by Paula Weston
‘I sent them home.’
‘How long do you think it will take before your brother finds out you’re here?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I told you: this farm is our sustainability flagship. Bradford’s spent a decade convincing the market our produce won’t be affected by the nuclear plant. Its reputation means too much to him to risk an incident here. This is the safest place she can be.’
‘What if you’re wrong?’
‘Your team will protect us.’
Unbelievable. She can’t see an issue with setting soldiers on each other. He needs to stop this rot.
The Major doesn’t acknowledge Julianne as he leaves the room. He strides across the packing house, repressing the urge to throw something. He’s almost at the other side when French appears between the machinery, her jaw still red from Walsh’s fist.
‘Sir,’ she says, ‘we’ve got new audio from Waylon’s feed.’
‘And?’
‘Khan’s been in contact with Angela De Marchi.’
53
Jules needs to keep herself in check because right now the only advantage she has is that Peta Paxton thinks she’s harmless.
Peta Paxton is wrong.
The charge is crackling beneath her skin, and Jules can’t figure out if the Major lied or if he believes the injection short-circuited her. Either way she needs to hide the truth.
Her legs are shaky. She grabs a chair—cheap, hard and plastic—and drags it to the opposite side of the lunchroom, as far as she can get from the lab equipment. It barely makes a sound on the tiled floor. She sits under a poster about the importance of good hygiene, tries to grasp the significance of the Major’s conversation.
Jules didn’t see Ryan when she came to but she heard him arguing with someone outside the van. It was his energy—raging and violent—that jolted her from the fug. He’s out there now fretting for his family, anxious for her and stretched to snapping point.
Peta hovers near the door. In real life, she’s slimmer in the hips and her skin is shinier. Her eyes, though, are just as shrewd as they appear on TV. She glances at her flexi-phone once, waits a beat, and then glances again. Only a Paxton could access a voice and data signal so close to the Anti-Nuke Assembly—a known tech black spot.
‘I had you brought here to keep you safe.’
‘From who?’ Jules grips her elbows. The room hasn’t quite come into focus.
‘Julianne…’ Peta presses together cherry lips and then puffs them out. ‘I know what happened at the school.’
She knows? Jules forgets to exhale for so long that Peta’s face blurs into a platinum halo. Did the Major tell her?
There’s a soft knock. Peta snatches open the door and a short woman dressed in a kaftan and black leggings hurries inside, dark curls swept back from her face by a tiger print headband. For a confused moment Jules thinks she’s a Happy Growers staffer, until her eyes lock on Jules. The appraisal is detached, perfunctory.
‘Good,’ the visitor says to nobody in particular.
‘Julianne, this is Professor Mian.’
‘Professor of…?’ Jules’ tongue is unwieldy and she sounds drunk.
‘Cytogenetics.’
The professor’s suitcase squeaks as she wheels it across the room. She hoists it onto the table nearest the window and takes out syringes and vials, lays them in a neat row. Jules watches it all as if underwater. Everything is sluggish: her thoughts, her movements.
The professor snaps on latex gloves and frowns at the equipment on the bench. ‘Somewhat…low tech. But I can make it work.’ She picks up a syringe and approaches Jules. Stops a few steps short and looks over at Peta.
‘She’s been dosed,’ Peta says. ‘I’m told it will render her inactive long enough for you to do what you need to.’
Peta’s words penetrate the murkiness. It’s everything her dad was afraid of: she’s about to be turned into a lab rat. The professor raises her eyebrows at Jules, testing her receptiveness. ‘I need a small amount of blood and tissue to run preliminary tests. That’s it.’
Jules folds her arms, hiding the soft skin inside her elbows.
‘No.’
The other woman’s brow flattens. ‘No isn’t an option.’
They face off.
‘What will you do with the results?’
‘That’s for the Paxton Federation bioengineering team to decide. I’m here as an independent go-between from a purely scientific perspective.’
Jules stares at the tiger stripes on the professor’s headband. This doesn’t seem entirely real. How did she go from kneeling in the dirt at the farmhouse with a shotgun to sitting in a Pax Fed facility staring down a kaftanned cytogeneticist waving a needle at her?
‘We’re all interested in learning why your body generates such extreme amounts of electricity. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
It’s a second or two before understanding dawns. The professor has seen the footage, which means Peta Paxton has too. But that makes no sense.
‘May I?’ the professor is losing patience. ‘Don’t you want to understand?’
Of course Jules does. She also wants to unload a blast of charge into both of these women, but then what? The Major’s turned on her, Ryan’s outnumbered and she still has no idea what’s actually going on.
Jules loosens her arms.
She’s thinking clearly again for the first time since she came to. Something’s taking shape here and if she wants to find out what, she’s going to have to play along. And that means letting the professor stick that needle in her.
54
Ryan grinds his boot heels into the dirt. He’s on watch, needing to do something but having no idea what. He’s so restless he can’t even keep a beat in his head.
Why won’t anybody tell him what’s going on? Frenchie keeps making eye contact—bruised jaw and all—but she’s either too pissed off at him or too wary of the Major to talk. And now she and the Major have disappeared into the surveillance van without a word, which could mean anything.
He should have returned that missed call. If he’d known what the Major was planning, he could have got ahead of it—sent his mum, dad and Tommy to Spud’s place while he and Jules took the back road to Port Pirie and got in touch with Khan. There’s no way the federal agent would let Jules be turned over to Peta Paxton. What is she even doing in Port Augusta?
They should have run.
Not that they would have got far. Not in the hybrid, with its gutless electric engine and smart-tracker, and the Monaro would have been too conspicuous, even with the V8 switched over. And who knows what intel the mercs have on him, how much more danger his family would be in if they weren’t with Q18.
So around it goes again, the same set of questions, excuses and answers, all leading back to this point: Ryan staring at the Happy Growers packing-house doors in the glaring sun, waiting for orders. Waiting for something to happen. Feeling utterly useless.
His gut twists at the memory of vans hurtling down his driveway, the thick hot fear that he couldn’t protect his family. If it had been the mercs instead of Q18…But it wasn’t them, it was his own unit. And it was one of his mates who stabbed a needle in Jules’ neck.
The cool breeze coming off the gulf does nothing to douse the burn. His mum and dad and Tommy are holed up somewhere in Port Augusta. He has no idea how his old man is coping—there was barely time for eye contact after the Major turned up. Ryan checks his handgun for the fifth time. Apparently he can still be trusted with a loaded weapon.
The van door slides open and the Major calls him over.
‘You are on my shit list, Walsh, make no mistake. Get into your chest rig and get your head right because I need you on your game. We’ve got threats on two fronts and your job is out here. Stop worrying about what’s happening in there.’
‘I can be in the packing house—’
‘You’re not listening to me. The threat, when it comes, will be external. I’ll leave you with nine soldiers.
Get your team on point so you’ve got eyes on every entrance and every approach.’
Where are you going? Ryan doesn’t ask it out loud because the Major’s leaving him in charge of the watch and he doesn’t want to jeopardise the post. If he takes the western side of the packing house, he might be able to see where Jules is being—
‘Walsh,’ the Major says, snapping him back. ‘It was a sedative.’
Ryan squints, takes a second to catch up.
‘I wasn’t in a hurry to be twitching on the floor in my own piss if Julianne was unhappy with our destination.’
Ryan’s relieved. But why didn’t the Major dose her again when it was obvious she was coming to? Did he want her conscious by the time he handed her over?
‘They’ll come after dark,’ the Major says, scouring the solar panels. ‘Z12. Decommissioned.’
‘Those blokes are ex-army?’ But Ryan knew; deep down they all did. ‘Who’s paying them?’
‘The other Paxton. The pencil neck.’
A frown. ‘How does that work?’
‘It doesn’t.’
Ryan has more questions but he doesn’t have enough standing with the Major to voice them. He’s lucky he’s been given this much airtime.
‘You and your team are all that’s between those soldiers and Julianne until I get back. Your orders are to protect her and Peta Paxton. Don’t shoot to kill unless the threat escalates. Get up high and get a feel for the topography.’
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Two minutes later Ryan’s on the packing-house roof watching the Major’s van pick up speed on the road to the highway. He breathes in saltbush and endless sky, wonders if Jules can feel his energy from up here. He walks a slow circle, orientating himself.
It’s all laid out in front of him: the solar panels stretching to the new railway line, a straight piece of track to the nuclear waste storage silo. On the far side of the line is a wide swathe of saltbush, power lines and the ramshackle protester camp.
Z12 could come at Happy Growers via the rail line. They could come through the saltbush. Or they could drive right up the road and smash through the security checkpoint, be here en masse in a matter of minutes.
But this, at least is simple: Ryan doesn’t care if these guys are ex-army. He doesn’t care about orders. If any one of them threatens Jules, he’s putting a bullet in them.
55
‘Khan, give me your gun.’
‘No.’
‘Waylon?’
‘What she said.’
Angie gives them both a filthy look and resumes pacing the fence, dust kicking up around her. It’s been four minutes since Khan finished relaying the conversation she overheard last night in the hotel. Three minutes since Angie learned Jules has been handed over to Peta Paxton at the sun farm. Khan knows this because Jules is carrying the tracker Khan gave her.
Angie wants to scream.
Brad Paxton sent Xavier to the school to threaten Jules.
She can barely form Bradford’s name without danger of bursting an artery. And Peta Paxton is saying she’ll protect Jules?
What a crock of shit.
The truth is a blunt knife: the Paxtons are responsible for Jules’ charge. And now they have her.
Screw Major Voss.
Screw the army.
Screw Paxton Federation.
Angie’s mind swivels from one threat to the next, unable to focus on any target long enough to form a strategy—short of arming herself and shooting her way to Jules.
‘I can’t set foot on the sun farm, Angela, it’s a direct command from Canberra.’ Khan says it again, as if repetition makes the news more palatable. ‘Neither can Waylon. His orders are to stay here, you know that.’
‘I don’t want your company, I want your gun.’
‘If you were getting enough oxygen to your brain, you’d know how ridiculous that request is. Angela, breathe.’
Angie twists away so Khan can’t grab her through the fence as she passes by on another lap. They’re on the northern side of the camp, out of sight behind a last-century bus spattered with bugs. Mount Brown shimmers blue-grey in the east, as dead and parched as everything else here.
‘Angela—’
Angie stops abruptly and a plume of dust swirls around her legs.
‘Do you have your gun on you?’ she asks Waylon.
He looks at her sideways. ‘Why?’
‘Because I want to give Xavier something to think about.’ She can’t access the Paxtons, but she can get to the bastard who set all this in motion.
Waylon waves away a blowfly, glances at Khan. ‘Okay.’
They leave Khan fuming: the federal agent’s not authorised to enter the protest camp any more than she is the sun farm. Vouched for or not.
Angie stomps her way under a rope strung with washing, avoiding the cluster of ripe portaloos on her way back to the donga. Two guys in singlets and boardies step into her path. One look and they clear the way without a word. Angie toes an empty drink can out of her path. Maybe this is what it’s like for Jules, this sensation of being eaten alive from the inside. What was she thinking, trusting Jules to the army? And for what—so she could confront Xavier and punish him for blackmailing her? Will it be worth it?
She’s about to find out.
Xavier flinches when the door smacks open. He’s alone, his flexi-phone lit up like he’s recently ended a call. Smug bastard. Angie pushes aside a chair and rushes him.
‘Hey—!’ He scrambles back from the table as she launches herself across it. She collects him and they tumble to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. Angie lands on her hip and elbow, grunts at the impact but doesn’t let go. Xavier’s stronger, but slow. She jumps on his chest and pins his arms with her knees, grabs him around the throat. His eyes bulge, panicked, and he thrashes beneath her. She’s got him, though, she’s—
Xavier gets an arm free and punches Angie hard in the ribs. It knocks her sideways. She kicks before he can strike again, her heel finding solid gut. She lashes out again but this time he catches her foot and flips her onto her back. He’s on his knees looming over her, his neck mottled and breathing ragged. Angie plants her other foot on his chest to hold him away as she scrabbles backwards, trapped between the table and the wall. She reaches for a chair leg, grappling…Got it. Angie uses all her strength to fling it at him. Xavier sees it coming and lets go of her foot to catch it. He gets a better grip, lifts it above his head—
‘Not happening.’
Waylon’s behind Xavier, gun pressed to the back of his skull. He drops the chair.
‘Get up.’
Xavier hauls himself to the table, breathless.
‘Shit, Angie,’ Waylon says. ‘You nearly had him.’
Angie stays on the floor, back to the wall and chest heaving. The ebb of adrenaline has turned her legs to linguini. For a long moment she and Xavier eyeball each other, both pulling in air.
‘What’s that look for?’ she demands.
‘I don’t understand—’ A hacking cough steals the rest of the sentence.
‘You’re on Bradford Paxton’s payroll, you prick.’
Xavier stops massaging his throat.
‘I know he’s paying you to turn the Agitators into a national threat. Great job: you’ve destroyed any vestige of credibility we had as a nonviolent voice of reason.’
‘You’re wrong, Angie,’ he rasps. ‘I joined the Agitators to give them a real voice. Actions speak louder than words.’
‘Are you that bloody-minded? You’re clearing the way for Pax Fed to write its own legislation without a whimper of protest. People died in Brisbane.’
‘I’m not apologising for getting the nation’s attention. You should know better than anyone: words on placards only get you so far.’
Angie brushes grit from her hands. The lino is filthy. ‘Pressuring the corporates is the only point of influence we have left—they’ll only change their practices if public perception affects shareholder profits. Governments
can be bought and voters manipulated, but the bottom line will always count. That’s how we keep these deadshits accountable: public pressure. Not bloodshed.’
‘It’s not working.’ Xavier sucks in a short breath. His windpipe’s not yet back to full strength. Long strands of hair are loose from the scuffle and he flicks them back from his face. ‘That time bomb’—he points in the direction of the nuclear plant—‘is going to destroy this country long before Pax Fed does, and nothing short of a disaster is going to get people to understand that human lives are more important than affordable power.’
‘So you sold your soul to Bradford Paxton to further your own cause?’
‘I took advantage of an opportunity to step up the fight.’ He wipes his chin and glowers at her. ‘And to keep my sister alive.’
Waylon lowers his pistol. ‘She was under fifty per cent, wasn’t she?’
Xavier’s nostrils flare. ‘She’s in remission because Paxton paid for genome therapy.’
‘I didn’t think that was publicly available.’
‘It’s not—that was my price. What would you do? She was fourteen and dying. She was weak, anaemic, constantly bleeding from her nose and gums. Untreated leukaemia is a cruel way to die, Waylon.’
Waylon clicks the safety on and off. ‘How did Bradford reach out to you?’
Xavier wets his lips, eyes on the gun. ‘One of his guys bailed me out after an anti-nuclear protest in Sydney. We met in the back of a real estate office in Blacktown and he offered me work, odd jobs. When he told me to join the Agitators I jumped at the chance. ’
‘I bet you did,’ Angie says. ‘You traded my daughter’s life for your sister’s.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Bradford has hired a military unit to come after Jules. They’ve tried twice already in the past two weeks.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because you showed him what she can do, and then you used that footage to drive me out of the Agitators.’
He stares at her. ‘That’s what you were blackmailed over?’
‘Waylon.’ Angie nods at Xavier. Waylon reintroduces him to the business end of the gun.