by Guy Salvidge
And that had been before the June First attacks. Jeremy and his underlings had worked themselves into a frenzy trying to sugar-coat that! In the months after the attack, caesium levels of up to two thousand times the legal limit had been found in fish caught off the coast of Yellowcake Springs. When news of that got out, immigration to the town had tailed off dramatically. People were terrified of radiation, even when it could be empirically proven that the leak had been completely contained. You didn’t eat fish caught here, that’s all. Back in ‘58, two-thirds of the town’s residents had been Australian nationals. Now the figure had fallen to under 50% and most of the new arrivals came from mainland China.
He chewed over these unwelcome facts as his feet propelled him to his usual lunchtime haunt on the Grand Parade. The Centaur was an upmarket kind of place, even by the standards of Yellowcake Springs, and the service and cuisine was unparalleled. You paid a little more for the privilege, but the prices kept the worker drones away.
“Ah, Mr Peters,” the maître d’ said as Jeremy stepped in off the street. “How delightful to see you again. Your usual table?”
Jeremy nodded. The Centaur was modest in size, tastefully decorated and entirely without the usual flourishes that signified pretensions of wealth. The light was a touch on the dim side and the music sonorous and ambient. Most of the booths were taken, but Philippe always kept a table aside for Jeremy at the back. He was an excellent customer.
“Perhaps sir would like a drink to begin with?” Philippe asked, bowing slightly.
“A whisky from the top shelf, please,” Jeremy replied. “My usual main and perhaps a small bruschetta for starters.”
“Sir.” The restaurateur withdrew, leaving Jeremy to his thoughts. His whisky wasn’t long in coming and it soon revived him. He didn’t know why he was in such a bad mood today; he supposed that it was because he was under a higher degree of pressure than normal. He’d worked longer and harder this week than in quite a while, but it’d soon pass.
The first whisky was gone before he knew it, but his glass had a way of magically refilling itself when his attention was diverted. He ate heartily and reminded himself of the good things in life. These things made a compelling argument for him to continue to go to work each day and to continue drawing his ever-expanding salary. If he could consolidate his position in Security over the coming months, which mainly involved sucking up to the Grand Director, then Yang Po wouldn’t get a look in even if he did get better. Jeremy was in the box seat now.
15. Dreaming
The Controlled Dreaming State console sat unopened on the bench where Sylvia had left it since its delivery this morning. It was brand new and apparently a more advanced design than the one she’d previously been used to. Today she’d done everything imaginable except for setting up the console. She’d cooked, she’d cleaned, she’d organised a hospital stay for her ailing father. The ambulance would be here at any time, giving her another reason for delaying the inevitable. This house, which held so many unhappy memories for her, was in the process of being re-colonised. As she wiped down benches and cleaned behind sofas that hadn’t been moved in years, she scrubbed the past away. She went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the newly-cleaned mirror. It was the face of someone un-cowed.
The doorbell rang, sparing her the need to devise yet more tasks for herself that didn’t involve setting up the CDS console. She ran to the door and flung it open, letting in the light. The air outside was smoky and unclean. Two young men, both barely out of their teens, stood on the doorstep. They were dressed in the attire of Regal Perth Hospital and they looked less like paramedics and more like overgrown hoodlums having recently stolen an ambulance, such was the sloppy way that they presented themselves. One of them was taller than the other, but otherwise they seemed identical to her.
Sylvia felt sure she was making a mistake in sending her father to Regal Perth. There were private hospitals in the city, but they were fearfully expensive and she didn’t have the money, despite what was left of the hundred thousand. So it was Regal Perth or Quindalup Health Campus, and the latter had a reputation for being somewhere you sent your unwanted relatives if you didn’t want to see them ever again. Regal Perth was supposed to be a public hospital, but these days it was only public in the sense that if you had some money but not a lot you could get someone in there.
“Sylvia Baron?” the taller one asked. “We’re here to pick up your old man.”
“Come in,” she said. She held the door open as they manhandled their trolley bed over the threshold, banging one of the back wheels on the step. The pillow fell onto the recently-mopped floor and the shorter of the men picked it up, brushing off some imaginary dirt and putting it back on the trolley. “He’s through there,” she said, indicating to the master bedroom. “Shall I wake him up?”
The taller man grunted. “If you like.”
The noise of the trolley and the men’s voices had woken her father. She could tell that he was awake even though his eyes remained closed. She had become used to his sickly smell, his frailty, his yellowed flesh.
“Come on, Grandpa,” the shorter of the men said. “You don’t look so heavy.”
The other man threw the blanket off the bed, revealing her father’s soiled garments and sweat-soaked sheets. “Whoa,” he said, waving his hand in front of his nose.
The two men positioned themselves to lift her father off the bed and onto the trolley. “On three,” the short one said.
“No,” she said. “He’s not going; I’ve changed my mind.” Shouldering past the men, she retrieved the blanket and covered her father with it.
“You pre-paid,” the tall one said. “Don’t think you’re getting a refund.”
“I don’t care about the money; just leave.”
“You’ll probably have to pay the first day admission fees,” the tall man warned. “Big waste of money if you ask me.”
“I’m not asking you,” she said.
“All right,” the shorter man said. “Easy pickup, this one. We’re off.” He pushed the trolley out of the bedroom, almost taking a chunk out of the door frame in the process.
She slammed the front door behind them. Then she wondered what she’d just done. “Dad?” she said, going back into the master bedroom. He didn’t reply but she knew that he could hear her. “I don’t want to lose you,” she said. “Mum was right.”
Mumbles. Perhaps an attempt at words, perhaps not.
“It’s all right,” she said, stroking his head. “I won’t let anyone try to take you away again. I’d better change your sheets, then you can go back to sleep. Dad?”
She tended to him, knowing that he didn’t have long left, surely days instead of weeks. There was nothing that Regal Perth could do for him now. He slept.
The box containing the CDS console wasn’t heavy, its contents not in themselves dangerous, but she handled it as though it contained a bomb. Lifting the sleek, black console out of its packaging, she placed it down on the kitchen bench and unpacked the rest of the cords and controllers. Despite the intervening years, she could probably set up one of these things in her sleep. But where to put it? In her room, or out here in the living area where her mother would be able to see her?
Better out here, at least to start with. That way she’d be less inclined to retreat more fully into her own long-submerged desires. She set it up in the corner of the lounge, next to the two-seater couch. She could draw the blinds and dream in near darkness, even if it was uncomfortably warm in here.
She had a drink, used the toilet, checked on her sleeping father and came back. She drew the blinds, plugged the console into the wall and turned it on. It did its initial boot-up. Hypnotised by the winking lights, she didn’t take her eye off the console the whole time. The skullcap, the veil: both brand new and smelling faintly of pine. She fought it, fought the dreaming, but not for long. Soon she was inside, at the profile setup screen. There were more options than ever, not only giving her choice over her
avatar’s appearance and clothing, but things like level of physical fitness, tolerance of alcohol and even propensity to sweating. Surely that was taking things too far. She remembered spending hours fiddling with her earrings and makeup, but a sweating slider? It would never end, not until the real world could be shut out altogether, not until it could be entirely replaced by a shinier, better reality where no one was poor, where no one was dirty and where no one died untreated in their bed.
She selected one of the default avatars, a trim nonentity of a woman, and jumped into the splash pool. The avatar’s stock name was Gloria and by default she lived in a small country town in the year 2012. Sylvia would be damned if she was going to spend her days pimping her profile like she’d done before, so she left it at that. It could be a personal challenge to her, not to spend even a single moment on her avatar. That would make her feel better about the whole thing. Off to 2012.
She had messages, a little dropdown box informed her, but she had to set up her mailbox before she could retrieve them. She went into the post office on the street corner and, with a wave of her hand, the queue in front of her dispersed. She chose a new password, hopefully one she could remember, and went around to the post office boxes with her key. Finding the correct box, she opened it and retrieved two small, white envelopes from inside. Neither of the envelopes bore any distinguishing features to give her an indication of where the letters had come from. She locked her box and stepped onto the street.
It was a nice day but it wasn’t too hot, and there were a few people walking around, but not too many. The buildings on the main street were solidly-constructed and made from a stately-looking reddish stone. The buildings looked to be at least a hundred years old, even in 2012.
Finding a coffee shop which specialised in vegetarian and organic food, she ordered a macchiato and sat down to watch the sleepy traffic drifting by. Before she knew it, her coffee had been placed down before her. The envelopes remained unopened. Across the road were some more cafes and a newsagency, and down an alleyway between the old courthouse and the post office she caught a glimpse of a children’s park. She went to the counter and ordered herself a falafel, then sat back down again and sipped her coffee.
She didn’t want to open the envelopes, but she knew she had to. The first letter was just a generic welcome message. She had never been so glad to see those bland phrases as at this moment. Her falafel came before she had a chance to look at the second envelope, so she tucked into her lunch. It was delicious.
The second letter turned out to be the one she’d been dreading. It was written in flowery handwriting and in blue pen. She scanned over it, impatient to learn what would be required of her and when. The letter just asked her to come as soon as possible to a particular house on the outskirts of town, to ‘meet some friends.’
She looked at the piece of paper, wondering whether the AFP could see what she saw now. Lyncoln Rose had not made it clear whether her time spent in CDS was her own. Ordinarily, she’d assume that CDS time came under the heading of ‘thought’ and not ‘action’, but she wasn’t naïve enough to think that the AFP would be thrown off as easily as that. They must have a way of monitoring whatever she did here, even if it was by some other means.
The house in question was a good ten minutes’ walk from here, and although there was probably a way of getting there instantly, she felt like stretching her legs. She finished her lunch and strolled down the alleyway to the park, where a number of small children were frolicking on the playground. In reality, a huge amount of water would be needed to keep grass as green as this. There was a swing bridge over the river and an old church at the top of the incline beyond. The river flowed freely in a way that rivers in the real world seldom did, and the church even managed to look welcoming to an unbeliever like herself. It was just a short walk along the road past the church to the house in question. A marker hung above it in the sky.
The house sat on a quarter-acre block and it had a pair of impressively tall trees at the front. There was something unfinished about the place, as if the owners had not yet moved in. The sand pad upon which the house was built lay uncovered, and the exterior walls were unpainted. She knocked on the door, but no one seemed to be home. Whoever she was supposed to be meeting wasn’t here yet, but hopefully her presence would trigger a message.
She turned the handle and the door opened. The interior walls weren’t painted either, and the floors were covered in some ersatz hardwood. She sat down on a couch and waited.
16. Reprisal
Captain Turley’s office at the detention centre was in the main quadrangle. Rion felt sure he’d been in this room years before, but it was far cleaner now and the walls had been freshly painted. Turley sat ramrod straight at his desk, puffed up with the sense of his own importance. Rion did his best to sit up straight too, but every time he stopped thinking about it he started slouching.
“So you think some of the bodies have only been there a few weeks?” Turley asked, fingering his moustache. His face was moist. “And the others a considerable time longer?”
“Probably years, some of them,” Rion said. He didn’t mention the horrible smell, the kind of stench that stayed with you a long time.
“And your friend, Lydia? How long would you say she’s been up there on the hill?”
“I’d guess only a few weeks.”
Turley shook his head. “There must have been some kind of massacre. We’ll have to track down this Callum. We can make arrests if it can be shown that even one of those people in the pool met an unnatural end.”
“Sir, Lydia didn’t string herself up.”
“She most certainly did not. You didn’t tamper with the scene, I hope?”
“No, I didn’t touch her.”
“Good lad,” Turley said. “I appreciate the job you’ve done here.”
Rion wondered whether this was his cue to stand.
“There’s one other thing,” Turley said.
Wasn’t there always? “Yes, sir?”
“I received a call yesterday afternoon from none other than the Australian Federal Police, and the call regarded you. Seems you’re a person of interest to them, but they wouldn’t say why. Know anything about that?”
“I don’t think so.”
Turley scratched his moustache. “Well, they weren’t giving too much away, but they wanted to know exactly where we were stationed and what our movements in the coming days were likely to be. I told them we were staying put for a while. Want to tell me what this is about?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Rion said.
“Don’t worry yourself unduly about it. I’m sure it’s nothing untoward.”
“Thanks,” Rion said, but now his head was spinning. The AFP were after him? Surely it couldn’t be in relation to what had happened at Yellowcake Springs? “Mr Turley,” he began, “I’d like your permission to try to speak with Callum. I think I know where he’ll be.”
“You can speak to him if you can find him. You may not be able to get near him though.”
“That’s the problem,” Rion said. “I don’t feel safe with just rubber bullets. I’d like some live ammo, just in case.”
“I thought you understood that the CPF is a peacekeeping organisation. We’re not in the habit of casting the first stone, so to speak.”
“And I don’t intend to,” Rion said. “I haven’t let you down yet, have I? Like you said, I’m doing a good job.”
“I did say that. I can let you have two boxes of shells.”
“What about some body armour?”
“Rion the peacemaker. Yes, I’ll assign you three Kevlar vests and a helmet each.”
“Three, sir?”
“You’re not going after this guy by yourself. Take Marcel and Vanya along. But no shooting, understand? Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Rion said. “No shooting.”
“Fine. Go see Ms Pels and she’ll sign out the supplies. I’ll ring through so she’ll know
you’re coming. I expect a full report at 09:00 tomorrow. I’ll be tied up on logistics until then.”
“Thank you, sir.” Rion stood.
“And be careful out there,” Turley said. “I haven’t lost a soul on this operation yet and I don’t want to start losing them now.”
Rion was dismissed.
It was a hive of activity outside. CPF recruits bustled to and fro, sweeping, painting and generally cleaning up the complex. The supply room had been set up in a disused storeroom at the side of the canteen area. Piles of equipment were stacked haphazardly across the floor inside.
Jane Pels was sitting at the table. “Moving up to the big leagues, I see,” she said. There were two boxes of shells on the table.
“Hopefully we won’t need to use them,” Rion said.
Pels smiled. “Yeah, right. Say hi to Callum for me.” She went rummaging for the vests, scattering her piles in the process. The vests were still in their packets and had never been used.
“I see the helmets over there,” Rion said.
“I know where they are,” Pels said. “Don’t rush me.”
Rion picked up one of the packets; it was surprisingly light. “You wear these under your uniform?” he asked.
“Yeah, they’re lightweight. Don’t go thinking you’re invincible in one of these, ‘cos you’re not. For combat ops we normally use a heavier model fitted with trauma plates, but right now this is all we’ve got. They will stop a bullet though, with a bit of luck.” Pels put three scratched helmets on the table.