Tales from Kalgachia - 29

Katie Zerlander had forgotten to set her little alarm clock the previous evening, but the headache woke her around mid-morning. Sitting slowly upright, naked under a coarse woolen blanket, the events of that evening returned slowly to her memory. Meeting a handsome young Laqi carpenter by the name of Sharik - or was it Shazik? - at any rate he was a new arrival, tasked with fabricating some roof trusses she had designed for the chipping sheds of the Trugrain Sawmill, a large timber processing complex under construction some fifty kilometres southwest of Oktokamensk and around ten minutes' walk from the DLEP Labour Corps accomodation cabin where she was presently lodged. As a recently-qualified field architect, her role within the Corps had sufficient cachet to obtain her a private room rather than the communal dormitories endured by most of her fellow workers - a fact at the front of her mind as she had performed repeated 'inspections' on the rugged Laqi carpenter's work and engaged him in ever more small talk, eventually going so far as to undo three buttons of her overalls in feigned protest at the Summerise heat. For all the modest proportions of what lay beneath - "two doorknobs on a washboard" as her mother's acidic tongue had memorably put it - Sharik or Shazik or whatever his name was had gotten the hint and reciprocated her flirtations with an assertiveness she had found surprising at the time.

Now his muscular form was lying face-down next to her, snoring loudly, with one arm hanging off the side of the bed. From his very pores, and from an empty bottle at the foot of the bed were emitted the stinging fumes of Schlepogorskaya vodka. Katie own's mouth bore the lingering taste of this paint stripper masquerading as a beverage - among other things - and she briefly compared the state of hung over, post-coital disarray in which she found herself to the rather more straight-laced upbringing she had known in the highlands of southern Katarsis. As part of one of the longer-established mixed Kalgachi families from that region, it had been made clear to Katie that her unwelcome arrival at an academic plateau, beginning some years previously with her failure to pass the entrance exam for the Bergburg Gymnasium, was a sin which her entire life must be devoted to cleansing through frenetic toil - to redeem the name of her family, her Kalgachi race and the nation whose future would belong to them alone. There would be no time for 'indulgences', as her father had sternly warned her. If the old man could see her now, she mused, he would drop dead on the spot - his heart had not been in the best condition in recent years. For that reason, as much as Katie's own reputation, nobody could ever know of this back home. "What happens in the dorms stays in the dorms", went the refrain of the Labour Corps' junior cadres - uprooting so many twenty-somethings from their home towns and mixing them together was only ever going to invite a storm of dalliances and shenanigans. Although one risked the occasional Dayanitis outbreak, there were suprisingly few reports of pregnancies - rumours circulated that the staff of the site cookhouse were putting some kind of contraceptive in the food.

A sharp knock on the door caused Katie to jolt. It was followed by the muffled voice of Zoya, her young drafter.

"Katie! Get up! You're going to be late! We've got the TV people coming today, remember? Shakbert's going to kill you if you don't get moving!"

Another moment of panic caused Katie's headache to worsen as she looked for her alarm clock, failed to find it on the nightstand and finally located it on the rough-hewn timber floor to which it had been cast by last night's passionate flailings. From its ticking face came the unpleasant revelation that she was due on the sawmill construction site in seven minutes.

"Uhh... I'm coming!" she called through the door. "I'll be out in a second! Don't come i-"

The handle of the door had already turned and it swung open to reveal Zoya's chubby form clad in olive-green Labour Corps overalls, charging into the room. "Come on, let's go!" she said. "If we run, we... ugggh!" She caught sight of Katie's Laqi companion the very same moment that the vodka fumes hit her nostrils. The hesitation was only momentary - she picked up Katie's undergarments from the floor and threw them onto the bed to be put on, before circling around to the sleeping Laqi and slapping him repeatedly. "Hey! Hey you! You can't stay here! You'll be..." His face, unresponsive to her exertions, was revealed as she flipped him over. "Sharik!? Oh wow..." She smirked and looked over at Katie who had struggled out of bed and begun to put on her overalls.

"We need to be badged up for the cameras!" Zoya continued. "Where are your badges? And do something with your hair! Actually no... no time. We'll do it on the way." She left Sharik snoring and began pulling open the nightstand drawers. Finally she found Katie's enamelled badges, of the kind which were added to Labour Corps overalls for formal events. Katie had two - one from the Kasterburg Railway Project and one for General Service - alongside her Urchaginka which were all pinned into place by Zoya's deft, hasty hand.

"You won't tell, will you?" groaned Katie as she swayed on her feet, made a half-hearted attempt to tidy her hair and glanced guiltily at the unconscious Sharik.

"Like I'm in a position to gossip," muttered Zoya. "I had him last week, on his first night here."

"Oh my Shrub!" Katie stifled a laugh. "You're terrible!"

"What, you think I'm a Byeday church girl?" Zoya winked as she straightened Katie's lapel. "Speaking of which, I thought YOU were until today. Come on, I'll fix your hair on the way."

"Thank you Zoya," groaned Katie as she was ushered quickly out of the room, thence out of the cabin into the sultry damp air of a forest morning. "I mean it. I really appreciate it. I don't know what I'd do without you..."

"You're still drunk, aren't you?"

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By the time Katie and Zoya stumbled breathlessly onto the construction site, nearly all of its workers were arranged in formation outside the only fully-finished building, the grey concrete plant office from which a large green banner reading THE GARDEN PROVIDES had been hung. The news crew, broadcasting live to the entire country as part of a current affairs feature on Blizzard 1's morning news programme, were at that moment talking to the site manager, one Alik Shakbert. His animated face, rendered unnaturally pale by the camera crew's artificial lighting, was delivering the forthright mixture of Ketherist slogans and audacious self-promotion that he had doubtless rehearsed in the bathroom mirror for days previously. Katie and Zoya had their part to play too - as dropouts from a more educated social class rather than halfwit labourers, they had been chosen by Shakbert to loiter at the front of the formation in such a way that the approaching interviewer would be sure to 'randomly' select them for questioning, whereupon they would assail him with well-rehearsed re-affirmations of everything Shakbert had said.

Ultimately they did not need to hover in the path of the news crew's route. The affable interviewer, the household name that was Chuck Needle, homed in on their photogenic faces immediately. In Katie's roughly-tidied hair and inscrutable smirk he saw the unkempt, homely beauty of a Daughter of the Garden, one who put the selfless cultivation of Kalgachia's verdant glades before any considerations of personal vanity. Approaching her first, Needle spoke into the camera while his producer, a Bergburger in a well-tailored Tellian suit, irritably snapped his fingers at the crew to adjust their placement of lighting and microphones. From that moment, Katie's shining brown eyes were seen by millions across Kalgachia - including her parents in Katarsis.

"Now let's get the view at the sharp end," came Needle's smooth introduction. "We're all told, of course, that the DLEP Labour Corps is a consolation prize for those who were passed over for Church Partisan training. Some even call it the preserve of criminals and other penitents, a nest of sinners. Well let's speak to one such sinner. What's your name, miss... and what do you do here?"

"I'm Katie." She smiled through Needle's scathing provocation. "I'm a field architect. I make sure this project's design specifications are met in their final, material form."

"Hardly a disreputable pursuit," said Needle. "What would you say to those watching at home who think you're all waywards and misfits?"

At this point Zoya stepped forward and interrupted. "I'd invite them to come and say that to our faces!" She said with a theatrical blink.

"Yeah!" came a male voice from the ranks of labourers behind. "We'll kick the shit out of them!"

Katie glanced at the manager Shakbert, whose face was a picture of silent fury. In a moment, before Needle could turn his attention to the more combative voices, she fired back. "What we mean to say... is that we consider past misdeeds irrelevant here. The only thing that matters is the quality and efficiency of our work, whether we're in the Garden's grace or not. In a hundred years, any imperfections of character we brought to this place will be forgotten... but the buildings around us will remain. If that's not total redemption, then what is?"

Needle looked aside to the crowd of labourers as a murmur of agreement spread through them. Shakbert was nodding slowly. The sharp-suited producer signalled to Needle with a flat hand which then pointed at Katie, indicating that the focus was to remain on her.

"Well I didn't expect to find a philosopher here," said Needle, addressing the camera, "and it's probably a surprise to you at home." He turned back to Katie. "Tell me then... what's your opinion on the commitment of DLEP resources to a relatively small project like this? The Directorate has been criticised for intervening in a project which the Church could have run by itself. The Abbot of this March has said on the record that it's within his means and competence. Why apply a national solution to a provincial problem? Doesn't it compromise the Rhizomic Resilience Principle?"

"Because Kalgachia is wondering where the Labour Corps have been for the last two decades," said Katie. "Since the start of Project Newrad, the Corps hasn't been committed to a single major project above ground except for the Kasterburg Railway, which I personally took part in. While I was there, the locals were always asking me the same things... is it all about the Trogs and the KDF these days? What about the surface population? Is their quality of life to be ruled a bad investment, just because they're in reach of Shirerithian bombs? If so, what's to stop them welcoming those bombs to end their miserable lives? They'd have nothing to lose after all. True, the Church can attend to their needs but the people need to know that central government is backing them, even if it means us working where we aren't strictly needed. When people claim there's no sense in our presence here, they reveal their own shallow materialism... an incomplete understanding of our sovereign Perfecti's vision for this country. We should always be ready to function physically apart, communicatively apart, but we can't let our sense of national purpose be parted. The Kalgachi people can tolerate the absence of central government through inability... our ancestors proved that. But to lose it through its apparent unwillingness, its overly selective attentions, the abandonment of whole segments of the population... that would cripple the very concept of our shared nationhood. That's not going to happen on our watch."

While Katie's verbiage was met with a gentle cheer from the minority of labourers who understood it, her attention was once again directed to the critical squint of Shakbert - both of them were aware that she was wandering off-script. Needle, suitably enthralled by the golden broadcast material in front of him, did not hesitate to resume his questioning:

"On the subject of nationhood, then, can you tell us how well the different ethnicities among you are getting along? Mister Shakbert tells me that all the peoples of Kalgachia are represented here."

"We get along fine," said Katie. "Even the Mishalanskis and the Froyalaners... give them a problem to solve, a paint job for example. A visible achievement when they get it done. The fact they get it done together, the fact they sweat and persevere together, it buries all the old mistrust. It's gone beneath the paint. The more coats of paint you apply, the less hate shows through."

"Doesn't that suggest their friendship is merely cosmetic?"

"If paint doesn't fix the underlying problem, they can rip the wall down and rebuild it. Same result."

The producer looked at his watch and made a cut-throat gesture, prompting Needle to wrap up the broadcast. He turned to the ranks of labourers. "Let's have a show of hands, then... how many of you are Laqi?"

About half of the labourers' hands were raised.

"How many Nezeni?"

A collective chuckle arose as the Nezeni workers, their heritage already apparent through skin colour, engaged in the pointless exercise of raising their hands.

"Alright, fair point," laughed Needle. "How many Lywallers...? How many Bergburgers...? And how about those few Mishalanski? Froyalaners? Oooh, one or two." He looked into the camera, addressing the studio with a mischievous wink. "Well, Ruth... now the roll call's done, I guess I can hand it ba-"

Zoya jumped forward again and addressed the workers. "How many Kalgachi!!"

For the first time, Needle appeared startled as the entire labour force raised their hands and exploded with a roaring cheer, followed by laughter at their own theatrics. The news crew producer gave Zoya a thumbs-up gesture followed by an immediate double-handed throat-cut to Needle, a signal to end the broadcast conclusively.

Needle's famous teeth shone in the crew's lights. "Well there you have it... sinners no more. From Chuck Needle at the Trugrain Sawmill, it's back to the studio." He held his gaze until a technician signalled the end of the broadcast feed, whereupon he dropped his microphone and marched up to Zoya. "You!" he snapped, leaning into her face with all jollity vanished. "You ruined my closer, you little attention whore! I'll make sure you never get on screen again! Can I not go a week without some amateur insulting my-"

"Oh shut yer face, Chuck," came the gurgling Bergburg accent of the producer whose hand settled on Needle's chest to shove him away from Zoya. "That was perfect! We got the girl with all the fancy words for the smart viewers, and her little friend put across the same message for the village idiot. And the way she undercut your roll call joke? That was a service to the country. The muses made you give up comedy for a reason, y'know."

"Oh fuck off," said Needle, failing to find a better retort as he stormed off toward the site entrance and the camper van that was parked just outside. Murmurs of consternation fluttered around the workers at this, their first experience of his off-screen persona.

"See what I gotta work with?" said the producer to Shakbert. "Sometimes I wonder if I'd be better off working in a place like this. Listen, you did good. So did those two girls. If you don't mind me poaching, can I go get their details? I'll tell you now, they've got TV written all over them."

With a wave of the hand, Shakbert assented and the producer, adjusting his suit, swaggered over to Katie and Zoya.

"Great stuff, ladies," his goofy gurgle dropping to an artificial gravelly tone. "Y'know the DEO's always looking for new talent. I've had people get through an audition and ten rehearsals and they still corpse up in front of the camera. But the way you two just let rip like that? Don't tell your boss I said so, but..." he nodded at Shakbert and dropped to a whisper, "...you're wasted in a place like this."

Katie and Zoya looked at each other, giggling. "Oh, you're too kind!" squeaked the latter. "Is that an offer of work?"

"It can be," said the producer, taking both girls' hands and kissing them in succession. "Blaze Bierstahl's the name. If I can swing it with old grumpy-jowls over there..." he indicated Shakbert again, "what say you fine young ladies come back to my camper van for a while? We can, uhh... discuss life in the media. Maybe do a little audition. Get some footage of you girls doing... stuff. See how wide your performing range is."

Katie frowned. "Stuff?" she said. "What kind of stuff?"

"Well my long career in the business has taught me that the best way to get yourself at ease in front of the camera... is to get your clothes off. If you can perform without them, you know you can perform even better with them." He smirked as the two girls shrieked with laughter. "No really," he laughed along with them. "Sounds crazy but it's true."

Katie shook her head. "Mister Bierstahl..."

"Call me Blaze."

"Whatever," said Zoya. "We're not laughing at your idea. We're laughing because you seem to think we were born yesterday. You want to film us with our clothes off, alone in your little van?"

"Well why not? It'll be fun!"

"Ugh..." said Katie. "To think of the poor girls that actually bought your sleazy spiel...."

"Whoa, you misunderstand!" said Bierstahl, waving his hands. "And I must say, I'm more than a little offended at the implication here. All of my business is conducted in the most professional-"

"Is it business, though?" said Zoya. "Or pleasure?"

"Well in my line of work you can never fully seperate the two..."

"Oh wow," said Katie. "You actually admitted it. And your whole feigned taking-offence thing? First resort of the Archons."

"What? Oh, well... sounds like you listened better in Church that I ever di-"

"Flattery is the second resort."

Zoya shook her head and hissed at Bierstahl. "You're such a 'path, you know that?"

His head slid quizzically backwards. "A what?"

"Leave it, Zoya," said Katie, taking her hand to leave. "This conversation is over. Goodbye, creep."

"Wait!" said Bierstahl, scuttling after them. "It's not what it sounds like! You'll make top Kalgarrand! I can make you a star!"

"She's already a star around here," came the gruff Laqi voice of a worker in a fully-loaded tool belt who stepped into Bierstahl's way. "And she still has work to do. Yours is finished, however. So would you like to leave by your own power..." the man's hand clasped around Bierstahl's collar, ..."or do you require assistance? Eh?"

"Alright alright, I'll go!" said Bierstahl, ducking from the man's grip as soon as it was loosened.

"Sharik!" Shakbert called to the Laqi from across the yard. "I was wondering where you'd gone! I need you over here to square up a beam!"

"Coming," growled Sharik without moving, his eyes remaining firmly on Bierstahl as he shuffled out of the gate.

The two girls had halted to watch Sharik, giggling and whispering into each others' ears. Bierstahl took a final glance over his shoulder at their smiling, irresistably fecund figures, forever lost to the morass of unfulfilled fantasies in the lurid basement of his mind. Once out of earshot, he muttered his judgement:

"...Prudes."