2028

by Ken Saunders

  ‘I put the paperwork through,’ Kate told Candidate Ned.

  ‘Kate has changed her name to Ned Ludd,’ he informed them. ‘Your parents were okay with it?’ he asked her.

  ‘Yeah, they’re just happy I am taking “an interest in something”,’ she said, quoting them directly. ‘As if toppling the government were no different from collecting Pixar movie memorabilia. If you do anything at all at my age that doesn’t involve taking drugs,’ she explained, ‘parents are thrilled.’

  ‘Why change your name to Ned Ludd now?’ Amy asked. ‘You’re not a candidate.’

  Kate went to answer but Candidate Ned held up a hand to stop the conversation. ‘I’ll tell you, but not here. There’s a good chance this flat might be bugged.’

  Amy blinked. Might be bugged? She gazed at Ned. Was there intrigue to him beneath his friendly exterior? Her hand fiddled with the top button of her blouse and idly unbuttoned it. She caught herself at it and quickly rebuttoned it.

  Old Ned was worried about Candidate Ned being away next weekend. ‘Don’t spend too long hobnobbing with the Canberra crowd. Keep your eye on the local game. We’ve got an electorate to win over.’

  Amy assured him the local volunteers could handle the Sydney campaign for one weekend. The Pyrmont sisters alone had recruited forty of their friends to work for the team. ‘The thing about campaigning for the Luddites,’ she told Old Ned, ‘is you don’t need Ned Ludd to do it.’

  The conversation, which had started so upbeat, now dragged on. Old Ned seemed to want to belabour a number of points. Fortunately, he was so short of breath, he couldn’t go on for long. With the pizzas finished, Amy decided that the meeting really should be over—or, more to the point, Old Ned and Kate should leave. She picked up the plates.

  Kate chuckled. ‘Save your file and close it,’ she said with the affectionate derision she often used with Old Ned. The phrase, even Old Ned knew, meant ‘shut up’ in under-twenties speak. ‘Come on, up you get. I think they’d rather we headed off.’

  Old Ned glanced between Amy and Candidate Ned. ‘What, them?’ he asked.

  ‘Ye-es,’ she drawled. ‘Haven’t you noticed? She’s been goggling at him all evening as if he was Leonard bloody Cohen.’

  Old Ned chortled as Kate ushered him to the door. Kate turned at the doorway. ‘I don’t care what you two get up to tonight,’ she lectured them, ‘but you just make sure you’re ready to campaign tomorrow morning. We start bright and early.’

  When the door was shut, Candidate Ned took Amy’s hand. ‘It seems the campaign team has decided rather a lot for us tonight,’ he observed.

  Amy smiled. ‘Who’s Leonard Cohen?’

  ‘A singer. A romantic one. I don’t know his songs. Kate’s parents fell in love at one of his concerts, or so they tell her.’ He let go of her hand and went over to his voice-activated sound system. ‘All-Tunes. Leonard Cohen. Random Selection,’ he told it. ‘This one is called “Everybody Knows”,’ he said, reading the name from the screen of the music player. A pulsing intro came over the speakers. Returning to Amy, he put his arms around her waist. A deep voice filled the room. Far from being romantic, the opening lines of the song were perturbing: about dice being loaded, good guys losing and everybody knowing it.

  ‘It’s a bit menacing,’ Amy observed.

  ‘If I were to kiss you,’ Ned asked, ‘would you run out the door again, like you did last time?’

  She raised her face and kissed him gently. There was no desperation to it this time.‘I think I’ll linger,’ she whispered, kissing him again.

  Leonard Cohen continued to serenade them. Now he was singing of boats leaking, captains lying and everyone feeling broken as though their father or their dog had just died.

  Amy broke off the kiss. ‘You ever met Kate’s parents?’ she asked, suddenly concerned.

  ...

  Renard lay on his back in bed, Amy curled snugly into him, his arm under her. It was unbelievable. When he had first met Amy, she’d seemed so reserved, painfully shy. Now she had transformed into this passionate, savvy, humorous and … wonderful person. How, he had no idea. Renard knew he didn’t have that sort of effect on people. Something had happened with Amy, something splendid, as if she had decided to release her real self from hiding. And, he sensed with relief, Amy was uncomplicated. Taylor had been controlling and jealous. Belinda had been flighty and irascible. There was depth to Amy, he could tell, but there was also fun and excitement. They were only—he glanced at the clock radio—some two and a quarter hours into this relationship, depending on when you declared it to have started. He liked the initial kiss during the Leonard Cohen song. They had repeated that strangely ominous song three times, kissing and partially undressing each other before they headed off to his bed. Looking at Amy now, he realised it was a bit early to be asking himself if she was the one, but he sensed he already had.

  ‘Ned,’ Amy murmured, ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but why are you running for parliament?’

  ‘Old Ned was too ill.’

  ‘Yes, but why are you running?’ Her lips were resting on his chest. ‘I don’t mean this as an insult, but you don’t have any political ideas. You just listen to other people and process their ideas. I mean, listening to people is good …’

  ‘I suppose it comes from being a data analyst. You spend a lot of time working out how other people think, what they’re after. Maybe it makes you think less about what you want.’

  She ran her hand delicately up his leg. ‘You said you think this flat might be bugged. Who’d be bugging your flat?’

  ‘ASIO,’ he whispered. It wasn’t that he owed her an explanation, he just wasn’t going to keep secrets from her. Amy became very still against him. ‘Don’t tell the others,’ he said, ‘but I work for … I mean, I worked for—’ he wasn’t really sure which tense was appropriate ‘—ASIO. I was sent by ASIO to find out what the Luddites were up to. Now I find I’m running for parliament. Now I find …’ He stopped, trying to decide what exactly he was these days. ‘Now I find that I am a Luddite. I want the Luddites to win.’ He stayed silent a moment. ‘I stopped sending reports to ASIO two weeks ago. They will wonder why. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m now being monitored and my data analysed.’ He thought of his co-worker Geraldine; Geraldine at her desk looking over information on him and his movements. He shivered.

  Amy was unmoving by his side. Panic suddenly gripped Renard. It’s over, he thought, the idea sending a jolt through him. She would hate him. Amy was committed to the Luddites. She would loathe him. A spy sent to infiltrate the party? He was contemptible.

  Though she hadn’t moved, he had felt her tense. She felt like a coiled spring. His fingers resting on her tingled as a ripple of goosebumps rose on her back.

  Suddenly, in a flash of movement, Amy was on top of him. Her mouth went straight to his ear. ‘We’re going to make love again,’ she whispered urgently, ‘and while we’re making love, I’m going to tell you something and you must stay calm and not be alarmed. This is going to work out. We’re going to make this work.’

  To Renard’s astonishment, his penis had snapped to attention at this abrupt foreplay.

  Amy reached for a condom, the last one in the packet, the one Renard had been saving for the morning. She lifted one leg so he could slip it on then straddled him again, bringing her mouth to his ear, her breasts resting on his chest.

  ‘I am,’ she began, slipping his penis easily into her as Renard gave a short gasp, ‘a spy for Compink Australia.’ She moved her pelvis slowly as she spoke.‘I’ve been sending reports back to Wilson about your campaign.’

  Wilson? Renard’s mind roved wildly. Wilson Huang, the CEO of Compink Australia! He tried to think, but the only comment he could manage was an inhaled-exhaled ‘uhhh-haa’ as he moved gently in sync with Amy.

  She pulled away from his ear, straightened her back upright, rocking up and down, appearing to be in deep contemplation. Renard could contemplate either her words or
her seemingly perfect breasts and could not decide on which to focus.

  She came down to his ear again, sliding a hand under his back. ‘We discovered a few weeks ago that ASIO is monitoring my movements. I decided to join the Luddites then.’

  Renard tried to ask why. It came out as a soft cry.

  ‘Why?’ Amy asked. Her mouth was so close to his ear he could feel her smile against his cheek. ‘If your Fiona Brennan wants to conduct surveillance on me, I’ll give her some disinformation to think about.’ Her voice was barely audible she was speaking so softly.

  Fiona Brennan. Wilson Huang. Amy was moving in the highest ranks of … The thought stopped as he let out a groan. When he took the next breath in, he couldn’t recall what he’d been thinking.

  ‘I’ve been undercover for years. Everyone thinks I am a data entry clerk. I’m the deputy CEO of Compink Australia,’ Amy continued, her words coming in the pulse of their rhythm. ‘No one … in the world … knows that … except … Wilson and me … and now you.’ She rose up again as if collecting her thoughts, rocking more forcefully. After only a moment, she swooped back down on him, pressing her breasts firmly against him and her mouth once more to his ear.

  ‘Then I met you.’ Amy’s faint voice acquired more urgency and her movements grew in pace. ‘I want you, Ned.’

  ‘I want you too,’ he answered, proud he’d managed a whole sentence, ‘I want you more than …’ He groaned again, scattering whatever words were to follow.

  ‘Like you … I’m a Luddite now,’ Amy rasped faintly in his ear. ‘We’re Luddites … and we’re together!’

  Her movements became rapid and Renard was thrusting almost desperately along with her, clasping her to his chest as she spoke. He was nearing climax, but she was still speaking. He had to restrain himself until she had finished.

  ‘We’ll make this work,’ she declared sotto voce. ‘You’re my … Ned Ludd!’

  Renard could hold back no longer. He let out a gasp. A surge of exhilaration coursed through him. He felt his body shudder three or four more times and sputter to an exhausted halt.

  Amy rocked slowly on top of him a few seconds longer, her eyes closed. She let out the softest of sighs and rolled off him. He could feel the beating of her heart. Amy raised her face to his ear. ‘Openness … disclosure … honesty—they’re such exciting concepts for me,’ she whispered. ‘The possibilities are so … intriguing!’

  Amy spoke again, this time at a normal volume. ‘Now we better get some sleep. I don’t want to hear Kate’s comments if we aren’t energetic and ready to campaign in the morning.’

  Sleep? Renard could only wonder at the word. What could he possibly dream after that? His mind was whirling, flitting from fret to fret, but always returning to Amy’s whispered declaration: ‘We’ll make this work.’ Amy’s breathing had slowed. If she could sleep contentedly, surely he could sleep contentedly beside her.

  Just as he was fading away, however, that eerie Leonard Cohen song came back to him. As he drifted off, he could hear the deep voice warning him: Everybody knows.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Easter Monday public holiday was business as usual in the analyst room of the ASIO Sydney office. The world of security (or insecurity, Geraldine sometimes thought) never took a day off.

  Less than a week ago, she had reported to ASIO director Fiona Brennan that the Compink agent Amy Zhao had attached herself to the Luddite campaign in Sydney, the campaign her former co-worker Renard was in the thick of. Geraldine was never told why Renard left ASIO, but the abruptness of his departure spoke of its seriousness. They’d been instructed to say Renard left ASIO months earlier than he actually had. Now, he was running for parliament—and meeting with a Compink Australia agent?

  Fiona Brennan had instructed Geraldine to report to her directly on the surveillance of Amy Zhao and to mention it to no one else at ASIO. Geraldine must have appeared puzzled at this, because Brennan explained, ‘There are occasions, Geraldine, when Wilson Huang at Compink Australia does things that make me believe he knows exactly what we know over here at ASIO.’ She said this in that grandmotherly voice of hers, as if she were passing on a pavlova recipe, but she’d as good as told Geraldine outright that there was a Compink Australia mole within the Sydney ASIO surveillance section.

  And now Geraldine had this incriminating footage. On Saturday, a drone followed Amy Zhao, Renard and two other Luddites to Renard’s flat. Geraldine then picked up the feed from a nearby parking meter that commanded a view of Renard’s front door. Around 10.15 pm, the two Luddites left the building. Geraldine fast-forwarded through hours of Parkie footage before Amy Zhao emerged at 8.17 the next morning. When she did, she was with Renard. He was holding her hand and they were both laughing. You didn’t have to be much of an analyst to figure this one out, Geraldine thought.

  Geraldine went to a secure room. Fiona Brennan always worked public holidays, an example of vigilance to her staff. Geraldine connected the security scrambler and sent a request for a video link to her director.

  Fiona Brennan’s face appeared on the screen. ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘I’m sorry to inform you, Director, that the Compink Australia agent, Amy Zhao, has …’ Geraldine searched for the right way to put it. ‘She and Renard are sleeping together!’ she blurted. ‘I mean … holy shit, Ms Brennan!’

  Fiona sucked in a breath. ‘That’s bad.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Brennan. It just came out.’

  ‘I wasn’t concerned about your excremental reference, dear. I mean that I fear Renard may be involved in something over his head.’

  Geraldine felt she should defend her former co-worker. She had worked with him for several years. She knew him. She trusted him. ‘Renard’s not a Compink Australia spy.’

  ‘I didn’t say he was, dear. Let’s have a look at your footage.’

  Amy Zhao and Renard Prendergast appeared on Fiona’s screen. They were leaving Renard’s flat. A drone picked them up as they descended the steps to the street. After a block, Australia Post switched to a different drone moving obliquely above their path. Fiona had to admire their work. They did nothing so tell-tale as have a single drone trailing a suspect.

  Renard and Amy Zhao were walking hand in hand, laughing, bumping their shoulders as they walked along. Was Amy Zhao playing Renard? If so, what was she after? What was there to be gained from seducing Renard?

  She watched that video feed twice and then moved it back to an earlier section. She let it play for a few seconds then froze the image. It caught a moment when Amy Zhao was gazing at Renard, the softest of smiles on her lips. Fiona Brennan scrutinised the image carefully. ‘It’s possible that …’

  ‘What’s possible, Director?’

  ‘That she may be in love with him,’ Fiona murmured.

  ‘Ms Brennan?’

  ‘Maintain surveillance of Amy Zhao. I’m not certain, after all, but keep your mind open to the possibility. This could simply be a Romeo and Juliet scenario.’

  ‘Romeo and Juliet?’ Geraldine asked uncertainly. ‘With ASIO and Compink Australia being the Montagues and the Capulets?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What does that make me?’ she asked. She was a friend of Renard’s. ‘Mercutio?’ she wondered.

  ‘You’re being too literal, dear,’ Fiona Brennan told her. ‘But don’t get into any sword fights.’

  ...

  Aggie had her head down to keep the slashing rain out of her eyes. A gust of wind almost stopped her bike in its tracks. Only two hours into it. Binalong, their overnight stop on the way to Canberra, was God knew how many kilometres away.

  They’d met the Wagga Wagga Ned Ludd at the train station and he took the small party from Melbourne to a cafe before they set off. Several people in the cafe were sporting celery sticks, including the barista. Wagga Ned had mustered a small contingent of cyclists to set off with them. It plumped up the numbers for the first photos of the ‘On to Canberra’ trek. None of the Wagga Wagga cycling honour gua
rd was available to go all the way to Canberra. They accompanied Aggie, her government-assigned bodyguard Tim and her two fanatic cyclist campaign directors for the first ten kilometres but fled back to Wagga Wagga when the rain set in.

  Four forlorn figures cycling along the A41 in the driving rain was hardly the inspiring image the Veronicas had originally painted. Aggie crouched over the handlebars as another gust whipped into her. It galled her that the Veronicas weren’t even apologetic for getting her into this. ‘The “On to Canberra” ride has got folklore written all over it!’ one of them insisted. ‘We four alone! Overcoming adversity! A triumphant entry into Canberra tomorrow!’

  ‘Folklore?’ Aggie grumbled aloud to herself. ‘Four idiots cycling in the middle of nowhere in the driving rain?’

  Tim pulled alongside her, looking at her with concern. ‘Ms Ludd,’ he said. (This Tim was very formal with her. Wouldn’t even call her Ned.) ‘As your bodyguard, it’s my professional opinion that there’s no terrorist daft enough to lay in wait for us along the road in this weather.’

  ‘I agree with that,’ Aggie muttered.

  ‘Since I don’t need to protect you from the likes of them, the least I could do is protect you from the wind and rain.’ He nodded at her. ‘Get into my slipstream.’

  He pulled in front of her and sat upright to shield her as much as possible from the wind. ‘Hey you, Veronicae!’ he shouted, using a Latin plural Aggie wasn’t sure was correct, ‘Get back here and start protecting your leader. What kind of supporters are you? Get on each wing!’

  The Veronicas moved into position without protest, seemingly deferring to the cycling authority in Tim’s voice. Aggie raised her head. A fond memory came of her father letting Aggie and her sister stay up to watch the Tour de France with him during school holidays. It dawned on her that she wasn’t just part of a campaign anymore. For the first time in her life, she was part of a peloton!

  ...