CHAPTER THREE

For the fourth time in a week, Brother Jack was questioning his lot in life. His bare head itched almost constantly, his feet ached and his hands were a mess of ragged open blisters. He didn't find Brother Yan's reassurance that they would quickly harden into callouses remotely reassuring. He hated his stupid orange robes and he loathed pushing this mop around the floor every day since he'd arrived. He was effectively swabbing the deck.

He slid the bucket along the floor with his foot, only just resisting the urge to give it a firm and derisive kick. He sloshed the wooden handled mop back into the soapy water and swirled it round before wringing it out, then slopped it back onto the deck. He made one half-hearted sweep across the polished wood, then stopped and glanced around. He couldn't see Brother Yan, Sister Andrea, the Abbot or any of the others around, so he planted the mop down firmly and rested his weight upon it. He closed his eyes and sighed.

Brother Jack had heard all the stories about the Staten Island Ferry Monks before he had decided to join. It was why he had decided to quit the job the Mayor's Office had found him after Orientation and pledge himself to the Order.

There was one large orange ferry moored at the Whitehall Terminal, called the Mary Murray and she had been there as long as anyone could remember. Jack could dimly remember that in the World Before she had been decommissioned and ended up rusting near New Jersey. Here in Mockhattan, what he assumed was a perfect replica of her in her heyday was home to the Order.

The Brothers and Sisters all wore orange robes, almost matching the boat itself. Many new arrivals to Mockhattan mistook them for Buddhists or Hare Krishnas, but other than the superficial resemblance and some organisation similarity, the Staten Island Ferry Monks were dedicated to trying to understand the where, how and why of Mockhattan itself. The first Abbot had picked the stranded ferry as a symbol of their shared predicament - beached against their will in an oddly familiar yet completely bizarre land. He had spoken of his hope that one day the Order would crack the mystery of Mockhattan and cast off, piloting their massive boat into the fog, never to return. To that end, the engine room was regularly maintained and the engineering monks were highly venerated.

The idea was noble and the aim was appealing, but Jack was too selfish a man to have pledged himself to those goals alone. It was the manner by which the second and current Abbot had decided to pursue this truth that had piqued his interest.

Everything was to be explored and investigated in this place. Expeditionary monks set out to cover every corner of the island city, climb every building and descend into the depths of the Subway and sewers. This frequently brought them into conflict with the Prospectors Guild, who were desperate to find the new caches of Arrived Goods. It was a potentially exciting life and it had stirred something within Jack. The uniform appearance seemed to give the monks a sense of belonging too.

But the tipping point had come when he heard about the Abbot's new decree regarding drugs and sex. Everything was to be explored and investigated in this place, he had reiterated before recalling every monk from the city. He then sealed the ferry boat for a month and the Order embarked on a hedonistic orgy of wanton pleasure and abandon. Afterwards, the Mockhattan Messenger had run a week long series of interviews with the Abbot and some notable Brothers and Sisters. They would return to the city now and invited anyone who wanted to lie with them to seek them out - all in the name of enlightenment. Somehow, the Abbot had curried quite some favour with the normally dour Editor of the Messenger, because the piece was enthusiastically supportive of the Order's renewed endeavours.

A week later, Jack had had a particularly brazen encounter with two Sisters in Central Park under the light of the moon. His life in Mockhattan had been relentlessly dull up until then, working at the Messenger laying out the printing blocks for the next edition. But a couple of bottles of Brew near the Swedish Cottage had led to a chance encounter and he was hungry for more.

Instead he was stuck mopping the floor. The only action he'd seen since he arrived was a smile from Sister Andrea. The two women in the park had disrobed each other pretty quickly, before leaping on him in the throes of wild passion. He hadn't really appreciated how shapeless the orange robes could be, and the androgynous appeal of women with entirely shaven bodies was wearing off now that he could only see the top of their heads. Apparently as an Initiate he had to work his way up. The irony was not lost on him. A brief daydream of that memorable night had brought him up in seconds.

A loud splash broke his randy reverie. For a moment he thought he'd slipped and knocked the bucket over, but as his eyes snapped open he could clearly see that wasn't the case. A cry rang out from the deck above him. "There's someone in the water!"

He rushed to the windows and peered out. There was indeed a figure in the water, thrashing around. Clearly this person had hair and bare arms, possibly naked. So not a fellow monk. Jack realised he was now frozen and forced himself to snap out of it. He dropped the mop and ran to the back of the boat, pulling his robes off. He skidded onto the rear deck, only to find Sister Andrea had beaten him to it and was already naked and climbing over the railings. He stopped in his tracks, robes clutched in his right hand.

She looked back over her bare shoulder at him coyly and smirked, glancing down to his still erect member. He could see that her right breast was firm and achingly pert. Then she winked and jumped into the bay, disappearing beneath the waves only to break the surface a moment or two later. She swam towards the flailing individual with swift strokes.

"Put your robes back on Brother Jack!" The Abbot's snappy voice made him jump and he rushed to comply. Chastened, he took a step back and away from the Order's leader, nearly standing on Brother Yan's foot in the process. Yan simply rolled his eyes, then refocused on the action in the water. Glancing around Jack could see most of the Order had come to see what was going on, lining the side of both decks.

In front of him, the Abbot took a step closer to the railings and peered down. "He fell from the sky," he murmured to himself.

CHAPTER TWO

The grounds of the City Hall were normally a welcome splash of greenery in the industrial grey of the Civic Center. Pink cherry blossoms covered some of the trees, throwing further colour into the palette, which was in turn complimented by the salmon pink roses planted in some of the beds.

In the middle of it all, the white limestone walls of the building itself were gleaming in the late morning sunshine. It was almost lunchtime and some of the local workers would stream out of the surrounding buildings to take a brief rest in these more appealing surroundings.

But all of this went unappreciated by Bobby Vellum as he rushed from the Subway to the Mayor's Office. A thin, matchstick of a man, Bobby was the kind of guy who would never normally sweat, even when wearing a suit in the height of summer. Sadly, today he was stressed, too hot and distinctly flustered. Slipping past the people milling around the doors and distractedly waving to security, he hurriedly made his way to the Mayor's Office.

"Ah, Bobby!" The Mayor dropped the dossier he had been reviewing back on the desk and leaned back in his chair, pausing only to grab his "It's Good to be the King" mug. Raising the hot tea to his mouth then cradling the mug in his hands, the broad-shouldered Englishman now relaxed into a smile that matched his greeting. "How goes it with our new arrival?" he asked.

Bobby sighed and began to pace on the spot.

"That well then?"

"She's locked herself in her hotel room. She's also refusing to talk to me, but it did sound like she broke a mirror," the young man reported.

"Do you suspect she's armed herself then? Was there anything in her Orientation Papers that suggested she'd be a Volatile?"

Bobby stopped pacing and tried to hand the Mayor his own folder. The larger man ignored it and instead cocked his head to one side, furrowing his brow. "Bobby, we've been over this. I want to hear your opinion. I'm quite capable of reading the reports - but I don't have time. It's your job."

"Uh, OK. Yes, erm, well no, not really. I mean, she's well traveled and clearly quite independent but there's nothing to suggest any history of violence or martial arts training. We're careful to ensure the rooms in the Grand Hotels have nothing that could be readily used as a weapon, in case fear prompts someone to lash out. But why smash a mirror? I guess a fragment could be used to attack someone, but that seems like quite a bizarre decision to make." Bobby trailed off as he contemplated the situation further. A small part of him wondered if he'd overstepped the mark by rambling on in front of the Mayor. Verbal diarrhea was something he was trying to cut back on.

"Bless you Bobby, it's not bizarre." Phew, clearly not. "It's resourceful. This Keira woman is scared and understandably so. Used to happen all the time, I guess we've just been lucky to get more Dreamers and Havenseekers in recent years." The Mayor put his mug down and pushed away from the desk. He eased out of his chair and took a few measured steps to one of the large office windows that overlooked the gardens. Gathering his hands in front of him, he gently asked, "Do you not remember your First Day here?"

Before Bobby had chance to answer, the Mayor turned around and continued at a pace. "Of course you do! You were frightened and overwhelmed. You wanted to wake up, you wanted to go home. But your predecessor - God rest her soul - found you and calmed you down. And now look at you!" He punctuated his final words with a flourish of his hands. "A productive member of my staff."

The Mayor plucked the Orientation folder off his desk and handed it back to Bobby. "Get yourself a couple of Constables and head back. She's here and she can doubtless be useful, so get her out of the room and Processed. I'll look in on you towards the end of the day." He'd moved back behind his desk and settled back into his chair.

Bobby nodded. "Yes sir. Sorry sir." The Mayor waved his hand dismissing the apology as if it were unnecessary and grinned again. "Just get it done," he said jovially.

A minute or two later, the young man was bounding down the stairs and heading to the Subway. If he got the Q Train uptown to 34th, he could pop to the Midtown Precinct on his way back to the hotel. What a rush! He hadn't known his role enabled him to appropriate Constables to assist him.

Getting down to the platform, he immediately wrinkled his nose. Clearly one of the Subway horses had taken a shit on the tracks. Between the overground pony carts and the underground horses, Mockhattan could be a little ripe sometimes. The price they paid for intermittent electricity. Bobby hoped the smell would seep into his already slightly sweaty clothes. He was not going to be making a great impression on anyone today. Not for the first time, he hoped the apartment would still have some solar water by the time he got home. He fancied a shower tonight, not a strip wash in the basin. Heating the water on the stove was such a pain in the ass.

He looked round. It was quiet at this time of day. Unlike the real Manhattan, the people of Mockhattan tended to take lunch at or near work, preferring lunches brought from home rather than convenience food. In some ways, it was nice to not have to rush around all day. It was one of the reasons Bobby fancied himself as a Havenseeker if he had to pick a label. In the distance he could hear the quiet squeal of metal wheels on the tracks and the gallop of hooves. He moved to the platform edge.

Despite the frequent issues with the odour of faeces, the horse-drawn Subway trains were still a sight to behold. A team of four horses dragged the two carriages into view, commanded by the driver from his seat at the front, reins held tightly in hand as they looped through the empty window frame on the left. It was an ingenious piece of juryrigging, thought Bobby, and not for the first time. Pulling on the reins, the driver pulled the train to a halt at the station. The doors on these carriages were permanently open - they went to slowly for it to be a safety issue. Inside was illuminated by small lanterns.

As the train began to pull out and on with its journey, across the platform Bobby could see a station worker jumping down on to the tracks with a showel and bucket. Poo had to be cleared up quickly as flames in the carriage lanterns would not react well with the slowly released methane. Any driver spotting a horse defecating on the tracks between platforms was required to report it straight away. Thankfully people were diligent and accidents were rare. The Messenger frequently reminded people of the horrors of the Uptown A Train Explosion after all. It was still a disgusting job though and Bobby didn't envy the poor guy at all.

Settling into the journey, he closed his eyes for a moment and tried to relax. Seven stops meant he had the luxury of taking a few moments to himself - time to work up a strategy and try to remember some of his predecessor's conflict management training. Eloise Cartwright had been a tough old bat, thoroughly competent at everything. She'd worked until she simply stopped; found dead in her bed one afternoon after she'd been uncharacteristically late for work. Whenever things got difficult, Bobby found himself wishing she was still here to do the heavy lifting. It had been less than a year and he still felt a little in over his head.

Right, Orientation folder again. Review the dossier on this Kiera Sullivan. Six stops to go.

CHAPTER ONE

Michael starred up into the sky and blinked. It was going to be a really hot day. He was tempted to walk to Central Park and just sunbathe. Maybe see if he could find a book. Perhaps the News Stand would have a new paper.

He'd been here for eleven days now and he was settling into a reassuring morning routine.

1. Get up, do some sit ups and press ups, shower and dress.

2. Leave the hotel and walk a few blocks in any direction.

3. Find a diner or a cafe and have breakfast.

4. Let breakfast settle and plan the day in his notebook.

5. Find the News Stand and check for the latest Mockhattan Messenger.

The rest of the day was still a bewildering mess of exploration and curiosity, but at least the unease of the first few days had died away. He was beginning to develop a preference for Margarete's on West 51st between 9th and 10th. The trees lining the sidewalk made it more picturesque than the neighbouring streets. Margarete was a plump, fussy French woman with a broad grin and a rich accent. She'd split her time between the customers, doing her best to lift their spirits whilst her cook Claudette kept the food coming.

On Michael's second visit to their little cafe, he commented on the urban orchard outside much to the delight of the two women. Claudette served him his poached eggs, then wiped her hands on the tea towel tucked into the apron around her lean waist. "We close at 2pm, then we spend many afternoons tending to the trees!" she proclaimed in her loud Louisiana accent. "I'm glad someone else appreciates them."

By this point Michael was the last customer in the establishment, so the three of them sat down together and swapped stories of how they came to be here.

Margarete went first. Michael was still trying to work out the dynamic between her and Claudette. Both were forthright individuals, but Claudette always seemed happy to defer the French woman. It was more than just employer and employee chain of command. Claudette was genuinely happy to follow Margarete's lead. She leaned back in her chair, holding a glass of cold water to her temple and grinning as she listened to a tale she'd probably heard many, many times.

"I got here four summers ago." the owner began. She'd woken up in the New Yorker over on 8th. In the bathtub. The night before Margarette had gotten home from locking up the bar she managed, near the port at La Rochelle. She'd fallen asleep in the bath with a glass of Shiraz and a copy of Justine by the Marquis de Sade. Cold, wet and naked, she had stormed out of the room and demanded to speak to the manager.

"Poor Bobby, he was quite taken aback," she laughed. Her orientation papers had mentioned her previous employment, but Margarette had no desire to return to the late nights of bar work, so the Mayor's staff had found her this little cafe that she now adored. "I have swapped late nights for very early mornings, but I love it! After a few weeks of being here, the Mayor sent me Claudette and then we really started cooking with gas!" She winked at her cook. Claudette simply chuckled to herself, then both women look enquiringly at Michael.

"I'm relatively new," he began, then launched into a short concise explanation. They looked a little disappointed. "Sorry ladies, nothing exceptional here," he offered by way of an apology. Claudette pursed her lips, then broke the brief silence. "Then I guess it's my turn. I'm a River Person."

Michael had only heard of the River People the day before. Most people who found themselves in Mockhattan woke up in one of the four Grand Hotels. No one had ever found a way to leave again. A seemingly endless wall of fog surrounded the strange island city, less than a mile out into the bay. Any attempts to sail into it had been fruitless. The boat simply returned in the water on the opposite side of the city, drifting out of the mist with all of its occupants fast asleep.

Then, every once in a while, a new boat would appear carrying a new arrival or two, also unconscious. Claudette was one such individual. She had arrived in the last days of the same summer as Margarete. River People were relatively rare and a few of Mockhattan's religions and cults revered them. The black cook shook her head at Michael's gentle enquiries on such matters. "It's nonsense. Hotel or not, I still disappeared from my home and woke up here." Although she had to admit, she couldn't remember what had happened to her on her Last Night. Michael already knew this was common among the River People.

"I had orientation papers, same as everyone else, and I wound up here, cooking eggs for the good folk that pass by. I love my trees and I love my life here. Ain't nothing else I need." Claudette finished her glass of water, then picked up Michael's now picked clean plate and pottered back in the kitchen. For a moment he worried that he'd said the wrong thing. "And don't you be worrying that you've spoken out of turn," Claudette called over her shoulder. "'Cos you didn't. I've just got things to do."

Margarette grinned. "That's the longest she's spoken to anyone who isn't me in weeks. She likes you. You must pop in again soon, OK?" Before Michael could thank her, two more customers came in and Margarette set about fussing around them, getting them settled. Time to get on with his day. He left some money on the table, then set off to look for that paper.

PRELUDE

The pounding in her head woke her up. Her eyes opened for the briefest of moments, only to snap shut to escape the brilliant sunlight streaming in through the windows.

Wincing, Keira tried to cover her head with her hands then froze. She held her breath and listened to the room. The rapping sound came again. It wasn't in her head, it was someone at the door.

Yet it wasn't her door. This wasn't her room.

She sat up. The daze of sleep was gone and a clarity of purpose had taken root. She quickly assessed the room, looking for exits and the possibility of a weapon. From the double bed she could see a screen doors to a balcony. A cupboard. A door that probably led to an en suite bathroom and another door with a security peephole. This was probably the door to the room itself.

The knocking came again. Definitely the door.

Keira slid off the bed and quickly checked the desk drawers. Empty, not even a Bible. She never took her eyes off the door but she did catch sight of herself in a mirror and swiftly processed that she was wearing the clothes she wore to dinner last night. Not ideal for self defence, but it could be worse. She still couldn't see a suitable weapon.

There was a pen, but that wouldn't make her feel any safer. Frustrated, Keira sprang forward under a surge of adrenaline and snapped the security bolt across the door.

"Uh, hello?"

A muffled male American voice called through the door. She cursed. She made more noise than she hoped. She backed up to the bathroom door and pushed it open, glancing inside. Still nothing that would make a good weapon, unless she broke a mirror and wrapped something around the hilt of a shard of glass. It might have to come to that.

She heard a click at the door and her eyes snapped back to the lock. Someone was trying to open it.

"Hello Miss? My name is Bobby. I'm here to help."

Keira swore at him under her breath and quickly returned to the bed, pulling the cover off one of the pillows. The mirror shard was looking like her best option. Out of the window she caught sight of the buildings across the road. She was in a city. One of the tall skyscrapers nearby was the New Yorker Hotel.

Last night, she had gotten home from dinner and gone to bed in her apartment in Vancouver.

What the hell was going on?