Heaven is a Place on Earth (8 page)

“Can't it wait, Rafe? I'm up to my bloody eyeballs here.”

Rafe Morgan had been christened Ralph Morgan, there having been a brief fad forty years ago to name babies after the megastar animated hero, Ralph (pronounced “Rafe”) Williams. As soon as he could, he changed his name officially to Rafe, just so he could stop explaining how to pronounce it to everyone he met.

“I just need you to approve some expenses,” Rafe said. “I'm planning a trip.”

“
You'll be lucky, mate. Why the hell did they have to have a plebiscite anyway? The polls have been showing the bill's a bloody shoo-in for weeks. The last one had it at eighty-two per cent approval. Eighty-two! Nothing's been that popular since they assassinated that televangelist guy back in sixty-five. What was his name now?”

Rafe let his editor rant for a while. Becky was a good editor and a good friend, but she did like to have her little rants.

“I reckon they just want a cast iron bloody mandate to give the voting public the shafting they right royally deserve. Since when do you ask me to approve expenses? It must be one helluva trip. If it's a sex scandal involving mining robots in the Kimberley, I'll sign, otherwise piss off.”

“
You have such refined taste. No wonder our readers love us. I need to go to Brisbane for a few days.”

“
What? Physically go? Like on a plane?”

“
It's the only way my source will meet me.”

“
Can't your source come to Canberra? I need all hands on deck for this bloody anti-terrorism bill.”

“
You don't need me. I'll only write pieces about how the Cabinet is stuffed with right-wing fascists and that the bill is designed to crush all opposition and turn the Liberal Party into an Aussie Politburo.”

“
You'll write whatever well-balanced, carefully reasoned dingo's droppings I tell you to. What's the story?”

“
In Brisbane? I don't want to say yet. It might all come to nothing. It's related to the bill and, given the kind of organisation my source claims to belong to, I'm pretty sure you don't want to know anyway.”

Becky considered him in silence for a minute. Then she said, “You're sure you're OK, Rafe? You haven't been back long. Maybe you should, you know, ease back into it.”

Rafe looked her in the eye and said, “Becky, I'm fine. What else can I do but work? And what other kind of work could I do but this?”

“
I could put you back on the political desk – just until you get back in the swing of it.”

He grimaced. “I don't think so. I'd go mad in a week.” He tried another tack. If Becky didn't let him do this, he really did worry whether he could stand it. “Look, you know me. I'm only happy when I'm out there in the jungle with my elephant gun, tracking down the big stories. It's what I live for.”

Again, he got the meaningful stare from Becky. Maybe this time she saw the pleading underneath the bravado. “OK. It's approved. But keep in touch. And don't do anything too stupid. And remember we can't afford legal fees, so if you end up in deep shit, no-one's going to pull you out.”

Rafe grinned and winked at her. “I'll see you in a few days.”

He stepped through her office door into his own office. Becky favoured clutter, heaps of paper, and the clack of typewriters, as if she were running a newsroom in the 1950s instead of a modern socio-political newsfeed. Rafe's office was spacious and tidy, impersonal and silent. It was so bereft of any personal touch, he might have rented the space for the afternoon. He popped up a phone, made a couple of calls to finalise his arrangements, and left. This time the door took him back to his tiny studio apartment. The lid of the tank opened and he jumped out, grabbed the bag that was already packed and sitting by the bed, and set off for the airport.

-oOo-

Rafe enjoyed flying. He liked the cosy informality of the airports, with their low, scruffy buildings with the little electroprop aircraft rolling up to the terminus in the bright sun. He liked chatting to the other passengers as they hung about under the fans, sipping beers. People who travelled these days were always such an interesting bunch. Of course, the flight itself was about as dull as it could be, but, like everyone else, he either slept or unlatched and got some work done. He was always sorry when the captain ambled in off the tarmac and announced that the flight was ready. If he was lucky, there'd be a quick exchange of virtual cards with whoever he'd been talking to while everyone grabbed their bags and shuffled out to the waiting plane. And who knew where a new contact might lead?

Today was a good day. He met a guy from one of the big mining companies making his way up to inspect mines in the Bowen basin. The guy looked like a 1950s film star, square-jawed and broad shouldered. It struck Rafe how perfect the guy would look in Becky's office, perched on the edge of her desk, maybe, with a cigarette and an American accent. It was always good to know people from the major industries. You never knew when you might need an insider's perspective, or an invitation to visit corporate HQ. Rafe collected such people like others collected old ebooks, or pre-3D movies. This guy was a bit too chatty and a bit too keen for company, so once Rafe had the man's card, he made sure he wasn't sitting with him for the whole flight. Which was just as well because Rafe slept most of the way, catching up on an endless chain of broken nights.

-oOo-

Brisbane was hot. Even in mid-Autumn, it was thirty degrees in the shade. Rafe sweated as he waited on the verandah of the little terminal building for the cab to arrive. He already missed the civilised coolness of Canberra. Whatever anyone might say about he nation's capital, you couldn't deny that it had seasons and its people knew how to cope with them. Up here, in the sultry, sub-tropical humidity, the dwindling population seemed to take a twisted pride in surviving whatever nature threw at them, as if having air conditioning was the mark of a weakling. It was no wonder people were migrating south in droves. These days you rarely needed to live close to your job, so why not live somewhere comfortable? People lived where they liked and let the robots cope with the long hot summers. Only machines and lizards moved in the northern interior these days and most of the towns up there had become ghost towns.

The cab – which, he thanked God, was air conditioned – took him, at the leisurely pace of all robotic vehicles, on a long, meandering tour through the Brisbane suburbs. It was a big, sprawling city and he'd had enough of it by the time he reached Portland Apartments, a three storey, nondescript block of units in dazzling white. He stood in the shade of the entrance porch avoiding the sun and looked around. He liked to get a bit of atmosphere when he interviewed people, some feel for where and how they lived, a few seconds of recorded visuals, a few comments to remind him. Today, he said, “Boring, stifling, anonymous suburb.” Then he rang the bell.

A woman's voice said, “Come in. Up the stairs. Unit 6.”

There was something hard about the voice. The door clicked open and Rafe felt his stomach knot. He hesitated, remembering. He had never hesitated before. The old Rafe would have pushed his way in and bounded up the stairs, keen to get on. But the old Rafe had been invulnerable, untouchable. The old Rafe had been a fool.

Steeling himself, he opened the door and stepped inside. The hallway looked harmless, clean and modern, with no deep shadows. He swallowed and walked to the stairs, grasping the metal handrail and pulling himself forward. He'd come a bloody long way for his nerve to fail him at the last minute, he thought, his feet mounting the steps as if they had no significance. If he just kept going, putting one foot in front of the other, he'd get through it and out of there. And, if he did, the next one would be easier. If he didn't, if he scurried back to Canberra now, he might as well climb into his tank and stay there forever.

The first floor corridor was much like the one below. He took a breath and walked slowly along it until he stood facing a plain brown door with a brass number “6” screwed onto it. He waited for his heart to slow down.
It's just an interview
, he told himself.
Just someone with information they want to get off their chest. You go in, you make small talk, you ask your questions, you leave. You've done it a thousand times before.
So why did it feel like the first time? Why did it feel like putting his head in a lion's mouth?

Of course, he knew exactly why.

The door flew open and a woman stood there, scowling at him. He stepped back in alarm, almost ran.

“
What the hell are you doing out there?” she asked, sounding as cross as she looked. She stepped towards him and he stepped back again as she peered past him, then over her shoulder, checking the corridor was empty. “You're Morgan, right? From the Sentinel?” He nodded, trying not to behave any more stupidly than he already had done. She studied him briefly. “You OK?”

He snapped out of his funk. “Yes, yes, I'm fine. It's... It's the heat or something. I just needed to take a moment You're Tonia Birchow?” He held out a hand, realised how damp his palm was, wiped it on his chest and held it out again. The woman looked at it with distaste, then at him, showing no inclination to touch him. He withdrew his hand, feeling ridiculous.

“Come in,” she said and walked away into the apartment.

He dropped his bag inside the door and closed it after him. Then followed her.

She was a small woman, thin and intense. Her hair was tied in a ponytail which made her look a little younger than she probably was. About thirty, Rafe guessed, although her dark eyes and furrowed brow suggested someone older. She stood facing him in the lounge room, appraising him.

“
Where are you staying?” she asked.

“
A hotel in the CBD,” he said. He found he didn't want to say which one.

“
You're not auged,” she said. It was clearly a challenge to explain himself.

He shrugged. “I usually conduct my interviews on minimal aug. I like to see what people really look like. When you're latched it's too easy to...” He cast about for the word.

“To be deceived,” she said. He nodded.

“
How are you going to vote?” she asked.

“
Vote?” If this was the woman's idea of small talk, she could probably use a few lessons. He hadn't even been invited to sit down yet. “In the plebiscite? I dunno. Against, I suppose.”

“
Why's that?”

“
Look, Ms Birchow, maybe we could get started on the interview?” Her look told him to shut up and answer the question. Irritated, he said, “Because the government's got enough damned power as it is without giving them the right to do whatever the hell they like just on the suspicion of criminal activity.”

“
You're in a minority. It's in the bag. Isn't that what all the polls say?” He considered trying again to get the conversation back on track, but the woman seemed obsessively interested in what she was saying. “You're a journo. You've probably written loads of pieces about what a dead cert the new bill is. Is that right?”

“
Not me, but – ”

“
Well, you're all wrong. The bill won't pass. You'll see.” She glared at Rafe, as if daring him to contradict her. Then she nodded and went over to a cupboard where she pulled a folder of papers out from under some other junk and brought it back to Rafe. “Here,” she said. “Take it.”

He took it. “What's this?” He opened the flap and looked inside. There were pages and pages of paper documents. Paper documents. He looked up at her.

“That's everything you need,” she said. “When you've read it, you should probably burn it.”

“
Paper?” he said.

“
You'll find its safer than electronics. Less chance of it leaking out onto QNet.”

“
But what is it?”

“
Read it and you'll see. OK. That's it. Time to go.”

“
Go?”

“
Yeah. Out the door. On your way.”

Rafe blinked at her in confusion. “But what about the interview?”

“What interview?”

“
The one I just flew twelve hundred kilometres for. You said you had information about the terrorism bill. You said there were secrets you needed to pass on. My contact in Canberra said I should listen to you. He said you were the real deal, whatever that meant. Now you won't even talk to me?”

“
Everything you need is in that folder.”

“
What if I have questions?”

“
You won't.”

“
Oh yes I will. Can I come back here tomorrow?”

She thought about it. “Sure. No worries. Come back tomorrow. All right?”

He didn't like what was happening. He held out the folder. “You could have sent this by courier.”

Her expression had so far been closed. Now it was turning to anger. “Read that lot tonight and come back here tomorrow with your questions.” He was still reluctant to leave. He still didn't trust this odd turn of events. His hesitation seemed to infuriate her. “Why the fuck are you still here? I told you to get out. Did I pick the wrong journo? What kind of moron are you? You've got the story of a lifetime there in your hands. Just go and fucking read it.”