Star Sailors

by James McNaughton

  ‘Come on.’

  Radley’s tone softens. ‘All I’m saying is that when the shit hits the fan about those coma advertisements, it would be nice to have a Golden go down for once. Wouldn’t that make a nice change? Works for me. Someone has to take a fall, someone Klotch feels is recognisable but expendable. Like, say, someone with a high-visibility commercial endorsement of some kind? For a leafblower or a watch or a gun or something? Some kind of trivial public profile?’

  Bill shakes his head and grins at Jeremiah as if it’s all just a joke, which it probably is to Radley.

  Jeremiah’s face is as white as his Styrofoam cup.

  ‘Thanks, Radley,’ Bill says. ‘I wanted a coffee and a quiet chat, and I get lawyer-baiting.’

  ‘This guy?’ Radley glares at Jeremiah. ‘He thinks Kurtz is an illustration of innovative management outstripping support networks. According to your lawyer buddy here, Heart of Darkness cautions us about where we should embed our most creative managers.’

  ‘So you can call Kurtz an innovative capitalist who got isolated. So what? Who cares? We’ve got bigger fish to fry than novel analysis, for Christ’s sake.’

  Radley glares at Bill, ostentatiously reassessing his worth as a human being. Dark with anger, he shakes his head.

  Bill immediately regrets his outburst. Their only lately gained friendship probably won’t survive an attack on Heart of Darkness. The worst of it is that, as enemies with his shadow again, Jeremiah will be vulnerable. Radley could easily launch this campaign he’s joking about to make Jeremiah a high-flying fall-guy. He’d enjoy it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Radley. I just woke up and I’m off-kilter. For fuck’s sake, give me a break, will you?’

  Radley stands. ‘Hope you get over this one, mate. I have serious doubts.’

  ‘Radley, wait.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shake my hand. Don’t leave like this.’

  Radley’s eyes narrow as Bill draws himself to his feet, favouring his bad leg, resting a closed fist on the table. Even stooped, Bill is as tall.

  ‘Heart of Darkness is forever,’ Bill says. ‘It’ll be true long after we’re gone. Shake.’

  ‘On what, exactly?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me.’ He extends his hand, like Samuel did to him 21 hours ago, and Radley takes it. Radley: his dark, embittered, distant little brother.

  Hostility courses through his hand. There is no forgiveness.

  ‘I feel aggression,’ Bill tells him.

  ‘No shit, Sherlock?’

  Bill colours. ‘You don’t forgive me.’

  ‘You lied. You rolled over for big business. For a fucking retirement package. And not even a particularly good one!’

  ‘I waited.’

  ‘You got lucky. Like always.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as luck.’

  ‘Bullshit. Let go of my hand.’

  ‘No, I feel too much anger.’

  Radley tries to yank his hand away, but Bill is ready and holds on. The table grates.

  ‘Let go of my hand.’

  ‘Someone had to be chosen, Radley. I feel jealousy.’

  ‘Guys.’

  Radley pulls harder. Bill holds on. The crutches slide off the table. Jeremiah makes a grab for the extra coffee but it falls and bursts open on the floor.

  ‘Jealous? I’m actually very disappointed. Now let go of my hand.’

  Bill holds on.

  Radley’s chair topples as he steps back and yanks his hand violently. Bill holds on, leaning on the juddering table.

  ‘That’s not what I’m feeling. I feel that you resent my destiny.’

  ‘You weren’t chosen. You’re just a lucky fucking sap. Give me my hand!’

  Feeling perfect accord between Radley’s words and the heat in his hand, Bill lets go.

  ‘Thank you for your honesty.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off. And you,’ Radley stabs his finger at Jeremiah on his way out, ‘were a Golden lawyer.’

  When Jeremiah turns back to Bill, his face has turned from white to red.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  Bill remains standing as two café employees flit around him, righting chairs, lifting crutches and mopping spilt coffee.

  ‘Don’t worry about him, son, he’s always like this. Literature before life. The word before the world. I’ve had 65 years of his bullshit. How’s Karen? Did the party finish up alright?’

  ‘Uh… Oh, it finished around dawn apparently.’

  ‘Everyone enjoy themselves?’

  ‘I think the party illustrated the subjective nature of enjoyment.’

  ‘Good man. Right, right. No major stains on the carpet, then?’

  The rank smell Bill emanates has been sharpened by the struggle with Radley and can no longer be ignored. It’s time, he thinks, to finish up this prefatory phase of my new life and begin again in earnest.

  ‘Um, major stains? I don’t know, Bill. I’m not sure how the party went, to be honest—I’m yet to hear from Mr Klotch.’

  As casually as possible. ‘Trix enjoyed herself?’

  ‘As far as I know. I mean, I haven’t heard otherwise.’

  Bill remembers Jeremiah answering questions about Trix in the back of the van. Right, he thinks. Onwards and upwards. New beginnings.

  ‘Right,’ he says.

  ‘Bill, about telling the truth and everything, like we were talking about in the van? I tried it just then, with Radley, about the coma messages, but really, I—’

  ‘That’s good, Jeremiah, but it sounded like a slip-up rather than a confession. You chose a good moment to share but the execution was muddled. Don’t worry, this kind of thing takes work. It’s important that you remember to criticise yourself when revealing an unfortunate personal truth, because otherwise you appear unrepentant. In confession mode you must be bold about the truth and what you regret. You can’t be half-hearted about it. A partial confession isn’t trusted. Forgiveness requires full disclosure. And look, if you’re hard on yourself for long enough, most people will eventually step in and try to help you, you know, to stop the self-flagellation.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ Surely, Bill thinks.

  ‘Bill, there’s another thing—a big new multiple-cycle story. Golden Gators and their partners—and you, too—will have a quick meet-and-greet with Samuel in the hospital. One-on-one meetings, 60 seconds per couple, followed by their reflections and impressions. It’s on Friday. Karen’s flying down for it. I thought you could invite Trix—as a friend, you know, after our discussion in the van.’

  ‘Good man.’

  That’s more like it, Bill thinks as he takes the younger man’s hand again and perceives the familiar charge of regard, respect and loyalty run up his arm.

  40

  Steven Bolger, managing director, 104. His orange hair is very neatly parted to one side. Beneath this impeccable arrangement of hair, his eyes and brows form an expression of constant amused alertness. His pursed and parted lips verge on speech.

  Amber Filoche, socialite, 24. Blond ringlets tumble down over one bare shoulder. Her hair is swept behind her other ear, which features a thick gold-and-diamond Venture Group stud. Blue-eyed, with wide eyebrows, her nose straight with an emphatic point, her red lips curved agreeably, she radiates good cheer. Her tight gold-lamé dress barely contains her.

  ‘Yeah,’ Steven says. ‘Shaking his hand was kind of like touching a meteorite for me, like a living meteorite, something billions of years old from another galaxy. You know, when someone says, “This rock is two billion years old,” I always try to muster a sense of awe. Like when they discovered bacteria on Titan, I tried to feel some kind of shift in my worldview, or something. Well, it’s probably a lack of imagination, or time, because I can’t really visualise billions of years or the evolution of life. My main feeling, I have to say, is that I’m grateful there’s stuff out there older than me.’

  Amber laughs. ‘Samuel’s much older than you. I felt that strongly.�
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  ‘You did?’

  ‘He has ancient knowledge, from an ancient, single, continuous civilisation. I mean, our civilisations have been scattered and have risen and fallen, right, but his species hasn’t had that. I felt that they’ve had way more unity and continuity, and that Samuel has this, yeah, ancient knowledge. Like their relationships with each other and things are different.’

  ‘I saw it differently. I guess the similarity between our species struck me most. We’re both apex species. The top of the ladder. The alien is proof that evolution follows patterns, driven by atomic relationships and chemical reactions. Gravity, light; a skeleton, eyes. The survival of the fittest and smartest. His planet must be the same size as Earth, I suppose, judging by his size and bone density. And watery, with photosynthesising plants producing oxygen, and so forth. Why not? There are billions of planets out there, but physics follows the same rules wherever you go. What’s happened is that we’ve ended up in the same place, by similar routes. We can look this man in the eye as a brother. I did. We can tell him about our planet and the way evolution has organised our society, and he can tell us about the way it’s organised his, and the way they release their resources and operate their markets. There may be differences but I’m guessing we’ll be on very similar pages. And if that is the case, which I hope it is, we will be able to find solutions together going forward.’

  ‘Yes,’ Amber says with a bright smile. ‘It will be great to work together. It was a huge privilege to meet Samuel and I’m very grateful.’

  41

  It’s after midnight. Jeremiah is alone in his nook in the communal workspace adjacent to Sky Park. To be at work late, awake at the centre of everything as the Gators sleep and play, is a privilege afforded to very few. He drops to the floor and planks for 90 seconds. Springs up. His core radiates strength—suspends him, it feels like, on the verge of levitation. Night lights, silence; a couple of his law programmes running their fine tines over new contracts.

  Standing at his pod, interfacing with deep-3D fluorescent green-and-purple text and images, he rolls through the intranet, enjoying the wide-out working triangle and physical interaction that the late hour allows. He throws files into a distant rubbish bin—three points—and slam-dunks others into completed folders. Once he’s been through all the communications on the communications upgrade, he celebrates with 30 quick push-ups. He springs up, flexes his pecs and deals to more folders. The graphics redden as he accesses the handful of files at the apex of his security level. So deliciously close to the top of the information pyramid.

  Hang on, he thinks, reaching for a file. Surprise turns to consternation, then to bewilderment. Is the file a dangerous blunder, or an expression of immense loving trust? He closes down to 2D, and steps in close. Tears well in his eyes. The Klotch tape! It’s a version of Klotch’s buried interview with the alien, already near-mythic after just a couple of weeks. The alien apparently disagreed with everything Mr Klotch said. Which means that he disagrees with the philosophies of most world leaders. His breath comes quickly and his chest thumps at the realisation of the clearance level he’s attained—higher than anyone’s in Venture Tower in Wellington, including even Mr Wire. So far he’s come. He wipes his eyes. It’s late and he’s at the heart of the Golden Gate, unobserved and free of electronic work-unit scrutiny. Trust is absolutely complete. It’s love. That’s what it is.

  Should I open it? he wonders. Or do I know enough already?

  Rumours about the brain-damaged alien’s politics lack detail. It’s just said that he’s hopelessly naïve. Yet simple sells. After all, that’s the foundation stone of New Comms. It’s feared that the alien’s childlike dissenting voice, transmitted to every screen on Earth, might inflame ongoing global civil disorder into outright revolution. The thirsty, hungry, unemployed, homeless, jobless, sick and oppressed will all unite under the banner of Samuel and destroy globally connected civilisation.

  Jeremiah accepts that the tape should be buried. But Samuel, too? As some have claimed is necessary? That feels wrong in all kinds of ways.

  Karen comes to mind. She’s talked about an interview with Samuel on more than one occasion. She wonders, somewhat theatrically, why there isn’t one, and has conveyed her passionate belief that access to such an interview is the legal right of every citizen on Earth.

  But she doesn’t understand. A lot of people dying overseas have nothing to hope for in the long-term. Imagine the opportunity of dying for a cause, any cause, no matter how misguided? The chaos that would inflame? Jeremiah begins pacing, pistoning his right fist into his left palm. The Klotch tape’s like a key to the citadel of civilization. Should it fall into the wrong hands, the high and imperious gates that have stood steadfast against centuries of barbarian attack will swing meekly open. The great unwashed, those unemployed and uneducated hordes—with their mixed up ideas about collectives, communal ownership, a non-currency society, low-technology, indigenous examples and plants before progress—will flood in and destroy everything.

  He breaks off his pacing at the centre of the communal area. Thankfully, the file is safe. It’s not copyable and the Golden Gate’s intranet is rock-solid secure. After all, the intranet is one of the main reasons Venture Group invests in bricks and mortar. A hacker would have to do something outlandish, like physically break in to Sky Park late at night, force someone to bring up the file and then video the running images. Ridiculous. The resolution would be awful!

  The Klotch tape is safe, Jeremiah decides, and its availability indicates profound trust in him rather than gross error on the part of management. It is love. Because he should be trusted. Even as a boy on the Outside he’d loved the Wall. When he’d looked from a distance at the high gardens on Mt Victoria—that peaceable kingdom in which prospered the nation’s royalty—the Wall felt right. He’d felt that the Inners were as righteously protected by the Wall as the land was righteously protected by Freedom’s Rampart. It felt right that there should be a special protected place; not unfair, as so many grown-ups claimed. His father hated the Mount, which made it attractive in a way because his dad had never much liked anything in the real world, not even Christmas. Mum criticised him for not respecting his betters. She criticised him for everything, from posture to dress to body odour, but there was a particular intensity about her abuse when unemployed Dad muttered some critique of the super-rich.

  Jeremiah didn’t want to become one of those Outers who grew bitter as they grew older. There had to be something to aspire to in life. The Mount was heaven on Earth. It inspired and motivated him.

  Some of his friends felt the same way he did, but as time passed they came to believe that admittance was impossible. It was meant for someone else. Probably not Jeremiah, either. Opinion was divided. But even those who resented the Mount’s extreme exclusiveness could not deny its beauty. Food, water, power, resource- and crime-security made it the great emerald on the harbour, Wellington’s crown jewel.

  As a young man his thoughts about the Mount had changed. No longer a kind of sanctuary for royalty, it became a fortress for the best of the meritocracy. He appreciated how vitally important a safe place was for elites, because the economy, governance and social stability of the country depended on them. The Mount was an environment that enabled leaders and their gardens to necessarily flourish.

  At university he had gazed over the Wall with binoculars or, on one memorable occasion, through the eyes of a drone (before Mt Victoria was secured by Sky Scrubber). The mostly standalone immaculate wooden bungalows, with living gardens and bright little playgrounds, seemed unreal. On Sundays, men in long shorts washed down jet skis and paraglided around the summit. They hit bags. Hard. Athletic women ran on immaculate roads, walked to the dairy in bikinis in summer. Couples dined on high terraces. Teenagers played musical instruments and read. Children played in parks unsupervised.

  And the iconic Town Belt: that great swathe of disease-free green (tended by a squad of tireless arborists and botanists)
, discreetly notched with high-spec architecture that yielded to the native environment. Inners could walk under trees in perfect solitude and serenity, even at night. It was said that doors were never locked and keys were left in cars and bikes (a detail that proved impossible to confirm or deny with binoculars).

  He wondered how people could seriously call the Mount a gilded cage and claim they were better off outside it. As if the crime-ridden, drug-addled neighbourhoods they lived in were better, those places where the obese grew fatter in front of their screens and had their bathrooms ransacked by addicts as they watched or gamed in the next room.

  Jeremiah takes a deep breath, extends his arms horizontally and pivots his torso back and forth ten times.

  I have been entrusted with a key, he thinks—not only to the Mount, but to the Golden Gate and the Grammar Zone too, and in fact all of the world’s elite walled communities, in which the best and brightest of this world reside.

  Standing there in dim light, something fine deep inside him—his soul, surely—is touched and resonates with fine restraint. A reward for his faith. Faith made him a Golden Gator to his golden core, a true Inner, one of the chosen few entrusted to uphold civilisation. That faith has been rewarded in full.

  Time passes. He checks the file’s properties, considers its odd and solitary position—the things that immediately brought his attention to it in the first place. In truth, they suggest a mistake of sorts. He sighs.

  Comms would’ve run multiple prototypes on the interview, not one, and the file’s not big enough to be the final product, even in 2D. The thought of mere managerial incompetence and system failure is deflating. He holds his head in his hands and closes his eyes. The gates to civilisation are being pounded; highly competent people are not thinking straight. The file, in all probability, is just a leftover from a hurried top-level Comms conference. It’ll be an option that wasn’t taken up, along with all the others. It might be the final salvage attempt. Not even worth looking at, he tells himself.

  Trying to recover his lost sense of grace, he looks around the office. Empty nooks with standby lights. Photos of pets, wives and children. Inspirational messages from the boss. Sunrises. It’s long past midnight and he’s alone. Trusted. At the heart of the Golden Gate.