Strawberry Cloud
Science Fiction Short Story
I came into the world today, 12 January 2023 – not pink and vulnerable, my mother holding me to her breast - but full grown: bearded, scarred, with a distasteful vaping habit.
It’s best that I explain myself. I’m Jonathan, pleased to meet you. Before the letter, my life was ordinary, purposeless. I received it in the middle of a stack of mail. No, you misunderstand me. I examined the pile of letters and there was one embedded in the middle of the rest – it was as though someone had held the narrow envelope like a dagger and stabbed the others through the heart. The letter, like the postman, smelled of strawberries.
I was trying to relax but the letter made it plain that the stakes were high. I needed to reach him, the one now closer than a brother
My postman was a vaporetto. It’s a phenomenon. He hooked me up with his guy, and soon I was slowly drawing on a vape, holding the sickly strawberry-like substance in my lungs. But nothing was happening. More of that later.
The letter. It was addressed to me. I had sent it. But I’d never seen it before. It was my signature at the bottom, its contents visibly from me. Inside the envelope was a single handwritten page pleading for help, and a thin notebook containing journal entries and an explanation of the whole vaporetti thing. Re-reading, I was compelled to act.
I worked myself into the postman’s confidence, all it took was buying a pack of ten “Strawberry Cloud” vape cartridges we could share. It turned out the postman was that guy.
“Yeah, I had specific instructions to bring the letter back and bringing things back is tricky. Sorry about the other letters.” he said smokey-eyed, fitting the cartridge into the pen. I had entered the illegal vaporetti subculture where people got off on tripping to the alternative world. Trouble was, the vape did nothing to me except turn my eyes a little pink. Then the postman talked me through it:
“You’re trying too hard. You’re too tense. Clear your lungs. Get some oxygen in there and we go again, calmly.”
I was trying to relax but the letter made it plain that the stakes were high. I needed to reach him, the one now closer than a brother. I’d dressed minimally, as instructed. In my shirt pocket was the small key he had asked for. I drew deep on the vape pen and tried to chill as my eyes burned.
“Okay buddy. Relax those muscles. Good, now visualise your brain tilting, 90 degrees to the left, as though you’re lying down on your side. Now, close your…”
His voice faded. Deep panic filled the reptile part of my brain. I wanted to throw up, run, lash out. I was… nowhere. True blackness was before me - not the Eigengrau we see when our eyes are closed. A long beat, and the nausea returned. I felt the universe rotate around me. I awoke, seemingly in my own bed, to a fresh new world.
I gasped for air. Instinctively, I felt in my shirt pocket for the key, finding only blood. Reeling, I went to the bathroom mirror and tore off the t-shirt. The key was sticking into my chest, at 90 degrees to how it should be. The tip was piercing my flesh. I pulled slowly, firmly, painfully and it came out. I dressed the small wound and cleaned myself up. I craved water but couldn’t risk washing away the taste of strawberries. There was about three hours to finish what I’d started.
The letter directed me to go to the National Bank to retrieve the contents of my safety deposit box. It said, “The clerk will look surprised. They will think you’re in prison, which you are, but they are bound by order and propriety to do what you ask. And don’t look surprised yourself – this is your stuff you’re retrieving. You are golden.”
I could see frantic federal agents chasing a ghost.
This was recognisably my apartment, but gentrified. From the closet I selected a Hugo Boss shirt and some pants the old me could never have afforded. No time for a shower, I washed in the sink, dressed, and again looked in the mirror. Maybe this other me was 20 pounds lighter? In any case, I looked like a sack of manure tied in the middle. I walked through the city to the bank. The city was the same one I knew: the shops, the pigeons, the homeless guy by the metro stop, but I was different. I was a man out of place with a neon sign above me saying “Fraud! Impostor!” but nobody else could see it. Three weeks ago, in my world, I had been to the bank and set up Box 1019. I carried key 1019 with me today in this world. As far as I could tell, the letter was the only object not duplicated across the two realities.
I entered the banking hall where a toad-like lackey blocked my path.
“Can I help you sir?” he croaked, meaning, “Time you were leaving, mister.” I showed him the key. He bristled, his neck twisting in his collar. “I need to visit my box.” I used the words I’d suggested in the letter. The toad nodded to the guard at the back of the hall, who opened a discreet door with his palm print. The three of us entered, descended a metal stairway, passed through a heavy door and into a gold leaf and marble sanctum, meant only for the wealthiest customers. Gold cherubs, angels and evangelical scribes stared down from the ceiling. It was a temple of finance.
I signed the log book, gave an iris scan. The realisation dawned – it wasn’t so much the key but myself I had to bring: to this location, for this purpose. We walked past an oak table to Box 1019. I inserted my key, Toadie inserted his own and a metre-high cabinet door popped half open.
I looked at him, he nodded and withdrew with the guard, closing the door behind him. I opened the cabinet wide. In my world, the box had been empty. In this one, there was a nylon tactical bag with purposeful handles and a shoulder strap. I couldn’t resist, I unzipped the bag.
“Benjamin Franklin and all the saints!” The contents of the hold-all appeared to be half a million in used cash. Something else? I disturbed a few of the bundles and underneath were two assault rifles and ammunition, LOTS of ammunition. My knees gave. The strawberry taste intensified as my mouth dried. At first, I bundled everything back into the bag and stuffed it into the cabinet. Then I remembered what I had read, “Only you can save me and everything I’ve worked for.” I hooked the bag over my shoulder. Time was short.
Meanwhile, a phone call would have been made. The FBI would be here soon. Toadie couldn’t prevent me from walking down the steps and vanishing into the metro. I’d been a model customer. Following the instructions in the letter, I walked out with purpose. “Take a train South two stops then double back. Go to this address.” My other self knew that Northbound trains didn’t stop by the bank. As the train passed the platform I could see frantic federal agents chasing a ghost.
I had scoped out ‘this address’, it had been to me an empty warehouse. Here and now, a guy who appeared to be a retired linebacker admitted me, and led me into the ‘operation’ - that is to say a room of twenty people busy at a production line. Everything was clean and orderly; smooth music playing over the speakers.
A woman smiled and relieved me of my bag. It was Charisse! My longtime girlfriend was apparently athletic, muscular, super smart and in charge. It was her, but not her, if you understand me. It was obvious she regarded me similarly and couldn’t stop smiling. Charisse waved an electric wand over my body, finding only the key. “Just in case” she said.
She stashed the money, then passed the guns to Linebacker. He and a scrimmage of four hooded men with shotguns and pistols boarded a couple of SUVs, and exited through a roller-shuttered doorway at the rear. Charisse hugged me then, the same but different, for both of us. “I just want to …hold him close again, and to thank you for risking so much.”
“There’s a lot I don’t understand, why the guns?”
She answered directly. “Jonathan is at the courthouse today. In thirty minutes, we will have him, then take him to a safe house.”
“And the money?” She laughed. “Oh, that’s profit from the operation. We do our banking at the bank, they just don’t know our money’s there, or how much.” Profit? I looked around me. This was clearly a narcotics facility, maybe one of many.
My knees were weakening again. My back slid down the wall and I sat exhausted. “Three hours have passed,” she said, “soon you will be home. And this body will die, become a husk. We will hide it, the feds will find it, and they will stop looking for Jonathan. If we told you the whole story, would you have come?”
I told her I didn’t know. I was definitely leaving. The room began to spin around my eyes. I saw the machines filling the phials, the workers in respirators, the vape canisters being packed at the end. The place smelled of strawberries. The blackness came again, taking me home.
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