“Come on up, the boss will see you now.”
As they wound up to the top floor, Donald guessed Valentin had simply assumed someone of high status would only have come to see ‘the boss’, presumably the chancellor of the college. This could be awkward. The chancellor would assume Donald was here to make a donation. All these bloody assumptions…
The top floor was an open office radically sunny relative to the dank lower floors; Donald had to squint into the sun beams streaming in almost horizontally. The air was clear of the usual fug of tobacco—prominent signs forbade smoking under pain of a fine of three silver sovereigns, or equivalent, in accordance with Health Committee Ordnance 05/018.
Valentin led him up the central aisle, amid a general air of earnestness. Bald heads pow-wowed over reports. Others sat in silence, chin cupped on a palm, digesting reports. Although the furniture was old and scarred, it was clean. The floorboards could have been the deck of a yacht, the desks shone, the air hung with the scent of bees’ wax.
In the far corner was an office with paned walls. Through its windows he could see Vasco Banner, the president of the National Party. Banner was in discussion with a shorter man dressed in a dark business suit. The pointed jaw and sharp nose of this second man’s profile seemed familiar. After Valentin knocked, both glanced around and Donald recognised Team Lieutenant Farkas, the glory officer who had returned him from internment in the Lands of Dasti-Jones.
“Thank you, Valentin. Good thinking,” Banner said, pushing the door shut. Farkas was frowning. He obviously recognised Donald’s face without having yet placed it.
Banner was a fit, slender man of just under six feet, older than he had appeared from a distance, probably about sixty. He had pale brown skin and short-cropped white hair. His eyes were dark brown, pebble-hard and direct, as if he had practised the technique of bold staring to intimidate people. Donald stared him right back.
“I am Donald Aldingford.”
Farkas uttered an “Ah!” of surprise, which caused Banner to swing about in curiosity.
“Donald Aldingford and I have met before. I escorted you home from the Lands of Dasti-Jones,” Farkas said.
Banner shook hands cautiously. Donald thought the grip rather limp. He sat on the window ledge with his back to the street and made himself comfortable. Banner set his backside on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms, adopting the body language of the Grande Enceinte.
“I’ve heard of you. You are Krossington’s main counsel on disputes of Naclaski and Frite. Correct?” Banner said.
“That’s correct.”
“And you were shot down under Naclaski. You had to make an apology to the Westminster Assembly.”
“That’s correct. That’s how I came to be in the Assembly on the day you were chosen to speak. I was fascinated.”
“Really? Why would you give a damn for our policies?”
Donald had been caught off-guard brought face-to-face with the president of the National Party. It was a meeting to dream of. So typical for a dream to come true when you least expected it! He threw out a spin-ball to gain a little time.
“On the contrary, they interest me a great deal. Convince me you will bring back 240 volt AC white goods,” he said.
Banner and Farkas exchanged baffled looks.
“You do know what white goods are, I take it?” Donald said.
“They were machines of the Public Era that did menial household tasks like washing clothes and dishes, things servants do today,” Banner said.
“And they were powered by 240 volt AC. You do know that, I take it?”
“Yes.” Banner leaned back, lifting his eyes to the ceiling in an impatient gesture. “I assume you’re asking whether the Party will bring back the consumer culture that developed in some nations after the Second World War—the so-called Fatted Masses. The answer is, ‘no’. That will take generations to resurrect due to the Underpopulation Bomb. It certainly won’t happen in our lifetimes. To work for the Party is to lay the foundations for prosperity one century, two centuries, three centuries from now. It is to sacrifice today for the sake of a tomorrow none of us will live to see. It is the opposite of the Public Era. That is what the sovereigns can’t be made to understand.”
He pulled open a drawer in his desk, rummaged briefly, then approached Donald with a couple of photographs pinched between finger and thumb.
“I’m going to show you two photographs,” he said. “One was taken more than two hundred years ago. The other was taken last summer on a sovereign land. I want you to tell me which is which.”
Donald sat up straight and put one photo on each knee. Both were black and white, with an acute degree of detail. They showed scenes of the harvest of wheat. Men and women stooped to cut the crop with knives and lay the stalks in bundles, which were gathered by children. They all wore dark, simple clothing with proud white collars. Several of the women worked with babies on their backs. To the rear, a man in some kind of uniform sat on a horse, watching. The photographs portrayed a romantic image of country life compared to what Donald had seen on the Lands of Dasti-Jones.
“I’ve a fifty-fifty chance of getting this right,” Donald said. “I’d say that one is the recent photo.”
“You’re wrong. That was taken in the Ukraine in the 1880s, not that it matters, I expect you see the point I’m making.” Banner tossed the photographs back in the drawer. “The sovereigns would grow ten times more food with machines instead of people. What stops them?”
“Why should they change?” Donald said. “Everything suits them already. 90% of all the gold on this island is in their treasuries, while most of the rest forms the working capital of industrial asylums making toys for the sovereigns. Natives draw crops from the soil to sustain the circulation of gold between the sovereigns and the asylums. Natives don’t need oil or spare parts as machines would. Natives do not depreciate; they procreate for free. Natives prevent nests of infestation by crowding the land. The sovereigns have no incentive to risk tons of their gold on machinery—none whatsoever. On the contrary, it’s the lack of industry that leaves the sovereigns without competition. They are the lords of a beautiful, peaceful world inoculated against the recrudescence of the Fatted Masses. The Glorious Resolution produced a steady-state Underpopulation Bomb that could endure ten thousand years.”
Farkas and Banner exchanged impressed looks.
“I do believe you have done some reading since we last met, Farkas said.
A week’s grinding through demographic calculations of necessary discharges of surplus to the public drains did not count as ‘some reading’ in Donald’s book. He merely nodded.
Banner sat beside Donald, inspecting him with close interest.
“Just where do you stand?”
“Like you, I have come to the conclusion there is a failure of perception by the sovereigns. They see the National Party as an existential threat. In reality, the National Party could enrich the sovereigns beyond their dreams. The one clear lesson of the Public Era was that the aristocrats who started wealthy got wealthier, provided they were not stupid.”
Donald sensed this point was not well received. Farkas said:
“You’ve got a bit more reading to do.”
“He does,” Banner said. He stood up and paced up and down, pondering. “I think you came here on TK’s behalf to sound out whether the Party may be amenable to negotiation.”
“Actually, I came here entirely on my own account.”
“In all modesty, you imagine yourself as the great arbiter between the National Party and the sovereigns?”
“Negotiation is my living. I’ve brought together families estranged for generations. Rancour becomes too exhausting. The human instinct is to live in peace.”
“No it is not,” Banner said. “The human instinct is to exploit to the limit. The Public Era was ruled by a caste of freeloaders, cream-skimmers and speculation bandits who sucked fortunes through paper withou
t doing a real day’s work in their lives. When the people finally woke up to the scam and threatened to stop it, the bandits fucked the financial system of the world and stuffed the vacuum with guns and gold. They stole the planet! Not that you will read this in any history book—for obvious reasons—but the most perspicacious scholarship has shown it to be true. The human instinct is to dominate, viciously… Unfortunately, I just don’t have more time Mr Aldingford, as this was a promising discussion. What I will leave you with is a vision.
“Let all citizens live in the same, standard sort of house. Let them earn the same, standard sort of income. Let children attend the same, standard sort of school. Thereby let the greater talent emerge by nature alone and be admired. Let this greater talent find satisfaction expressing its gifts to the rest, not in abusing those gifts to exploit the rest. The National Party is fundamentally about an ultimate justice resting on humility. It has no place for the richest staying rich, let alone getting richer still. Tom Krossington is well aware of our vision, even if you are not.”
“We live in stables?” Donald was baffled that a movement of apparently intelligent people could have gathered about such a stupid idea. “We doze on the Bed of Procrustes...”
“It is a radical vision,” Banner said. “The basic idea is an old one, dating from the earliest years of the Public Era. It’s never been properly tried.”
“It’s something beginning with M. You’ll know it when you find it.” Farkas pulled a tight, complacent grin.
“But for now, we must press on. My apologies for this abruptness,” Banner said. He stood up and held his arm out for the door. “By all means join us at Brent Cross a week on Sunday. It’s the official opening ceremony of our new head office. We’ve grown far beyond this old attic here, besides which the college is finding our presence increasingly awkward.”
“I shall make that a date,” Donald said, trying not to sound overtly sarcastic.
A few minutes later, Valentin and his two oxen were escorting him to the front door. As he descended the stairs, he wondered wryly what His Decency TK would make of his appointed regent pow-wowing with the president of the National Party. The thought drifted away in favour of the purpose of his day.
“Would you by any chance know a student here called Sarah-Kelly Newman?” he asked Valentin.
“She isn’t here in the week, she’s at work.”
“Would that be in Brent Cross?”
“You would know, if you needed to.”
Chapter 14
Donald’s first concern was going back out through Ladbroke fort for the second time that morning. Would this arouse suspicion? He had no idea whether his messenger’s passport would survive a check against central records, or not. It turned out there was a new shift of glories behind the desk. The leading basic squinted at the stamp of that morning, lifted his own stamp and banged Donald through without comment.
Now there were five miles of lonely turnpike to Brent Cross. It was not a stretch Donald was inclined to make all alone. His Colt 38 would not spare him a crafty arrow through the back of the neck. Luckily, a man-hauled express charabanc was about to leave from the turnpike gate. For three white ones, he took a place on one of the benches along with about a dozen other travellers. During the hour’s trip, he listened, observed and kept his mouth tight shut.
The customs halt for Brent Cross was entirely clear of any washed-up surplus flow, be it dead or alive and similarly clear of vultures, crows, dogs and such. The only suggestion of carrion action was streaked down the walls bordering the turnpike. Donald suspected these were lammergeier droppings.
On the great marketplace of Brent Cross, Donald walked in a large circle amongst the tents and stalls, eyes ahead and very purposeful, whilst seeking any clue as to which of the many gates visible was that of the great ZEEBRI factory complex . The only lead he had was Sarah-Kelly’s telling him she worked at ZEEBRI before moving to Oban. If she was not there, he would give up and go home. He was all too aware of his vulnerability out here miles from any help. It would be far too dangerous to attempt amateur sleuthing in this social wilderness.
He enlarged the circle. His attention narrowed on two large gates on opposite sides of the marketplace. From these emerged limousines, engines as big as horses, wooden crates as big as cottages—major pieces of engineering hauled by teams of Night and Fog tramping to time beaten by drummers. He had a 50-50 chance of getting it right. Donald chose what happened to be the nearest gate and walked towards it, being forced to zig-zag to stay out of the way of wagons and their drivers’ whips. He allowed himself a smile on seeing that the gates bore lettering crafted in wrought-iron painted gold: “You are entering the premises of Zelewski, Elmes, Edkins, Brankner, Randell and Ignatovitch. No business will be entertained without customs’ clearance. All visitors must report to Goods Inwards.”
So, he was luckier choosing asylums than he was at choosing photographs. He slowed, crossing the cobbled standing yard, taking in this scene of great industry. Traffic directors waved yellow batons to signal traffic out of the surrounding sheds onto a central turntable, where the long trains of teams and wagons got swung to face the main gate—then off they went on their journey. Wagons and teams queued, creeping up the line. The turntable was so constantly busy that the team pushing it worked in shifts of only a few minutes before being rested.
After this frenetic scene, the Goods Inwards hall seemed almost hushed. Donald paused, conscious of scathing eyes resting on him. He was the only person in the hall not in the smart black uniform of the ultramarines. To avoid dithering, he joined a queue near the middle of the hall only to find that this time, his choice was not lucky. The impatient clerk who finally served him scowled at his enquiry to see one Sarah-Kelly Newman.
“I’ve no bloomin’ idea!” he exploded. “Twenty-five thousand folk works here. It’s not as if they can just drop their tools for you, even if I could find your bint.”
A white one slid across the counter under Donald’s palm.
“Would that make a difference?”
“It might if it was yellow.”
The greedy bastard wanted a gold ounce. Donald slid over a Manx angel. The clerk eased it off the counter into his pocket. He wrote down Sarah-Kelly’s name and glided away down the counter and through a doorway into the depths of ZEEBRI. Minutes turned into fives of minutes and then tens of minutes. Most likely the sleazebag had buzzed off with his trophy and would not be back. Donald was on the verge of giving up when the skinny man returned.
“That was a flippin’ wild goose chase and no mistake. I’d have wanted two yellows had I known what a palaver that would be,” he groused. “Finally got hold of her in upholstery shop. Her shift finishes at half twelve. You wait at the back there and she’ll be right out then.” As Donald thanked him, the clerk winked and added: “Nice looker, I must say.”
It was only a half-hour wait. The asylum siren went off and the whole place erupted into rumbles and shouts, torrents of clogs clattered across the turning yard and out the gate. Donald watched through the dusty windows, growing astonished by the unending river of humanity, all wearing the same dark red overalls and caps, from kids of about ten up to old crones hobbling out last, stooped over walking sticks. Not much retirement out here, it would seem.
Fingers tapped his shoulder. He turned to face Sarah-Kelly. Her hair was tied up in a pony-tail, which was tucked inside the back of her overalls. She smelled of turpentine and looked tired and irritable.
“Can I get you lunch?” he asked.
“I’ll sign you in as a guest,” she said. “We’ll eat for free up in the canteen.”
“It’s no bother—on me.”
“This is Brent Cross, Donald, we don’t have sweet little tea rooms. It’s boozers for the men and tarts, and sod-all for the rest.”
“Some other time, then. Lead on.”
At one end of the Goods Inwards hall was a visitors’ gate. Donald showed his messenger’s
passport, Sarah-Kelly showed her works ID and the gatekeeper wrote it all down in the visitors’ log.
“Make sure you sign out afterwards,” Sarah-Kelly said as she led him up a gloomy, rather ominous corridor into the body of ZEEBRI. “If you don’t, I’ll get charged with aiding and abetting a breach of Frite and you’ll be a hunted man.”
Donald was looking about at the walls, which had the texture of wooden planks but were hard as stone. The roof was the same texture. The floor was smooth, with two shallow channels worn by decades of clogs. They passed arches leading into galleries where horned metal animals rested silent, jaws still matted with swirls of steel cuttings. He was particularly impressed by the sense of being in an underground complex cut through rock. Everything was massively solid as if built to withstand medieval warfare. The lighting was electric and very bright—brighter than the overcast November afternoon outside.
“What’s this building made from?” Donald asked.
“Reinforced concrete. It’s an heirloom of the Public Era. Believe it or not, this was once a multi-storey car park.”
Donald lifted his eyebrows in askance. Sarah-Kelly smirked. He liked that smirk of hers. She had double dimples in each cheek.
“Here’s a bit of economic history for you,” she said. “As you know, the Fatted Masses went everywhere in those funny little bug-like motor cars. Well—you won’t believe this, because no one would believe anything so ridiculous—but when they went to get food or whatever, the Fatted Masses had to store their bugs somewhere. So, they put them in these places. The Fatted Masses would drive up this corridor and park in these galleries. There’s five levels, including this amazing open-air top deck where we’re going. These things were all over Public Era cities. They’ve survived because they were built solid like glory forts to carry all the weight of the bugs.”
“I think that requires more imagination than I can muster,” Donald said. He assumed she was pulling his leg.
The corridor curved upwards and around back on itself to open into another low gallery. It was clearly a furniture shop, with wood steaming cabinets, carving tables, turning machines, polishing wheels, stacks of complete frames and leather patterns being marked out on hides for cutting.
Sovereigns of the Collapse Book 1 Page 17
