by Guy Salvidge
He stared out, his eyes blinking slowly, and she wondered whether he knew she was there. She put her hand on his shoulder. “Would you like to sit outside for a while?”
He started to shake his head. “Evelyn...”
“She isn’t here,” she said. “Some fresh air will do you good. Can I help you up?”
She helped him up. She had no idea how long it’d been since he’d been out of bed, but after a shaky start he seemed to be able to move about with some degree of freedom. He insisted on going into the bathroom alone despite her protests to the contrary. If he fell and injured himself, he’d never recover. While he was in the bathroom, she stripped the sheets and hunted fruitlessly for another set.
He seemed to gather strength as they approached the patio door together, but no sooner than they were outside and sitting on the rocker, he started to flag again. His head lolled to the side and the colour in his face drained away. She tried to get him to drink some more water but the liquid dribbled down his chin. She had wanted to recapitulate some of the things they had done together in earlier times, but now it seemed she’d have to carry him back to bed. “I’m all right,” he slurred. “Thanks for... out.”
Lying there on the rocker, his face wet and his hands curled up into his chest, he looked like nothing if not a sickly, wizened infant. She made sure to bend at the knees before she picked him up with great care, her right hand clasped around his bony knees and her left around his armpits. Despite his frailty, her father still weighed more than she’d normally have attempted to carry. She had never lifted her father before; it had not been physically possible until this moment. But now she did it, depositing him back on his bed. She’d have to worry about the sheets later. She shut the door behind her. She hadn’t had a chance to say the things she’d wanted to say, but she felt a little less miserable for having tried.
The house was getting hotter; she could feel the heat closing in. She was on the couch in a state of daydreaming when a knock came at the door. She sprang to her feet and then found herself reluctant to open the door. What if the knock spelt danger? She peered through the view-hole and saw some kind of tradesman standing there. He knocked again and she relented.
“Mrs Kessick?” the man asked.
“Close enough, I guess,” she said.
“I’m Troy from Macadam Plumbing. I understand that you have a problem with your water purifier?”
“It’s broken, yes.”
“These old units break down all the time. You’re well overdue for a replacement. Can I come in?”
7. Return to East Hills
East of the border to the Restricted Zone, a convoy of trucks laboured up a steep incline, fuel cells straining. Rion and his friends sat in the back of one such truck, watching the city fall away behind them. Their destination was the old detention centre near East Hills. Hardy weeds, virtually immune to drought, had colonised the Eastern highway’s deep potholes and spread across the crumbling tarmac, while in other places the tarmac itself had fractured and split, allowing the rampant earth to retake the contested area. Baked in a tarry oven beneath an unforgiving sun, and now flattened and crushed by the wheels of the convoy’s trucks, the weeds endured. It was a bumpy ride. At the crest of the great block of hills stood the ghost town of Manjaring. As the convoy rolled through town, Rion looked for but could not find the home of Tim Kennedy, the man who’d driven him to Yellowcake Springs back in ‘58.
“What are you looking for?” Vanya asked, tapping him on the shoulder. A runty youth barely old enough to be drafted into the CPF, Vanya had piercing blue eyes and often wore a solemn expression on his face. His head was shaved except for some blond stubble and he had the look of an oversized pickpocket about him.
“Friend of mine lived back there,” Rion said. “Looks like he’s long gone.”
A vast swathe of bushland had been burned out east of Manjaring. All that remained were charred tree stumps and a fine layer of black ash. For kilometre upon kilometre, the landscape was lacking the optimistic green shoots one normally saw in the aftermath of such a conflagration. There was no sign of recent habitation, just the abandoned roadhouses and hamlets. The land itself seemed to have died.
Turning off the battered highway at the detention centre, the trucks bumped along a track, tires sending up puffs of red dust. The door to the gatehouse had been ripped from its hinges and lay across the track, and the boom gate was bent back from where some booze-fuelled yobbo had rammed it. The compound was basically intact, but the fence had been cut in several places.
The detention centre had been closed since before Rion’s time, and henceforth it had become a hangout for riff-raff and miscellaneous scum. In his youth, Rion and the other ferals he had roamed with had come up here to destroy whatever they could and to smoke and drink whatever came to hand. Consequently, the compound was not only choked with waist-high weeds but also faded confectionery wrappers, rusted beer cans, broken glass and discarded bongs.
Memories of the raw sting of bourbon swilled straight from the bottle came galloping back to him. The bitter taste of bile and the stench of black vomit spewed from empty stomachs. The occasional brief and unsatisfactory act of copulation with an older girl floating in a deranged haze. The drug-induced stupor, the directionless violence, the nameless rage: such had been the nature of his childhood.
“Huddle up, recruits,” the team leader called out to them as they disembarked. Hands on fleshy hips, he appraised the scene. He was eager, he was pudgy, and he gesticulated with his hands a lot when he spoke. His name was Turley. “Now, I know we’ve all had a long morning, and it’s going to take a good few days to get this mess straightened out, but I want some volunteers for a brief reconnaissance sortie into town. Remember, our role here is to support the local community in restoring the town to a state of law and order. First we’ll need to liaise with local community leaders in developing that framework. I hear there’s a man among us who was raised in the area. Rhys, is it? Rhys? Step forward, my good man.”
With infinite reluctance, Rion came forward.
“Great, you stand over here,” Turley said. “Now I need four or five others. I don’t want to have to pick people, but I will if I have to.”
Of the hundred or so recruits, only three raised their hand to volunteer for the task. Vanya was one of them. They were called forward and made to stand facing the sullen majority. Marcel smirked at Rion and Vanya.
Turley spoke again: “I’m leaving my 2IC, Ms Pels, in charge of the rest of you. She’ll assign you your initial tasks and help to distribute the cleaning products. No slacking now, and if you’ll excuse my French, let’s get this shit tidied up. You can expect us back by sundown.” A great groan went up from the congregation, suddenly realising that they’d drawn the short straw after all. The smirk disappeared from Marcel’s face as the volunteers walked over to the team leader’s truck.
“Rion, can you come sit up front, please?” Turley asked him. Rion did as he was told; at least the cabin was air-conditioned. Turley got behind the wheel and drove the truck back out along the track before re-joining the highway. It wasn’t far from here to East Hills.
“All right,” Turley said. “You direct me to the main part of town.”
Rion peered out the window. The truck was at the top of Tyne Street and the road ahead was filled with the rusted hulks of cars and other debris. “Keep following this road and it’ll take us over the bridge into town,” he said. “I doubt you can drive down the main street though; it used to be blocked off.”
Turley drove slowly, picking his way between the obstacles. He didn’t speak as they drove across the tilted, sagging bridge. What had formerly been the Blake River was now a barren, salt-caked wasteland.
“Mr Turley?” Rion said as they reached the far end of the bridge.
“Yes, Rhys?”
“It’s Rion, sir. We don’t have any weapons on hand, do we? Maybe some rifles?”
Turley slowed to a stop and turned to Rion.
“The CPF is not an occupying force, like I’ve said. I have my pistol, of course.”
“But what about for self-defence?” Rion insisted. “There used to be a militia group here. They had automatic rifles and they loved using them on slow-moving targets.”
“The militia you refer to has been liquidated,” Turley said, inching the truck forward. “The army drove them out back in ‘58.”
“That’s more than three years ago, sir. They may have regrouped.” Now the truck had arrived at a crossroads. On the corner stood the boarded-up Blake Bridge Tavern, and a few hundred metres up the road was the police station where Rion had once taken his first and so far only human life. “Turn left here,” he said. “This is Gerald Street. I think you should pull over.”
“Are you suggesting that we proceed on foot in this heat?”
“No, sir. I’m suggesting that we don’t proceed at all without a vehicle with some kind of armour-plating.”
“I know you were born in this town, but for now we’ll continue on,” Turley said. “I feel you overstate the danger.”
Someone had cleared the main street of derelict vehicles to a large extent, but Rion couldn’t help but feel that they were being lured into a trap. The dusty shops, some of which had been open in ‘58, appeared to be entirely abandoned. No one walked the streets.
“There,” Rion said. “I saw something moving in an upstairs window at the far end of the street. It’ll be the militia.”
Turley stopped the truck again. Those in the back must’ve been wondering what was going on. “You’re quite sure?” he asked.
“Completely sure, sir. There’s no way out if they start shooting. Trust me.”
“Very well,” Turley said, performing a U-turn. “We’ll withdraw. If the militia do hold the town, then they will now have been made aware of our presence. We will return more appropriately equipped in the morning.”
Rion was greatly relieved to be turning back onto Tyne Street again. Even the rotting bridge was safer than driving down East Hills’ central drag unarmed.
“What’s that building on the left there?” Turley asked, pointing to a large, white structure.
“That’s the old mill,” Rion said. “People might be living in it for all I know.”
“Then we shall take up a forward position on the far side of the river, an advance post in one of those houses along the river’s edge. Due to your local knowledge, I shall ask you to lead this vanguard,” Turley said.
“We’ll need guns, sir. And some body armour. And I want to choose who comes with me.”
“You’ll be provided with all three. So you accept?”
“You’re the boss,” Rion said, eyeing the silent town.
8. The Scimitar
The handover of the Advertising portfolio completed by Friday afternoon, Jeremy spent the weekend stewing. Why did new jobs always have to start on a Monday? All the expensive single malt scotches, all the entertainment extravaganzas he’d taken Hui to, all the massages he’d received and the saunas he’d sweated through over the past months had not calmed his scrambled mind. Nor had Clarissa and her predecessors quelled, quenched or quashed his restless, relentless lust.
A lifetime of Taoist reading, the mysteries of the I Ching and Zhuangzi’s cheerful mockery of government posts and positions, had not truly prepared him for power. He had not achieved a quiet heart, as the I Ching directed, and nor was he the superior man. He did not embody the philosophy of wu wei, of moving and not moving in perfect harmony with the external world. Unlike Zhuangzi, he had not spent his days in a state of carefree wandering. Knowing this, he sat in his study and tears rolled from his eyes. He was in a terrible state; he was unworthy and he would be exposed. He had been drinking for many, many hours.
It was just after six on Monday morning and he hadn’t slept more than an hour or two of the previous night. His big meeting with Li and the other Sinocorp directors started at nine. Perversely, he felt pleased to feel ill, satisfied to have to struggle through the morning. He had behaved poorly for an extended period of time, and if no one punished him for it then he’d have to mete out the punishment on himself. With this in mind, he dragged the abused vessel he called his body into an upright position, and staggered in the direction of the shower. He would purify himself and then he would be ready to face the world afresh.
After his shower he managed to eat a slice of unbuttered toast and drink a cup of black coffee. Then he shaved off the thin, black wisps that adorned his face and brushed his teeth so vigorously that his gums bled. His snappiest suit was laid out on the spare bed for him, and his briefcase lay open on the breakfast bar. He was ready to leave the house by 08:15, and in the bustle of Antimatter Avenue he felt almost human. Yes, he was drunk, but he could pass it off as a summer cold.
Today’s big meeting was at the Scimitar, an outlandish Amber Zone structure that had been designed by none other than the infamous David Baron, the man they called the Great Criminal. The building thrust upward into the sky in a manner that was clearly and perhaps even self-consciously phallic. In the aftermath of the June First attack, there’d been talk of tearing it down, of expunging the name of David Baron from CIQ Sinocorp’s history books, but the building had been extremely expensive to build and the bigwigs loved it. The building’s association with the Great Criminal only heightened its notoriety, its mystique.
Their conference room was on the top floor, of course, at the Scimitar’s tip. Jeremy liked to look out over the town from the observation deck, but today he made a point of being seated at the conference room’s great, glossy hardwood table by 08:45. Taking his lead, the other directors, Tiffany included, started to drift over and take their seats.
Time for some composure, he counselled himself. No one seemed to have noticed that he was, in fact, a collection of disparate voices – some gloating, others anguished – an array of conflicting and contradictory selves. They did not question his existence or his presence at this table. They did not smell the alcohol on his breath that he’d masked by consuming a copious number of mints. All they saw was what he apparently, objectively was: a forty nine year-old Australian born Chinese with a hairline in recession and a reputation for being an easy-going boss. In him they saw a rival, someone who’d somehow scrambled up the hierarchy a shade more nimbly than they themselves, but they did not see him as he saw himself, and for that he could be thankful.
“You look deep in thought, Jeremy,” Tiffany said from across the table. She looked well pleased with herself; today was a big day for her too.
“I’m thinking about poor old Yang Po,” he said. The other directors nodded soberly. It would not do well to gloat over their colleague’s demise, even if they were to benefit from the subsequent reshuffle. Tiffany nodded and went back to her conversation with the only other female deputy director, Lillian Chu.
A minute or two before 09:00, the silver centre of the table began to glow, indicating that Mr Li was almost ready to make his appearance. The hubbub quietened, and they sat respectfully as the hologrammatic upper body of the aged patriarch strobed into view. Li’s form was projected outward at all points equally, meaning that although he was in the middle of the table, he faced each of his directors and deputy directors as though he spoke to them alone.
“Did you sleep well, Grand Director?” one of the many sycophants asked, striving to maintain the necessary fiction that Li slept at all, that he was still human.
“Very well, Director Hu, but not for very long,” Li said, his wrinkled face crinkling into a smile. “I hope that each of you is well?”
“We are, Grand Director.”
“In perfect health, Grand Director.”
“That is good,” Li said. “My interest in your health is not an idle one, as the case of Yang Po makes clear. Each of you is worth tens of millions to the company, and more than that you are invaluable elders of the Yellowcake Springs community, so I implore you to look after yourselves first and foremost. I might not need to sleep much
these days, and it’s true that I consume no more than a sparrow does, but you, my friends, are made of more delicate stuff than I. Attend to your own needs, but do not engage in gluttony. Be comfortable but not pampered. And, more than anything, attend to your spiritual development. From this, all other considerations must flow.”
“Yes, Grand Director.”
Jeremy knew it to be no more than an illusion, but Li’s words, seemingly whispered into his ear, pierced his heart. He felt both chastened and uplifted, as though the words were intended for him alone.
“Now, let us start with a rundown of the issues facing Security,” Li said. “Yang Po’s deputy Lillian Chu has covered the portfolio quite adequately over the past week, but I feel that this most critical of portfolios needs a more experienced Director. Ms Chu’s time will come, but it is with great satisfaction that I announce Jeremy Peters to be the new Acting Director of Security. Should Yang Po be deemed unfit to return to his post, then Jeremy will take up the position substantively.”
Polite applause. They already knew, of course.
“Let none of us forget that Security is our overriding priority here at Yellowcake Springs,” Li continued. “The failures of June First must never be repeated. We will remain vigilant to any threat, either internal or external, that may face us in the troubled times we find ourselves in. Jeremy will be asked to report to this forum in a fortnight on the nature of these risks, at which time we will discuss any newly proposed security measures. We wish you the best of luck, Jeremy.”
Jeremy nodded and smiled. It looked like he wouldn’t have to speak on Advertising or Security.
“Next up is Infrastructure. Mr Liang?”
Liang Xi was a white-haired Sinocorp veteran who claimed not only to have seen Li in the flesh, but to have actually worked alongside him in the homeland in the thirties. This was felt to be the main reason why Liang continued to hold so senior a post when he was clearly well past his use-by date.
