After lunch, Marten went on a routine inspection walk. His mind began to wander as he checked well-oiled segments of machinery… neatly maintained like his life. He didn’t know any more what he wanted. Not to live in Greater Sydney forever, that’s for sure. He wondered sometimes if he had the balls to take an excursion into the slums. Where had his daring gone? Had seeing his Dad’s head explode stolen something out of him?
Despite the so-called glories of Social Unity, slums had formed in paradise. Each city seemed to have them. Greater Sydney wasn’t an exception. In fact, for reasons unknown to the social engineers, Greater Sydney’s slums proved nastier than the common run. Sydney’s deep-core mine reached down to Earth’s mantle, drawing planetary thermal power. Many of the larger cities did likewise.
None of the levels reached anywhere near the mantle. The deep-core mine was a narrow shaft that went far beyond Sydney’s living space. The slums were always near the mine, or the upper part of it, anyway. Sydney’s slums were from Level Forty-one to Forty-nine and for a full kilometer outward. Police raids seldom helped keep control there. Social workers rarely ventured into the slums even if guaranteed army patrols. Hall and block leaders kept a low profile there. Ward officers seldom set foot in their own territory. Desperate people lived in the slums, uneducated, violent people with bizarre modes of thought and behavior. Gangs roved at night, youth gangs being particular bloodthirsty. Drug-lords hired people called mules, bodyguards and enforcers.
The honest, card-carrying citizens on the fringes who lived above and below the slums cried out for stronger police patrols. So at elevator openings and stairwells and at strategic tunnel doors thick knots of heavily-armed shock cops formed.
Marten wondered sometimes if the people in the slums had a greater form of freedom than those living in the better levels. Could he find the freedom he desired in the slums? Maybe he could, but maybe at too bitter of a cost.
Marten kicked a rock out of his way. Where had his courage gone?
Later, near quitting time, he turned left at a dark corridor and opened an emergency shed. Inside stood a makeshift kettle, a flame box underneath and strange fumes bubbling out of it. From a nearby bin, he took the last slices of algae bread and fed them into the kettle. He readjusted the still, switched bottles and examined a clear liquid in the light of his helmet lamp.
The liquid was clear, hard liquor: synthahol. He sniffed it and screwed up his nose. It had an awful odor. He put the flask to his lips and threw back his head. He didn’t dare taste it, but he relaxed his throat and let the synthahol slide into his belly. Oh, it burned so nicely in his stomach. Then the alcoholic fumes shot up to his brain like fire—Liquid fire!
He checked his chronometer, finished the contents of the flask and put it back under the drip.
Comfortably numb, he strode for the main lift-tube about a kilometer away. He then reversed the process of this morning. The neck and shoulder stiffening wouldn’t occur until the synthahol wore off. But the cramped lift, the peacekeepers, the endless corridors of his complex… these things remained dreadfully the same.
Marten doffed his clothes in his cubicle, showered, put on new clothes, ate a bowl of gruel and thought about calling Molly. He decided against it. Then his door chime sounded.
For a moment, he froze as fear crawled up his spine. Then he shrugged. They didn’t have anything on him he could think of. But if it was cops, well, then it was the cops. He was more thankful than ever for the synthahol. When they took him, as they surely must in the end, he wanted to play it cool. He slouched against the wall, set his face in a neutral mask and said:
“Enter.”
The door opened and beautiful Molly Tan stepped within. She wore shimmering sequins similar to this morning’s ad girls, and she wore a silky red skirt and silver slippers. She had short red hair combed to the left, freckles galore and a body to kill for. Her legs—Marten puckered his lips and imagined kissing them.
Molly hopped near and pecked him on the lips. Then she frowned.
“Marten, you’ve been drinking again.”
He shrugged.
“But you can’t be drinking this afternoon.”
“Why not?”
She pouted as she ran her hands over his chest. “Discussions start in fifteen minutes.”
“So?”
“Hurry, Marten, get dressed or we’ll be late.”
He almost said no, forget it, not today. Then they’d fight, Molly might storm away, and then that bastard, Hall Leader Quirn, would drape his slimy arm over her shoulder and console her at the discussions.
He threw on a synthetic leather jacket and boots.
“You should wear a shirt under the jacket,” she said.
Marten left the jacket open, exposing his lean stomach, and he didn’t comb his hair. Maybe it was the synthahol whispering. He dressed slum, the daring new style. It wasn’t the right sort of dress for discussions, maybe more an outing to the zoo.
Molly told him all that. He kissed her to silence. She told him to take a mint. She hated synthahol breath.
“And it’s illegal, Marten. You know that.”
“I know.”
“I should report you.”
“Then who will you have to move in with?”
“Oh, Marten!” she said, brightening, clapping her hands. “Are you serious? Do you want to move in today?”
He blinked at her in confusion, uncertain what he’d just said.
She pouted. “We can’t get married. Marten, that’s… that’s
Marten took the mint, ushered her out the cubicle and in silence they rode the conveyer to the discussion room. He tried to take her hand. She jerked it away. He rubbed her shoulder, whispering, “Don’t be anti- social.”
She glared at him. He gave her a playful pinch. Finally, she relented and gave him a smile. He kissed her. She kissed him back.
They jumped off the conveyer and strolled to the large double doors of the discussion room. Crowds poured in. The women dressed in silky, knee-length skirts and slippers. Some had sequined blouses like Molly, others wore frilly blouses with the top three buttons open. Every female dressed in bright, “happy” colors. The men wore brown shorts and sandals, and typically yellow sleeveless shirts with red cloth-cuffs. Within the building ferns abounded everywhere. They hung from the high ceiling and lined the walls. Couples and triplets mingled freely. Giggling came from the hidden lanes created by the ferns. Pleasant, sing-along-humming issued from wall speakers.
When a chime sounded people moved to the center of the room, sitting on mats. The men sat cross-legged, the ladies tucked their legs under themselves. A few people frowned at Marten’s attire. More than one woman shook her head at Molly in sympathy. She shrugged, rubbed Marten’s shoulder and finally started scolding him for wearing such improper garments to discussions.
Molly brooded even as the speaker moved toward center stage. The speaker was a terrifying ogre of a woman: large, massively shouldered, with ponderous breasts and a big gut. She wore the tight-fitting red uniform with black epaulets of Political Harmony Corps. She stomped her black boots on the platform as if on parade. She came to a sudden halt and wheeled toward the crowd, glowering at them from beneath the low-slung brim of her black cap. She had heavy jowls that wobbled as she spoke. Her thick right hand rested on the butt of her holstered stunner. Her tiny black eyes, dots within folds of flesh, seemed to glitter as she searched for those who lacked social harmony.
“Depressingly formidable,” whispered Molly.
Marten squeezed her hand. Few here would dare joke about a political police officer. That Molly could was one of the reasons Marten liked her.
The PHC officer barked out in a drill parade voice, telling them how evil the Highborn were, how the genetic soldiers hated everything good and proper. Their political philosophy, as low and primitive as could be imagined, was based on the master-slave relationship. The Highborn could never win, everyone knew that… and on and on she roared. Finally, her voice broke as she burst into praise of the Directorate’s bold new plans that would throw
