Arms Race by Nic Low Read Free Book Online Page A

demands, Toff says. This isn’t a protest action. You know what they say—if you
can’t beat ’em? He smiles and shrugs. Now we’re a real-deal mining company.
    The sergeant stares at him and, for the first time in his life, Toff feels the sweet
righteousness of bureaucracy rising up in him. This is totally legit, he says. Call
the Department of Crown Lands. The number’s on the forms.
    The sergeant looks sceptical, but he pulls out his phone and dials the number anyway.
He is put on hold. After a long wait, a bored operator comes on the line. The sergeant
paces while he talks, one hand shading his eyes from the glare.
    Who the hell signed off on—okay. Sorry. Sure, the paperwork. Twenty-seven-F? Yep.
Two double-o-fours? Two of them, got it. Yes. What? How much to look it up? Jesus!
And where’d they get that kind of money? No, it’s not a set of GPS co-ordinates,
it’s the Shrine of bloody Remembrance. No, that is not fascinating. It’s— what ? A
typo? It’s a fucking typo? The what? Online complaint form? Wait—
    The sergeant glares at his phone in frustration.
    See, Archie calls, a challenge in his voice. The old man approaches, the high-vis
vest around his shoulders like a modern possum-skin cloak. All paid up, he says.
We’ve got a permit to do this. Your laws, mate, so you’re with us on this one.
    Permits can be revoked, the sergeant says. Who are you?
    Archie Ryan. I’m the CEO.
    Wait a minute, the sergeant says. I know you. You’re a serial protester. You’re at
everything. Any cause that’ll have you.
    Toff puts a restraining hand on Archie’s shoulder, and when the old man speaks his
voice is weary and tight.
    We’re done with protesting, he says. No one gives a shit about land rights in this
country anymore. This is a commercial mining operation. You need an injunction to
stop it. C-two-forty, federal, with underwritten DCBs. Takes weeks to get and easy
as piss to overturn. While you’re waiting you could keep that mob under control.
They’ve been threatening my crew.
    Damn right we have, the tall old man says. He steps forward and grips the thin safety
cordon. His anger seems equal to that of Archie. Why do you have to dig here? he
says. Men fought and died for this country. Why the bloody hell would you mine this?
    Mate, Archie says with a sour grin, we’re hardly going to fuck with our own land.
    The city explodes. News crews and photographers and lawyers scramble. The airwaves
burn with confused outrage. The Institute of Public Affairs is spotted plagiarising Wilderness Society press releases, and vice versa. Rio Tinto and Fortescue come out
in support of the dig, and the internet is soon awash with rumours of a joint venture
to open-cut mine the MCG. Only Tony Abbott distinguishes himself, giving an apparently
incoherent yet tactically brilliant speech wherein he coins the slogan ‘Support all
the Diggers, all the time, whatever they’re digging.’
    At Kings Domain the crowd swells throughout the afternoon. The workers douse the
Sacred Flame with a Kmart fire extinguisher. From behind the police line Toff and
Archie watch gleaming charter buses disgorge a flow of pensioners, ferried in from
suburban RSL clubs. The protesters carry hand-scrawled placards, bags of knitting
and glad-wrapped sandwiches. They surge up the hill in a blue-rinsed wave.
    Mixed with the elderly crowd is a steady stream of sympathetic locals, students and
activists. Away to the east, the youth wing of Socialist Alliance is digging a solidarity
hole in the lawn.
    A nuggetty man with tattooed arms pushes to the front of the crowd. He’s wearing
a sticker-covered hardhat and carries an enormous red flag. Orrite, lads, he calls
in a broad Scottish accent. We come to show solidarity. This is a bloody good action.
    Piss off, mate, Archie says. This isn’t an action.
    Ha, the man says. Tha’s a good line. That’ll