Welcome to Ord City. Adrian Deans

room, dominated by a large black poster with orange lettering: ALL IS NOTHING AND NOTHING IS ALL.

      Conan stood quite still – breathing slowly and feeling his way around the room – trying to imagine what it was like to live there. The walls were crowded with book shelves and football posters, one of which was a picture of a supremely athletic-looking Chinese in the yellow and red of the Ord City Pilgrims, shooting at goal.

      ‘Feng Nine,’ said Conan.

      ‘You a football fan?’ asked Loongy, a bit less irritable.

      ‘Not really.’

      ‘You should be.’

      Conan turned his attention to a huge table under the only window. It was dusty, littered with old-style books and papers, the inevitable Crimson vials and two old lap-top computers at either end.

      ‘Why should I be a football fan?’ he asked, noting that one of the laptops was still turned on.

      ‘Football is everything in Ord City. If you want to understand us you have to understand football.’

      ‘Us?’

      Conan tapped a key but the screen was frozen.

      ‘Yes … us! Just because I’m sixth generation doesn’t mean I can’t be part of Ord City.’

      ‘I guess it might help the newcomers to assimilate.’

      Loongy peered suspiciously at Conan.

      ‘Yes … it does help.’

      Conan ignored him for a moment to read the frozen screen with a large black and red field covering most of it. In the middle of the field were the words: Access Denied and a pair of keys crossed over each other.

      ‘Locked out,’ said Loongy.

      Only part of the URL was visible in the address field and seemed to be written in Italian. Conan copied down the part of the address he could see and Loongy laughed, ‘Oh look! Sydney investigator finds a clue. What you think it means, Tools?’

      Conan ignored him and continued to look among the books and papers covering the desk. Most of it seemed to be scientific or religious. Conan glanced at a book on chaos theory, then picked up a large bible and noted its margins were covered in scribbled notes.

      ‘These guys were pretty churchy.’

      ‘Brilliant deduction, Tools,’ laughed Loongy. ‘You seen enough yet?’

      Several of the pamphlets were glossy plastex Army of God publications. Conan flipped open one with a confused-looking Chinese on the cover, entitled: Can You Be Christian and Habal Tong Too?

      ‘Let’s go!’ said Loongy, suddenly irritated. ‘I’ve got real work to do.’

      ‘Okay,’ said Conan and, as Loongy turned his back, slipped the pamphlet into his pocket.

      The door was locked and resealed with tape, and Loongy headed for the stairs without another word to the two uniformed officers. Conan gave Ping an apologetic salute and followed Loongy toward the piss-dank stairs. As he did, one of the neighbouring doors opened and a Chinese woman of quite striking beauty peered out, but immediately lowered her eyes when she saw Conan and closed her door again.

      ‘Now you can write your report,’ said Loongy, ‘… and fuck off back to Sydney.’

      ‘Can I?’ asked Conan, still seeing the woman’s sad and frightened face in his mind’s eye and wondering about the life she had found in Ord City – wondering also whether she knew the murdered men.

      ‘Of course! Two dead Habal Tong … killed by Dedd Reffo. Happens every day. Now fuck off back to Sydney and drink latte by the Opera House!’

      Conan laughed and Loongy turned on him fiercely.

      ‘You think I’m funny?’

      ‘Yes, very,’ grinned Conan.

      Loongy stared again, then stormed down the stairs, somehow leaving Conan with the impression that he was in the presence of a Master Piss-taker.

      • • •

      The pamphlet didn’t say much. It answered its own question in the negative, which is what Conan would have expected. It did, however, give the addresses of a few local Army of God chapters, so Conan decided to visit the one closest to the flat where the two friends had lived.

      The streets on the map bore only vague resemblance to the streets and lanes threading the mad jumble of buildings and other temporary dwellings that metastasised throughout the city, but Conan managed to pick his way through teeming hordes of provisional citizens to the Army of God chapter house on the corner of Kerr and Whitlam Streets.

      The house was two storey and old brick – one of the places that had obviously been around before Ord City was proclaimed back in 2023. Out the front were numerous placards bearing Christian slogans, and a group of bored-looking children sat on the steps, listening to a young man in a shiny, black uniform reading them a story.

      The young man paused to examine Conan as he climbed the stairs.

      ‘Welcome, brother,’ he said, in an affected accent that sounded almost British.

      ‘How ya goin’?’

      ‘I’m Lieutenant Michael Rice. Can I offer you guidance?’

      ‘Guidance?’ echoed Conan, stifling a laugh. ‘Don’t know about that mate … I just want to look inside for the moment.’

      Conan continued up the stairs and stood in the doorway, aware that the young man had abandoned his story and was hovering at his elbow.

      ‘These are the daily sessions,’ he said, referring to a whiteboard in the foyer, and Conan paused to glance at what was available. The board was headed with Children’s Bible Story Time, followed by Coffee Shop, various Bible Study sessions, and in the evening was the Daily Service followed by The Great Debate at nine pm.

      ‘Are you in charge here?’ asked Conan.

      ‘That depends on what you mean,’ said Lieutenant Rice. ‘I’m the officer of the day, in charge of the …’

      ‘I’m in charge,’ said a voice, and Conan turned to see a woman in a similar black uniform to Lieutenant Rice’s, which she filled rather differently. She would have been late twenties or early thirties, with brunette hair pulled back in a severe bun and a tight, humourless smile.

      Conan found himself staring for a moment, but pulled himself together.

      ‘Ah … sorry,’ he said, recovering, and pulled his ID from his top pocket. ‘Agent Tooley … AFP. Can we talk?’

      He was still staring at her. It was the eyes that did it. In all other ways she might have been the living quintessence of untouchable female authority, but her eyes gave her away. Her eyes said she was human, and narrowed as she perceived his interest.

      ‘Captain Melodie Roberts,’ she said, primly holding out her hand to be shaken. ‘Come with me.’

      She led him to a stair but stood aside and waved him ahead.

      ‘After you,’ said Conan, but she simply raised an eyebrow and he grinned sheepishly, guessing she disliked being followed upstairs by men because of the opportunity it gave to stare at her arse.

      He went up the stairs, and she followed, several paces behind.

      The upstairs was a long gallery looking down on the hall with several doors leading to offices. Captain Roberts passed him and, yes, her arse was superb. Conan got only one quick peek at its rounded, pert perfection then stared resolutely at the back of her head, in case she suddenly turned.

      Her office was the last at the end of the gallery and she gestured him into one of the two chairs opposite her desk.

      ‘So, what can I do for you Agent Tooley?’

      ‘Call