Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [32]
“Blankbate?” said Brentford. “Do you want to come in?”
Blankbate did not answer, but he followed Brentford inside. They passed rows of thick curtains and glass doors and eventually found themselves under the glass dome, surrounded by palms and enormous leaves and feeling smothered by their warm, damp breath. The heat could be felt rising from the floor, along with the faint rumble of the buried resonance coils. A few light bulbs, planted directly in the soil, gave off a sparse light that made the paths visible. This might not have been what a long and noble tradition had in mind when it affirmed that Eden was to be found at the North Pole, but to Brentford it was a delightfully close approximation, and the fact that it was man-made did not spoil it for him—quite the contrary.
He sat with Blankbate on a stone bench in a bower.
“How can I help you?” Brentford asked, although—or because—he had more often been helped by the Scavengers than been useful to them.
“You have heard the news? About the Done-Gone system?”
The Done-Gone system was the principle that allowed the Scavengers to go home or drift freely in their barges as soon as the trash was picked up, instead of having regular shifts. Brentford had indeed heard that the Council, who had little hold over the Scavengers and wished to gain more, had put some pressure on the Arctic Administration to put an end to this “abuse.” Working on a tight schedule did not agree with the Scavengers, who prized their freedom all the more because they had paid for it by being a caste of anonymous, invisible pariahs. The Administration, which could not refuse everything to the Council, had relented on this point, and now, as was only predictable, the Scavengers were angry.
“Yes. I have heard. There was nothing I could do.” Brentford indicated the greenhouse to account for the fact he had no power over such matters anymore. Blankbate could not doubt, he thought, that he had done his lobbying best, but to no avail.
“There may be a strike, then,” said Blankbate, who was a man of few words.
Brentford understood. This would add spice to the troubles that were presently brewing and disorganize the city even more than the usual tug-of-war between the Council and the Administration, in a way that cast both institutions in roles that were rather against type. Whereas the Council was supposed to keep intact the utopian ideals of the Seven Sleepers who had founded the city, it was now more than ever involved in all matters of business with the “Friends” who funded it, and these Friends had themselves increasingly turned from philanthropists into shareholders who wanted a return on their investments. The Administration, which had originally been devoted to the practicalities of running a city at a latitude that was anything but reasonable, had meanwhile—and Brentford was one of the main actors in this conversion—evolved toward a faithfulness to the first principles that was at times somewhat fanatical. For once, they had agreed on something, and that was going to cause more harm than good.
“Do what you should,” said Brentford, though he could not say he relished the idea of a Scavengers strike and the trouble it would bring, mostly in the prowling shapes of Bipolar Bears high on fresh human garbage. But some loyalties, and debts, had to come first. During the Faber affair, the Scavengers had proved to be reliable and essential allies. Maybe it was in his power to convince them not to go on strike, but he respected them and their autonomy.
“I’m behind you whatever happens. You’ll have to be aware that they’ll probably ask you to resign your weapons.”
Blankbate nodded his beak. “But there still will be bears.”
“Yes, and even more of them. But I suppose the Council will decide that you only need the guns when you pick up the Garbage.”
“Who will defend the city against the bears, then?”
“The Subtle Army, I suppose.”
Blankbate thought about it for