Yellowcake Summer

by Guy Salvidge

  The flitter was a transparent, teardrop-shaped bubble and it was green in colour. It waited patiently for him in the subterranean storage area beneath the Eye. Programmed to recognise his approach and his authority, the flitter prepped itself, its headlights winking on in greeting. He climbed inside and peered at the holographic panel, not entirely sure how to operate the controls. As the flitter was entirely automated it could not be manually steered. He set 214 Heisenberg Street as the destination and sat back as a ring of lights came on around the flitter. The roof above the flitter opened and a platform with the flitter on it ascended until it clicked into place at street level.

  The flitter made its way along the wide pedestrian concourse. There was a siren of sorts, but it was only loud enough for those in the immediate vicinity to hear. The speed on the panel ticked up to thirty kilometres an hour and hovered there. People looked at him through the transparent fibreglass and he looked back at them.

  The apartment in question was like any other: reasonably new, brightly coloured and tidy from the outside. Heisenberg was one of the older residential streets in Yellowcake Springs, making it about five years old. There were plenty of parks, a primary school and even an artificial lake within walking distance. It didn’t look like the kind of place where someone would be murdered, but then nowhere in town looked like such a place. The side of the flitter opened, depositing him on the doorstep, before folding back up into itself to await his return. There were two Security officers present, one at the top of the external stairs and the other inside. The man inside was the one Jeremy had spoken to earlier, but he didn’t think he’d run into the other before.

  “What have we got?” Jeremy asked the man on the stairs.

  “Not much as yet, Mr Peters,” he said.

  “No witnesses?”

  “No, sir. The death was reported via the victim’s implants.”

  “Any word on murder versus suicide?”

  “I don’t see how it could have been a suicide, sir. To do that to yourself, you’d have to hold a pistol to the back of your head. In my opinion, the wound isn’t consistent with the impact having been made at point blank range. I think Ballistics will be able to rule it out, but we’ll have to wait on their report.”

  “What about the surveillance footage?” Jeremy asked. “Have we got something from inside the apartment?”

  “We’re still working on that, sir. I’m told there might be a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  The man faltered. “Ah, we seem to be locked out of the file to this particular apartment, and the street view as well. There’s a note attached. It’s signed with your name, sir.”

  “What? I signed nothing!” Jeremy reeled. Something was happening to him and he didn’t understand it. It had happened and it was still happening. He walked into the apartment and went into the bedroom, where the other Security man stood in the corner of the room. Robert Given lay face down across the bed and he was naked. A lot of blood had seeped from the head wound onto the sheets, but there was very little else in the way of carnage.

  Jeremy looked down at the dead man. Given’s face was turned to one side and his expression was one of surprise. “What the fuck is going on here?” he said quietly. Locked out of the very Security surveillance that was supposed to protect the citizens of the town? It was unheard of. It was a setup for sure, and he would have to figure out what was going on quickly or he was going down. He’d have to talk to the Grand Director and try to obtain access to the footage. He’d even have to talk to Hui about Given, find out if she knew anything.

  First he was going to need another drink.

  18. Misanthropos

  Sylvia sat on the couch in the unpainted house in the 2012 simulation. There was nothing to clean or tidy here, not a speck of dirt or an item misplaced. She found that she liked the large, empty spaces and smooth, uncluttered benches.

  There came a knock on the front door, so she rose to her feet and opened it. Two people stepped into the house, one of whom was familiar. The familiar person was Tamara Jessup and the other was introduced as Eli Dennis-Singh. Sylvia had no idea whether this smallish man was a true facsimile of the real man, or indeed whether he existed in the real world at all. Tamara was real, however, and it seemed she had the confidence to allow her CDS profile to be a direct copy of her corporeal form.

  “So this is one of the friends I’ve heard so much about,” Sylvia said to Tamara as the three of them sat down at a wooden table in the dining room. Tamara smiled in acknowledgement.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Sylvia,” Eli said. He wore a serious expression on his round face and he didn’t smile.

  “So you’re the leader, I’m guessing,” Sylvia said, trying to break the ice.

  “We don’t have leaders as such,” Eli said, frowning. “Our organisation is run on democratic lines. I am the founder of this cell, but that’s all.”

  “Good,” Sylvia said. “Tamara and I have had a couple of productive chats recently, and I hope I’ve done enough to prove my bona fides to you. But I’ve got a couple of questions before we take this any further.”

  “Go on.”

  “I wasn’t keen on the idea of Misanthropos in ‘58 because of the way David played it. I didn’t believe then that attacking a nuclear reactor was a sane thing to do in any circumstances, and I don’t believe it now. Tamara assures me that you agree with me. Yes?”

  “Yes,” Eli said. “We have no such plans.”

  “We agree with David’s theories on population reduction, but not his practice,” Tamara added.

  “But without practice, the theory is moot,” Eli said. “Our plan is for a demonstration to take place at Yellowcake Springs. It is to be a peaceful march.”

  “Surely you guys realise that Sinocorp aren’t going to let me anywhere near the town? I’ll be arrested if I set foot across the border.”

  “If we are refused access to the town itself, which as you say seems very likely, then we will conduct our protest at the border.”

  “That’s out in the bush,” Sylvia said. “I don’t know if you’ve been out there, but it’s practically a desert.”

  “We’ll provide buses and all the necessary logistics,” Eli said.

  “All right,” Sylvia said. “So what kind of timeline are you looking at? David’s going to be on death row for a year, at least.”

  “At the very least,” Eli replied. “We expect the appeals process to take between twelve and twenty-four months. And David has made some friends in high places.”

  It was Sylvia’s turn to frown. “Really? How high?”

  Eli smiled faintly. “The highest. David has already become a political football. A great number of people, many of whom are sympathetic to our cause, are angry at the collaborators in our State and Federal Governments. They’ve had enough of Australian assets being sold off en masse and Australian jobs being gobbled up by migrant workers on temporary visas.”

  “You’re not telling me that you’re linked with the opposition?” Sylvia asked.

  “The opposition,” Eli said, “is no such thing. By definition, an opposition is supposed to oppose the Government of the day, but in actual fact it does no such thing at either level. We ourselves are the true opposition, but we remain outside the official political spectrum.”

  “You claim to have non-violent intentions, and you’ve already said that you want to start a protest movement. So who will be your supporters, if you’re not politically aligned?”

  “We’re a grassroots movement,” Tamara said.

  “All movements are political,” Eli said. This is not to say that we are naïve, or stupid, or mindlessly idealistic. The situation requires action, possibly even action that will lead to, or at least facilitate, violence. But we will not attack any reactors or nuclear materials, and the name of Misanthropos will never appear on any information that we disseminate.”

  That word, finally. Sylvia had wondered how long it’d take for someone to
have the courage to utter it. “You said before that you were the founding member of this cell. I take it there are others?”

  “No one knows how many.”

  “That’s the great thing about Misanthropos,” Tamara said, obviously emboldened by Eli’s utterance of the infamous word. “There are no rules about starting your own cell. Anyone can start one. And if you don’t agree with what the other cells are doing, you’re free to say so.”

  “Anarchy,” Sylvia said, looking at Eli. “It might be workable while the movement is small, but once it starts to grow... ”

  “It’s growing already,” Eli said. “And I’m well aware of the dangers posed by such a model. But the movement must grow organically, at least at first. Any artificial strictures would only serve to limit our growth. But now that we have a cause celebre, our numbers are swelling fast. David’s sentence is the best thing that could have happened to us.”

  It might be her imagination, but Tamara looked a little shocked. “You don’t care if he dies?” Sylvia said.

  Eli looked straight at her. “Misanthropos is all about death, no matter how you try to spin it. David needs to die, preferably at his own hand, to prove that we are serious about population reduction.”

  “But the appeals.”

  “The appeals buy us time, nothing more,” Eli said. “CIQ Sinocorp and the Chinese will exert considerable pressure and will back the Federal Government into a corner. And as for the State Government: they’re the ones who rolled out the red carpet for Sinocorp and companies like it in the first place.”

  “I agree,” Sylvia said. It occurred to her then that she’d forgotten all about the AFP and the SCA. To her surprise, she found that she truly agreed with what Eli was saying. If only she knew whether the AFP were spying on her in here.

  “I think we can move forward, Eli?” Tamara said.

  Eli nodded. “There is a delicate matter.”

  “Yes?” Sylvia said.

  “You understand the importance of David Baron as the figurehead of our movement,” Eli said. “Presumably you also understand your own importance to us as the link between the old Misanthropos and the new.”

  “I divorced him,” she said. “I’m not getting married to him again.” She hoped that sounded final.

  “No, and we won’t ask you to, but we will ask you not to speak of the divorce unless absolutely necessary.”

  She considered the request. “I won’t bring it up.”

  “Then we can begin moving forward, as Tamara said.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning we make our plans for our inaugural protest march,” Eli said. “We must move, but not precipitously. It’s the end of November now, so I propose that we organise our march for mid-January. That would give us time to make the necessary preparations.”

  “January?” Sylvia said. “That’s the height of summer. There’s going to be severe water restrictions, I’ve heard. The worst yet.”

  “Precisely, but the moment when the sun is highest is also the moment at which it begins to make its descent.”

  “I see. There’s something else: my father. He’s dying and I don’t think he can last much longer.” She thought of him alone in his sick bed as she lay in a coma of her own making.

  “We can provide assistance,” Tamara said. “Financial, if necessary.”

  “I thought I had things under control,” Sylvia said. She had to tread carefully here, lest she reveal the salient point that she was receiving funds from the same Australian Government that Eli and his followers held in such low regard. “I don’t want to send him to a public hospital.”

  “At the very least we could assist with some form of palliative care,” Tamara said. “Eli?”

  An awkward silence. “The common person takes their chances with the public system or they die,” he said.

  Sylvia looked at him, saw the hardness in his eyes. “I owe it to him,” she said. “I’ve been looking after him, day and night. My mother is run off her feet at work. She can’t pay the bills. She doesn’t have the money to run the air-conditioner for more than a couple of hours a day.”

  “A familiar story,” Eli said. “Very familiar. You have my sympathies.”

  “You’ll have to excuse Eli’s rudeness,” Tamara said. “His own mother died last year in a public hospital.”

  “Yes, and she was lucky to be admitted at all,” Eli said. “We can probably assist your father, Sylvia.”

  “I just can’t afford private care for him,” Sylvia said. “It’s far too expensive. And I’m not sending him to Regal Perth. I’m sorry about your mother, but I won’t send him there.”

  “And nor should you. Those who are denied dignity in life are also denied dignity in death,” Eli said. “Too many mouths and not enough food to fill them. These are undignified times.”

  “I’d appreciate your help,” Sylvia said. “Anything you can spare.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” Eli said, and they all rose. Sylvia wondered whether he would offer to shake her hand, but he did not. He walked out of the house without another word.

  Tamara smiled at her and made conciliatory gestures for Eli’s abrasive behaviour. “I’m sorry to hear about your father,” she said.

  “I’m glad someone understands.”

  “You did well today,” Tamara said. “He’s impressed by you.”

  “He has a funny way of showing it.”

  “That’s just how he is; you’ll get used to him.”

  “Let me know what’s happening, all right?”

  “I will. Our doctor friend will be around sometime tomorrow,” Tamara said. “You be sure to let me know if he doesn’t turn up.” She stepped out of the front door and shut it behind her.

  Sylvia brought up the main menu. Under the statistics tab it said she’d been under for more than two hours. She exited from CDS.

  In the real world, there she lay. On the couch. In the heat. Her tee-shirt damp with sweat. The air-conditioner was on, as it had been all morning, but it seemed utterly ineffectual beneath the onslaught from above.

  She got to her feet and wasted precious millilitres splashing water on her face at the kitchen sink. Then she went into the bathroom, where she stripped off her sweaty clothes and saw where her bra had rubbed her chest red. She stepped under the rusty showerhead and quarter-turned the tap. The tired pipes groaned and a filthy dribble issued forth. She turned the cold tap a little further and a better, costlier stream began to flow, although at first it was piping hot. The water was not safe to drink – it was said to contain harmful bacteria from the city’s ailing water recycling plants – and yet people drank it every day and made themselves sick.

  She made herself clean, or rather as clean as someone in her precarious financial position could make themselves. She scrubbed away at some hidden dirt that could not be dislodged: the dirt within. She washed her oily hair with shampoo. All too soon, and not entirely satisfied, fiscal prudence prevailed and she turned off the tap.

  It was as though she knew in advance what she would see when she opened her parents’ bedroom door. The shower had been a way of purifying herself before she made her final absolution. There weren’t any sounds coming from the master bedroom and the smell was not pleasant, but those facts in themselves meant nothing. She turned the handle, a glass of purified water for her father to drink in her other hand.

  A faint sound: a breath.

  She threw off the sheets that clung to him and held his hand. It was far too hot in here and yet he was shivering. He was as thin as a person could be. His chest was moving, but barely.

  “Dad,” she said. “You need to drink something. I brought you water.”

  A miracle: he opened his eyes and fixed his gaze upon her. She knew that he was too weak to speak and so this was enough, this was the closure she required. She propped him up a little and poured some water into his mouth. He did not seem to be able to swallow.

  Her father first smiled, and then his face began to change in
to an expression that was less recognisable. Tears fell from her eyes onto his forehead. It was the final rain that would fall upon him. It was over.

  PART TWO

  January 2062

  Prologue: The Bitterest Pill

  New Year’s Day of 2062 brought David Baron an unexpected visitor. The visitor’s name was Eli Dennis-Singh and David had met him once before and had corresponded with him in Controlled Dreaming State many times, both before and, occasionally, during his incarceration. David knew Eli to be a cell organiser for Misanthropos, a rising star in the organisation. Now he sat across from David, pensive and coiled. It wasn’t quite an illicit meeting but there were no wardens – no witnesses – and David didn’t know why.

  “You don’t want for much here, do you?” Eli said, gesturing to the expanse of David’s prison quarters, which were larger and more lavish than the homes of most free citizens.

  “I am condemned to die, Eli.”

  “Even so,” Eli said, clasping his hands. The man’s eyes were dark, his expression hard. David had never trusted him.

  “What brings you here?” David asked.

  “I come to offer the condolences of those in my cell.”

  “You know about the appeal, of course. It will take time.”

  “Years,” Eli agreed. “And there’s a strong chance that the sentence will be commuted to life imprisonment.”

  “So I’m told, but I’m sure it’s easy to remain optimistic when it isn’t your life on the line.”