by Oisin McGann
He put his hands on Sol’s shoulders.
‘You could uncover whatever operation has sent your dad into hiding, you might even get a reporter or a politician to listen to you, but that’ll be it. This kind of thing goes on all the time – you think they’re not aware of it? Of course they are! They’re part of it – they’re not going to do anything to help you ’cos it’ll stir up too much crap. This whole damn city keeps working because people turn a blind eye to the likes of Cortez and the dirty deals and the strong-arm stuff. It wouldn’t work without them.
‘I promised Gregor I’d keep you safe, and I’ll help you find him if we can; but you have to realize you’re in the underworld now. You won’t be going back to school, you won’t be going back to normal life; that’s all over now, because if you get caught by these people, you’re dead. You have to harden up and keep your head down, ’cos we’re on our own here. Nobody’s going to help us. Do you understand?’
Sol let out a ragged sigh. He had been hanging onto the hope that somehow, if he solved the mystery of Tommy Hyung’s murder, everything else would work itself out. But he had seen enough to know that it wasn’t true. The Clockworkers, whoever they were, seemed to be beyond the law. Even the police couldn’t protect him for ever; not against these dark figures who haunted the city. His mind went back to the cold room where he’d hung from chains, where a man had shown him a pair of pliers. With a leaden, sinking feeling, he realized that by getting Cleo involved, he might have condemned her to the same fate.
‘Solomon? Do you understand what I’m telling you?’
Sol nodded.
But what was left to him then? Was he condemned to spend the rest of his life on the run? And how was he going to find Gregor?
‘I need to see Cleo again,’ he said firmly. ‘See if she’s talked to Walden’s widow.’
‘Not today.’
‘Why not?’
‘Not today, Sol. Maybe tomorrow. Come on, we’re too exposed out here. Let’s get inside and find something to eat – I’m starving. We’ll go and see Cleo tomorrow.’
Section 14/24: Demolition
ANA KIROA SAT on the grass with her eyes closed, Julio’s arms around her, listening to the sounds of birds. A gentle breeze ruffled her soft hair, mixing with his warm breath on her neck and the side of her face. Leaning back against his chest, she drew in a long breath, relishing the mingled scents of fresh grass, pine and a dozen different flowers; some, like tulips and chrysanthemums, poppies and sunflowers, she knew from her walks in the conservation section of the hydroponic gardens; most she had never smelled before.
The sound of the wind in the trees brought a smile to her face and, keeping her eyes closed, she imagined herself on a wide, open hillside on the edge of a forest, looking out over a balmy, sunny landscape of untamed countryside. This was as far removed as she could possibly be from the utilitarian walls of the classroom. The sunlight was warm and bright on her eyelids. Wiggling her bare toes in the grass, she turned and kissed Julio long and hard on the mouth. A soft bell chimed, and he pulled his face back, smiling at her.
‘Time’s up, somebody else’s turn now.’ He gave an exaggerated frown.
‘Drat.’
She opened her eyes and gazed resignedly around her at the screens that made up the walls and ceiling, showing the hillside as it had once been. They were in a private simulation chamber; hidden ventilation ducts blew the fake breeze across the room, the carefully regulated moisture and temperature levels mixed with manufactured scents to complete the illusion. Surround-sound speakers carried the sounds of the birds across the imaginary sky, along with the rustling sound of trees that had become extinct centuries before.
Even the grass was synthetic, a gently sloping bank three metres square; they’d had to leave their shoes at the door. She patted the creases out of the floral ‘summer’ dress she’d worn for the occasion. It was the most expensive thing she owned.
Time in one of these chambers did not come cheap either; she had never been in one before. But Julio worked for the owners, Internal Climate, and could get concessions. And he loved treating her. His square-jawed face and stocky body belied his somewhat nerdish lifestyle, revelling in the chaos mathematics of air currents and thermal patterns. Ana had never met anyone who could make ventilation sound so romantic.
‘That was fantastic, thank you.’ She hugged him as they walked over to the door. ‘God, you can just imagine what it was like . . .’
Julio nodded.
‘And to think you could just go out and do it,’ he wondered wistfully. ‘Sit on a hillside – a real one – for free!’
They sat on the seats provided, putting on their shoes. As soon as Ana had slipped on her wildly impractical stiletto pumps, she pushed Julio up against the wall for one last, passionate kiss as the images disappeared from the screens. When they broke apart, the scenes had changed; dark clouds, like swirls of ink in water, were looming over a mountainous region, with pulsing glows of lightning in their depths. The breeze had grown cold and damp. The next client obviously had a thing for storms.
‘Jules,’ Ana gasped as he followed her out the door, ‘do you think they can do rain?’
‘I know they can,’ he said, grinning. ‘But it costs extra. Maybe if we save for a month or two . . .’
Her mind lost in the wondrous possibilities of being caught in a rainstorm on a hillside with Julio, Ana let herself be led out of the facility.
‘These things used to be open to the public, you know,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘The city ran them like the libraries. They thought it was vital for the children. Everything worked better back then too. A hundred years ago the dome had tropical temperatures for half the year. I mean, the kinds of temperatures you had in the tropics before they froze over.’
Ana squeezed his arm.
‘I suppose there was a better sense of community then,’ he added. ‘There were still other habitats out there; there might even have been a few people still alive outside the known enclaves. But the folks in Ash Harbour knew they stood the best chance of surviving. Nothing buoys up the spirits like knowing you’re going to outlive the other guy.
‘I don’t think we appreciate what we’ve got now. This is a fantastic city, but nobody sees that any more, because they’re not under threat. Sometimes I think what people need is a good scare to wake them up.’
‘Don’t go getting morbid on me.’ Ana elbowed him. ‘I’m out to have a good time tonight. You’re supposed to be treating me like a princess.’
‘Then command me, Your Majesty!’ he exclaimed, with a grin.
They passed along a hall of private light-chambers, where people could pay to stand, soaking in the augmented daylight refracted through lenses and along mirrored channels; gloriously bright compared to the large, drab light-shafts found in public spaces around the rest of the city, and more secluded than the crowded sun-platforms beneath the dome. There were thermo-chambers, where people could get a genuine-looking tan – unlike the less salubrious ultra-violet orange that was available in beauty parlours in poorer parts of the city – and wind tunnels where adventurous souls could glide, paraglide and even skydive in the safety of voluminous padding.
And these were only a few of the tightly compacted activities that Internal Climate’s Weather Centre could offer. For the right price. Ana and Julio strolled down the ramp that led from the grand entrance to the street, arms around each other, communicating their affection in tight squeezes and stolen kisses.
As they reached the brightly lit shopping promenade, turning to make for a nearby café, a dark red, muscular car rolled up, its powerful electric engine whirring with quiet arrogance over the sound of the music from the bars. The CIS inspector, Mercier, opened the passenger-side door and got out.
‘Ms Kiroa. I wonder if you would come with us, if you don’t mind?’
He opened the car’s back door and waited for her to get in. He did not seem to consider the possibility that she might refuse.
‘What’s going on?’ Julio demanded. ‘What do you want with her?’
‘It’s all right.’ Ana sighed. ‘I know what it’s about. We’d better go.’
As she made for the car, Julio went to follow, but Mercier held up his hand, stepping in front of him.
‘Just the lady, sir. I’m afraid this doesn’t concern you.’
‘I’ll decide what does and doesn’t concern me.’ Julio’s jaw muscles flexed, his body tensing at the challenge. ‘I’m going with her.’
‘No, you’re not, sir,’ Mercier replied firmly. ‘Stand back, please, sir. Now.’
He was smaller than Julio, but his voice was loaded with authority. Julio’s aggression faltered and he took a step back. His eyes followed Ana as she climbed into the car, and she felt a moment of pity for him as he stood helpless on the pavement. In an old-fashioned, protective way that she found hopelessly attractive, he prided himself on being ‘her man’.
‘Go home,’ she called to him. ‘I’ll call over when I’m done here, okay?’
The car pulled away, and she gave him a reassuring wave, which he returned half-heartedly.
‘So, what do you want now?’ she snapped at the car full of policemen.
Beside her was the ISS inspector who had been interrogating Solomon when she had pulled him out of the police station. The ginger-haired driver had been there too, dressed like his boss in a dapper, wine-coloured uniform. The memory of that day gave her the shivers; three men intimidating a schoolboy as if he were a prisoner of war.
‘Ms Kiroa,’ the man beside her greeted her in a slightly reedy voice. ‘We weren’t properly introduced last time we met. My name is Inspector Ponderosa, ISS. We’d like to have a few words with you about Solomon Wheat.’
‘I’ve already told him everything,’ Ana said curtly, pointing at Mercier’s back. ‘Don’t you guys ever talk?’
‘The inspector has given me a full and comprehensive report,’ Ponderosa informed her, his thin lips breaking into a warm smile. ‘He excels at filing reports, don’t you, Inspector? But I’m a social learner, I like to hear things from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.’
‘There’s nothing else I can tell you. Sol’s gone. I don’t know where. Why don’t you just leave him alone? He hasn’t done anything wrong.’
‘Yes.’ Ponderosa looked out of the window at the passing street. They were in Roebling Hill, an affluent part of town not far from the city centre. As they travelled along the road, the shopping malls and office blocks were starting to give way to a well-heeled residential area. He talked while he watched the street, sounding almost as if he were talking to himself. ‘Up until today, I would have agreed with you. But this afternoon, things . . . changed.’
He said very little else while they continued out towards the city wall, and Ana was left wondering where they were taking her. It wasn’t to the ISS headquarters; that was in the other direction. Her brusque manner was all for show; an attempt to hide how nervous she felt. Every now and again Mercier would glance back at her from the passenger seat, and his face did not inspire confidence.
‘Where the hell are we going?’ she squawked, and then winced at how scared it made her sound.
‘To the scene of a crime,’ Ponderosa replied.
The neighbourhoods grew steadily worse out here; this was the Titan Banks, an industrial slum. The car swung left onto a wide main road, and glided out over a two-lane bridge that linked to the Outer Ring Road skirting the city wall itself. Near the middle of the span the driver pulled the car over, and Ponderosa asked Ana to step out. He followed her, gesturing towards the railing.
Below them was a helter-skelter of walkways, walls and pigeon-dropping-spattered rooftops. In the gaps between the criss-crossing roads and tram rails, Ana could see down three or four levels; it must have been a sixty-metre drop. The legs of the bridge joined the superstructures of buildings that housed businesses and workshops in the lower levels. Ponderosa put a hand on her shoulder and, for an irrational moment, she thought he was going to push her over the railing. But he simply pointed down at a group of people on a street two levels down. They were police officers; she could see their cars blocking off the lower street in both directions.
Ana realized she was looking at the scene of an accident – a big one. Lying on the street was what remained of a moving denceramic walkway, the type that swung people from one side of a divide to another, like a moving bridge. The entire structure had collapsed: she could see the remains of its arm sticking out from under the bridge she was standing on. Its steel-reinforced concrete counterweight dangled precariously from the other end of the arm, straining at its fulcrum.
‘Three people killed, eleven injured,’ Ponderosa said mildly. ‘Lives ruined by the rot. There is a decay in this city, Ms Kiroa. We don’t know if this was caused by inefficiency or outright sabotage, but we’ll find out. There are people who want to bring this city to its knees; they are the rot, the cancer, eating their way from the bottom up. This destruction has brought three Machine districts to a complete stop by breaking the chain of movement and cutting the power flow; we’ve lost nearly half a million kilowatt hours since it happened. That’s about four per cent of the city’s daily power output – and the Machine’s only working at sixty per cent capacity right now. There’ll be a lot of people without lights tonight; water and electricity too. All because of a walkway collapse. The mayor is not happy . . . and neither am I.
‘Anybody who messes with my city, Ms Kiroa, will end up dealing with me. I’ll find the cancers that did this, and when I do I’m going to enjoy the surgery.’
Ana stared down at the ruined walkway, taking in the debris and splashes of blood picked out of the gloom by the newly rigged floodlights, the police officers walking around taking measurements and marking the positions of forensic evidence. Even from this distance it made her feel queasy. She turned away to see the ISS driver was standing by the railing, staring at her, expressionless. Mercier was still sitting in the passenger seat of the car, jotting something down in his notebook. He obviously had no role to play in Ponderosa’s scene-setting.
‘But what has this got to do with you?’ Ponderosa asked suddenly. ‘What are you doing here?’
He gave her a questioning stare, as if he expected her to have the answer. Then he pointed off to one side of the walkway’s arm, below its counterweight.
‘We don’t know the connection yet, but you see that alley down there? You can’t see into it now, it’s too dark, but you see where it is?’
Ana regarded the dark rift between the buildings and gave a shrug. Ponderosa’s expression hardened.
‘That’s where Solomon and another, unidentified man were involved in a double homicide. A man was shot through the face, and a woman had her neck broken. The alley is next to the workshop of a man named Tenzin Smith. We wanted to talk to him regarding Gregor Wheat’s whereabouts. Mr Smith is now missing too.’
Ana felt her heart sink.
‘How . . . how do you know—?’
‘How do we know it was our young Mr Wheat? Because when he crossed the street on his way to the alley, he carelessly looked straight into the security camera Smith has over his workshop door. Moments later, the camera caught Solomon and two other men running from the scene.’
‘Jesus.’
‘It would seem he’s keeping some very bad company, don’t you think? And what about this man Mercier told you about, Necktie Romanos? Any idea why Solomon would have a debt collector after him? Is it to do with his father?’
‘How should I know? You think kids talk to their teachers about this kind of stuff ?’
Ponderosa leaned in close to her face.
‘I want to know what the hell is going on,’ he said softly. ‘You are going to tell me everything you know about Solomon Wheat. I want to know who his friends are in school, what his hobbies are, what girls – or boys – he’s into. I want to know who else knows anything about him. I. Want. To. Know. Everything.’ He h
eld up his hands, splaying his fingers either side of her head. ‘You’re a teacher. Educate me.’
Cleo was helping her younger sister with her homework; it was late, and Cleo badly needed a smoke, but Victoria was resisting her attempts to impart knowledge.
‘But how can x be equal to twelve? It’s a letter.’
‘You’re calling it x because you don’t know what it is,’ Cleo explained.
‘But I know it’s twelve!’
‘Only because I’ve just told you. Imagine you don’t know what it is, and you have to find out. To do the sum, you have to call it something, so you call it twelve . . . sorry, I mean x. Got it?’
‘Kind of,’ Vicky grunted, in a voice that said she remained unconvinced.
‘Right. So you know y equals eight, yeah?’
‘Yeeeaah.’
‘So, if x minus y equals four, and you know y is eight, then what’s x?’
Vicky lips moved as she did the simple arithmetic in her head. Cleo looked at her meaningfully. Vicky’s eyes widened.
‘Oh . . . twelve?’
‘Exactly!’
They were in the living room, where the webscreen was playing pop music softly because Vicky couldn’t study without it. Their parents were having one of their rare nights out, leaving Cleo to apply her feeble academic skills to her sister’s first foray into algebra. Cleo hated algebra.
‘Right, let’s do this next one,’ she breathed. ‘If x plus y plus z equals sixteen, and x equals four and y equals seven—’
‘It’s “Devil’s Jukebox”!’ Vicky squealed as the first bars of her favourite song came over the webscreen’s speakers.
Jumping to her feet, she dragged her sister out of the chair.
‘You can dance to this any time!’ Cleo protested, but she was smiling as she was hauled up to stand next to Vicky.
Together they spread their feet, raised their arms and started to do the new dance that was taking the city by storm. Bobbing their heads to the quick beat of ‘Devil’s Jukebox’, they pranced from side to side, spinning on their heels and waving their arms up and down as they joined in with the singing.
