Arms Race

by Nic Low

  Halfway along the metal gangway, hunched over the railing, staring vacantly across the factory floor, was the manager himself.

  You, Jora said, pointing his cricket bat at the man’s head. You’re copying my guidebooks.

  Accha, the manager said, blinking angrily. The beggar returns a publisher. Only an illiterate man could make such a monstrous book.

  And only a goat-licking cripple would copy it.

  You are right, the manager said. He spat over the side of the railing. I prefer to copy nothing at all.

  Jora frowned.

  The manager jerked his head. See for yourself.

  For the first time Jora noticed the vast factory floor in disarray below. The copiers had burned to lumps of scorched plastic, or been scavenged for parts, leaving just their carcasses in scattered rows. The breeze from an open fire escape blew tumbleweeds of paper down the empty aisles.

  What the hell happened? Jora asked.

  You happened, you son of a bitch, the manager said. You ruined me.

  But you were copying my books!

  I refused to copy your filth. I kept on with the official guide, but soon enough I could barely sell fifty a week. Everyone wanted yours.

  But—

  You bankrupted me. They’re throwing me out.

  Jora studied the manager more closely. Gone was the proud bearing. Deep shadows ringed his eyes, and his suit was filthy and stained.

  So who is copying my book? Jora demanded.

  The manager laughed, an exhausted bleat. Does it matter? Your hotel is full, isn’t it?

  Tell me!

  All right then, the manager said bitterly. It’s Lonely Planet. The real Lonely Planet. They’ve given up on their own guide. Now the bastards just copy yours.

  RUSH

  THERE ARE five of them crammed into a white council ute, speeding through the waking city. Jackhammers and shovels rattle in the tray. The young guys in the back are knee to knee in work pants and steel-capped boots. One of them slugs at a Farmers Union iced coffee. It’s a Monday morning in Melbourne and just past dawn. Sunlight ripples bronze across the high rises, licks out from laneways in golden tongues.

  Big Toff’s driving. He’s a reassuring bulk up there in the front, not even forty but big and dark and weathered. His massive shoulders protrude from either side of his seat. Next to him, Archie looks tiny. The old man’s barely five foot and all sinew, wired tight like an old-time bantamweight boxer. He riffles the paperwork with tattooed hands, one last time. His scowl is cast-iron with concentration.

  Relax, Uncle, Toff says. He speaks with the sharp, tumbling cadences of the Western Desert. You can’t beat ’em?

  Archie looks up and cracks a grin, and puts the papers back in the glove box.

  Past the CBD, Toff swings the ute off St Kilda Road into the cool green of Kings Domain. They crawl along the triumphal avenue with hazard lights winking, and on up to the Shrine of Remembrance. The blunt stone monument squats above the city like a misplaced Greek temple.

  Toff parks on the forecourt next to three other council utes. One’s got a small excavator on the back. The shrine’s grey stone is a confusion of workers in high-vis vests, setting up a safety perimeter. A hard-case woman in mirror shades hammers a white planning sign into the lawn.

  Archie climbs down from the cab, and jams a foreman’s hardhat over his wiry grey hair. He looks out across the glass spires of the city skyline, as if appraising their value. Then he looks up at the shrine.

  All right, you mob, Archie calls. Let’s get to work!

  By the time the police arrive the paved forecourt and wide granite steps are a mess of smashed rock. The excavator has piled the debris to one side, where a team of workers sift the dirt with wire-mesh pans. A small crowd of onlookers has gathered at the safety perimeter.

  A police cruiser pulls in beside the utes. Archie’s shoulders hunch tight. Toff drops his sledgehammer and walks quickly over.

  Let me, he says.

  A sergeant and a constable step from the car. They look like they’re at the tail end of a long night shift, their faces creased and tired.

  You with the council? the sergeant shouts. The percussion of jackhammers is relentless.

  Yeah, Toff yells.

  You the boss?

  I’m the spokesman.

  The policeman cups a hand to his ear. What?

  I’m the spokesman!

  Huh?

  You got a nice tan! Hang on. Toff signals the others to stop work, and soon a dusty silence falls over the Domain. What’s the problem?

  We had reports of someone vandalising the shrine. But you’re council, right?

  Right, Toff says.

  What’re you doing? Maintenance?

  Not quite. Here. Toff points to the planning sign. He folds his thick arms across his chest and waits with a half smile.

  The sergeant leans down and reads. His weary, businesslike expression ruptures with surprise. He looks at Toff.

  You serious?

  Deadly.

  Mineral Exploration Licence?

  You got it. G-two-eighty. Eight weeks, eighty metres down, mining lease if we hit pay dirt.

  Pay dirt? You mean you’re digging for—

  Toff grins. Gold.

  The sergeant runs a hand along his stubbled jaw. Right, he says. Gold. This is kind of unusual. You got any paperwork?

  Sure, Toff says. I got a twenty-seven-F, all the back checks, an ECB and two double-o-fours. You want them all?

  The sergeant shrugs. Toff ducks his bulk under the safety tape and retrieves the papers from the ute. The sergeant reads in silence.

  Hang on a minute, he says. Land Council? You’re from the Aboriginal Land Council? He looks sharply at Toff and the work gang at his back. Is this some kind of stunt?

  A small, mostly elderly crowd has drifted closer to listen. An unusually tall old man in a blue blazer, a red poppy pinned to his lapel, hovers behind the sergeant. He radiates distress like an old-fashioned bar heater. Activists, the man moans. They’re activists.

  Toff ’s amber eyes are trenched deep in his fleshy face, but they’re shining. He’s been waiting for this. He laughs. Were activists, he says. Now we’re the Aboriginal Land Council—of Minerals.

  The sergeant shakes his head. What’s your point? he says. What are your demands?

  No demands, Toff says. This isn’t a protest action. You know what they say—if you can’t beat ’em? He smiles and shrugs. Now we’re a real-deal mining company.

  The sergeant stares at him and, for the first time in his life, Toff feels the sweet righteousness of bureaucracy rising up in him. This is totally legit, he says. Call the Department of Crown Lands. The number’s on the forms.

  The sergeant looks sceptical, but he pulls out his phone and dials the number anyway. He is put on hold. After a long wait, a bored operator comes on the line. The sergeant paces while he talks, one hand shading his eyes from the glare.

  Who the hell signed off
on—okay. Sorry. Sure, the paperwork. Twenty-seven-F? Yep. Two double-o-fours? Two of them, got it. Yes. What? How much to look it up? Jesus! And where’d they get that kind of money? No, it’s not a set of GPS co-ordinates, it’s the Shrine of bloody Remembrance. No, that is not fascinating. It’s—what? A typo? It’s a fucking typo? The what? Online complaint form? Wait—

  The sergeant glares at his phone in frustration.

  See, Archie calls, a challenge in his voice. The old man approaches, the high-vis vest around his shoulders like a modern possum-skin cloak. All paid up, he says. We’ve got a permit to do this. Your laws, mate, so you’re with us on this one.

  Permits can be revoked, the sergeant says. Who are you?

  Archie Ryan. I’m the CEO.

  Wait a minute, the sergeant says. I know you. You’re a serial protester. You’re at everything. Any cause that’ll have you.

  Toff puts a restraining hand on Archie’s shoulder, and when the old man speaks his voice is weary and tight.

  We’re done with protesting, he says. No one gives a shit about land rights in this country anymore. This is a commercial mining operation. You need an injunction to stop it. C-two-forty, federal, with underwritten DCBs. Takes weeks to get and easy as piss to overturn. While you’re waiting you could keep that mob under control. They’ve been threatening my crew.

  Damn right we have, the tall old man says. He steps forward and grips the thin safety cordon. His anger seems equal to that of Archie. Why do you have to dig here? he says. Men fought and died for this country. Why the bloody hell would you mine this?

  Mate, Archie says with a sour grin, we’re hardly going to fuck with our own land.

  The city explodes. News crews and photographers and lawyers scramble. The airwaves burn with confused outrage. The Institute of Public Affairs is spotted plagiarising Wilderness Society press releases, and vice versa. Rio Tinto and Fortescue come out in support of the dig, and the internet is soon awash with rumours of a joint venture to open-cut mine the MCG. Only Tony Abbott distinguishes himself, giving an apparently incoherent yet tactically brilliant speech wherein he coins the slogan ‘Support all the Diggers, all the time, whatever they’re digging.’

  At Kings Domain the crowd swells throughout the afternoon. The workers douse the Sacred Flame with a Kmart fire extinguisher. From behind the police line Toff and Archie watch gleaming charter buses disgorge a flow of pensioners, ferried in from suburban RSL clubs. The protesters carry hand-scrawled placards, bags of knitting and glad-wrapped sandwiches. They surge up the hill in a blue-rinsed wave.

  Mixed with the elderly crowd is a steady stream of sympathetic locals, students and activists. Away to the east, the youth wing of Socialist Alliance is digging a solidarity hole in the lawn.

  A nuggetty man with tattooed arms pushes to the front of the crowd. He’s wearing a sticker-covered hardhat and carries an enormous red flag. Orrite, lads, he calls in a broad Scottish accent. We come to show solidarity. This is a bloody good action.

  Piss off, mate, Archie says. This isn’t an action.

  Ha, the man says. Tha’s a good line. That’ll confuse the hell out the bosses.

  I’m serious, you little cunt, Archie says. This is a commercial mining operation. You can’t co-opt this. Piss off.

  The man’s face darkens. We took a vote, he says. The rank and file unanimously voted t’ support your action. Why’d you turn that down?

  Sorry, mate, Toff says. Us bosses got a press conference to do.

  The news crews have been allowed inside the cordon. A big PA has been set up so the crowd can hear. Toff gives Archie the thumbs up.

  Go for it, Uncle, he says. Stick to the script, don’t lose your cool, eh?

  Archie nods. All right, you bastards, he mutters. Let’s do this.

  After years of speaking to polite but indifferent crowds at other people’s rallies, the old man’s restless, wary features take on a cast of authority. He seats himself before the bank of cameras, takes out his notes and pulls the microphone close. Over the gunfire rattle of jackhammers, his voice echoes across the Domain.

  Afternoon. I’m Archie Ryan. I’m a Wurundjeri man, and CEO of the Aboriginal Land Council—of Minerals. Today is the first day of work at the Kings Domain mine. We have every confidence this mine will yield significant quantities of gold.

  There are cries of Shame! Signs reading HANDS OFF HALLOWED GROUND bob above the crowd. The tall elderly veteran has made it past the police line, claiming he is feeling faint. He sits against Toff’s ute as if resting, then reaches a bony arm under the chassis and handcuffs himself to the vehicle. There are angry shouts and he is swarmed by police.

  It is clear, Archie continues, that local people will support this mine, because it brings jobs and money to the local economy. Stand back a minute, would you.

  The work crew has chipped out the base of the cenotaph with a jackhammer, as if notching a tree for felling. There is a cry of Timberrr! and the mighty stone spear tips slowly forward, then thunders to the ground. The now-huge crowd shrinks back in fright. You’re dead! You’re fucking dead, screams a voice from in the crush.

  Now, Archie says, we understand that there are concerns from old soldiers. We have consulted and listened to their concerns. Watching TV and visiting RSLs has taught me the fundamental value of respect for veterans. Listen.

  A pre-recorded clip of an RSL consultation meeting booms across the Domain. Over the insane chirping of pokies comes a scrum of angry voices, the thump and squeal of feedback as someone tries to grab the mic. There is shouting, and the terrible splintering sound of dentures crushed underfoot.

  I deeply respect old soldiers, Archie continues. There is no ripping-off here. The more time I spend with them, the more I consider myself their true friend. We recognise they have a long history and a rich culture.

  The police line tightens as the crowd surges forward in anger. The superintendent watches the mob’s every move, his radio at the ready. Archie pushes on. He’s enjoying himself now.

  We recognise veterans have a long history, but the sad reality is that this memorial was built to commemorate soldiers who are all dead. None of them actually use the shrine. It is a dying culture, and this mine will help to preserve it. Once we have dynamited the structure, we will donate fragments of rock to the museum. We will plant two large trees to commemorate the diggers’ sacrifice, at our own expense. Most important of all, we will offer work in the mine to any able-bodied veteran. As we have learned, it is better to work for, rather than against, the mining industry.

  The crowd roars its disapproval over the grunt and wheeze of the excavator. Archie’s crew works on in the background. From time to time one of them rises from the fast-expanding mineshaft, nervously scans the crowd, then bobs back out of sight.

  Archie’s nasal voice booms out over the PA. We also offer compensation to veterans. We offer point-zero-six per cent of turnover, shared among all veterans who can prove an unbroken link to this hillock since seventeen eighty-eight. This will be about six dollars each, and will rise even further once gold is found. We trust this generous offer will be looked upon with gratitude.

  This time the bellow of anger from the crowd is a physical force. The police have drawn their batons and fixed their
visors. The light is beginning to fade, and shadows pool in the shaft where the workers tunnel beneath the shrine. Up the front a TV technician switches on a bank of halogens. Archie’s tense form is a sudden island of light among the seething mass of protesters. He begins to wind up his speech.

  We look forward to working with the old soldiers of Victoria, contributing to the wealth of the nation, and making a meaningful living for ourselves, like you’ve always wanted. Thanks—and if you don’t mind me saying, go fuck yourselves.

  The crowd erupts. The noise is catastrophic. The police line stumbles back under the onslaught. Two-dozen police horses thunder into action, charging the crowd from either side. There are screams as pensioners go down beneath the hoofs.

  Toff moves to Archie’s side and it is just the two of them standing in the light, the focus of the crowd’s rage.

  Shit, Toff says. We have to call this off. Look.

  To their right a mass of burly men with crew cuts shoulder-charge the police line. They look like off-duty soldiers. Old-timers beat the police back with their crutches and walking frames. A catheter bag slices the air above Toff’s head.

  Toff looks back, afraid for the work gang’s safety. They have emerged from the mouth of the diggings in a tight high-vis huddle and are shouting to him. He can’t hear them over the noise. They move slowly towards Toff and Archie and the brilliant halogen lights.

  From the opposite direction the soldiers lead the charge, bellowing and pushing at the cops. Somewhere in the back a furious martial drumming starts up. The police line disintegrates. The crowd is upon them.

  They all reach the spotlight at the same instant. As the work gang enters the light, the halogens’ fierce rays catch their vests as if catching a huge mirror ball, and the enraged crowd rears back.