by Guy Salvidge
“Thank you, Grand Director,” Liang said. “Our capital works in the Green Zone continue on time and under budget. It seems certain that we will be able to announce the opening of the Stage 3 housing development by February of next year at the latest.”
“And what of the works in the Red Zone? The reactors?”
“The Jiang Wei Reactor is still causing us some small difficulties,” Liang admitted. “The source of the radiation leak has been identified, and in truth the levels are infinitesimal – ”
“ – there’s no such thing as a trivial discharge!” Li snapped. “I don’t care how minuscule the leak is, I want it rectified! We won’t need the Stage 3 development if we can’t convince more Australians to move here! We’ve had a hard enough time selling Stage 2.”
“Yes, Grand Director,” Liang said, his head bowed.
“You’re thinking too much in terms of the actual threat and not enough in terms of the perceived, old Xi,” the Grand Director continued. “We’re still repairing the public relations damage that the June First attack did to us. We can’t afford even the slightest slip-up in this area. But this brings me to happier news: the Advertising portfolio, where I am pleased to announce that Tiffany Cramer will step into the role vacated by Jeremy. I think we’ve all seen how energetically Tiffany has worked in her various roles over these past years, and I’m sure you’ll join me in congratulating her on attaining the role of Acting Director of Advertising.”
Warm applause, far warmer than Jeremy had received, filled the room. Jeremy’s hands were clapping too but his cheeks were burning. Tiffany proceeded to blow them all away with an enthusiastic and comprehensive review of the issues facing the Advertising portfolio. She spoke longer and in more detail than he had ever done. She’d been rhapsodising for nearly ten minutes when he finally lost his patience. “What about the Barons?” he interjected.
Tiffany was momentarily flummoxed. “What about them?” she asked.
“Sylvia Baron has just been released from custody, and David Baron is to be executed, as I’m sure you’re aware. The other two have taken a plea bargain.”
“I would have thought that’d be more a matter for your new portfolio, Jeremy?” she said, recovering. “With your experience in dealing with both David and Sylvia Baron, I would think you’d be ideally suited to the challenge?”
A low blow but a good one. He sat back.
“I think Jeremy has a point,” Li said to the surprise of everyone. “We need to tackle the challenge presented by the Barons head on, in both a security and a public relations sense. Perhaps the next ‘vert could make some indirect mention of them?”
“Yes, Grand Director,” Tiffany said. Somehow Jeremy had won this round, but at what cost? His old second-in-command seethed at him. He’d have to apologise. He made sure to keep his mouth shut after that. After the reports from each of the Directorates were finished, Li suggested that they discuss the merits of banning CIQ Sinocorp employees, meaning each and every person in Yellowcake Springs, from using Controlled Dreaming State except in the course of their work. Tiffany was naturally opposed to the ban: “Grand Director, you said before that we need to attract more Australians to Yellowcake Springs. Banning CDS would be an unpopular measure and thus I would not be in favour of such a ban.”
“Of course it would be initially unpopular,” Li said. “But the problems caused by this technology are not going away. I’m a curmudgeon, but I’ve observed that employees who use CDS are often apathetic, overly tired, and disinclined to participate in the community to the fullest possible extent. I imagine that a ban could reinvigorate the life of the community.”
Most of the others were on the fence, not wanting to state their privately-held opinions in the way that Tiffany had. Li’s rhetoric clearly drifted in the direction of a ban.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Grand Director,” Jeremy surprised himself by saying.
“Go on, Jeremy.”
“Personally, I do not care for Controlled Dreaming State,” he said. “I prefer my pleasures to be real ones.”
“As do I, Jeremy, as do I,” Li said.
Jeremy couldn’t help but smile at that. What did Li know of real pleasure, his body rotting in cryostasis, his only manifestation these hologrammatic apparitions? “But here’s my point,” he continued. “I can afford real scotch whiskey and a cruise on an actual ocean liner, but most people cannot. Not even our employees. So if you take Controlled Dreaming State from them, you take their dreams and their feeling of contentment. CDS might make people apathetic but it also makes them significantly easier to police. Thus as Director of Security I stand opposed to a ban.”
“I see,” Li said, stroking his chin. “I would have thought that the lessons of June First would make us wary of Controlled Dreaming State. Let us not forget that the attack on the reactors was masterminded in CDS.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Jeremy said.
“And yet you remain opposed?” Li pressed.
“I remain opposed,” he said, looking down.
“No such ban can go ahead without the approval of the Director of Security. We will sit on the proposal for another fortnight, to give you time to consider all the pros and cons.”
The meeting wound up by 10:30 and Jeremy could not help but feel that he’d won back a little of the respect among the other Directors that he’d thrown away so hastily before. But there was always a counter balance, in this case that he’d drawn the Grand Director’s ire. He’d best not be making a habit of it.
“Tiffany, a word please,” he said as the Directors began to disperse. “I wanted to apologise for what I said before.”
She shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
“It isn’t nothing. I was being petulant and thus I offer you my unreserved apology.”
“Is that why you opposed the CDS ban? To make it up to me?”
It was his turn to shrug. “Who can say what might have happened in one of the infinite parallel universes we do not inhabit?”
“Never lost for a turn of phrase, are you?” she said, getting to her feet.
He touched her shoulder lightly. “There’s one other thing, a routine matter.”
“Oh?”
He steeled himself. “It entirely slipped my mind to promote Clarissa Wheatley into the vacant Virtual Engineering role alongside Zina Hadith. I intended to do it on Friday. Can you organise it?”
She looked at him. “Clarissa Wheatley?” she said. “I’m thinking of Tammy Ngog for that role. But if you think it best?”
“Clarissa is very good at what she does,” he said.
“I’m sure she is. Well, let it not be said that Jeremy Peters doesn’t look after his own,” she said carefully. “Clarissa for the VE role it is. Good luck in Security, Jeremy.”
“Thanks. I guess you don’t want me back in Advertising anytime soon?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” The conference room had emptied; they were the last to leave, and Tiffany was clearly impatient.
“You never know,” he said. “If I screw up in Security badly enough, I might end up beneath you.” He attempted a disarming grin.
“No chance of that,” she said, walking out.
9. Job Hunting
Stuck in Greywood with her irritable mother and invalid father, it wasn’t long before Sylvia decided to go out and look for a job at one of the local shops. She was a university educated professional, so how hard could it be? Surely not everyone would hold her past misdeeds against her. Obviously she’d have to start back at the bottom to some extent, but it’d work out. At least, that was the kind of thinking that got her out the door on an already stifling Tuesday morning. It beat skulking inside all day listening to her father’s death-rattle groans.
It was only a short walk along Warrine Road to the Greywood shops. A small park stood in between. Chronic water shortages meant that the park was no longer properly grassed as it had been in her youth. The children’s play equipment had been seedy and
dilapidated even then. She used to sit under the huge jarrah trees for hours, or she’d walk through the park to the back streets of Greywood on one of her endless meanderings. But she didn’t have time for meandering this morning; she needed to get on with the job hunting.
“Got something to drink? I’m thirsty,” a blearily-eyed, stubble-faced drifter asked. Sylvia hadn’t seen him coming or she would have given him a wide berth. Now it was too late. He was obviously homeless and probably mentally unwell, judging by the sorry state of him.
“I’m thirsty too,” she lied. Now that her parents’ water purifier had been replaced, potable water was about the only thing they did have in the house.
“Haven’t seen you around here before,” the drifter said, “but you look kinda familiar.”
“I grew up around here,” she said.
His expression hardened and he moved closer. He reached out to grab a hold of her arm but she anticipated this and twisted away. She started to run and the drifter couldn’t, or wouldn’t, follow. But now she was heading in the other direction from the Greywood shops. She slowed to a walk, sweating heavily in the heat. She didn’t feel like looking for a job anymore; she felt like finding a place to hide. But the dusty streets offered little relief. It was foolish to stray out of doors in this weather, but here she was. She occasionally saw a dog or child, but for the most part nothing much stirred. Sullen faces in windows observed her passage.
Further along, the path led to a footbridge across the freeway. Her adolescence had been marked in many ways by the freeway and the drone of its innumerable cars. She had breathed the freeway and its fumes; her world had been bisected by it. She had stood on the footbridge many times, trying to imagine her way into the minds of those souls trapped in the peak hour crush. Reaching the middle of the footbridge now, she noticed signs of habitation in the form of a dirty blanket and a deflated silver sachet of wine. A man slept propped up against the bridge’s railing, his face shaded by the flattened cardboard box he’d tied to the railing above him.
It wasn’t that far a drop, maybe ten or fifteen metres. As long as she didn’t land on her head or neck, she probably wouldn’t be killed outright. The more she leaned over the railing, the tighter she gripped onto the metal bars and onto her life.
“Don’t do it,” a hoarse voice said. Sylvia looked down. She’d woken the sleeper with her stunt.
“I wasn’t going to jump,” she said.
“Thinking about it though, weren’t you?” the old man said.
“Maybe.”
Groaning, the man rolled over and got to his feet. His face was incredibly tanned and wrinkled from a life under the sun. He looked down at the freeway. “It’s never quite as bad as you think,” he said. “At least you’ve got your health. You do have your health, don’t you?”
“I guess so.”
One bloodshot eye appraised her. “Pretty young thing like you. I want you to remember this if you can: the world owes you nothing. Not life, not health, not good fortune. The fact that you are alive at all is a miracle and yet you want to throw it away. Don’t you?”
“I don’t want to throw it away.”
“Maybe not today, but you’re toying with the idea. I don’t know what misfortune has befallen you, but it’s probably no more than has befallen others. I want you to look at me. Don’t be shy: really look.”
She looked at him. His bare, wasted arms were covered in scratches and minor abrasions, his hands seemed to have been corroded by some skin disease, and his mouth was an open sore. Those teeth that remained in his head were horribly decayed and his clothes were little more than rags.
“Not a pretty sight, am I?” he said. “But I’ve got something in the old tank yet. So next time you think of jumping or slashing yourself or taking all those pills, I want you to think of that old hobo on the bridge. All he wants to do every day is find a bite to eat, something to drink and a place to rest his weary head. He’s not complaining and he’s not about to throw in the towel. And I want you to think: if he can go on, then so can I.”
“You’ve said this before, haven’t you?”
“Sure, all the time,” the old man muttered. He shook his head wearily and, his spiel over, sat back down under his cardboard roof. “You wouldn’t believe the number of kids that try to throw their lives away on this bridge.”
She knelt beside him. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“Not asking for a handout. Just don’t throw yourself off my bridge. Man’s trying to sleep.”
Backtracking along the footbridge, Sylvia returned to her original task with renewed determination. A bigger shopping centre than the one in Greywood, Warrine Grove, wasn’t far away and there was a bus route that could take her there. There was even a sheltered bus stop nearby that didn’t smell too strongly of urine. According to the graffiti-etched timetable, a bus would be along shortly.
She waited.
The bus took its time coming, and by the time she saw it juddering up the hill, she’d been waiting at least twenty minutes. It still beat walking. She got on and sat down near the front.
“Hey, you didn’t pay your fare!” the driver said.
She went up and peered through the grille. She’d hadn’t been on any bus for so long, let alone a bus with a human driver, that she’d entirely forgotten about such things as tickets and fares. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m getting off at Warrine Grove. It’s not far.”
“No shit,” the driver said. “Swipe your fucking card already.”
She fumbled in her purse. There, the green Hub-Nexus card. How could she be so stupid? She swiped it through the reader.
“Sorry, thought you were a fare evader,” the driver said.
Sylvia sat down and the bus started moving.
Warrine Grove looked somewhat shabbier than she remembered it. Hostile-looking youths glared at her as she approached the entrance, but they did not try to accost her or the other shoppers in view of the even more hostile-looking security guards. Inside the centre, the air-conditioning seemed to have broken down, for the air was sticky and humid. The floor didn’t look like it’d been mopped for a long while. She bought herself a bottle of water from a vending machine near the entrance and sat in the food hall trying to psych herself up to ask for a job somewhere.
A Hub-Nexus ATM blinked at her, its illuminated panel flashing. She realised she had no idea how much money she had in her account, so she went over to the machine and swiped her card. She pressed the button for Account Balance.
Account Balance: $99, 977.50.
She stood looking at the screen for several seconds, not understanding how she had so much money. It wasn’t a fortune, but if she was frugal it could last her and her family at least a month. The machine started beeping impatiently. She pressed Recent Transactions. There were only three listings:
21/11/2061 $15.50 DR WG VendCorp
21/11/2061 $7.00 DR Perthway
19/11/2061 $100,000.00 CR AusGov #4129313810-C
Hub-Nexus card in hand, she sat down at a table to think. The Government had given her one hundred thousand dollars and they’d fixed her parents’ water purifier. This meant that the SCA was definitely real. Over the past couple of days, she had almost convinced herself that the whole thing was a ruse, that the replacement of the water purifier had been coincidental. But of course it was no such thing. The Government owned her. She didn’t need a job; she had one working for them.
“Thanks for the money,” she said aloud, not caring who thought her a crazy woman. “I guess I can forget about the job hunting. I’m going to spend some of this money getting my father into hospital, all right? It’ll probably be expensive.”
Sylvia pocketed the card and got to her feet. She might as well buy her family some food while she was here.
10. The Rusty Swan
Rion’s new house down by the river on Nestor Street was like a fortress. Vanya, whom Rion had chosen along with Marcel to join him on this assignment, had dubbed it the ‘R
usty Swan’ after the sign at the top of the driveway. The sign read Riverside in faded letters and was accompanied by an image of what had once been a painted swan. The paint was gone and now only a rusty outline of the swan remained. The house provided a clear view of the Tyne Street bridge and the silo on the far side of what could no longer be termed the Blake River. The dry riverbed was littered with decades-old rubbish and the occasional rusted hulk of a car or truck.
The house’s river-facing side was clad in steel mesh and the windows were barred. The mesh encompassed the undercover carport, where an ancient car sat on blocks. The only way into the compound was by way of a metal door in the mesh, which could be locked from the inside. Rion thought that one of Gillam’s right-hand men had probably lived here in ‘58, but there was no one here now and thankfully no gruesome discoveries waiting for them inside. The house sat on about an acre of dusty land and the front yard was filled with spiky cacti.
“What are we supposed to do around here, play cards?” Marcel asked as they unloaded their provisions in the kitchen.
“I thought I could catch up on some sleep,” Vanya replied, hauling the heavy flasks of water into the cupboard under the sink.
“Is that all you do?” Rion asked. “Laze around?”
“Boss man said to lay low, didn’t he?” Marcel said.
“I thought we might go see a friend of mine on the other side of town,” Rion said. His task was to stack dozens of cans of food into the pantry cupboard. “Her name’s Lydia.”
“What does she looks like?” Marcel asked, grinning.
“She looks like an old woman – ”
“Can’t you find us someone a bit younger?”
“ – and she has some things of mine.”
Marcel sat at the table and looked up as if expecting someone to wait on him. “What kind of things?”
Photo albums, hundreds of them that he’d collated over the years: that was what Lydia had. But there was no way he could tell Marcel and Vanya that. “Just some personal stuff,” he said.
