Gabriel continued to scan the Chronicle, knowing that he was wasting time but still drawn to the moving screen. It was a quad-daily—he was reading the last edition—and was typically 100 screens long, most of it discount ads. In the old days, he knew, what passed for news had been available on newsprint in something called a tabloid.
Attention Parents! The most favoured names for Stage One children this month are Rhonda and Donaldo. This fashion hint is brought to you by Aldalowich Family Outfitters & Candy Kitchen for the best in Revelation Night fashions!
Gabriel grunted as he polished off his donut. People were so fashion-conscious about naming their children these days. “Must have something to do with that damn cow,” Gabriel muttered.
Sid squinted at him from the other end of the counter and decided that Gabriel wasn’t expecting an answer.
Rhonda, the Udderly Fantastic Cow, seemed to be all the Mall-children talked about these days. Gabriel remembered that he’d actually caught himself whistling the ‘Rhonda Song’ the other day, despite his belief that Rhonda was a total marketing ripoff and that she was going to blow an udder once too often and finally self-destruct. ‘Wished to hell I’d bought in low on that one though,’ he thought.
When the Mall Directory pages appeared, Gabriel stuck out his right forefinger for no real reason and stopped the scroll. The directory page onscreen was number 9 of 1,052 screens listing currently available lusts, perversions, sick habits, and semi-unmentionable desires. They were always outlined in red on the screen, just beneath the list of job specialities. Gabriel scanned what was offered, pausing at…
Hamshift, Lewis Malcolm Donald. 22WM. Room 1653. D Complex. Scarborough Mall. Owner/Operator. Hamshift Antique Chairs & Dentistry. Best chairs anywhere! Special this month on re-fillings (amalgam only!) Lewis, who is into Vacuumware and VirtSex, wants to meet people who cheat at screencards, women with huge breasts, and anyone who knows how to 69.
Puzzled by the numerical reference, Gabriel tapped the screen, highlighted the numbers and waited the two seconds it took to identify ‘69’ as:
“The placement of two nude bodies atop each other in opposed directions for the purposes of engaging in simultaneous oral stimulation of the genitalia. Instructional videotape available at Nation Library, Level One, E.C..”
Gabriel frowned. He preferred using an Autoblow hologram delivered from Tony’s Sex-2-U once or twice a month. Sometimes, Mary would give him the little nudge in his ribs that meant she was ready to see him that evening. ‘69’? Not likely. In his ordered mind, how could he ever trust someone who screwed around with numbers? His surprising wit brought a smile to his face.
Abruptly, he snapped off the Chronicle and pushed it away. Too much of that was habit-forming. He turned to scan the mall, still fairly busy with last minute shoppers rushing about with lots of children in tow. Gabriel loved watching the children, loved their voices, their inquisitiveness, their joyous exuberance as they lived and played. He loved every stage of their upbringing. It was something he shared with his father, Elias, this deep need to love and protect.
Gabriel was their Guardian of the Malls, their knight, their hero on the TV, who told exciting stories of Grief Team adventures, showing their exploits Outside, and often using various types of explosives to reduce Wildkids’ haunts to rubble. Sometimes the Team managed to kill a Kid or two in the process, but those images were edited out and available only on the Jumbotron in SkyDome, where WK’s in the pens were shown every frame in vivid detail. Mall-children were educated about the dangers of Outside and, if they sometimes had nightmares about Wildkids, all the better. Danger was danger after all and it didn’t make sense to teach a mallchild to think otherwise. As for the Kids in the pens, it made them think twice about causing problems for their handlers.
Gabriel felt strangely free of all timely constraints today. He knew he should make his way back up to the office but the gentle flow of mall traffic was proving seductive. Everything seemed so...ordered, he thought.
“Let me have another Nescafé, Sid.”
Sid set up the replenishments, all the while keeping his yellow eyes on the stocks scrolling on the TV perched on the other end of the counter.
“Lost a fuckin’ fortune on the Celts yesterday,” he grumbled. “‘’bout time you gave me a half-decent tip, Gabriel.”
Gabriel returned excited waves and smiles from a girl and boy running past the counter and then rotated his stool back to anonymity.
“Now you know that I can’t do that, Sid. How do you know that I didn’t lose a bundle on the Celts myself? The whole world knows their population needs a boost; they were the safe choice.”
Sid nodded. “That’s what I thought. Fuckin’ Celts!” He put the coffee pot back on the warming stand and scratched his nose with a plastic-gloved finger. “A man can’t make a decent living with people like that still on the planet.” He turned and went back to the TV screen, no wiser. “Fuck the Swedes when they’re at home too.”
The foul odor of smoke brought Gabriel out of his reverie. Embedded deep within the fibres of the dark brown suit worn by the man standing beside him, this smoke had its own distinctiveness and Gabriel, had he not recognized Emmett Strachan, would have marked him instantly as an employee of the Crematoria anyway. There was no smell quite like it, not even radburns gone terminal could match it. The material and cut of the suit, although of best quality and obviously well-cared-for, was no guard against the absorption of carbons in the workplace. Gabriel experienced a distinct pang of unease.
He took a sharper account of the man. This distinctly unimpressive, nervous bureaucrat had worked side-by-side with Gordon Latimer. Latimer must have been bored out of his mind, the man had the look of a syphlitic radburn case and smelled of death. Gabriel felt his nose crinkling. “Hello, Emmett.”
The red face beamed at him. “I hope you don’t mind me interrupting you.”
Gabriel turned his face away for a moment and had a swallow of coffee while he tried to get the feeling back in his nose. Emmett Strachan eyed the last bite of frosted donut. He glanced at Gabriel, took the piece, and gobbled it down.
Gabriel stifled a sudden urge to laugh. “Help yourself.”
“Thank you. Very kind.” Emmett used a wrinkled handkerchief, dabbing at his top lip while glancing surreptitiously to the right-and-left, eyeing disinterested shoppers.
“Emmett?”
“Yes? Oh, of course! You are wondering why I am speaking with you? I hope you don’t mind my slipping up here, but I have brought you something.” His voice became a conspiratorial whisper. He reached into the left inside pocket of his jacket and removed a small package, placing it on the counter in front of Gabriel. Then he sat back expectantly as if Gabriel might now pronounce a judgment of yea or nay.
“What’s that?” asked Gabriel, making no move to pick it up.
“A diary. A hand-written diary.” There was a unmistakable note of triumph in the man’s voice.
“Yours?”
“No! Oh no! Gordon’s! I found it inside his desk at the office. It was taped under the main drawer.” Strachan’s tongue darted out to moisten his top lip. “That’s the first place a detective looks,you know.”
Gabriel tried not to laugh.
“That’s what I thought,” nodded Emmett, misunderstanding the look.
“The Crematoria office?”
“Yes.” The top lip was moistened again with the dexterity of a frog nailing a fly. Strachan’s tongue was quick, but not quick enough. The bright-red stains of betrayal along the inner lining of his mouth said ‘Redlets’ loud and clear. Gabriel gave no indication that he had noticed. It was interesting to note that the Assistant Director of Crematoria had a habit, but how unusual was that considering his job? Gabriel filed the fact anyway as Emmett continued, “I took the liberty of assuming that you might like to scan...um, read it.” He grimaced as though the effort had cost him something.”
“Did you?”
“I did, yes.” An
other interpretation occurred to him. “That is, I read it. I didn’t scan it.”
This is a man who is dying to unburden himself, Gabriel thought. He looked at the diary, outwardly without much interest, inwardly he was superstitiously aware that it was the real reason why he had banished time and stayed for the extra coffee. Curious, he thought, this sympathetic-magic…designed as intricately as the delightful conundrum of déja vu, it was human as human could be. In his life and work, Gabriel enjoyed these primeval gifts.
His senses told him that that small, black diary had not only been read but scanned as well, despite this man’s claim. Emmett Strachan was smart enough to back himself up, it appeared. He also hadn’t dropped the diary into the Stream at one of the many public transcoding stations in the mall, sealing it as ‘Director Only’. No, he was here, sweating buckets and stinking of death. He was waiting for his reward.
“It’s the darndest thing, Mr. Kraft,” said Emmett slowly, another flash of red greasing his top lip.
“Yes?”
“In the diary…Gordon…writes about embryos…”
“…and?”
“…and…a little problem with them.” Emmett’s hand disappeared into a pocket and produced a handkerchief which he used to erase beads of sweat from his forehead.
Gabriel picked up the diary. He sat for several long minutes, turning the slim black object over and over in his hands as if weighing unspoken options. Then he raised his head and smiled at Emmett.
“Gordon Latimer,” said the Director of the Grief Team slowly, “was…unlucky…but you, Emmett, you are one of our leading citizens in the malls.” There was a smile which accompanied this, one which prophesized confidence and the prospect of good things to come.
“I…I…why, thank you,” said Emmet, an evident smile of relief washing over his features. He reached out impulsively and shook Gabriel’s hand, wringing it until its owner disengaged himself.
“This,” said Gabriel, nodding at the diary, “is a testament to your belief in Toronto Nation.”
“Yes, yes it is!” There was fervour in Strachan’s voice.
”I’m wondering if you’d mind if I upgraded your Rations listing?” Gabriel purred. “But you know I don’t think that’s an accurate measure of your worth...would you accept a new apartment on B Complex? It’s very comfortable there and the neighbours are very friendly.”
Emmett Strachan’s head bobbed vigorously. “I…it’s so generous of you…I didn’t expect…”
“Nonsense, man! It’s the least I can do to show my appreciation.” Gabriel rose and patted Strachan’s shoulder. “And let’s see more of you, Emmett. Come to Elias’ next gathering. Bring your wife...Ellen...”
“...Elise...”
“Elise! Of course. Bring her too!”
Moments later, Strachan floated out of Druxy’s, with a look on his face that bespoke pure bliss.
“Who was that asshole?” grumbled Sid, topping up Gabriel’s coffee. “Smelled like fuckin’ death.”
Gabriel palmed the diary neatly and dropped it into his pocket.
“That’s the smell of death all right,” he agreed.
“Human beings are deceptive little fuckers and you have to watch their collective ass every second. Their uncanny ability to deceive is rooted in early development, an indisputable-anthropological-fuckin’ fact, clearly reinforced by the evolution of politicians, journalists, soap-opera stars, talk-show-hosts, and hairdressers. Certainly my experience has always led me to accept the inherent necessity of these particular elements of our species, but I have never given a rat’s ass about politicians and I wouldn’t let a hairdresser touch me!” (see endnote 4)
Emmett was well-versed in the lore of the late, lamented Mayor Dickie who had written, during his years alone in Sleepy Hollow, his Guide To The Human Soul, a series of tracts which every Mall person supposedly knew-by-heart.
Emmett was a consummate liar who was, nonetheless, not very good at it—it’s my nervous disposition that’s what it is…and that damn errant gene—and, as he stepped into the CleanBus which would take him to Scarborough Mall, he was not overly convinced that Gabriel Kraft had been completely taken in by what Emmett considered to be his ‘act.’ Still, Emmett knew, that dominant-obsessed little cocksucker now had his hands on Gordon’s diary and, as Rhonda said, was ‘in with all the udders.’
Kraft played his options well, thought Emmett. It was a pleasure to watch him watch work, his charm so exactly conceived, his physiological reactions so controlled. Ah, if I could be one-half as talented and deceptive; I was ever-so-nervous, yet was I ever-so-convincing? The delicious part was the ‘under the drawer’ bit. A masterstroke on Emmett’s part really, for Emmett had actually stolen Gordon’s notebook out of his locked drawer only minutes after being informed of his superior’s death.
Obfuscation, prevarication, and just plain bold-face-lying...in the end what was the difference? Psychopathy baffles logic, Emmett assured himself, as surely as deathsmoke never dissipates. That Gabriel Kraft was a man-of-logic, Emmett did not doubt. That he himself was not, he rued.
The doors hissed shut and the airseals on the CleanBus closed with a whoosh and began to move. Emmett remained lost in thought, ignorant of the scrolling advertising screens where windows had once been. Mayor Dickie was right, he was thinking, you cannot trust human beings. They say one thing and do another. They believe, yet they betray. They hate the viruses, but they made them anyway.
Emmett was as sure as anything that Gabriel Kraft would have more to say and do about Emmett’s knowledge of the deception in the Embryo Centre. Emmett had confessed that he had read Gordon’s diary and, as he hoped, Gabriel Kraft had offered to buy his silence. Emmett Strachan’s every wish would have to be fulfilled. Emmett, as scared as he was, was counting on it.
FIVE
You have chosen me to carry on this great inheritance from the Father-of-the-Malls. I am charged…I have accepted…I bear this great burden. The tasks before us are formidable but we are ready for the challenges to come. (change to upbeat now!) I am delighted to say that our Exchange is booming! That’s what I said, booming! Last week, Toronto Nation signed a covenant with the Swedes to help repopulate their lands. In return, we are pledged one thousand credits per embryo, the highest price paid yet for Toronto Nation Embryos!—(wait for applause, your Worship!)—It is our duty to help repopulate our allies in Sweden who, need I remind you, bear no blame for any of the catastrophes which befell our world and, indeed, we should be forever grateful to them for reducing Norway, the infamous birthplace of Jeffrey Meilgaard, to that which it is today, a barren rubble. Yes, our duty is heavy, but no heavier than any we would all willingly bear for our beautiful children.
Honour the child! (three repeats, then wait for silence).
But I cannot do this…I cannot ensure a wonderful life in the Malls for you and your family without some measure of sacrifice on all your parts. Yes, we all must sacrifice. (go to story-telling mode!) You know, I’m reminded of something that I heard Rhonda say on the TV the other night. You parents, you all know Rhonda, the Udderly Fantastic Cow…why I watch her every time I get a chance. I know your children love her too. Rhonda said something the other day that I thought I would share with you because it truly speaks to all of us in the malls tonight—and those of you who are here live in the studio audience with us, here in the Pickering Town Centre studios of TV…this is especially for you. Rhonda said, and I really believe this myself, ‘Don’t Waste Space!’
Yes, it may be hard for each of us to look ourselves in the eyes and decide whether or not we are nothing more than a parasite or a leech. A space-waster! We simply must look in the mirror and make that determination. Are we productive? Are we happy? Are we working for a brighter future for our children? You all know that Revelation Night is nigh and we are absolutely assured that this year’s crop of Stage Fives is exceptional. We would like very much to invite twenty-three young people to become citizens of Toronto Nation on this o
ccasion, but I am informed that in order to do so we must open six more spaces. Remember that you do not have to live your full allotment of time...no one’s forcing you to do so. And in the spirit of Mall citizenship, I am anouncing tonight that, up to Revelation Night itself, the Crematoria will be happy to arrange a free upgrading to a semi-precious urn for those who want to help make room for our newcomers.
Examine yourself, think about it, and then make room! Remember that the Crematoria stay open late on the weekends to help you. No waiting in a line-up. They’ll get you in fast! You think about it and then do the right thing!
I would also like to announce that the Grief Team has authorized sector sweeps for Wildkids in the Milton, Acton and Orangeville areas over the next month and, also, the operation presently underway near you folks in Yorkdown Mall will conclude on Thursday. Thank you for your patience! (wind up) Now I would again like to praise my son Gabriel, and the members of the Grief Team, for their valuable and timely actions in maintaining the security of our malls and I will close by bidding you a good night. (smile!) And remember that there will be a meeting of the Zone Exchange for Level 2 representatives and up tomorrow in Nation Hall number one in E.C.! Good night, everybody!”
Mayor Elias Macdonald Kraft slumped back in the overstuffed white leather armchair and quickly wiped his forehead with the large white towel offered to him by his assistant, Ferria d’Mont. He loathed speaking into a lens, pretending that there actually was a live studio audience instead of a technician in the glass booth with an applause track. Normally, he spoke in person in the Malls, loving the warm reception, but Ferria occasionally conned him into delivering one of his pep talks on Mall TV. She claimed that it enhanced his image; he believed that television caused his three chins to mutate into giant coils of white keilbassa.
The Grief Team Page 5
