Black Glass (31 page)

Tally rode the escalator upwards. The place felt like a dream, all mirror glass and soft music, the colour-coded beauty products and vanilla-tinted air; the click of shoppers' heels and the lipsticked women behind the counters, with their gold jewellery and bored, pretty faces; the luxurious hush of expensive things, the racks and racks of dresses and scarves and handbags, umbrellas and kitchenware and cards and gift-wrap. Grace would love it here, it's like a palace.

A thought came to her, a stab of hope: this is exactly the kind of place where Grace would like to work while she was getting her stage career together, lining up auditions and all that. There were no ugly people on the staff: they were all elegant and good-looking. The longer Tally loitered, she figured, the better her chances of casing the joint properly.
Just browsing
, she practised under her breath. She allowed herself to drift down the wide aisles, treading polished marble, drinking in the faces and colours with her eyes, just like Grace would do.

[Undisclosed location: Damon | fixer ds-38a]

‘I'm quite a rare type, myself — O.'

‘Actually O's the most common blood type.'

‘Really, O's a common one? I must have gotten mixed up.'

‘There are some really rare ones, with names this long, a whole string of letters and symbols.'

‘Right, well you're the blood analyst, not me. So with all the different blood types, how does the transfusion process work?'

‘Rare ones aside, you've got your four basic types — A, B, AB, and O — each with negative or positive antibodies: A-minus, A-plus etcetera.'

‘So me, for example: I can only receive blood from another O person?'

‘It's more complicated than that. Like can take like: O-negative can take O-negative, A-positive can take A-positive, and so on. But then you get some cross-type compatibility too. So AB-negative, which is a relatively rare blood type, can also take AB-positive. And B-positive can take O-positive.'

‘Hang on, let me get that …'

‘I'm not sure you need that level of detail. This is just background information.'

‘Sure, but I want to get this right.'

‘I want to be helpful here, but as I said, we need to ensure I'm not traceable as your information source. That means I'll need to be a little vague on some things.'

‘I understand. This is all deep background, all unattributable.'

‘Sorry, I'm not familiar with those terms.'

‘It means I won't directly use or even partially attribute the information you're giving me. It's just to expand my background knowledge of the topic.'

‘Alright. You know I'm not interested in taking payment for this.'

‘Yes, you said that, but I'd like to compensate you for your time.'

‘No, thank you. I'm speaking to you because I find this whole thing abhorrent.'

‘I understand.'

‘It's exploitative and dangerous. It should be stopped.'

‘Yes.'

‘Going to the police would mean being identified, and I can't afford to have that. From what I've heard, this is a huge money-spinner, and the people running it … they're not people you want to upset.'

‘I'll take the heat myself. That's my job.'

‘Alright. So what else do you want to know? My information's patchy so you'll have to do a lot of checking. Some of this may be nothing more than rumour.'

‘But it's happening?'

‘It certainly is. I know one of the phlebotomists.'

‘The …?'

‘They take the blood. This guy's a drunk, he shouldn't be let near a needle. And when he drinks he talks. Thinks it's impressive, I guess, having links with the crim world.'

‘I guess some people are easily impressed. So who are the clients? Sick people? Why don't they just pay for this through the usual private channels?'

‘It's not legal, not through any channel. And they're not sick, from what I understand. It's not about health.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's about fashion, or vanity, or gratification. A fetish of some kind, they get off on it. A snake-oil scenario — only with real blood, taken from real people.'

‘But what's the thinking behind it?'

‘You tell me. It's certainly not science. The clients are all men, I hear.'

‘And the … the donors, I guess you'd call them?'

‘Young female undocs. Very young, in some cases, and only the attractive ones. You're getting the picture now. It goes beyond unethical.'

‘I'd heard it was mostly immigrant girls?'

‘I wouldn't know. Certainly they'd be more vulnerable, and there's a strong correlation between blood compatibility and ethnicity.'

‘Okay. Bear with me here, but I'm still not clear on the appeal. If they're not sick, what does the client get out of it?'

‘You'll need to ask someone else that question. A psychiatrist, perhaps.'

‘But how do they sell the whole idea?'

‘A mix of fake science and transgression, I imagine. The whole rejuvenation spiel, and no doubt there's a sexual element too.'

‘Rejuvenation, as in …'

‘It used to be known as blood doping, or blood loading. Athletes and the military were into it, before it got completely discredited. The thinking is that red blood cells boost energy and stamina. Especially, it seems, when your donor is a young woman clad only in her underwear.'

‘Wow. You're right, the mind does boggle. Is this happening anywhere else, to your knowledge?'

‘I've heard it started in Japan. That may not be accurate, but it wouldn't surprise me either. Are we just about done, do you think?'

‘Pretty much, you've been incredibly helpful. One more question: it's dangerous?'

‘It certainly is. You can't afford to make mistakes with blood.'

‘But who's going to complain if it goes wrong — right?'

‘Exactly. In this instance, nobody.'

[Ministerial launch, Project Streamline: Grand Ballroom, Parliament House, Civic Zone: Milk | Luella | invited attendees | screened parliamentary staff]

The room is bubbling along nicely. Canapés are circulating and drinks waiters glide through the crowd with silver trays, dispensing champagne cocktails and deferential smiles. The mayor's wife is beaming, and the Security Minister, in a surprisingly flattering purple silk sheath, is full of bonhomie. So far so good, thinks Milk.

Close to two hundred guests are spread out across the billiard-green carpet: pollies and senior bureaucrats, visiting dignitaries, business leaders and political donors. Luella had not used the words
test run
or
trial
, but he knows the deal: a handful of influential people, the main players, have been made aware of his presence, if not his location — a small balcony in one high corner of the stately old room, blocked from view by a grand piano. As usual it's hardly an ideal point to tune from, but he's seen much worse. For past jobs he's had to set up in a hastily customised wall cavity, a narrow wedge of space that could not accurately be called a room. Once, at a convention gig, he'd had to work in a cramped closet that smelled of stale coffee grounds: not his finest moment, the memory still makes him wince. Never again. Amateur hour's long over.

This question of set-up, he thinks, remains the major barrier to his vocation: the infrastructure just isn't in place yet. After his first meeting with her director, an exercise in flattery that did not leave him entirely unmoved, Luella had introduced him to the small technical team that would be at his disposal. But the foreman had seemed bemused by the whole arrangement. ‘So what's the correct term for what you do again?' he'd asked genially. Milk had tried not to sound cold in his response, but really — who had briefed these people? They were tech-heads, not poets, he reminded himself, and anyway the man's practical approach was some consolation: until the permanent set-ups were in place, he'd advised, portable sky-pods looked like the best option for exterior jobs; no one blinked an eye at them these days. Equipment posed no problem either: scent and light nodes, data pods and ped-flow channellers — all Milk had to do was write a list and sketch the layout he wanted, and the techies would oblige. ‘We're at your disposal,' the foreman had said with a grin, shaking hands in a workmanlike way. ‘Whatever you need, just say the word.'

He scans the running sheet: cocktail hour will soon make way for the speeches. Next will come the presentation, a screening of the promo for the whole project, which Luella's already previewed for him: a 3-D multi-channel holographic display, one of the slickest he's ever seen, a montage of before-and-after clips of city tableaux — streets, parks, major landmarks. In the ‘before' shots there is nothing overtly wrong, nothing you can put your finger on, but somehow the scene seems steeped in vague disquiet. If you looked hard you could detect hints of disorder and crime, markers of social unease: shoving commuters with sour expressions; a barefoot beggar in the middle distance, homing in on pedestrians; a bawling toddler dragged along by its harried-looking mother; a group of thick-necked men in gang regalia standing on the lawn outside the church, cigarettes cupped in an ex-con grip. The cafes were half empty, the few trees scraggly and diseased-looking; litter stirring at ground level, a grumpy swollen sky.

Then came the ‘after' shots: the city opening up like a flower, colour and light and optimistic faces, shopfronts glowing and harmony restored. Shoppers swinging carry bags, smiling tourists gathered round an infoscreen; a pretty busker playing a cello sonata, a florist stand aglow with a rich palette of blooms. You could almost smell the lilies, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee. Streams of pedestrians flowed in an orderly choreography; they did not shove or frown. The effect was like a bad dream receding. Simple, but even Milk had been momentarily sold, and he knew full well the powers of persuasion.

‘These black-tie Polbiz dos can be a little dull,' Luella had explained. ‘We'd like you to inject some energy, give it a sense of occasion.'

Milk had nodded without thinking. Easily done. Luella wants to introduce him to the minister later on, so he's wearing new shoes, a dazzling-white pair of golf brogues that set him back almost a fortnight's rent. Not that it matters, he reminds himself with a small thrill, on his current earnings. Maybe it's time to take the plunge and buy some property: his account balance is growing so fast his shopping habit barely makes a dent. The phrase
set up for life
might spring to mind, he thinks, if he was the kind of person who cared about that stuff. Like his migrant-made-good father, for example, proud of his paved driveway and carbon-fibre golf set, the buttoned-down conservatism of the upper subzones. Three sons: one lawyer, one dentist. And Milk. He imagines letting them enter the building's grand foyer and sweat a little at security check, making them wait, then buzzing them up and showing them around, like it's no big deal: floor-to-ceiling glass, views right out over Port Phillip Bay.
Make smells — is good for what?

Focus
. The silver-haired governor-general is skilfully tucking into the cheese platter while carrying on a conversation with a local tycoon, a chubby little man who gets great PR mileage out of his charity donations. Milk knows the man wants some cheese too, but he's nervous in front of the diplomat; better not to risk a camembert blooper, Milk can see him thinking. So he sends a warm halo of light and a whiff of vanilla their way; the governor-general waves grandly at the spread, the little tycoon relents, and the two begin some dairy-based bonding.

Milk sips at his coffee, a syrupy espresso in thick white china. The caffeine swirls into his bloodstream, chasing away the shadowy fatigue that's been trailing him of late. Once this summit is out of the way, he needs a holiday, a week or so overseas. Somewhere low-threat and relatively unspoiled: Alaska, maybe, or some un-wrecked Pacific island. He'll insist on it, and they'll have to agree: an artist, after all, is not a machine. Get back to nature, or what's left of it; breathe some unpolluted air, soak up the mental oxygen of a new location. Reboot his poetic sensibilities. Maybe he'll meet a woman — some Inuit scientist or Polynesian painter. And this time he'll have something to talk about, he won't be stuck for words. And he'll write the whole trip off on tax: for him, the very act of inhaling counts as research.

A disturbance in the room — he's drifted off. Over there in the west corner, near the gigantic fruit platter: he's taken his eye off the scent-box coordinates and two clashing smells have combined to create an irregular whiff, the spatial equivalent of halitosis. A nearby group of people shifts uneasily, edges away from the food.
Fix it quick
. Lucky Luella's on the far side of the room, schmoozing with the chief of police. The glitch is righted and forgotten in mere seconds.

Yes, he definitely needs some downtime. Thankfully this is a relatively easy gig. Boring, even — not much here to challenge him. But, no, he must not succumb to that kind of thinking. A true artist seeks out the magic in the mundane, sets the bar ever higher, avoids the lazy urge to whine about the shonky tools or limited palette. Milk finishes his coffee, collects his concentration and starts softening them up for the speeches.