Fodder

‘ . . . Porters never went out during the Winter, mostly out of duty to their charges. Even in a dire emergency – fire, Villain or nightwalker incursion, HotPot overheat, starvation – no porter would abandon the building if there was a single sleeper left inside. A porter went down with their building . . . ’

– The Oldest Profession, by Porter Fabrisio

I went and found Jonesy as soon as we got back.

‘Let me guess,’ she said, ‘Aurora wasn’t anywhere to be found?’

‘Not hard to figure. Can I ask you something?’

‘Shoot.’

I took Charles Webster’s missing persons flier from my back pocket and showed it to her.

‘So?’

‘He’s up at HiberTech, redeployed as one of their golf-cart drivers.’

‘And?’

‘He’s a missing person, yet turns up at HiberTech?’

She looked at me, then at the flier, then led me towards the records office, which was situated at the far end of the Consulate.

‘These are the Sector Twelve files,’ she said as we walked in. ‘Every person who ever arrived, every person who ever left. The ones who died, the ones who married, the ones who had children. Hibernation records, work records, special skills register, schools records, fertility reports, genetic screening, Dormitoria, car, dental and food records. The lot. Hang on a tick.’

She rummaged for a moment in a large and very battered grey filing cabinet, and then handed me Webster’s file. His address was the Cambrensis, room 106, his job HiberTech ‘Medical Orderly Grade II’. There was a copy of his birth certificate, several references from the Thomas Carlyle Dormitorium in Sector Fifty-eight North, a General Skills certificate pass confirmation and letters of recommendation from his previous employments as a bus driver, aquarium maintenance engineer and insurance salesman. There was also a ‘Partial Death’ certificate – HiberTech had logged him as having been delivered to their Sleep Sciences Division twelve weeks after he went missing.

‘He was signed across to The Notable Goodnight by Agent Hooke,’ I said, reading a copy of the chain-of-possession document. ‘Is that unusual?’

‘Not really,’ said Jonesy.

There was nothing about being married to Birgitta, but then I didn’t really expect there to be. Beyond my dream, the only evidence they might be the same person was that they both vanished, and could have the same first name. That was it. I sighed. Webster was just a guy I’d picked to clothe the empty face in my dream, nothing more, nothing less. He might not even have said ‘Gower’ at all – just a mumble, an artefact briefly bubbling to the surface.

‘Happy?’ said Jonesy.