‘That’s it! Excellent. See, that’s much more exciting.’
‘We oppose social segregation, we oppose massive data control, and we reject the idea that Polbiz can monitor the population into submission. That’s our message.’
‘And what if the powers that be react strongly to that? What if things get rough?’
‘Then it’s all on: fire with fire.’
‘Could you just repeat that, a bit louder? Maybe raise your arm or something.’
‘We’ll fight fire with fire!’
‘That’s it, great. We’ve got it.’
‘Okay, is that camera off now?’
‘I’ll just switch it off. There.’
‘You won’t let them run this until we’re actually underway, right? And no leaks, like we agreed?’
‘You have my word. You also have my number. Anyway, guys, personally, I’m on your side.’
‘Oh really.’
‘Yeah, really. I spent five years working out in the Regions, covering mostly undoc issues. I know the kind of social divisions you’re talking about, and I’ve seen the fallout. It’s not pretty, and it’s getting worse.’
‘Well, yeah. It is.’
‘Then there’s the whole question about freedom of dissent. All this surveillance … you start to get paranoid.’
‘They’re not coming after you, Simon. You’re on a Federal scholarship.’
‘Great, there you go again. Thanks.’
‘Sorry, Si.’
‘Talk about amateur hour.’
‘Is that camera off?’
‘Course it is, look, the lens is capped. Anyway, guys, the point I want to make is that what you’re doing takes real guts.’
‘Somebody has to do it. We’re living in an age of covert manipulation —’
‘I thought it was the age of paranoia? Wasn’t that our line?’
‘Whatever — paranoia, manipulation … Someone has to point out the obvious.’
‘Are you going to be alright, though? I mean, aren’t you guys taking a big personal risk?’
‘Like he said, someone has to do it.’
‘And anyway, Lucy’s dad’s a diplomat.’
‘Shut up, you idiot!’
‘Don’t worry, guys, in one ear and out the other. So it’s all scheduled to happen the night before?’
‘Look, maybe you can come along and get some live footage, as long as nothing you’ve recorded so far gets leaked before then.’
‘You guys are calling the shots here. I’m just grateful for the story.’
‘Alright, here’s the deal: we’ll tell you our entry point, where we’re coming in from, so you can embed, get some decent shots, show the numbers.’
‘That’d be great, guys. Really, I appreciate it.’
‘Hang on. What if he doesn’t keep it to himself? We lose the element of surprise. The cops are expecting us to come in from the south.’
‘Yeah. Look, we don’t mean to resort to intimidation tactics … But, well, you know …’
‘… there are a lot of us, and we’re dead serious. You don’t want to piss us off.’
‘I know that. Don’t worry, you guys do look pretty intimidating in those balaclavas. And like I said, you have my number.’
‘Alright, we’ll be in touch. Can we go now? I’m starving.’
[Notebook entry: Tally]
Once you lose your cool that’s it, you do real stupid stuff, make dumb mistakes, ruin everything. Take off running like crazy and forget what’s in your pocket, run so fast you lose the only thing you got left. Chase off after the wrong person and lose the one you really looking for.
I used to be good at reading omens but now it’s like the signals are all scrambled. All of a sudden yellow does not mean the coast is clear, blue sure as hell don’t mean you can trust someone, two magpies might be bad luck not good. The world goes blurry and you can’t read it anymore. Next thing you know there’s kids running round with blood all down their faces and they find some poor girl dead at the bottom of a bridge. And you got no friends, you got nothing.
Sure they reckon you gotta roll with the punches but what if the punches just keep coming, bam-bam-bam, like a jackhammer? You get dizzy and sore and start to feel real sick. Maybe it’s my fault, maybe I did something wrong, stole his job, stepped on a crack, ignored a hunch. Missed the evidence, gave up too easy, was too dumb to crack the code. And now I lost my only real clue, my camera. Mission aborted, trail gone cold. I’ve lost her.
[North Interzone: Violet | Damon | Kev | hotel residents | police | unidentified dissidents | bus driver #642]
Violet was wandering aimlessly around the theatre district when the call came. The beeping sound startled her, emerging from her pocket like that, but she found the right button and raised the phone to her ear.
‘We have a match,’ said a woman’s voice, smooth on the end of the line. ‘Can you come in at nine this evening to prepare for a session?’ Of course, she’d answered evenly, trying to ignore the thumping in her chest. The woman issued a short set of instructions, like she was reading them off a piece of paper: eat well beforehand, drink plenty of fluids, no alcohol, remember to pretty yourself up, and please wear that lovely green dress. ‘Wonderful, Violet,’ she concluded, signing off. ‘We look forward to seeing you this evening.’
Dutifully she chewed her way through a bowl of noodles in a fast-food place, although she couldn’t really taste the food, then headed back to Legends to start getting ready. She knocked on Macy’s door, but there was no answer; she’d have to do her own make-up. The globe in her room had blown again, so she had a shower and brushed out her wig, then went up to the roof to use the mirror up there, while the light was still good.
With her face done and her wig pinned on securely, she went to say hello to the birds; they knew who she was now, even seemed happy to see her. They clustered at the wire, dipping their heads and trilling, peering at her with bright black-button eyes. The cage was cleaner these days, she’d noticed — cleaner than when Merlin had been looking after them. She changed their drinking water daily and at feeding time made sure the shy ones got their share. In the mornings, when she sat in there with them, a couple of birds had started fluttering down to land on her wrist and peck grain from her outstretched palm. Now Wonky, the one with the broken toe, was strutting back and forth importantly behind the mesh, like he was ordering her to come in for a feeding session. ‘Not tonight,’ she told him. ‘Last time you did a poo in my hair, remember?’ Despite his dodgy toe he had a bossy walk, that one. It made her smile.
The light was starting to fade. Violet leaned on the rail and rolled herself a smoke, looking out north over the city. She supposed she should prepare herself mentally, but for what, exactly? Perhaps do some stretches to loosen up, maybe a few baton twirls, some breathing exercises would be a good idea. She sang a few scales, up and down, but smoke caught in her throat and made her cough. She tried on a smile, nodded a greeting, tilted her head to an imaginary person to show she was paying attention to what they were saying. But she couldn’t imagine what they might be talking about. A phrase floated back to her from somewhere: Bondservants, obey in all things your masters according to the flesh … Her new employers knew what they were doing. She’d just do as she was told and everything would be fine. This was the best option.
Movement caught her eye several blocks away, down at street level: she could see a mass of people gathering in a vacant lot, a darkening space hidden behind a row of derelict buildings. There was something strange about the way they milled and huddled; now she could see more approaching from the north, filing along a narrow side street. Down amongst the crowd torches began to blink on, thin beams of light that picked out the shape of bodies and threw elongated shadows up onto the brickwork. She tried to do a rough count of th
e growing crowd — one hundred, one hundred and fifty, more? — but the light was fading fast and their clothes were uniformly dark. There was something weird about them, she realised uneasily, as stray torch beams played across the figures: their faces were all covered, and some of them had large misshapen heads, as if they were wearing masks or helmets.
It was an unsettling sight, but whatever was going on down there had nothing to do with her: she had other things to worry about. There was no time to hang around on the rooftop smoking, it was getting late. She crushed out her cigarette and popped some gum in her mouth to kill the smell. She gave a little farewell whistle as she passed the birdcage and headed downstairs to collect her things.
She hadn’t gone far before the guy stopped her, just around the corner from the hotel. He was polite, not threatening in any way, but she didn’t like how he stepped in front of her and put his hand on her arm. He looked familiar — odd face, handlebar moustache and weird, slicked-back hair — but Violet couldn’t place him.
‘Excuse me,’ he began, ‘but I wonder if I could speak to you a minute.’
‘I’m in a hurry,’ she said warily. ‘I’ve got an appointment.’ She smoothed down her dress, tucked her bag under her arm more securely. What did he want?
He nodded, pointed back the way she’d just come. ‘I’m on my way to an appointment too.’ He held up a tiny moviecam. ‘Off to film the summit protests. This will only take a sec.’
She had no idea what he was on about, but the delay was making her anxious. ‘Sorry, I really have to go,’ she said, moving to step around him. How long would it take her to walk to the club from here? Twenty minutes? Twenty-five? She should have timed it, not just guessed.
‘Wait!’ Now he sounded worried. ‘This is important. I’m looking for some information, I’m willing to pay for it, and I think you can help me out. We can help each other.’
‘What are you talking about?’ He was a funny-looking guy. She felt like she’d seen him before.
He dropped his voice, spoke low and intense. ‘That place where you’re working. I want to ask you some questions about it. Strictly off the record, I mean.’
Violet took a step away. ‘The record?’ She started backing off. How could he know about her job? She hadn’t told anyone: she’d promised not to.
‘Look, don’t be scared. Please, just take my card. We can’t talk now, but I’d like to meet up for a chat. I’ll pay you — three hundred cash. It won’t take long, fifteen minutes tops. And nobody will ever know you spoke to me.’
‘I really have to go,’ she said, but her hand reached out and took his card. ‘I need to get into the city. You’re going to make me late.’
He shook his head. ‘Not sure if you’ll get through that way,’ he said, pointing south. ‘The cops were barricading off the top of the Commerce Zone. You know there’s going to be a big protest, maybe even a riot?’
This couldn’t be right: she had to get to work, she couldn’t turn up late. He was only trying to delay her. ‘I have to go now,’ she said firmly and started walking away.
‘Call me, please,’ he shouted after her. ‘Three hundred cash, totally anonymous.’
But Violet didn’t look back. The encounter had shaken her, and she started walking faster to put it behind her, her heels clipping the concrete as she strode past the strip bars and amusement arcades of the Interzone. Don’t think about it. Just get to work. Two cop cars sped past in the opposite direction, lights flashing, then a fire engine screamed around the corner and was gone. Other than that the streets were strangely empty.
A few minutes later Violet came to a halt on the edge of the Commerce Zone. The street ahead was partly blocked off by a row of orange barricades, and a crew of workmen were busy adding more. Beyond the barricades stood a mass of cops holding clear plastic shields, and behind them were more police on horses. The whole scene was lit by huge floodlights up on high poles. The cops in front of the barriers were gesturing formally, like they were directing traffic, ushering people back the way they’d come. A few disgruntled shoppers wandered around, loaded up with carry-bags, grumbling about being stuck on the wrong side of the barrier.
She had to stay calm. She had to get to work. But how? She’d have to circle right around the city, try to come in from the west or the south maybe … but that would take time. She’d be late. They would fire her, she’d have no money for next week’s rent, and everything would fall apart all over again. She’d be straight back to zero, to the ugliest of options: do not pass go. That stupid guy, she should never have stopped to listen to his strange talk.
Call them, she thought. It’s not my fault: I’ll call them up and say I’m running late cos the police have blocked off the road. But then she realised: like an idiot she’d left the phone with the club’s number in it back in her room. She turned around and took off running as fast as she could go on her heels, but soon slowed down, out of breath before she’d even run two blocks.
Violet heard the noise first: one robotic voice barking through a megaphone, the roar of many voices rising in response. Then she rounded the corner, and they were everywhere, a mob of black-clad figures massing in the street, shouting in unison, surging and eddying blindly, their faces masked by balaclavas and motorbike helmets. A burning stench hung in the air, and the street was filling with smoke. Four or five police cars were parked on the perimeter, lights blinking red and blue, but the officers inside were making no move to control the crowd. Violet saw one of them, a woman, speaking into a radio. She looked frightened.
Something sailed high over the mob and smashed down on the bonnet of the cop car. Flames licked across the paintwork and a roar went up. Violet turned away and ran along the side of the mob, weaving to avoid colliding with the stragglers milling around the edges. She dodged a burning rubbish bin and a pile of splintered glass that had been a shop window. Camera flashes were bursting out white light, people were shouting, and she heard a woman screaming, as if in terrible pain, but Violet kept moving, did not slow down; she had to get back home, she had to get that phone and call the club and let them know.
As she neared the hotel she saw Kev, an immense hulk marooned on the footpath with his arms crossed over his belly; around him stood a huddle of old guys from Legends, all of them craning their necks. Only then did she see the orange glow of the fire.
The blaze was consuming the old boarding house next door. Flames leaped up the building’s blackened face and slithered into the sky, and the foyer glowed orange like the throat of an incinerator. As she drew closer she heard the sound of the fire, a low, dry roar punctuated by loud cracks, and its heat pressed against her skin. Firemen were wrestling a hose into place and herding onlookers back from the flames.
The birds, thought Violet: the birds will all get burned to death. She ran past Kev and the old guys, straight for the door of the hotel.
‘Violet!’ Kev yelled after her. ‘Don’t go in there!’
She shoved the door open, kicked her shoes off and took the stairs three at a time, scampering up twelve flights without effort; then she hammered barefoot up the metal staircase, ducked through the sagging wires, pushed open the door and ran out onto the roof.
The heat hit her first, but it was the sight of the fire that stopped her dead: the old boarding house loomed overhead, flames snaking from its broken windows and racing up the walls, gobbling at the wooden structure like a mass of hungry tongues. Embers speckled the sky, swirling upwards in the heat draughts. The gap between the two buildings was a few short metres, and the whole rooftop was bathed in a surreal glow. Hot air pressed against her skin.
She forced herself to look away and ran to the birdcage. The poor creatures were flapping against the mesh in panic, trying to escape the heat, but none seemed sick or hurt. She yanked the door open, ducked inside the cage, and shooed every last one of them out into the night.
The birds scattered upward, into the darkness, away from the fire. That’s when she saw him, the man at the window of the burning building next door: a dark outline with the hot glare of flames behind him, his arms raised, half leaning out the window, his mouth a terrified black zero in his face. She knew he was screaming, but the roar of the fire had blanketed out any other sound. He was looking right at her, pleading, but there was no time to do anything. With a loud crack, a chunk of timber fell from above and shattered on the roof nearby, sending sparks skittering over her feet, then a plume of water arced over her, spattering and sizzling as it landed.
As she made a run for the door, a siren rang out — a long, slow, urgent wail that undulated mournfully, like the song of some disaster. Violet was halfway down the third flight of steps when the lights in the hotel abruptly cut out. The stairs beneath her seemed to disappear as she lost her footing and fell forward into empty space. The last sound she heard was her own voice screaming.
[Northern border, Commerce Zone: Milk | riot squad officers | unidentified dissidents]
When the call comes through, Milk is lost to everything, dozing on the couch. Jolted awake, he scrabbles for the phone.
‘Mr Dabrowski?’ A man’s voice, polite but authoritative.
‘Who’s this?’ Milk’s response is curt, almost rude.
The man does not seem ruffled. ‘I’m calling from the minister’s office. We have a level-nine security situation.’
Milk now remembers he’s on standby: they told him to keep the next twenty-four hours free.
The man is still talking. ‘I’m dispatching a vehicle to collect you. How soon can you be ready?’
Milk looks around him blearily; in a corner of the lounge room his gear sits in a neat pile, all packed, everything prepped. ‘I’m ready now,’ he says.
‘Excellent,’ the voice replies. ‘The car will be there in fifteen minutes.’
As Milk double-checks his pockets, he realises the man has not even asked where he is.
Black Glass Page 25
