Black Glass (27 page)

‘Not that much.'

‘I'd keep that to yourself. Let's say you don't smoke, not ever, and you have a drink now and then. Say once or twice a week.'

‘Alright.'

‘What about drugs, huh, the fun stuff? You've experimented a bit, right? Everyone our age has.'

‘I don't like drugs, I've seen what they do. I've never used them. So no.'

‘Great. Just remember they'll check your arms. And there'll be blood tests too.'

‘What? What's this for? Look, forget it, I just thought —'

‘No, no, I'm sorry. I keep forgetting you're new to all this. It's totally standard, promise. Let's take it back a step: I think we should discuss your career prospects in person.'

‘I'm not doing any of that skin stuff.'

‘Like I said, I don't deal in that industry. That game's purely for low-lifes and lost causes. I leave that to the pimps.'

‘Okay. I just can't do that. I have to make something out of myself.'

‘Yes. I could see that from the first second I spotted you on stage, Violet. Are you free to meet up sometime over the weekend and discuss the options — say, Sunday at four?'

‘I guess so.'

‘And, don't worry, I'll coach you through the whole interview process. With your genetics, you're already off to a flying start. You take vitamins?'

‘Not at the moment.'

‘Buy some tomorrow, multivits, executive strength. Drink lots of water, eat well, get eight hours' sleep. And lay off the booze and smokes. We need you in tiptop condition. Look, I have to get off the phone now, but —'

‘Digmond?'

‘Yeah.'

‘I don't want anyone touching me.'

‘Don't worry. That's not what this is about.'

[west foyer, silvacom tower, Elizabeth Street, Commerce Zone: Milk | Luella]

There was no mistake: it was her, alright. The ultra-short hair, that direct gaze, the diminutive build. For a second, Milk was unsure how to play it — but only for a second. He stood where he was and let her walk the length of the marble foyer, let her reach him, let her extend her hand first. As they shook, a smile flashed across her face and was gone. Her handshake was strong for a person of her size.

‘Mr Dabrowski,' Luella began.

‘Milk,' he corrected her.

‘Sorry — Milk.' She flashed that smile again, like a light flicking on and off. ‘Luella.'

‘Dabrowski is the name on my docs and accounts. But everyone calls me Milk.'

‘Unusual name. Where does it come from?'

‘A nickname from school, it just stuck. Tall and pale, I guess.'

‘I like it. And milk is good stuff.' Her gaze was unblinking but warm. She had a way of making you feel at ease, he noted straight off, a skill that would stand any Polbiz wheeler-dealer in good stead. This woman might be government, but clearly she was bright and not entirely conventional; the Beige label was hardly an accurate fit.

He wondered what she made of him: expensive dark-toned streetwear, unfussy and unobtrusive, teamed with his newest acquisitions, spotless white leather sneakers with the understated simplicity of top-dollar design. In fact they dressed alike, the two of them. He wondered if she batted for his team or not.

Luella suggested they head offsite to talk — there was a safe cafe just around the corner. This made sense to Milk: her office tower was clearly monitored to within an inch of its life, awash with guards both human and digital, not the ideal environment to discuss business — or not his, at any rate.

As they slid into a private booth, he reminded himself to play this carefully. She'd hardly been forthcoming over the phone, edging out of giving details, saying just enough to ensure his curiosity would win out — and vanity too, perhaps. The phone call had been brief, but she'd certainly buttered him up in that department.

She took a folder from her bag and pulled out a map, unfolded it and spread it across the table. It was the city grid, coded into coloured sections. Luella smoothed the paper down and began talking.

Times were tough, as he knew. The government could not afford to make assumptions or mistakes. In the current climate — the water crisis, soaring interest rates, job cuts, crime on the rise, troop losses in the oil war — people were feeling uneasy and resentful; they were looking for someone to blame. That someone must not be the government. There was an election on the cards, and the race would be a close one. The CBD electorate, along with certain upper subzones whose population base worked and shopped and dined in the city, could make or break it.

What was needed, she explained, was a communal lift of spirits, a kind of spring-clean for the city's collective unconscious. Luella was leaning forward now, and her enthusiasm was plainly genuine. This was important: it was a law-and-order issue, a morale issue, a security issue, a commerce issue. Everyone — tourists, shoppers, working people, investors, brand managers, CBD residents —wanted to feel safe, positive, gratified. They wanted to feel a sense of belonging and pride. There were limits to how far you could take it, of course, but the city needed to be reinforced and revitalised — cleansed, if you like, of anything resembling disquiet. To put it simply, chaos was bad, harmony good; unrest bad, order good. With a bit of subtle tweaking, this could become the World's Most Liveable City — get things ticking over again, attract residents and tourists and other spenders back into the grid. Just think of the potential economic flow-ons.

‘Is this tied in with all the Crimbust stuff? Or ID-Net?' Milk interrupted.

In a sense, Luella told him, but it went much deeper. Crimbust was your basic PR law-and-order campaign. And ID-Net, as he knew, was a global initiative. Project Streamline was something else, something unique to this city. It was about re-calibrating the way the city operated as an organism: identifying and neutralising trouble spots and disruptive elements, eliminating inefficiencies, cutting out the dead wood, designing the negative elements out of existence. What they needed right now was a smoothing of the waters. If he'd pardon the jargon, a positive re-calibration of the aggregate psyche, achieved via the artful finetuning of public space.

He broke in again. ‘Whose psyche, exactly? And what do you mean by dead wood?' He knew better than to be dazzled by her lingo. Words could be used to dress up all kinds of dubious ambitions.

‘There are those who make a positive contribution to the city,' she answered patiently, ‘and those who do the opposite. They're just a drain on resources and they don't portray the place in the best light.'

‘But it's not that black and white. What about all the people in between?'

She nodded, as if he'd just cued her next line. ‘That's where you come in. Sometimes the public just needs a nudge in the right direction. Your skill set is unrivalled, and we'd like to invite you on board as a principal project consultant. The remuneration ...' She paused. ‘Let's just say the remuneration would do justice to your expertise.'

‘I already have work,' he countered, ‘high-paid work.'

‘And have you had to negotiate your remuneration,' she asked coolly, ‘or are you free to name your price? Because that's what we're talking about here. This is a world-first and we have substantial commercial backing — tourism, real estate, prestige brands, all the big guns. There are parameters, of course, but you'd be given a high degree of creative control.' She sat back, held out her palms over the map spread before him. ‘We're offering you the whole city, Milk. The whole city.'

He looked down at the map: the entire city grid and its immediate outskirts, with sections rendered in a gelati-shop palette: pistachio, blood orange, pineapple. He ran a finger over the map key, tracing the various risk ratings and hot spots it identified, the swirls of human activity, of commerce and leisure and crime. All that humanity, all that potential: the whole city, all his.

‘What about aesthetics?' he asked. ‘Maybe you can't track it on a balance sheet, but you know, don't you, how important aesthetics are when it comes to human behaviour?'

‘That's why we've come to you,' she said. ‘This project requires technical expertise, certainly, but it also requires creative direction. An artist's touch. That's why I wanted to meet with you.'

He looked up. ‘But we've already met, haven't we, Luella? Or close enough to it.'

Her smile came on again and lingered for a moment or two. ‘Okay, busted,' she said. ‘But you can't blame me for wanting to experience your work firsthand.'

He supposed she was right. That didn't explain her visit to his scent supplier, but maybe she was just thorough; he couldn't detect anything hostile in her demeanour. His hand was resting on the surface of the map, spanning an entire city block. ‘So where do we go from here?' he asked.

‘So you're interested?'

‘I'm interested.'

‘Fantastic. I can introduce you to my director, and we'll talk over the details together. And as well as the macro stuff …'

‘Yes?'

‘As well as the whole-of-city project, there are smaller one-offs we'd also like your help with. Particular events, you could call them.'

‘Mmhmm.'

‘Around the summit, for example, working with the Department of Security. The main event itself is several weeks away, but protests have already begun.'

‘You want my help with that too?'

‘That's a minor aspect of the job; we'll discuss that next time we meet. You're on a retainer, effective immediately, so I'll need your digits. But in the meantime, I'd like to think about a figure you'd be happy with.'

‘As in payment?'

‘Exactly. I'm so pleased to have you on board, Milk. This really is an exciting project, and the skill fit couldn't be more perfect. Welcome to the fold.'

He hesitated. Tried to sound casual. ‘We'll be working together — you and me?'

That fleeting smile again. ‘We will.'

They shook hands on the footpath outside, and Milk walked home with something close to elation flitting around in his chest. Recognition, he thought, it never hurts. He might call home, check how his mother's doing. Just mention it casually:
government consultant
. They'd like the sound of that.

[Weekend trading market, The Quarter: Esmeralda | Tally]

There's only one of me, far as I know. You see many women walking about with one of these beasties round their neck? Depends who's asking, sweetheart. Who are you?

Okay, I see. No, sorry, love. Well, there was a redhead worked round here a while back, but I'm ninety-nine per cent sure it was a wig — her real hair was black. And anyway she's long gone. Have you tried the brothels? That's where most undoc girls end up.

Sorry, love. Didn't mean to upset you. Come on now. It's alright. Here, do you want a hold of Sebastian? Hook him over your shoulder, like that. No, he won't bite you, he's a squeezer. See?

Just a girl who worked for Merlin, this old guy who used to run a magic show down the Carn. Look, she's gone, love. Way too red to be real, and she only wore that wig for a bit. Like I said, her real hair was black, cut in a bob, to here.

And don't take this the wrong way, but she didn't look anything like you. That's not what I meant. Come on, you're a cute kid. But yeah — she was a stunner. Sorry, love, but you're barking up the wrong tree. She didn't say much, but I do remember this: her name was Violet, not Grace. Violet.

Course I'm sure, her name was written on the chalkboard just above mine.
VIOLET
, in capitals. She was Carnie stock, for sure. Looked like she'd been doing it all her life. No, taller than that. About up to here. Towered over Merlin.

He's gone, vamoosed, finito. Poor old bugger. Heard he had a fall and won't be back, his train's about to leave the station. No idea. Probably some dingy rest home somewhere.

Like I said: black hair, name of Violet. Not the person you're looking for, is it, love? Well good luck, kiddo. I'm sure you'll find your sister someday. Here, I better unwind you. Come on, Sebastian, we got a show to do. Don't worry about it, sweetheart. You take care.

[Market Lane, Chinatown, Civic Zone: Tally | Blue]

Tally usually paused here, at the electronics shop with the wall of TVs. Screen after screen, all showing the same grab. Most times Blue walked ahead, but this time the frenetic images stopped him short too: a surging crowd, banners lurching lopsided in the air, stumbling bodies; a line of police with shields and clubs, more police on horseback; people staggering away, hunched over coughing, tears and snot streaming down, trying to cover their faces against the camera; close-ups of people with goggles and bandanas, turning away. A gasmasked cop firing a canister into the crowd.

Tally grabbed Blue's arm: she recognised the buildings in the background. ‘That's down near home, where we saw all them people running! Those kids, remember!' The sound was turned off, and the blind ebb and surge of bodies was strangely hypnotic, repeated across the entire shop window, scene stacked upon identical scene like some horrific ballet. They saw blood, red and messy on a forehead, a girl with her face twisted into sobs.