The Darwin Elevator

Chapter Eight

Darwin, Australia

18.JAN.2283

The dignitary wore a perfect business suit and a false smile.

He slipped on the wet steps as he came down from the climber car, his grin faltering in concert with his balance. One hand shot out and found the railing just in time to save him from a slapstick tumble down the rest of the stairs. He righted himself and put his smile back on. “Mr. Blackfield,” he said, extending a smooth white hand. “So nice to meet you.”

Russell thought that if he opened his mouth he might never stop laughing, so he returned the handshake instead.

“Michael Carney,” the man said. “Immigration director, Orbital Council.”

He spoke with a strong British accent, punctuated by dangling jowls that shook with each word. He wore glasses, a rare thing in this day and age, perched on the end of his nose so that he had to tilt his head back in order to look through them.

“Immigration,” Russell said. “Why’d they send you?”

“I volunteered,” Michael replied. He sucked in a breath through his enormous, hairy nostrils. “Haven’t been down here in a decade, I wanted to smell the rain.”

“Well gosh. We’re honored to let you have a sniff.”

“Cheers, cheers.” If he noticed the sarcasm, he did a good job of hiding it. “Thanks for allowing the climber to come down.”

“Thank me when I decide it can go back up.”

The man’s eyes flickered back and forth. A few secretaries waited patiently behind him, at a polite distance. Russell’s own security detail loitered a dozen meters away.

On the opposite side of the loading yard a team worked to detach a food container from the climber. From a third car, a repair crew disembarked. They wore matching gray overalls and were bound for one of the desalination plants across the bay. One of the giant processors had malfunctioned, and Russell felt he’d shown considerable goodwill in allowing the repair team to piggyback on the lone climber.

“Enough with the pleasantries,” Russell said. “You’re here to negotiate, so negotiate.”

Michael glanced around. “Somewhere more private, perhaps?”

“Here is fine.”

“Ah … right then.” The man took a breath and gestured to the container of food. “A peace offering.”

“Don’t need it,” Russell said. “Do better.”

The man’s eyebrows ticked up, if only for a half second. “My visit proves the climbers are working fine. The power fluctuation last week, while certainly odd, should not continue to hamper our trade agreements.”

“Odd?” Russell asked. “That’s all you can say about it? Odd?”

“We’ve tripled-checked everything on our end, Russell, and found nothing wrong.”

“Try harder, then. Until I get an explanation, the climbers stay put.”

“There’s nothing left to check, Russell. Perhaps if we could assist in your analysis down here?”

Many years ago, Russell received a piece of sage advice from a wrinkled old con man. “If someone you just met repeatedly uses your first name in conversation, they’re either lying to you or hiding something.” He’d never forgotten the tip, and it had proved useful many times.

“You think we’re doing this on purpose,” Russell said. “That we, what, faked the blackout?”

“All I can tell you is we’re not ruling anything out,” he said with a smug grin.

A politician, through and through. Russell wanted nothing more than to ram his fist into the man’s uneven teeth.

Rain began to patter the ground around them. Thick, warm drops. The sprinkle grew to a downpour in the space of seconds.

“Perhaps,” Michael Carney said, “we could move indoors?”

Russell turned and stalked away, leaving the councilman scurrying to keep up. He thought of doing the polite thing and guiding the visitor to his opulent office, but a better idea came.

Increasing his pace further, Russell turned toward Nightcliff’s massive southern gates. Two huge doors, both patchwork quilts of rusting metal and hasty welds. He angled toward a scaffold stairwell beside the huge entrance and clanged up the steps two at a time.

At the top he paused to let Michael Carney catch up.

The Brit was breathing hard by the time he hit the last step. His once flawless business suit had soaked up the rain like a dry sponge. Drops of beaded water covered his glasses. He removed them, tried to find a place to wipe them off, and quickly gave up and stuffed them inside his blazer.

Russell stepped aside to make room. The narrow walkway ran the entire circumference of the fortress wall, but he knew he wouldn’t need to take his guest any farther than this spot.

A murmur started below. Michael took in the view beyond the wall in stunned silence.

The gathered crowd stirred at the sight of a man wearing garb other than Nightcliff black. They sensed it meant something. Something important. The murmur grew, first to anxious talk and then to angry shouts, spreading through the crowd like a shock wave.

Yesterday, after nearly a week of pointless protests, their mood had shifted from riotous to bored. They’d camped in Ryland Square despite the unpredictable weather. They sang songs and played football in the mud. A few rather comical fistfights broke out. Occasionally they threw rocks toward the fortress.

Russell had watched them for a long time and noted how often their eyes turned to the Elevator, hoping to see the climbers moving again. Hoping that a meal would come down the cord.

No meal, Russell thought. But I’ve brought a sacrificial lamb.

“My word,” Michael said, his wits finally gathered. He wiped the water from his face and strained to focus on the sea of people. “What are they all doing here?”

Russell clapped the man on his back. “They’re dying to hear what you’ve come to offer them.”

Michael recoiled from the edge of the wall. “You can’t be serious,” he squeaked.

In answer, Russell held out the small microphone he’d been using to address the crowd over the last few days. He’d had it rigged up to a speaker system originally installed to provide alarms if an attack on the Elevator was imminent.

Michael Carney stared at the device as if it were a coiled cobra.

“Go on,” Russell said. “Tell them.”

The man stammered. He gathered enough of his wits to wave off the microphone. “Point taken, Mr. Blackfield. The people are restless, I get that—”

Russell didn’t budge. “You think I’m joking?”

The councilman’s eyes grew wide. The rain began to hammer even harder. It poured down the man’s face in rivulets.

“Here,” Russell said, “I’ll do it.” He turned to the sea of ragged people and held up an arm. He pressed the microphone to his lips. “We have a visitor from above!”

The crowd surged forward, shouting insults. They were beyond desperate by now. Those who knew how to find a meal in Darwin had long since left the square. Even the Jacobites had given up.

Those that remained were truly pitiful.

Russell went on. “He’s come with a peace offering.” His voice boomed across the wide expanse, echoing off the crumbling skyscrapers that lined the far side. The mood of the rabble shifted slightly at the words, and Russell seized the opening. He pointed, swept his arm in a half circle across their hungry faces. “Five containers of fresh food, all for you lot. What do you say?”

They roared in unison. Russell found the sound of it intoxicating.

Michael leaned in. “I only brought the one,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “And that was for you and your staff.”

“Relax,” Russell said. “I’ll pull a few from the emergency reserve. You can owe me.”

“Owe?! I … I can’t authorize that.”

Russell grinned at the crowd. He threw his arm around Michael Carney’s shoulder and turned him to face the cheering mass. “Exactly the problem, Michael. You’re a powerless twat. So I’ll give you a choice. I can push you over this wall right now, or you can go back to your betters and tell them that I’ve staved off anarchy for a few more days, despite their indecision and incompetence. But in return, they owe me. And more than food.”

“What then?”

“Simple. I’ll restart the climbers when I’m added to your council.”

The man went rigid. He started to speak, then snapped his mouth shut.

Russell continued to wave at the crowd. He nudged the councilman closer to the edge of the parapet.

“A vote will be required,” Michael said. “It may take some time.”

“You just have to deliver the message, Michael. Surely you can handle it.”

“What about the climbers? Please! This crowd proves you need food shipments just as much as we need air and water.”

Russell sighed. “I suppose I can fire them up temporarily as a gesture of goodwill. In exchange, however, I want to ride one myself. Pay a little visit.”

Michael started to object.

“Shut up and listen,” Russell said. “I want to meet with Alex Warthen, in orbit, and I want to negotiate through him from now on.”

“The task was given to me,” Michael said.

“I don’t give a rat’s anus. Alex I can work with. You? You’re a fop and I don’t like you.”

Color rushed from the man’s face. He swallowed, all composure banished.

Russell spun the man so they were face-to-face. He tugged his wet lapels and smoothed out the sopping wet tie. “A business suit?” he asked. “You’ve forgotten the world we live in, Carney. You’re too far removed, all of you.”

“I … I’m at a loss. I don’t know what to say.”

“Thank God for that. Just smile and wave, one last time, to the shit-wallowers. Then you can climb back to Platz and the rest of them and deliver my warm regards.”