everyone’s first choice — prestige, power, symbolism. Only problem is they don’t handle the cold weather.” There was snow outside today and both of them knew that it would likely melt within the week, knew that winter wasn’t winter the way it once was winter. Maybe Paul was relying on the temporary cold spell to make a sale of an ORV that didn’t sell well on its own, or maybe he really saw that George would be better suited to a Raven. “Eagles are migratory. Did you know that? Ravens on the other hand are capable of living anywhere from the High Arctic to the desert, mountains, coastal, everywhere.”

  “Ya, but they’re scavengers.” George was still looking at the Eagle, white head and tail, perched high on the wall.

  “So is the eagle.” Paul stepped in front of him, perhaps to block his view. “Sure, eagles scavenge too. Most birds of prey will take free food when they find it. Now the raven as a scavenger is a positive. Keep in mind that this model is very genetically close to its original. It has that same heartiness, that same ability to thrive. That’s what makes it such an excellent choice.”

  George didn’t buy the Raven, but he kept thinking about it.

  9

  THE APARTMENT HAD A STRANGE SMELL to it, one George couldn’t quite place; maybe a neighbour was painting. It annoyed him. He felt the grouch within him rise, the grouch that would ride him for the
rest of the evening, suck the joy out of his life. He knew the grouch. It came often enough, turned all thought to darker versions, took his energy so that all he wanted to do was sit and stew. He experienced it somewhere within his chest, like a void, or maybe a dark wet cloth over his heart that shut out the light.

  Damn Rita. Her stuff was still everywhere. He should phone her and tell her to come get it. Maybe box it all up and have it delivered. He could see her face when it arrived. Good for her, she deserved a bit of suffering.

  She was using him. That was bullshit, that “I think a bit of time apart would be good for us.” She wasn’t coming back, and now he was just a storage place for her shit. He didn’t want to think how long it had been. He poured himself a tall glass, two fingers, his usual. “Fuck it.” He tilted the bottle up again and poured another finger, thought about pouring a fourth and decided against it.

  He moved a meal from the freezer to the warming oven. Not that he was particularly hungry. He simply needed to eat for nourishment. The package said it was beef, but you could never be sure. There might be some bovine genetic material in the reconstituted substance. George didn’t really care, never gave it more than a passing thought. His thoughts swirled like the whiskey in his glass and came around to Rita again.

  He didn’t package up all her stuff and send it to her. But he did move it around, out of the way, at least her stuff in the kitchen, the matching wooden salt and pepper grinders, the rack of wine glasses. He took the silk place mats off the table; what a stupid idea that was, silk place mats, the damn things never stayed in place. He rolled them up and left them with the rest of her stuff in a collection at the end of the counter.

  Her stuff in the bedroom, in the closet, he didn’t touch. Maybe he wasn’t ready yet, not ready to move her out of there, maybe the memory of the warmth of her body prevented him, maybe between the grouch and the whisky he simply did not have the energy.

  The La Ronge Ice Wolves were playing tonight. George thought he might watch a bit of it, tuned in to the game, and sat sprawled on a leather couch. Ultimate Hockey was more fighting than hockey. It satisfied something. Maybe people needed violence, needed the arena, needed to see blood on the ice to get their own blood to pump again for an hour. The Ice Wolves were playing the Flin Flon Bombers. It was an ancient rivalry and the Mel Hegland Sports Centre was filled to capacity with people who came to be part of it, people who brought their own energy, or borrowed the energy of the crowd, or whose energy was magnified by the acoustics of the arena, their inhibition dissolved by the alcohol.

  Sometime during the first period a thought entered George’s head, seemingly from nowhere, unattached to the game. It simply came and asserted itself, loudly: Bombs look different looking up at them than looking down. He immediately sat up and shut off the game, got up and walked away. He put his glass on the counter. It still held most of the whisky. He grabbed a coat, a thin one, then ran out the door, down the elevator and into the night.

  The night was warm, above freezing, the snow on the sidewalk melting and slushy. He followed the walkway along the shore out toward the end of Nut Point. This area had once been a provincial park and a bit of nature survived here, black spruce and moss and Precambrian rock. The night air was moist, a bit of wind off Lac La Ronge. It helped George to breathe, cooled the hot embers in his chest.

  Because he refused to think about some things, he was forced to think about other things. He chose to think about ORVs; it would be a nice night to fly, out there across the black of the lake, into that dark sky. He was alone, so he spread his arms, looked up a little into the night above the water, raised and lowered his arms slowly, imagined that he was flying out there. He leaned over from the waist and the bird in his imagination banked gently toward the north. He banked right and somewhere in the graceful turn he found a bit of peace, of forgiveness.

  A sliver of the moon, the beginning of the first quarter, hung in the western sky, a new moon, the start of the next cycle. His imaginary bird circled it. It felt right. He circled it again, just because it felt so good. Then he walked home. Tomorrow he’d buy the Raven. He didn’t think about why he picked that ORV over the others. He just did. Maybe the salesman put it in his head. Maybe he chose the Raven because it fit so nicely into the black sky. Maybe Raven the Trickster picked him.

  10

  “SO WHAT POWERS IT?”

  “Oh, here . . . ” Paul showed George two small flasks connected together at one end; one flask red, the other yellow. “The red one holds the plasma. It circulates through the ORV and comes back to the yellow.”

  “Yeah.” He got it. “It’s the same as the blood system.”

  “Exactly. The plasma carries the energy to the muscle. We’ve basically eviscerated the bird, that’s how we made room for you. Stomach and gizzard and liver and all that is the heavy part.”

  Paul showed him where the flasks clipped in to the ORV. “When the red flask is empty the yellow should be full. You just bring the flasks back here to have the plasma regenerated.”

  “So how long.”

  “How long does a flask last? About four hours. Depends on how hard you push it. If you’re in a strong head wind and you’re really working it, maybe a little less. If all you’re doing is soaring, quite a bit more.”

  “So, if it runs out while I’m up there?”

  Paul smiled. “No, you are not going to come crashing down in a tumble of feathers. It’s the same as if you didn’t eat all day, you slowly run out of energy. You have to be careful of that. Don’t run the flasks completely empty. If the cells are not getting oxygen and fuel, they will deteriorate. Sure they’ll regenerate some when you refill it, but if you do it too often or for too long, you can permanently damage it.” Paul paused, his hand resting on the rail in front of the display. “It’s like starving it.”

  The first helmet Paul had George try on was a little bit small, tight across the temples. The second one was better. It obviously wasn’t made from real leather, but it had that look.

  “I really like the way we’ve been able to hide all the circuitry. That looks good on you. To activate it, touch the edge of the goggles by your right temple.”

  George touched, and instantly felt a slight buzz run around his skull. He staggered, off balance for a second.

  “Bit of a jolt the first time.” Paul’s voice was calm. He was clearly a little entertained. “You’re seeing through the bird’s eyes. That’s why you feel like you’re about three meters tall.”

  The strangeness of the experience dissipated. George looked around the show room. The ORV’s head, a meter above them, swivelled as he turned left, then right. “That’s pretty clear vision.”

  “Ravens have good eyes.”

  “Really good eyes. This is great.” He looked down, saw himself from above wearing the leather helmet, but now the goggles were black. They had been clear before he activated them.

  “How far does it work?”

  “From the bird? Maybe a dozen meters, depends on interference.”

  “I like this.”

  “Wait until you’re up there. You’re going to love it.”

  And he did. One second after he stepped the Raven off the roof of the Carsil ORV building and spread his arms, the second that the updraft caught him and lifted him, before he even began to flap, he was in love.

  Paul had been right. It didn’t take effort to flap the wings. His arm movements simply provided the ORV with direction. It did the work.

  Altitude; he wanted altitude. How high will this thing go? Fully fuelled and fresh, the ORV Raven climbed quickly. Soon he could see the water of Lac La Ronge and to his right Bigstone and Egg Lake; the city spread out away from the downtown high-rises toward the south and west. That’s where he wanted to go, west. He wasn’t sure what motion he’d made that turned the ORV Raven, whether he’d moved his arms or not. It banked easily and headed out across Egg Lake.

  “Wow!” he spoke aloud.

  “Kaww.” The Raven replie
d.

  “Holy shit.”

  “Kaye kit,” the bird echoed.

  Egg Lake rippled black and grey as he approached, a sharp contrast to the snow-covered ice along its shore. Wouldn’t want to fall in there, it looks cold. He banked left and followed the east shore southward. He wanted out of the city, away from the sprawl of buildings and roads.

  He thought he knew La Ronge, had driven most of the streets, he’d been around. But now, flying low over it, he saw things he’d never seen before: the buildings behind the buildings, the hidden parking places, and the things people didn’t want to show to the street such as the old cars, the boats covered in tarpaulins, the junk that people keep.

  To see it all from a hundred feet up, clearly, through the eyes of a Raven, gave him a whole new impression of La Ronge. He didn’t know it. Not at all.

  He reached the south shore of Egg Lake and turned west. Here the houses were smaller with more space between them, and there were gardens. It seemed everyone had a garden. Black dirt showed through the mostly melted snow, dormant soil waiting for spring. Some were cultivated in straight neat rows. Others were left covered with potato tops and corn stalks after last year’s harvest.

  George knew about Regis, every prosecutor knew, had read files about the fights, the violence and chaos. He’d never seen it. Never driven through it. Suddenly he was over it. The neat residential area came to an end at what George could only guess was Highway Creek, and on the other side Regis began. The more substantial structures had metal roofs. Most of the shacks were just plastic and scraps of lumber. There were no streets. No wonder the police hated coming here. There was just shack after shack, nothing planned, nothing laid out. People built with what they could scrounge, borrowed a wall from someone else’s home, put up a roof and tried to survive. They heated and cooked with wood. But where did they get it from? He couldn’t see a single tree. Not for miles. Nothing lived here except people. There was no grass between the buildings, just yellow sand. Sand that soaked up the piss and shit and puke and blood.