by Clark, Mark
The lights sprang back to life and each of the consuls was presented with a hardcover book.
‘Good luck,’ said the general. And he was gone.
Elizabeth took her book, stood and left without a word.
Leslie watched her go in somewhat of a haze.
Nicholas moved close to Leslie’s ear. He nodded towards Elizabeth’s departing back and whispered, ‘Never mix business with pleasure, my old man used to say. Especially with one of the Dawson line.’
Leslie didn’t reply.
Chapter 2
When Leslie got home he made straight for the heater. It was only June and already his fingers were numb. As he fired up the small gas fire he looked out over Hyde Park. He was on the second floor and just beneath his window he could hear the mini-prophets on their soap boxes preaching to the passers by.
He opened the door to his postage-stamp-sized balcony and closed it immediately behind him. He looked down. In spite of the winter chill the street was full of brown clad, shuffling humanity. Men, women and children foraged for scraps, accompanied by the orchestra of babbling voices preaching their truths, like bent messiahs, to anyone who would listen. And many were. Whole families clustered around speakers upon old milk crates, listening and nodding to recounts of the horror of their lives and of how it could all be fixed if only . . .
If only, Leslie thought: if only the original ideals of the new world had been adopted. Why weren’t most people taught to read? There were books. They were limited, but there were books. He had read them. His father used to borrow them from the library and read them to him when he was just a small boy. But what good are books when people can’t read? He would look into that as soon as possible. He knew that the founding fathers had intended education to be universal.
He knew about Jeremiah and Colin Dunnett and had heard of the tales of the evil Ferret. Though how much of that was urban legend remained to be seen. The only thing that he had learned from the projected presentation was that good intentions are not enough. Good government was what was needed. He sympathised with the desire for religious autonomy and he respected the right of all minority groups to be heard, but this, above all, was a time for pragmatism. Only action and sensible legislation could liberate his population. Just look at the city streets. The last consul on that video presentation had it right – things were in a mess. The city needed good schools, good hospitals and good sanitation. And he had been invested with an opportunity to help. He, Leslie Woodford, a humble second storey scientist descended directly from the Intelligentsia of the old world had risen to consul in the new one. What an honour. He would help to make the city a better place. He had always had a million ideas and only needed a forum to vent them. Now he had one. He had been voted democratically into office by the exertion of his own will. He had campaigned alone. He, alone, had made it happen. Now he was at the apex of the political process in Corporate City. It was exciting. If only his father could see him now.
As he stood, lost in thought upon his balcony, beneath him a scuffle broke out. This developed into a nasty altercation and eventually the military police were called. In a rather heavy-handed manner they dispersed the crowd and carted away the protagonists. Screams and wails of indignation went up.
He returned to the comfort of his sparse apartment. The current state of affairs would not do, he was thinking. He must be proactive. He threw himself with a bounce upon his bed and there, took up the pages of the green book he had been given. It was quite thick for a brief, he thought to himself, as he opened the well-thumbed pages.
Greetings, consul, it read – A general introduction by Sir Colin Dunnett . . .
As the twenty-first century draws to a close we find ourselves in another Dark Age. After the bombs of 2059 a great deal of knowledge passed from human history. Alas, this loss was compounded further by the years immediately after the bombs and in particular in the days just prior to the First Triumvirate. Many of the books that had survived the war were burned and lost at that time. Those that perpetrated this, like all individuals and organisations driven by greed, ignorance and malice, belong only in the great dustbin of history. They shall not be dwelt upon here.
The post war years, under the First Triumvirate, were characterised by a great gathering and collation of that which we did know. The latter years of this century have seen teams of scientists and inventors probing the secrets of the technical objects that have been left to us. They have drawn schematics of everything from home computers to magnetic resonance machines; from the internal combustion engine to the turbine driven jet engine. Unfortunately, though we could, theoretically, make these many and varied objects, we do not have the raw materials to make any of them en masse. Neither do we have the ability to manufacture the various metals and plastics required for their widespread usage.
So, Consul, we find ourselves in somewhat of a bind. We know how to make a car but we cannot make any more of them than already exist. By the time you read this preamble, hopefully this will have been remedied.
Leslie stopped reading for a moment. No, that hadn’t been remedied. In fact there were no cars at all now, except in the museum. There were no planes either. There was enough oil and petrol manufactured by the city’s refinery to allow production by a handful of factories, but that was all.
The arc of arable land we inhabit is still the only city of which we know, though it seems certain that if we have survived the bombs, then other cities must have too. However, no contact has yet been established. Radio contact has been attempted but without success, and several intrepid souls have left our shores in makeshift sailing ships, but if they have discovered other life in other lands, they have not, as yet, returned to tell their tales.
I must add that there have been some attempts to leave the city and to set up camps in the mountains, but the hardships of this are profound, given the lack of fuel and physical commodities. Most have returned after a time. Although others will no doubt try, it must be stated that the present government is actively discouraging this practice. We must work together. This fracturing of the population into mountain villages plays too easily into the hands of dissidents and revolutionaries. At this early stage in the city’s development the growth of such disassociated groups might prove disastrous.
Back in the city, we have uncovered, in the liberated Ground Dwellers, a great wealth of skills and we have managed quite well. We have restored limited electrical supply to the city and though we do not have the means to drill and refine fossil fuels, we are utilising the stores we already possess and already some factory operations are beginning. At this stage these are principally concerned with packaging foodstuffs and in the manufacture of basic drugs.
To the west our city limits now extend to just beyond Parramatta, where many older structures from the century before last were found unscathed. Mercifully, the old Westmead Hospital has somehow survived to help supplement the already overcrowded St Vincent’s, Royal North Shore and Royal Prince Alfred hospitals that service the inner city. There are many growing communities springing up on the northern beaches and to the south the wasteland begins beyond the old refinery at Kernel. Beyond these reaches our scientists have been unable, as yet, to cultivate one blade of living grass in its devastated soil. Hopefully, this too will soon be redressed.
The last twenty years or so have been fraught with problems - some of them expected, some not. Feeding and housing our population has been a burden; maintaining sufficient infrastructure and gainful employment, another. The triumvirate maintains its control through the loyalty of the military and so far this has been consistent. A rudimentary economy, partly based on barter, has arisen. This has unfortunately been usurped by some for their own gain. Some citizens, it seems, availed themselves of wealth after the fall of Jeremiah’s initial government and sought to use this to curry favour in the new order. Though we try to stamp it out, bribery and corruption are still a part of everyday dealings. Perpetrators are punished, but there is more belo
w the surface than above the water line.
Our administration has been taken by surprise, however, by the speed with which splinter groups, both political and social, have sprung up in the last two decades. At this time there are already a dozen church groups vying for the hearts and souls of our citizens. Other lobby groups have also quickly evolved and everyone, it seems, sees their own self interest as paramount - even if this threatens the stability of the whole structure. Many of our citizens seem to feel that individual rights outweigh the good of the whole, so much so that the military has been used to crush several riots in the city over recent years. The challenge of our government is to balance the rights of each of these groups whilst maintaining a unified whole. Our objective has been to allow individual freedom, where possible - but too often individuals have taken generosity for weakness. Recently, a cult of men and women was put on trial and executed for crimes perpetrated upon another cult. The decision to execute, though regrettable, is one of the many harsh realities with which any government in the coming years will face.
Whatever the case, in whatever kind of world this message finds you, the information in it should be of some assistance. As a consul from the ranks of the Intelligentsia you have been given information additional to the other consul. These are drawings, charts and schematics that might help you in your quest for technological advancement. If it is within your power to use this information for the good of the city, do so. But beware of those who would use this information to further self-interest at the expense of others.
As one of the two consuls, you will be asked to give advice to the president and to make important and sometimes highly difficult decisions. At times the president and your fellow consul will not agree with you and your fervent wishes may be overturned. There is no cabinet or committee to fall back upon. Remember, the president has the final right of pass or veto. Such is the nature of this centralised democracy. But you must respect the process, whether or not any one particular argument you have made has won the day.
Good fortune, consul.
C.D.
Leslie ran his tongue over his lips in anticipation. He turned over the page and to his delight there were notes and snippets from past thinkers and from Dunnett himself on the general precepts of good government and on the legislative apparatus that his triumvirate had established and put in place a century ago. He had thoughtfully compiled whatever information he had at his disposal in this booklet. Snatches from the Communist Manifesto by Marx (approach with caution); notes on the free market economy (approach with equal caution); some passages from Mein Kampf (disregard completely) and a plethora of chapters from philosophical and political writings from Plato to Aristotle; from Descartes to Russell; from Machiavelli to Onslow and from Churchill to Ghandi. Anything, it seemed that Dunnett could get his hands on that seemed worthy of note for a would-be governor.
But it was with tremulous fingers that he turned to the back portion of the book which contained the scientific and technical information which he so craved. He turned expectantly to the last portion of the book and found . . .
Nothing.
The outside margins were intact but someone had taken to the pages with a knife and meticulously cut out the entire contents. What remained was an ignorant hole mocked by equally ignorant borders. A neatly cut out square chasm revealed the inside of the back hardcover of the book an inch or so below. Glued onto that surface was a printed note stating: ‘The offending material has been removed’.
Leslie rose all in one movement from the bed. He found himself standing beside it as if awakening from a bad dream. His breath was short and his eyes wide. What did this mean? What had become of Dunnett’s notes? Who was responsible for this ghastly act? He must find out. It could not wait until tomorrow. He must find out – now.
*
Fifteen minutes later, it was a rather wet Leslie who entered the foyer of the AWA building in York Street. He buzzed on the intercom, carefully watched by two burly security guards, and was soon a dozen floors up, walking into Nicholas Brand’s apartment, apologising for the water he was recklessly depositing out of his raincoat and onto Brand’s carpet.
‘Why didn’t you bring an umbrella?’ asked Nicholas.
‘I did,’ Leslie replied, reaching behind him and holding up the brolly he had rested in the corridor before entering. ‘It’s raining cats and dogs out there.’
‘Come in,’ said Nicholas with a grin. ‘Leave your coat on the stand.’
A young man, in his late teens, popped his head around the corner. ‘You alright, Dad?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine, son. Come and meet my fellow consul,’ Nicholas replied. ‘Leslie, this is Edgar.’
‘Hi.’ Edgar greeted him politely with a handshake. He was thinner than his father and taller. He had brown hair and dark eyes like his Dad, but he appeared to be more the strong, athletic type.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Nicholas with a laugh. ‘He does take more after his mother. Please, sit down.’
Soon all the pleasantries were done, Edgar had returned to his room and Leslie was sipping thoughtfully on a cup of tea.
‘So?’ asked Nicholas.
In response, Leslie abandoned his tea and foraged under his thick woollen jumper. He produced the book and placed it on the table. It was unscathed and dry.
‘Do you think it’s such a good idea to carry state secrets around with you?’ Nicholas asked. ‘Especially in this weather?’
‘Take a look at the book,’ said Leslie. ‘Do you notice anything about it?’
Nicholas picked it up. ‘It’s thicker than the one I got,’ he noted as he weighed it in his hand.
‘Take a look inside,’ said Leslie with a nod.
‘But it would be, wouldn’t it?’ Nicholas mused, ‘You have all that other scientific stuff to deal with as well.’ As he spoke he thumbed through the pages. He soon discovered the loss.
He screwed up his face into a small ball of disdain, as if he had just eaten a bad oyster. ‘What in blazes?’
‘What do you make of it?’ asked Leslie with a quick, nervous sip of his tea. He looked carefully for Nicholas’ response.
Nicholas’ eyes widened. ‘My father warned me about this sort of thing. He used to say that censorship was the death of the human spirit.’ He looked again at the note: ‘Offending material,’ he muttered.
‘What do you suggest we do?’ asked Leslie, at least convinced for the moment that Nicholas was as surprised as he was at the vandalism.
‘I say we meet with President Dawson first thing tomorrow,’ he replied.
‘Surely this could only have been done by a former office holder?’ suggested Leslie. ‘Who else could gain access?’
‘That’s what we need to find out,’ replied Nicholas.
‘My money’s on the last woman we saw in the presentation. She sounded like a likely candidate.’
‘Hold your horses there, Les,’ Nicholas replied, jarring Leslie with the liberty of this familiarity, ‘we don’t know anything yet.’
‘We simply must find those papers,’ said Leslie, dejectedly.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll find them,’ Nicholas reassured him with a quick pat on the back.
But Leslie wasn’t so sure.
*
As he entered his apartment in the World Square skyscraper in George Street, Damien was in a foul temper. He wasn’t sure why, he was just in a bad mood. He noticed that he often was when the moon was full. In fact, he wasn’t even sure that the moon was full. He hadn’t seen it for a month, courtesy of this ridiculous weather. But he felt that it must be full because when it was, he always felt like he had an itchiness inside him that he couldn’t scratch. Violently, he shook out his raincoat in the hall.
He shooed a cat out of the way as he entered his penthouse. How the hell any cats had survived the days after the bombs, God only knew. But somehow they had. Some rich people had obviously bred cats in their scraper apartments after the war and managed to h
ide them from the post-war city long enough for them not to get eaten. Probably lots of people had, because now, somehow, there were thousands of the feline menaces creeping through the scrapers. You never saw any in the streets though, he mused. They were obviously pretty good eating.
He shut the door to his apartment, threw his raincoat recklessly towards a coat stand, knocking it over, and made his way towards the drinks cabinet. He downed a quick beer and opened another, before he settled down enough to look around his room.
Languidly he made his way towards the window. He looked out towards the west, but the night was glum and the view unrewarding. He kicked a coffee table without vigour and sat at his desk. He flicked, without purpose, through a cheap street-produced porn magazine and then stared out of the window for a while. He felt bored and he felt lonely.
He pulled out Elizabeth Dawson’s card from his pocket and looked at it. He thought about her pretty face and a faraway look washed across his face. He had met her once when he was a little boy. He remembered her apartment. It was a rich person’s apartment – high up in the clouds. Her father was a very important man. He was the president at the time. She was very rich and she was very pretty in a bright blue frock and matching ribbons. He had a few memories of that day. They all revolved around Elizabeth. He remembered that she teased him about having sandy coloured hair and being too skinny. The usual kids’ stuff. But there was something else; something else on the edge of his memory he couldn’t quite excavate. His father was there on some kind of business, he remembered. But it was something to do with Elizabeth. No. It wouldn’t come. The memory would not dislodge.
