by Oisin McGann
Ana was in the apartment when he got back, making a lunch of spirulina pie and promeat. She had made enough for him, and he mumbled his thanks as he took the plate. Avoiding his over-attentive gaze, she coughed and sat down on the couch with her own food.
‘The funeral for the two men in the crane accident is tomorrow,’ she told him. ‘I thought you and the others might want to go.’
Sol nodded. He didn’t care much about the men who had been killed, and he had hated the Earth Centre ever since his mother’s and sister’s funeral; but he might be able to find out more about what had caused the accident to help put his mind at rest. The image of the smashed crane carriage was still fresh, and the incident niggled at him like a maths problem he couldn’t work out, turning over and over in his brain without ever making any sense.
‘The police were on too,’ she added quietly. ‘They want to speak to you again. Properly this time. I’ll go with you. We can do it after the funeral.’
‘Was it the CIS?’ he asked.
‘ISS. That man, Ponderosa.’
Solomon picked at his food, but he couldn’t taste it. It was like sand in his mouth.
The funeral procession was long, stretching back along the street. One man had been Muslim, the other Unitarian, and so there had been two separate services, but the bodies were carried in the same procession through the streets to the Earth Centre. It was the tradition in Ash Harbour for those who died together to be recycled together.
Sol walked alongside Ana, careful to keep a discreet distance. His feelings for her had been getting steadily stronger since moving in with her, and sleeping just one room away from her was driving his imagination wild.
The open-topped hearse pulled up to the steps of the Earth Centre, and each coffin was taken on the shoulders of six men up the steps to the hall. At the end of the hall, past the rows of seats, was a conveyor belt leading through some curtains. Behind the curtain was a hatch. The hatch opened into the inner workings of the centre. The coffins were placed on the conveyor, and everyone took their seats. The lighting was in atmospheric spots, pitched perfectly for the sombre air of the place. The families were up at the front, and one widow was weeping inconsolably. In the high-roofed hall, her cries had a horrible, distant, hollow sound that made Sol think of a soul lost beyond reach.
The Earth Centre was made of concrete and soil. Placed in aesthetically pleasing formations along the reinforced concrete wall, clear plastex panels held large sections of deep brown earth; such a precious thing now that permafrost had rendered the soil in the outside world virtually lifeless. It was a reminder that bodies had always been given back to the earth; an attempt to make recycling more palatable. Corpses had to be recycled; nothing could be wasted in Ash Harbour.
The Master of Ceremonies said a few profound words that Solomon paid no attention to, and then the sound system started to play some piece of classical music – non-denominational, of course – and the coffins began to creep towards the curtain. They brushed through the parting and disappeared. The widow let out a long, sorrowful wail. Sol heard children crying in that helpless, confused way that they do around death. He got up and left before the crowd could begin making its way to the door. Behind the curtain, he knew, the bodies would be removed from the coffins. Those coffins would be used again before the day was out.
Out on the steps, he found Cleo sitting and smoking a joint of stem, holding it hidden in her cupped hand. She glanced back at him, licked her finger and thumb and hurriedly put it out, slipping it into her pocket.
‘You’re supposed to wait for the Master of Ceremonies to lead everyone out,’ she told him. ‘There’s a piece of music they’re supposed to play—’
‘Don’t like crowds,’ he replied.
Cleo sniffed and nodded.
‘Why aren’t you inside?’ he asked.
‘Don’t like funerals.’
He sat down beside her; she didn’t seem to object.
‘I can’t get that day out of my head,’ he said to her. ‘I thought this would help.’
‘Me too. Still couldn’t go inside, though – it would do my head in. You think too much about where we are and where we’re going, and the Dark-Day Fatalists start to make sense, y’know?’
Sol smiled, and then was struck by a memory of something his father had said once: Sometimes, Sol, when things get really bad, I think they might have a point. They seem to have more peace than the rest of us. Maybe they really do have some of the answers.
‘Might be worth checking out,’ he murmured to himself.
‘What?’ Cleo frowned at him.
‘Nothing. Just talkin’ to myself. Haven’t been right in the head lately.’
‘That’ll be all the boxing.’
Sol’s face darkened.
‘You’re one to talk, smokin’ your brains out with that crap—’
Cleo held her hands up in defence.
‘Sorry, sorry. Jeez, you take things seriously.’
Sol sighed. He had never been good about taking needling from girls. He didn’t get much trouble from guys; not because he’d belt anyone who had a go – which he wouldn’t, not since he’d left primary school – more because they respected the fact that he could.
‘It’s been a rough week,’ he said apologetically. ‘I’m a bit on edge. It just seems to be one thing after another . . .’
His sentence drifted to an end as he saw the Filipino man who was coming up the steps towards them. The Pinoy stopped in front of them and looked down at Sol. Sol immediately knew that this was a hard man. His shoulders bulged into his jacket, and his frame looked as if someone had packed a hundred kilos of muscle into a sixty-kilo body. The jacket looked baggy enough to hide weapons. Sol had been expecting someone like this to show up sooner or later. He thought of the gun sitting in his school bag, back in Ana’s flat. It hadn’t seemed right to bring it with him to the funeral. He self-consciously touched his broken nose.
‘Solomon Wheat?’ the man asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m looking for your old man.’
‘Join the queue. I don’t know where he is.’
‘Word is that he’s wanted for murder.’
‘That’s the word all right. Funny how it gets around.’
Sol was looking at the man’s hands. The knuckles were misshapen with scars, but the man’s face looked like it had never been touched. They were telling signs to a fighter. The man noticed how he was staring, and raised the backs of his open hands in front of Sol’s face.
‘He owes my boss money. He made a foolish wager, and now it is time for him to pay up. If I have to use you to get that money, I will. Do you understand? You do understand, don’t you?’
Sol nodded, his mouth suddenly dry.
‘Good. I’ll find you again soon. Have a think, make a few calls if you like. Know where your father is before I find you again. Understand?’
Sol nodded again.
‘Good.’
The man gave a stiff bow to Cleo and turned and walked back down the steps.
‘How come he threatens me, and you get a faggin’ bow?’ Sol gasped, not realizing he had been holding his breath.
Cleo shrugged.
‘Suppose even a debt collector can have manners.’
She had an expression of genuine sympathy on her face. There were enough people in her block in debt to gambling dens and moneylenders. Many of them lived in fear of a knock on the door late at night; there was nowhere to run in Ash Harbour if you owed money to the wrong people.
Section 8/24: Fugitives
CLEO SAT IN her local library, staring at the webscreen. After her close call in the lower levels the previous day, she had been watching the news for any reports of missing people in that area. She had not dared to tell anyone yet, in case the killers came looking for her. The one she had knocked off the ventilation duct could well have seen her face. Which would only be a problem if he were still alive. She didn’t want to face the thought that he m
ight not be.
There was nothing on the news reports about any murders. Feeling a little disappointed, she went to log off. But her search for news in that area had turned up one interesting snippet: BURST DRAINAGE TANK CAUSES FLOOD IN FILIPINO DISTRICT, the headline read. And then in smaller type below it: DRAINAGE WORKER MISSING – FEARED DROWNED.
Remembering the scummy water that had flowed down the streets the day before, she scanned down through the article. The flood had caused the electricity substation to shut down; that explained the power cuts she had experienced down there. There was little information on the female worker who was missing. The woman had been working in the area where the tank had burst. They were still clearing the flood debris, and a search was underway for her body.
Cleo finished reading and idly searched for more on the accident. What was it one of them had said before they all came after her? They’ll be able to identify us when news breaks about the job. She wondered if the ‘job’ had had anything to do with the flood . . . or the woman going missing. She remembered too what Ube had said. If you messed with the Machine, the Clockworkers would come for you. There seemed to have been a lot of accidents happening recently. Maybe they weren’t accidents at all. Putting her fingertips to the webscreen, she thought about the crane wreck. It was still giving her nightmares. Could these ‘accidents’ be the work of saboteurs? And did that mean that the Clockworkers were taking action? Stepping in to do away with those who interfered with the workings of the Machine?
Whoever they were, whatever was going on, it was way beyond her. She had homework to do and songs to write. Worrying about saboteurs and assassins was not on the school curriculum, and she had no wish to disappear. Cleo knew there were times when the wisest thing to do was to mind your own business. She logged off, and went to find her friends.
Sol regarded the body with a queasy feeling of nausea, and decided there and then that if he should ever consider suicide, jumping from a great height would not be the method he’d choose.
Standing with his father on the street, far below the DDF platform from which the man had fallen, he looked around at the crowd that was gathering. Everybody wanted to see the corpse. A fall from two hundred metres up was a pretty certain way of offing yourself, Solomon mused. But some vain part of him would object to what happened to his body when it hit. Pills were iffy – you could vomit them up and end up surviving, but then die slowly from liver damage. And hanging or drowning or slashing your wrists just sounded agonizing. But looking at this man’s body, he definitely ruled out throwing himself from the top levels.
He knew from boxing how the skin could split under impact, that blood could splash as the flesh burst under pressure, but he’d never seen it on such a scale before. The man’s body had been reduced to jelly by the impact, the bones completely shattered. The abdomen had exploded across the surface of the street, spewing organs and blood like the contents of a water balloon. Most of the organs were pulp, the intestines strung out like tangled spaghetti. Sol had had no idea there were so many colours in the human body; oranges and yellows, purples and blues. All now exposed to the sunlight, spread wide over the roadway.
‘Look at the clothes . . . his hair,’ Gregor said in a low voice. ‘He was just a boy. It just got too much for him.’
They both looked up at the platform, high overhead. Suicide was becoming increasingly common. Even the city’s policy on birth control – only two children per family – had been suspended because of the sheer numbers of premature deaths over recent years. The DDF claimed it was all a symptom of the people’s growing despair. They claimed that the authorities were in denial, that the Machine’s days were numbered.
‘Nutters,’ Sol snorted. ‘Stupid nutters.’
‘No, don’t think like that.’ Gregor shook his head. ‘Just because you don’t understand somebody doesn’t make them stupid. The Dark-Day Fatalists don’t encourage suicide, they just attract a lot of chronically depressed people, folks who can’t manage on their own. They think the DDF might have answers, but they’re just like any religion: it’s all about what you believe. And they believe the Machine is only going to carry us so far before it eventually fails. Either that suits what you think, or it doesn’t.’
‘But it doesn’t suit what you think, right, Dad?’
‘I think the world’s what you make it, son. You’re on your own, and you make the best of it. Sometimes, though, Solomon, when things get really bad, I think they might have a point. The ones who speak for the DDF, they seem to have more peace than the rest of us. Maybe they really do have some of the answers.’
They both gazed down at the ruptured body and listened to the wail of the approaching sirens. That would be the police to keep order, not the ambulance. Ambulances weren’t called out for jumpers – the bodies were put straight into bags for autopsy. You couldn’t resuscitate scattered body parts.
‘Let’s go home,’ his father said. ‘Your mother will have dinner on.’
Sol sat on the tram, the memories playing in his head. He should have been on his way to the police station with Ana, but he wanted to check something out first. If Gregor had harboured any ideas of joining the DDF, he wanted to know.
He didn’t really have a plan. In fact, he wasn’t even sure what the DDF were about; he knew that they believed the Machine would not last for ever, and that mankind had to find other ways, but as far as he knew they weren’t offering any solutions. There seemed to be a quasi-religious aspect to their organization, but what form it took he couldn’t begin to guess. Gregor was definitely not religious; Sol remembered the fierce and long-running argument between his mother and father about whether he should become a bar mitzvah. Nattie had been bat mitzvahed, but it had been a pretty low-key affair. Gregor had lost that particular argument. In the end Sol’s ceremony had gone ahead too, because when it came to God, his mother was every bit as pigheaded as his father. It was only a few months later that Nattie and his mother boarded a tram to go shopping and never came home.
The chapter of the DDF cult nearest their apartment block was one of the biggest in the city. Known as ‘sanctums’, these meeting places were quiet, hidden buildings off the main streets. The tram took him to within three blocks of the sanctum, and he walked the rest. His school bag was light on his back, carrying only enough books to hide the gun in the bottom of it. He had tried to carry the weapon in his waistband, like he’d seen in the films, but it wasn’t comfortable, and kept slipping out, or down into his trousers. One encounter with the debt collector was enough to make an impression; he was not about to be caught unarmed again.
There was a sign over the door; it read:
THE DARK-DAY FATALISTS –
THIRD QUADRANT CHAPTER
‘NATURE WILL ALWAYS BE THE VICTOR’
Over the sign was their symbol: three lines spiralling into nothing. It was meant to stand for the converging of life energies or some rubbish like that. Sol shrugged his bag further up onto his shoulder and rang the buzzer. The sound of a man in mourning answered.
‘Yes?’
‘My name’s Solomon Wheat.’ Sol spoke up. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
‘Have you come to discuss matters relating to your immortal soul?’ the querulous voice asked.
‘No.’
‘Then come in,’ said the man, sounding somewhat relieved.
The lock on the door clicked, and Solomon pushed it open. The hallway inside was cool and dark, and the first thing that struck him was the smell of old paper. Straight down the hall, through a door at the end, he could see what looked like a library. Despite his cynicism, he found himself drawn towards the room, itching to see what they had. That room alone would have been enough to attract Gregor to this place.
‘I’m afraid the library is off-limits to visitors,’ a man said to him, coming out from a side door. ‘You need to arrange permission in advance.’
‘I . . . I was just curious,’ Sol told him, pulling down his hood. ‘It’s
not why I’m here.’
‘I am Mr Hessel. I’m one of the clerics for this chapter. What can we do for you?’
The man was dressed in the simple black tunic and slacks of the DDF. His hair was long and dyed black, hanging loose over his pale, slightly spotty face. He could have been in his mid-twenties, but the long, hollow-cheeked look made him seem much older. This morose figure fitted well within these gloomy walls, the space enclosed by dark grey concrete and fake wood panelling.
‘I’m looking for my father, Gregor Wheat,’ Sol continued. ‘He’s about my height, stocky, dark hair. Looks like me, but older and more beaten up. I think he might have come here recently.’
‘Was he an initiate?’
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘Did he join up?’
‘No. Or, at least . . . I don’t think so. But he may have been interested. He’s gone missing and I just wanted to check all the places he might have been to in the last few weeks.’
‘We have had nobody of that name here,’ Mr Hessel told him. ‘But then, people don’t often tell us their real names – or even tell us their names at all. It’s not required, you see. We are only interested in sharing a philosophy – beyond that, it’s each to his own. What kind of man was your father?’
‘Independent and stubborn,’ Sol said bluntly. ‘Look, if you haven’t seen him, then you haven’t seen him. I just—’
‘People go missing in this city all the time, Mr Wheat. Some want to – some don’t. I’m just trying to ascertain which category your father fell into.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘There are times when individuals decide they want to remove themselves from the life they are leading – even from their families – and take a different route. This Machine that we live in is lubricated with the bodies of it victims. People who’ve got too caught up in the workings. Here in the Dark-Day Fatalist Order, we can offer help to such people. Among the officiates of our order we have experts in many fields—’