New World Symphony:

‘There’s no place like home’.

The tidgy humanoid on the screen looks up, wishes on some elemental force that she knows, may or may not come.  And it hits me then, like.  Like a ton of bricks.  I wanna go home.  When that sense of loss outweighs that sense of belongin, it’s time to go home.  Cheesy Carl left a week ago.  Said he had some business in Devon, fuck knows what that is.  It’s Cheesy Carl, always involved in somethin dodgy.  Said he’d send a postcard, who the fuck sends postcards these days, lid?  No-one. 

He asked me to wave him off at Lime Street.  I dunno why, we weren’t good mates.  Associates like.  I would never say we were that close, know what I mean?  I mean, we never did nottin special.  It was mainly: havin a bevy, playin a bit of PS4, the odd bit of draw and tunage.  But he asked me, he asked me right: to wave him off at the station.  This place full of noise and light and humans, humanoids all tryin to get to a million different places at once.  Travellin, in little metal boxes.  He passed through the barrier and from then on, he was just a face.  A memory.  Not even a soul I could slide into. 

No matter.  I mean, we’re all just dyin, but just at different speeds.  Know what I mean?  Tell ya lid.

Tell ya. 

And then, the week after he fucked off: Mr Grimes said he was closin his business.  Local face, has been an undertaker in this town since, well before I was born.  Something weird about him.  He’s tall, wears a top hat and and long black coat.  Red eyes, like dyin’ suns behind these weird pair of shades.  Sticks out like a sore thumb.  But no-one, like no-one - even the teenage smackrats who hang round the offy – calls him a twat.   

Might have a cuppa.  Do you want one? Too early for a bifter.  Have a cuppa before I go. Go ed.

Last week was the top hat on it.  There we were, in the office.  All I can hear, is the noise of his leather boots flexin’ like.  He told me once, that he took them from a dead German on The Somme.  Dunno if that’s true, like.  Best not to ask.  His tea (no milk, no sugar, Coronation mug) is on the desk, steaming away. Long pauses.  Bad news comin’. OK, here it comes.

‘I’m closing the business Croxteth.  End of next month’.  There, out there now.  Me bodies, like droopin’.

‘Thought we were doin’ well like? ‘

‘Not since Coffin Supermarket opened.  Really…’ He places a hand round the tea, watchin’ the steam curl round.  ‘I should murder him.  Time was, when that would have been an option…’

Best not to say anythin at this point.  I dunno if he’s talkin’ broken biscuits or not. Here’s your tea. 

‘Times have changed.  The CPA are running things and although people are dying more frequently, more exotically… they do not have the time for the class and sophistication I offer in The Dismal Trade…’ This is the way he talks, every word, considered and emphasised.

A long pause, awkward like.  Not bad tea this, is it?  Not CPA Ration Pack.  Aldi.  Cheesy Carl gave me some before he left.  Time was, tea was somethin’ nice.  Now, it’s just survival.  Who’d have thought like, we’d be glad for fuckin Aldi? 

I’m washing the body, when the really weird shit happens.  APC’s on every corner.  Helicopter gunships on patrol.  You sort of like, adjust to that.  And it’s funny, how you do.  The worst things you could possibly think of become normal.  Looters getting publically executed.  I’m washin’ this arl girl down.  Black North, we would call her.  A suicide.  A human, who has decided that life is not worth livin’.  I mean, mine isn’t to be fair.  But we see a lot of this shit these days.  I came here, three years ago to observe.  Picked a soul from the Soulhive, someone we abducted in the late 1970’s.  Proper, nasty piece of work called Croxteth Ivanhoe.

I assess planes, like.  See if they’re worth invadin’.  And I’m comin’ to the end of this now.  Not worth an invasion.  I mean, if we wanted to: ten minute job, lid.  But: you’re destroyin yourselves.  Destroyin’ your own gaff.  Lyin leaders.  Not worth a blow on a ragman’s trumpet, us comin’ here and turnin’ gangster. Turnin’ the shithouse plane into ash and rock.  Might be fun, like.

Anyways: I was washin the arl girl on the slab.  No name, no pack drill.  And she starts talkin.  Like clearnin her throat and dat.  I’ve moved back at this point.  Nottin surprises me anymore.  This is the Recall Vortex Signal.  Times, dates, co-ords.  She rattles them off like a prayer, or a song.  OK.  That’s sound.  It’s at home too.  I don’t have to toss meslef off a high buildin. 

Not like that.  Ya dirty twat.

And after that, all back to normal.  Whatever normal is, these days.  The arl girl is ready for the boneyard.  Six more boxes before hometime.  Not much in the cupboard, like.  Noodles.  Quick, simple.  Fills you up. 

I’ll eat properly when I get home. Got someone in mind. 

Home, is millions of light years away.  To use a human term.  I’m riding this human body, usin his language, his tongue.  Were he alive now, in human terms he’d be an arl man.  Preparin for death.  Human lives, by our standards are short.  Nottin.  Blink of an eye, lid.  We watched him for a while.  We do that sometimes.  Watch you, humans.  Sometimes humanoids.  Croxteth Ivanhoe, was the proverbial hardknock.  He supported a footie team. And that’s something I sort of enjoy, after three years here.  I mean, your food’s shite.  Your air is poison.  Your philosophies, your gods are bollocks.  The slow, pointless, painful death of paradise is irreversible.  Nottin personal, like.

Ivanhoe wasn’t interested in a team.  He was a blade and because of that, he carried a blade.  Two, sellotaped together.  Anyone, who got in his way, got slashed.  We saw that and thought ‘he’s a proper hardcase’.  It was a home game, he was comin home, half intoxicated.  I mean, why bother lid?  Better at home, do you know what I mean, lid?  He went down a back jigger, lit up a bifter. And in that tidgy little bit of time, he ceased to exist.  We sucked his soul out of that tidgy little knot of space-time he was stuck in.  No-one would miss him.  No-one would miss the mild, bubblin’ hatred he had for anyone who wasn’t his Broodmother.  Broodfather unknown.  He had Brood he didn’t even know about. We’ve watched Bernadette Ivanhoe, felt her pain and loss.  But she is of no use to us. 

At the moment, anyway.   

And when we needed him, I slipped into his soul.  I used his thuggery to dispose of anyone who got in my way.  I used me psychic ability to gain employment with Mr Grimes.  Somethin’ proper freaky bout him.  But he’s not my concern.  I recognise him as somesort of outsider, an alien as weird a creature as myself.  When the really, really bad shit starts to happen.  I could come here, a thousand years time, lid.  Could if I wanted to, but to make a point: I could.  He’d be here.  Bein all weird and that, drinkin a cuppa. 

You’d better finish that off.  Recall Vortex in about, er… errr. Five minutes. 

So, three years ago.  We saw your political instabilities.     We saw divided nations, on a divided planet.  This, tidgy little island, decided to leave the bigger landmass.  I slipped into Croxteth Ivanhoe’s soul; like he would slip into a new trackie top.  I had friends, associates.  A history, gained employment with Mr Grimes.  And durin this time, I was watchin, making judgement. Decidin, whether it was worth, bringin blood, shite, fire and thunder on you.  Not that we would wipe you out, completely.  That’s just for yardogs.  No, we’d wipe, abaht a third of you?  The rest would be slaves.  Once, we’d ripped this plane right off for anything of worth, we’d leave. Thanks for the resources.  Laters.  If I don’t see you through the week, I’ll see you through the window. 

I mean: Cheesy Carl was the closest thing I had to somethin I had to keep me here. I mean, I didn’t love him.  I’m not as obsessed with love (stupid fuckin concept, that), your idea of affection, of belongin is completely different to mine.  My Broodpartner has probably moved on, because that’s what we do.  Someone else, takes me place, raises my kids when it’s Broodtime. But I’ll be home, before I know it. 

Look at the paper movin with static on the table, by your cuppa.

When I get home, there will be no welcome.  My place in The Hive will have been filled by someone else.  But: that doesn’t mean it’s a permanent thing.  I’ll slip back into my old body and then, right then: I’ll have a straightener with that blurt.  Come on then, take me place would ya?  Come on, ya fuckin yarddog.  Square down. 

I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go.  If you’d asked us nicely, we could have sorted this place right out.  Every problem would have been sorted and the remainin two thirds might have been happy for the time it would have took us to rip you off.  But too late. There’s always a soul that needs slidin into.  Always another plane that needs taxin.  I can feel Croxteth Ivanhoe, fadin away.  His purpose in The Universe has come to an end.  I’m goin home. 

It’s gonna happen.  Any minute…

… now.   

And then, I’m home.  The photoreceptors click in.  I look at my hand, ignoring the vast amount of data it’s picking up.  I’m looking at the important things: five fingers, but with a blue translucent skin tone.  I’ve left the body of Croxteth Ivanhoe behind, but the traces of his psyche remain.  There’s tiny pieces of the people that I left behind.  People like Cheesy Carl and Grimes.  There’s a word for it, that humans use.  And that is a fact of their existence, as an immature species.  Small words to explain big concepts. 

What is that word?  Never mind, it’ll come to me later. 

I’m making my way through the tunnels of The Hive, by instinct.  Parts of my brain are firing up, parts that I have not used for three years.  Parts of my psyche are returning, disorientating me slightly; but causing me pleasure.  Speaking of which, it is a short time before I arrive at my dwelling place.  And there it is, the final piece of my psyche.  But firstly, there are rules and traditions to adhere to. 

My Broodpartner sits, silently in front of someone I vaguely know.  Their photoreceptors up, silently staring at each other.  Sharing small, invisible pulses of neural energy.  Each vaguely aware, that it is both the right thing and the wrong thing to do.  I send a small blast of neural energy at this other person.  He is pushed across the room in a blast of blue light.  And this is just the beginning.  I told you I was hungry, I’ll consume him, slowly.  Strand by strand, nerve by nerve.  Memory by memory.  I mean, we’re not savages.  But first, I need to introduce myself. 

‘S’appenin’ lid?’

There’s no place like home.