Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat, page 13
“Freeze!” I’m immediately embarrassed for myself. I don’t purposely nurture or hone this schlock dialogue in advance, the lines just blurt out, the sound-bytes from thousands of old flicks queued up and ready to escape at the slightest provocation.
My canary spins in alarm, so bloody abruptly that she stumbles over and drops to the ground. Once there, she just lies still, cowering. Damn. She was a pushover. I begin to circle her very slowly, ensuring that I remained at the regulation two metres. I’d had enough experience on the job to respect that particular rule, snatched direct from the Handbook.
Maybe this one would scramble away and escape into the darkness. Run, I’m thinking. Go now. Or maybe this would be the larrikin that would go for me, fuck me over good and well.
“Okay, game’s over.” I can tell my voice is kind’a jittery. “Break it up. No sudden moves, d’you understand? Don’t be a bunny, get to your feet very slowly, and let’s go.”
“No.”
Huh? Shit. The obstinance in her voice is unnerving. Damn it.
“I knew you’d find me eventually.” Her face is mud-smeared, fearful yet defiant. She moves ever so slightly into the pall of an overhead streetlight and I notice that her eyes are nearly the same shade of green as Veronica’s.
This could so bloody easily be her.
Shut up. I focus hard on her nose, her mouth, her chin, her neck. No—it isn’t her. Not even close. This twist is too young, possibly in her early twenties.
“Listen, you’re going to have to do what I say.”
“I don’t want to die.” I can barely hear her above the cascade of the rain.
“Don’t worry, that’s not going to happen—not tonight.” I extend my left hand towards her, ostensibly to help her to her feet, but her wide-eyed reaction smacks of terror. She probably figures I’m going to hit her. I know others who’d get their kicks whacking a Dev round a bit, just to let off a bit of steam. So I drop my hand back down to my side.
“Get to your feet. The jig’s up.”
sitting pretty
That cheap dream sequence was cut completely when I came to on a stretcher, lying face down in a small pool of my own saliva. For a long while I refused to move. I tried to get the dream back, to find out what became of that girl. Then I remembered I’d been stabbed and the dream completely scarpered.
They said I was lucky. They said that if the knife had skewered me a centimetre higher I’d have bled out long before the paramedics arrived on the scene. They suspected I’d been lying unconscious in that filthy puddle for the better part of an hour before anyone thought to call an ambulance. God knows what Colman did during that time. At least he’d have to foot the bar bill this time—given the fate of Ant and I tonight, he got off lucky.
After treating me with their gadgets, they kept me at the med centre for a few hours’ observation, during which time I lay spread-eagled on my stomach, watching episodes of the old Japanese anime series Mobile Suit Gundam, helmed by Yoshiyuki Tomino, on the telly. It always chippered me up watching giant robots fighting each other—or fighting anything, for that matter.
Then they told me to get dressed. I was grateful they’d dried my clothes, though there was still a hole in the back of the shirt and coat and both were a bloody mess, literally. Thanks to the marvels of modern science I’d be as good as new in no time. They gave me some antibiotics, a fat pack of painkillers, and a signed & sealed clearance certificate. I fished for my packet in my coat pocket to celebrate and found it was missing.
“You really ought to quit smoking,” the nurse chastised. Crap. I knew she was right, but I’d just been lying in rain chock-full of chemicals and acid waste with an open wound for an hour. What were a a few more pollutants in my bloodstream going to do, kill me?
Outside, an anonymous, corporate-grey Seeker Branch vehicle was waiting—as conspicuous as a plain-clothes copper if you know what to look for. I assumed it was there for me and tugged open the passenger door and hopped on in. Sitting hurt like a bitch. The driver was none other than my old chum, Hank Jones.
“So this is how you spend your time on well-earned suspension, huh? That little minx cut you up pretty bad, huh? What the fuck did you do to her?”
“I asked her the time.”
“So you deserved it.”
“Pretty much. She was on the game, selling idIs.”
“Ye olde idIot specials? I never understood why people got into that shit. Do you?”
“I think the name says it all.”
“Shit. Well, if it makes you feel any better, she must’ve had a few kangaroos loose in her top paddock.”
“Did you just make that up?”
“Not on your life. It’s old-school.”
“It’s old something, alright.”
“I barely remember what a kangaroo even looks like.”
“There’s one on the Seeker Branch logo, dummy.”
“Really? That’s a kangaroo? I thought it was a dog.”
“How d’you account for the short front legs then?”
“I don’t know. Nothing surprises me these days. Bad artist? But you wanna know what I think, mate?” Hank edged the vehicle out from the curb and into the flow of traffic.
“Is there any way I can stop you?”
“My theory is that a Seeker who turns his back on a potential threat has lost it. He’s a burner.”
“I’m on suspension—remember?”
“Excuses, excuses.” Hank reached over me, flipped open the glove box, and produced a fresh deck. He didn’t even smoke himself, bless his heart. I took one, and Hank lit me up with an antique chrome lighter. The guy was allergic to smoke, but he loved the smell of cigarettes and never minded if I smoked around him. “Seriously, mate, you’d better watch that backside of yours. I think I had a higher estimation of your skills than I should’ve—never thought anyone’d get the drop on you like that.”
“Don’t tell me you thought I was good at my job. I don’t want to hear that.”
“Never entered my head. You’re just more paranoid than me, so I assumed you had eyes everywhere.” He laughed and then started into a fit of coughing, but recovered quickly. “By the way, did you know that about half of a percent of the global male population have Y-chromosomal lineage from Genghis Khan?”
“By global you mean this city, right? And since when did you start spouting facts out randomly?”
“Hey, I’m just trying to make conversation. It’s been on my mind since I saw it on a documentary last night. It means I have a one in two hundred shot of conquering some land before I croak. Sea invasions I’ll leave to someone else.”
“Mmm. Interesting.”
“Meaning you don’t give a shit.”
The truck in front of us suddenly hit its brakes. I braced myself for a collision as we skidded to a stop a few centimetres short of it.
“Fucking hell, Hank. You scared the bejesus outta me.”
“Think you’re gonna live?” He impatiently tapped his hand on the steering column then pulled out around the stationary vehicle, passing it, and we continued on our way.
“Just pay attention to the road, is all I’m saying.”
“Well, hey, on another note did they tell you that the brat that sliced you was only twelve years old?”
“Fuck. No. Doesn’t really surprise me, though. How d’you know that—they found her?”
“They fished her out of the Yarra a couple of hours after you were found.”
“Crap. What happened? God awful way to die.”
“She wasn’t dead, just went swimming.”
“I’ll be damned. They know her name?”
“I don’t know—Cissy, or something? What does it matter?”
“She was Relocated?” I cracked my window and tossed out the burning butt.
“What do you think? Is it raining today? They don’t take kindly to their Seekers—even ones under suspension—being hacked up by a teenybopper street kid with idIocy tendencies. They’ve invested way too much money in you, mate, to let you become fodder for kids with knives. Anyway, enough about that scrag. How’s it feel?”
“What?” I glanced at my friend.
“Your injury. You aren’t bleeding all over the upholstery, are you?”
“What’s this stress about the car? Isn’t it a company crate?”
“Yeah, but I’ve gotta account for the condition it’s in.”
“I’ll do my best to bleed out then.”
“You sure are a pain in the arse.”
“Ha. It wasn’t the arse. It was the lower back. Get your facts straight.”
“Listen, forget your bum for a second. How are you doing? I mean, seriously. I haven’t heard from you since—”
“Yeah, I wanted to apologize for kind of taking off, without ever getting back to you.”
“Not an issue, my friend, not an issue.” Hank offered me another cigarette and I took it gratefully.
“I’m a mess. First V, now Laurel—who the fuck knows anything anymore?”
“You’ve gotta look out for yourself. Don’t let the bastards win.”
“You’re kidding me? What choice do we have?”
“You’re alive, and you’ve weaseled your way outside this shitty trade of ours, even if only for a month. Fight like hell to stay put. I reckon Laurel would’ve wanted it that way.”
“Don’t talk about her in the past tense like that.”
“Sorry. Understood. Yup.” He turned the wheel suddenly and skidded the vehicle to a halt near the curb. “Free ride’s over. You’re home sweet home, and Seeker Branch Chauffeur Service has done its duty. We have other customers to entertain. I’ve got a nice little round of Activities to perform tonight. Some of us have a job to do.” He lent me his big hand and shook mine way too firmly.
“Take it easy tonight, okay? Be careful,” I said.
“Always. Ciao, mate.”
I slammed the door then walked across to the entrance of my apartment block. Even such a simple manoeuvre caused pain in my side. When I got up to my flat there were three messages on my phone: one grating pearler from my mother, one far more pleasant from my sister Dorothy, and one short, business-like message from the general manager at Seeker Branch, who asked for a complete report about my dabble with pin-cushionry. I deleted all of them and sunk down into the couch, defeated.
nevermore
The Dome was technically dubbed City Centre by some marketing whiz kid who’d undoubtedly been paid a mountain of cash for the dopey moniker. It would never stick—the Dome was and could only ever be the Dome. It was nestled in the heart of the old central business district, bordered roughly by Exhibition, Flinders, and Latrobe Streets on three sides and the Docklands on the fourth.
The interior of the Dome was free from pollution. There was no filthy rain, no humidity, no crime nor poverty. It was a masterpiece of mammoth proportions, so much so that the architects and government officials involved were showered with various awards and accolades, and the media hoopla went so far as to declare it one of the Nine New Wonders of the World.
I guess it could be called wondrous, in its own way, don’t get me wrong, but I still got sick to the gills every time I heard anything given a World title when we all damn well knew the world wasn’t anything more than Melbourne anymore. Then again, ‘the Nine Wonders of Melbourne’ didn’t have the same ring to it. Along with the Dome the other alleged wonders included the Wall, the Mk. III Stadium, and I don’t know what else, probably the new presidential loo back at Parliament House. I mean, who was going to argue? I think there were even a few slots open still—a PR blitz just waiting to happen the next time they decided to blow our tax money on some monument or whatever.
Anyway. The Dome was absolutely massive and was much larger than the huge concrete juggernaut of an eyesore it replaced. Incredibly hi-tech, it was a tremendous dome (surprise) of frosted plasti-glass and plastiminium beams that covered and protected an entire section of the city. Hylax wizardry at it again.
It ended up being nearly twice as big and ten times as expensive as originally intended—some sports nut on the responsible government committee had decided to extend its umbrella to enclose the new Hylax Stadium Mk. III, which was gigantic in and of itself, seating up to one hundred and fifty thousand lucky sods. I’m not sure you should be allowed to have one Wonder squirreled away inside another one, but what in blazes do I know?
The stadium was pretty nifty, actually—it could replicate the four seasons far better than they’d existed in Australia before the Catastrophe. All this so they could run continual cricket matches on the telly to tantalize the masses in temperature controlled bliss well away from the corrosive rain. They had to modify the Mk. III when some ne’er-do-well thinking type pointed out that stadiums tend to attract a raucous bunch of drunken fans sporting face paint and chanting team ditties—a crowd quite at odds with the exclusive, ultra-posh environment of the Dome. Their solution was to modify it so that the unwashed masses (like me, were I ever to actually go to a game) all entered and exited from newly built crowd control corridors that funnelled visitors completely outside the Dome, whereas residents had private entrances direct to closed-off VIP sections. Noise wasn’t a problem—the stadium, like the Dome, was built out of soundproofed Hylax plastics.
Not to be outdone, the rest of the Dome was easily as impressive as the stadium. Retail took up about one half of the space within the Dome, while the remainder was mostly food and entertainment. Residential took up only a very small percentage—only the richest of the rich could afford to shop here, let alone live here. The full time residents of the Dome were in a completely different universe, one in which they spent outrageous amounts of dosh on self-centred pursuits and flashy toys, living as if the world wasn’t in its death-throes. The outside world didn’t really exist to them—there was only the Dome.
The inside of the Dome felt like an architectural wonderland. There were refurbished period buildings—including the reworked and modernized husks of old skyscrapers—right next door to state of the art constructions, all wrapped up together in a nice cocoon of dazzling lights, air-filters, neon billboards, and huge video screens. The streets were lined with various foliage including palm, oak, and gum trees, all of them real. Nowhere was there the constant drizzle, the acrid smells, the wretched crimson sky, the overcrowding, the visible signs of decay afflicting the rest of the city. The Dome was, by all accounts, a taste of paradise—for the tall poppies who could afford it. Without the proper papers—or a Seeker badge—you couldn’t even step in the front door. The masses were left to pickle in the stinking acid rain—the only legit Wonder of the World, if you ask me.
The showcase of the Dome was Swanston Street, along which antiquated trams still rattled away, transporting lazy shoppers the whole block between the strip malls that were on Collins and Bourke Streets. Set up in that relatively short stretch was an eclectic installation of plasti-ramic creations: first, on the Collins side, next to the old Town Hall building, there was a giant statue of Athena—the goddess of wisdom and heroic endeavour—tipping the scales at thirty metres. At the other end, on the corner of Bourke Street, stood an equally looming statue of a hawk. Sandwiched between them were a menagerie of creatures including orangutans, court jesters, black cats, dwarves, and other oddities.
Inside the Dome you could live blissfully unaware of the ongoing Deviant crisis outside its borders—save for the bright, cheerful DevWatch billboards featuring a smiling police officer who held up his open palm, beneath him a toll-free number. The Dome was designed to be its own little bubble, protecting its occupants from anything that might jar them from their happy consumerist lives.
I tried to avoid going to the Dome at all costs, but unfortunately, that’s not always possible. In fact, I’m under its plasti-sky right now, and I’ve already got eyes on me. The police and private security guards within the Dome are easily identifiable not only because of their neatly starched and pressed uniforms, but because their badges were designed to glow in the neon hue. They studied me as I passed them by in my haggard-looking coat and five-day stubble, and talked into their cuff-mics. There was more than a decent chance they would try to escort me out of their hood.
I was feeling frisky—it had been a week or so since the incident and my wound had been healing quicker than the docs promised. Dorothy’s birthday had arrived and I needed to find her something sweet, and sadly the Dome was the best viable shopping venue for such a task. I shuffled up to a shop window that was rammed with gaudy new fashions sold at ludicrous prices. These were some bizarre-looking outfits even Dorothy couldn’t pull off. I took out a packet of cigs and lit up.
An officer appeared from around a corner and approached me. His uniform sparkled in the unnatural light. He was a pin-up boy for the new generation, all chiseled jaw line, prominent cheekbones, blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes. Pure designer looks, funded by the tax payer, no doubt—good looking citizens need good looking law enforcement. He rubbed his chin and his lips curled up in what could pass for either a smile or snarl, depending on your predilection towards cops. His hand rested casually on the holster at his hip.
The cops in the Dome had a rep they had to maintain—blood on the streets was bad for business. Unlike any given cop outside the Dome, this guy didn’t deal with much more than giving directions and ejecting the occasional drunk from the place. They all had behavioural implants inserted to better control the violent streaks and encourage benevolence, though the implants could be overridden at any time when necessity called—making teasing Dome cops an especially fine art. This particular flatfoot’s expression told me everything I needed to know: he was as likely to give me the old one-two with his blackjack as he was to give directions to a lost little old (rich) lady. He hated being polite to a jackass outsider like me.
