Black Glass (7 page)

Two skinny kids, a boy and a girl with matching slouches, drifted closer to the pup. When he spotted them, the puppy guy immediately ended his phone call and bent to ruffle his dog's ears, smiling at the kids, welcoming them closer. The three of them squatted on the footpath, stroking the animal. The kids were relating some story that seemed, from their gestures, to involve injury and exhaustion. The puppy guy made a series of shrugs and pointing motions, a gentle invitation, and the trio rose and walked off together with the animal trotting along behind. Its owner's body radiated certainty, and people moved out of their way.

Then a taxi screeched to a halt, blocking Tally's view; a group of men in matching striped scarves spilled out, chanting some drunken footy theme song. She heard a bottle smash. By the time the men had straggled through the honking traffic and into a kebab shop, Tally was distracted, and the puppy, the guy and the kids had disappeared into the ebb and swirl of bodies.

[Bloodhound TV, Flinders Lane, Civic Zone: candidate two, interview, Journotainment unit: Damon | senior editorial staff]

‘So you shoot, you cut, you talk. Got your own gear?'

‘Everything. I'm all set to go.'

‘Your reel wasn't bad, Damon. Bit folksy in places, but I know good stuff can be scarce out in the Regions.'

‘That's true. You really have to keep your contacts healthy. The material's there, it's just buried a bit deeper.'

‘I believe we've run some of your freelance work before — that two-parter on the reptile smugglers?'

‘Ah, yes, that was mine. I had to pixellate a couple of sources, but most of it went okay.'

‘When did we run that?

‘Back in May. That lizard-cam number. You edited the damn thing, George.'

‘Ha, yes. Of course. Nice images. Police busted them pretty fast I recall. Pity.'

‘Got a certain look, haven't you, Damon — with the hair slicked back and so on? And your, ah … I remember your face, is what I mean.'

‘Yes, I guess so. I've always worn it that —'

‘Diana programs our series. But mostly we need more immediate stuff. You'd know about our story output. We rely on partnerships with security firms, government contra deals — cash very rarely. You've done most of your work solo, I take it?'

‘That's right. But I mix well with all sorts.'

‘I assume you speak Beige? We have arrangements with Polbiz high-ups, business conduits, mid-ranking coppers. We need someone who can maintain those strong links. It's easy to grab bites from your basic bystanders and snitches, but that won't carry you far here.'

‘I understand that. Those more complex relationships, that reciprocal work, that's exactly what I'm looking for. And I'll talk to anyone.'

‘Rochelle here handles that side of things. We can usually provide freelancers — productive ones, that is — with a few hook-ups. Say one government partner, a data agency source, someone from the security industry.'

‘Sounds good.'

‘Right, but let me state this up front: I just do the intros and oversee budgets. It's the consultant's job to foster those ongoing relationships. That takes time and patience, not to mention social skills. And you can forget that old line about separating work from life. What's your trust quotient like?'

‘Pretty high, over eight on most tests. I sent the transcripts with my —'

‘Ah … yes.'

‘Brian? Did you want to ask Damon anything?'

‘I'll be honest. I'm concerned about the transplant issue.'

‘What — his source base?'

‘That's part of it. It takes a long time to know a city, Damon, and you've only just transplanted to the big smoke. The other thing is the accent.'

‘My accent?'

‘Don't take offence, but it's just a shade bumpkin. Don't you think?'

‘That's easily fixed, Mr Rosslin, I've developed a few variations. And I've been down here most weekends with the express purpose of building contacts. I've already got bartenders, casino croupiers, a dog handler and someone from the middle rungs of interdepartmental liaison. Plus a brothel receptionist and a junior morgue technician. And I'm working on a street grifter and a geek.'

‘Not bad, nice little bunch of fixers. And the man can speak tidy when the need arises.'

‘Got any story leads?'

‘I'm already following several.
The Big Bang: the truth behind the methamphetamine shortage. Blood Money: illegal aliens in blood-trafficking
racket
.
Who's Your Daddy: tunnel kids and brothel bosses
…'

‘Hm. Sounds alright for a start, I guess.'

‘I like your tie, Damon. Is it silk?'

‘Ah, yes, thanks. An airport number, I have to confess, but people seem to respond to the colour.'

‘Alright, alright, the paperwork looks fine. You understand we'll need fluid samples and a full background check — covering mental health too, of course.'

‘Sure, that won't be a problem.'

‘Then consider this a trial period. You bill as you file. Monday mornings you run your ideas past Brian and myself. No moonlighting, no leaks — any issues, you come to us.'

‘We'll expect eight strong stories in the next eight weeks, including one series and a couple of print versions. The hard stuff, plus some sex, some fluff, heartstring bizzo, corruption, whatever … Visually arresting, low corn factor, nothing too dumbed down or highbrow. Work with integrity, excitement — material that gets us noticed.'

‘Great. I can do that.'

‘Excellent choice of words. So ... has Georgia cleared out her cubicle yet? Good. Then you might as well get started.'

[Unmapped building interstice, South Interzone: Tally | Blue]

What —
what?
Get off my, I'm sleeping, get … No, I'm sleeping,
what the fuck are you doing?

Well how am I meant to know that, I've slept up here the last three nights.
Get off
— you're standing on my coat. Your bed is it, well I don't see your name on it, I don't see a bed either mate.

Oh right. Yeah of course I can see it. Did you spray-paint that up there, what does it say?
Blue?
What kind of, well are you a graffiti dude or something, nah it's alright just kind of hard to read, I said it's good I mean better than most of that shit, I mean stuff.

Pillow … what, this piece of …? Oh. Alright, here you go.

No don't worry about it. Me too … yelling like that I mean, I was just — it's confusing when you wake up like that, I couldn't remember where … Well okay sure I'll stay on this side then I guess … yeah you stay on that side.

Just around, up north. What about you? Alice huh, I like that name that's where they have that big rock right, have you climbed up that big rock thing?

Right — but people still climb it, don't they?

Oh, just stupid whitefellas. Right.

Fourteen, soon I mean. What about you — no way April the what, man I'm the nineteenth! Yeah so what only by five days don't get a big head, well I said soon, whatever, few months. Boy you like to be accurate huh.

Just here on holiday … What's so funny, I am on bloody holiday plus I'm looking for someone. So I might stay a while. Here look: wait I'll turn it on, now check out this picture here.

Yeah I know she is, watch your mouth alright, that's my sister. Grace. You seen her? Are you sure?

Nah. We just lost each other by accident, way up country. Okay give us the camera back. Don't fiddle with it, Jesus I only got one picture of her.

Hey it's flickering this light here what does this mean? Ah Jesus, how much do batteries cost, I need some batteries. I need some money.

What kinda work? Yeah well what's wrong with questions, you ask them too don't ya.

Okay sure tomorrow.

You got enough room? Cool …

Hey look up there. Whoa in that gap, that chopper guy is speeding what a freakin' maniac, speed kills right, what goes up must come down … Hey Blue?

You still awake?
Hey Blue!
Okay, okay, jeez. Well who woke up who before, eh? Alright. I said alright. G'night.

[West foyer, Silvacom Tower, Elizabeth Street, Commerce Zone: Damon | Luella Martin, state liaison agent]

He'd arranged to meet her in the foyer at ten-fifteen, but couldn't see anyone who matched her name: just a muted trickle of public servants making for the lifts, clasping donut bags and umbrellas, and some telcom nerds chortling over a bulky folder. As he navigated the revolving door, the steady gazes of the security staff drew him towards the reception console. The verbal shorthand of the official visitor came easily to Damon's lips, but his body always felt vaguely puppet-like when surrounded by so much marble. Or was this stuff fake? Apparently you could only tell by tapping your teeth against it, which didn't seem feasible.

He'd practised saying her name in the mirror that morning as he'd wrestled his hair into an amicable but crisp shape, somewhat like a meringue, with the help of some hi-tech moulding paste that had cost almost as much as his tie. He had to get this right: he'd tried pronouncing her name with authority, with warmth, then with various combinations of the two. Inexplicably, he'd even tried it with a slight Korean accent. The swoops carved into his scalp felt overly ornate, but it was too late for that now.

‘Luella Martin,' he said to the guard. ‘Ah, Damon Spark — to see Ms Martin, state liaison.'

She didn't move. ‘Mr Spark, from …?'

This question always irked him, but he produced his ID card with a practised air.

‘
Freelance information consultant
,' the woman recited as she swiped it through the scanner and shot a beam of pale blue from her eyes to his. ‘Take a seat over there, please, Mr Spark.'

Luella Martin: a tall and long-limbed name, he thought, a glossy name; a dark swish of hair, a library card, perhaps a weakness for fountain pens and expensive perfume. He'd run a search, of course, and narrowed her down to three possibilities: a teenage rowing champ; a controversial cat breeder; and a youngish honours graduate from the state's most efficient university, who had presented papers at dull policy forums throughout the country and been extremely careful not to let her photo loose in the virtual realm. Damon was confident she was this latter Luella, fairly certain she wasn't the cat breeder and as yet undecided about her rowing history. He could have uncovered much more, obviously — including her exact shoulder measurements — but money was tight and, given the context, his searches could well be monitored. He had learned the hard way not to blithely type his own name plus the word
brilliant
into search engines. (Now, when he couldn't stop himself, he logged in through a privacy screen.)

A woman was standing before him, speaking his name and holding out her hand: a tiny brunette with a buzz cut, intense greenish eyes, no make-up whatsoever and a smile that left as swiftly as it arrived. She stood very straight and wore an androgynous suit cut like a flight attendant's uniform. Fighting the urge to check his hair, he conveyed his greetings and let the diminutive Luella Martin usher him to the lifts.

In a windowless room on level 42, a water jug and two glasses sat waiting. They both took their seats, Luella suddenly seeming taller. Damon fumbled surreptitiously for a lever to raise the height of his chair, but there wasn't one.

‘So Damon — this is just a get-to-know?' She was straight in, that quick smile blinking on and off. He attempted to slow things down by pouring her a glass of water, but the jug was heavier than it looked and liquid slopped onto the table. He poured his own glass with more care, but now the jug seemed wilfully erratic and the water tumbled right to the very rim, where it bulged and trembled, threatening to spill over the edge. They both watched it.

‘You could lean down and drink a bit off,' observed Luella.

What does it matter, he thought. As he craned forward he had a fleeting image of an antelope teetering over a waterhole. Luella watched him, her face inscrutable. He puckered his mouth to avoid slurping but wasn't entirely successful.

‘Well, that's broken the ice,' she said with some warmth.

He decided to take the frank approach and began to speak, making small, open-handed gestures. Of course he'd been looking forward to meeting her, and hated to rush things. But he hoped to start fishing immediately, as his timelines were crunched. He wasn't sure what she could spare, but he'd be grateful for half an hour a week.

His interests lay mainly in social issues, crime and the activities of marginals and subversives: undocs and non-integrators, unverifieds and seditious elements. Anyone who tried to pass for a cleanskin but wasn't, dissidents stirring up trouble against the government, or just crims running major scams. It would be great, for example, to get info on businesses employing illegals. Or the blood-selling racket he'd heard about. Or maybe just names … some of the key people lobbying against the new ID-Net scheme, perhaps. But, as she knew, stories often lurked in unexpected places — even out in the supposedly bland subzones, the gated communities of the middle classes, or the working classes further out; he'd take his cue from her, and hoped she'd feel comfortable making her own suggestions. And info would flow both ways, of course.