And here we black out for a bit. Then, a slow fade-in: girl, mid-flight, the gray sky at her back. Fierce and falling, her figure seems to echo, the air vibrates electrically; she is both noun and verb, cleanly separate, scissored. She is here on purpose.
She was evasive, Arch’s words float down. I know she was still mourning. Someone close to her had died. She didn’t seem... empty exactly. Just resigned. Resigned about everything.
‘We shouldn’t discuss this,’ Stace says. Snap back to the present. Stace glances around the gallery as if some Seed spy is about to pounce on the lot of them.
Penny looks disappointed. ‘Right, right. Well, in that case... shall we get started?’ She checks the time on her phone. It just so happens to be a Seed.fon, the glossy touchscreen embedded in the trademark varnished wooden case, but it’s an older model, from a year or two ago.
Ursula hurriedly stands up and shakes Arch’s hand. ‘It was very nice to speak with you.’
‘Likewise. Stace will be in touch with you when the article is ready for your approval.’
Sensing that something is about to begin, the stray gallery-goers begin to congregate around the machine. There aren’t many people around—it’s a Monday, and the official opening was on Saturday. Ursula and Penny stand beside each other. Ursula says, ‘Thank you for coming. Penny and I are delighted to present to you the third performance of Aller. We ask that you please refrain from taking videos of this performance, but still photography is permitted.’
There is a bowl of marbles positioned at the start of the machine, each one a different color. Ursula selects the blue marble. You snap a shot of the marble setting off on its journey, rolling down a wooden gutter. Click. Then you hang the Canon on your chest and watch. The marble, travelling through places you had just photographed.
Down the wooden gutter. Dropping through holes.
Through the zig-zag pathways made out of pegs and typewriter keys.
Triggering a row of marbles to fall into an origami box, a counterweight that makes its twin box spring up and release another marble.
Hitting a staircase of xylophone keys.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
After that it all starts going too fast, and you begin to see the machine not as a display of actions and reactions but something possessed by magic. So doubtful are the connections, the tipping points, the pathways. It is almost heartbreaking that it all works. The origami box bouncing along the zip line. The marble dropping, hitting the dominoes. The mallet swinging.
Ding! goes the bell.
The spectators applaud, except for you. You look down at the Canon and stare at the preview image of the blue marble as if it defines your future.
Some of the spectators are crowding around Ursula and Penny to ask questions. Arch catches your eye and the three of you, Arch, Stace, April, slip outside the gallery and meet on the footpath.
Stace shifts timetable boxes around on her iPad. ‘Two more stops and we’re done for the day. We may have to reschedule the Brad Ruffalo meeting.’
‘Alright.’ Arch looks to you. ‘Thanks for coming out, April. We’ll talk more about the article at the next meeting.’
‘Hey, no problem!’
You watch the two of them walk off, conferring over Stace’s iPad. The Canon seems heavier around your neck, as if data has a physical weight. You let yourself feel it. The marble’s inexorable slide.
K X 04
‘Do you think plots are inherently evil then?’ Arch asks.
Ursula laughs. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps! But with fairytales we have the benefit of omniscience, you see. In the real world? No.’
Penny says, ‘But I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of plots, Arch.’
‘What do you do if the machine fails?’ you blurt out. Four heads swivel to stare at you. Stace is getting that apocalyptic look again. You can see lava. Sparks. Ash. You grip the Canon.
Ursula asks, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well,’ you flounder. ‘There’s a few points in the machine where there’s a tiny risk of failure. I mean, I get that you’ve tested it until the probability of failure is close to zero. But what do you do if it doesn’t go as planned, like during a performance? With everyone watching?’
Now Stace stares at you as if you’re some kind of exotic file extension. What to do with you? Arch waits for the artists’ response. Ursula and Penny exchange looks. ‘We had a debate about this, actually,’ Penny says. ‘We thought we should have some sort of protocol, but I don’t think we ever actually decided on one. I thought that if it fails, then that should just be the end of the performance, you know. But Ursula thought it would be appropriate to step in, and correct the problem.’
‘It hasn’t failed yet,’ Ursula adds. ‘There’s always a chance, of course. But it hasn’t failed yet. I guess...’ She studies the machine, the milling spectators. ‘I’m coming around to Penny’s way of thinking, now. Once the machine is in motion, it’s not ours anymore. It doesn’t have to obey us. It’s almost like there’s some third thing. A third thing that’s not us, and not the machine. Something that wills the objects, that determines how things will behave when they’re triggered. It wouldn’t be right, to intervene.’
‘I see,’ you say. The silence itches. You point the camera in a random direction and click.
Arch says, ‘So really, nobody has the benefit of omniscience. Not even the person who sets it all up.’
Ursula smiles. ‘No, I guess not.’
The five of you stare pensively at the Rube Goldberg machine for a moment, as if it is some kind of light phenomenon in the sky. Flashing with secret signals. Then Penny says, ‘Well, should we get started?’ Checking her Seed.fon for the time.
Ursula quickly stands up and shakes Arch’s hand. ‘It was very nice to speak with you.’
‘Likewise. Stace will be in touch with you when the article is ready for your approval.’
The gallery-goers coalesce around the machine. You twist through the sparse forest of burgundy jeans and knitted scarves until you have a clear sightline. Arch and Stace are hanging back. ‘Thank you for coming,’ Ursula says to the assembly. ‘Penny and I are delighted to present to you the third performance of Aller. We ask that you please refrain from taking videos of this performance, but still photography is permitted.’
You watch Ursula’s fingers dip into the bowl of marbles. Each of them is a different color, vibrant as candy.
Ursula selects the red marble.
As the marble rolls down the wooden gutter, you lift the Canon.
Outside Peric Chambers, you shield your eyes against the sun, but it’s too late—your perception bursts into glowing circles, like the marbles at the start of the Rube Goldberg machine.
Stace unlocks her iPad. ‘Two more stops and we’re done for the day. We may have to reschedule the Brad Ruffalo meeting.’
‘Alright.’ Arch looks around. ‘How’d you go, April?’
You blink rapidly. ‘Yeah, good! See?’ You revive the Canon and flip through the photographs for Arch. They’re pretty good. A red marble zig-zagging through pegs and typewriter keys. Dropping into an origami box.
‘Wow, April,’ Arch says, cradling the camera. ‘These are excellent! I didn’t even know you were shooting when the performance was underway. Stace, check these out.’
Arch passes the Canon to Stace, who appraises each shot carefully. ‘How did you know when to time your shots?’ Stace asks. She even sounds impressed, however grudgingly.
You shrug. ‘I guess I just figured it out. I don’t know.’
Arch says, ‘We must have spent about half an hour watching Ursula and Penny set up, but I didn’t have the foggiest idea what was meant to happen. I wouldn’t have been able to understand the action in time, let alone snap a picture.’
‘Nice work,’ Stace concedes. She passes the Canon back to you and peeps at her iPad. ‘Arch, we’d better keep moving.’
&nbs
p; ‘Oh, yes. What were you saying before? We had to reschedule something?’
‘Yes. Brad Ruffalo.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame. I was looking forward to seeing what was going on there. Unless...’ And here Arch considers you. That dishevelled girl over there, still pawing her sun-dazzled eyeballs. The stars align. ‘Hey, April. How would you like an extra assignment?’
Stace shoots Arch a look, like are you serious?
‘Yeah!’ you exclaim. ‘I mean, absolutely. April Kuan, get-tin’ extracurricular! What do you want me to do?’
‘You’re going to meet a gentleman named Brad Ruffalo. He’s widely acknowledged to be the best claw machine player in Perth. I can email you the brief, and some questions I was going to ask, but feel free to take the lead on this. You seem to have a pretty good understanding of this kind of stuff. Bring your notes to the next Lorem Ipsum meeting and we can talk about expanding the interview into an article then.’ Arch looks at you carefully. ‘This isn’t too much, is it?’
‘Yeah! I mean no! I understand!’
‘It’ll be a collaboration.’
‘Yes, ma’am! I mean, yes, Arch!’
YOU HAVE BEEN PROMOTED TO JUNIOR REPORTER!
Stace regains her professional composure and notes this latest reshuffling of responsibilities on her iPad. Arch dips into her satchel. ‘Oh, and take this.’ She holds out a slim device to you.
‘Oh cool! Thanks!’ APRIL KUAN HAS RECEIVED THE DICTAPHONE!
You are so excited you almost completely miss Arch’s tutorial on how to use it. It’s okay—you’ll figure it out. You’re April Kuan!
For no particular reason, you direct your triumphant gaze across the street, where, overseeing the Horseshoe Bridge, there stands an obelisk of billboards, a different advertisement on each of its four faces. There is a new advertisement, so new it seems to radiate that fresh laserjet smell. The vast background is a blown-up photograph of the sky, high-res, so that the billboard seems to be part of the sky itself, a message from God, and superimposed in white is the logo for Seed, and their new slogan: You have everything necessary to begin.
‘April Kuan, waiting for a train,’ you whisper into Arch’s dictaphone. ‘April Kuan, whispering into a dictaphone.’
April Kuan! Waiting at McIver! Inventory check: Nexus, Canon, dictaphone. A new train arrives in two minutes. Beyond the train tracks there is one of those giant electronic signs attached to a trailer that says, IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING. It is almost adorably kitsch. Paranoia? Citizen surveillance? So 2001, amirite?
‘Field note the first,’ you whisper into Arch’s dictaphone. ‘Camouflage insurgents’ hideout with “if you see something say something” sign. Effective? Investigate in own time.’
A group of boys in navy private school blazers approach the platform. They throw their too-big schoolbags on the bench and untuck their white shirts from their gray trousers. Are they wagging? A half-day?
For a moment a memory threatens to bubble to the surface of your brain. A little blister of tension. What’s that all about? You shuffle a little bit further down the platform. ‘Extension of field note the first,’ you whisper into the dictaphone. ‘How judgy are those signs? Kind of victim-blamey? Is that the sort of thing that an insurgency organization wants to perpetuate? Or would it be an act of subversiveness? April Kuan, conflicted.’
You tuck away the dictaphone and take out your Nexus. You re-check the brief that Arch emailed you on Brad Ruffalo. You’re kind of excited to meet him. An expert claw machine player? It’s the kind of very specific skill that you appreciate in a person.
The train arrives and you board a different carriage from the wagging/maybe-not-wagging schoolboys.
The brief directs you to a claw machine arcade in Victoria Park. HarvestTime, the sign declares in bulging rainbow letters, and in smaller but no less enthusiastic print, Fun For All Ages.
Hey, so, here’s an idea: maybe you should make observations of a journalistic flavor, a bit of scene-setting? How impressed would Arch be with that?! You take out the dictaphone. ‘Field note the second,’ you say, shading your eyes against the sun so you can look through the glass door. ‘HarvestTime is Fun For All Ages. During the daytime, on this Monday, it is deserted. I see rows and rows of inert claw machines. Their gently pulsing lights. TOYS they say. ARE YOU THE SKILL MASTER they say. GRAB A DUCK. UNICORN MADNESS. SURPRIZE!!!! I think I can just make out a kind of bowling alley-style canteen, glowing at the back there. That’s great because I could use a snack.’
The glass door says PUSH so you PUSH.
And as you wander down the aisle, claw machines lined up either side, there are like one million comparisons popping in your mind. ‘Extension of field note the second: being in here is like being inside a laboratory of quarantined plushies,’ you tell the dictaphone. ‘It’s like being in an aquarium supermarket. It’s like being in a museum for forgotten franchises—there’s Dr Mario, there’s Tom and Jerry, there’s Huckleberry Hound, there’s an entire machine full of minor and obscure Pokémon, there’s the eponymous protagonist from Alpha Cheese who looks a little too much like Sponge-Bob Squarepants.’
Beyond the aisle of end-to-end claw machines is the canteen, empty and blue-lit. There’s a woman there wearing Aviators and a dark red leather jacket the color of dried blood. She’s sitting at a table in the canteen, closest to the counter, with an untouched bottle of Coke. There is nobody behind the counter. Is she an employee here? Nursing a hangover? You square your shoulders and Approach With Confidence.
You see yourself mirrored in her stern Aviators. April Kuan, stretched out over a convex surface. The claw machines are mirrored too, pulsing with warped light.
‘Hi hi! I’m looking for Brad Ruffalo,’ you say.
‘He doesn’t exist,’ the lady says.
‘What?’
‘Duck,’ the lady says.
Is that the sound of... glass cracking? You turn around—
And the Grab-A-Duck machine EXPLODES.
‘Holy sh—’
And then the Toy Chest explodes, and the Omegaclaw, and Big Prizes, and the Try Your Luck, and SURPRIZE!!!!, everything exploding, glass and sparks flying everywhere, claws jerked on their chains, light bulbs snapping, and just as quickly bullets puncture your shoulders and the air turns red.
And then, blue.
You hear the distant bells of a descending boomgate.
The whistle of a Transperth train.
K X 03
There’s a woman there wearing Aviators and a dark red leather jacket the color of dried blood. She’s sitting at a table in the canteen, closest to the counter, with an untouched bottle of Coke. There is nobody behind the counter. Is she an employee here? Nursing a hangover? You square your shoulders and Approach With Confidence.
You see yourself mirrored in her stern Aviators. April Kuan, stretched out over a convex surface. The claw machines are mirrored too, pulsing with warped light.
The woman in the Aviators sees you SEE-ing her and waits for you to SAY SOMETHING.
‘Hi hi,’ you say. ‘Um. You’re not Brad Ruffalo, are you?’
‘I’m Jules Valentine.’
‘Well, hi! I’m April Kuan from Lorem Ipsum and—’
‘Duck.’
Oh yeah! You dive underneath the table just as the Grab-A-Duck machine explodes. Jules Valentine pivots, slips a hand behind her jacket, tugs a pistol (?!?!?!) free, fires a line of shots into the arcade. She crouches behind a claw machine containing a chubby assortment of knock-off Kirbies and ejects the pistol cartridge. She removes another one from her jacket. ‘Stay there,’ Jules says.
‘Are you some kind of secret agent?’ you whisper.
She twists out from behind the claw machine and blasts away again. Twists back from return fire. You can’t see where it’s coming from. The floor writhes with sparking cables and acrylic shards. There are rubber ducks everywhere.
‘Let’s bail,’ Jules says.
‘Bail where?’ you
ask but Jules strides out from behind the machine, fires two shots, hauls you up by the scruff of your T-shirt and drags you over the canteen counter. The Canon bangs against your chest but Jules is having none of this OW MOTHER#$@% business and pulls you to your feet and rushes you through the sparse kitchen and out the back door. You tumble into an alleyway of abandoned milk crates and painful natural light.
‘Sorry about that,’ Jules says.
‘Where’s Brad Ruffalo?’ you ask, but Jules is already walking briskly out onto the street, tucking her gun away, throwing glances back at HarvestTime. You keep up the pace. ‘I’m on assignment, you see, for Lorem Ipsum. I work for Archna Desai, do you know Arch? I’m meant to interview Brad Ruffalo—’
‘I know Arch Desai,’ Jules says. ‘And don’t worry. This interview was a cover.’
‘Huh?’
‘What did you say your name was? April?’
‘Yeah.’
You’re at a pedestrian crossing now, among a handful of office workers returning from lunch. ‘Listen, April.’ Jules spins you by the shoulder.
You look into her Aviators. ‘I’m listening.’
‘I’ve put you in danger. I’m really sorry about that. But I need your help.’
‘Sure!’
‘You were just at the exhibition of Ursula Rodriguez and Penny Birch, right?’
‘Yeah. The one with the Rube Goldberg machine. I took photos.’ You jiggle the Canon.
The red man turns green and you’re jostled into crossing the street. Jules glances back at HarvestTime. Then her gaze alights upon the Canon. ‘I need you to help me, April.’
‘You need me to work with you?’ you say, a little too enthusiastically.
She pauses. ‘Yes.’
‘Awesome! I’ll do it!’
YOU HAVE BEEN PROMOTED TO ASSASSIN’S ACCOMPLICE (????)!
Jules thumbs a button on her keychain. ‘In here.’ She slips into the driver’s side of a battered Toyota Corolla. You hop in the other side. ‘Can I see the photographs of the exhibition?’
‘Sure!’ You power up the Canon and pass it to her. Jules studies the preview window. She doesn’t take off her Aviators, which is kind of weird. She dedicates at least six seconds to each photograph. ‘These are good.’
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