Rise & Shine

by Patrick Allington

  ‘It’s nothing unusual at his age, surely. Most of us don’t have the sort of access to medics that you do. I guess we’ll fork out for a new set of eyes when it comes to that. There’s nothing much else to spend it on.’

  ‘Does he know that you’re … here? Doing this?’

  ‘Of course not. He’s the ultimate true believer. Mind you, if he found out, he’d probably dob me in to you, given that he worships the ground you walk on. So I’m pretty safe, I reckon.’

  As they talked, they moved amongst the plants.

  ‘Where does he think you are?’ Holland asked, crouching down before a saggy cornstalk.

  ‘Jeez, Willy: he’s my partner, not my keeper. He doesn’t keep tabs on me. He wouldn’t want to try.’

  ‘Okay, okay: just asking.’ He showed Dinn an ear of corn. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. That looks good. Let’s take it.’

  ‘What about the blue?’

  ‘It’s not unusual for this species.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know. It’s perfectly safe.’

  ‘Appearances matter.’

  ‘So says the maker of fake war.’

  ‘It’s not fake.’

  ‘Well, it certainly isn’t real.’

  Dinn pulled a blade from her belt and cut the ear of corn free of the plant. She cut off the misshapen blue part of the ear and dropped it at her feet. ‘Happy?’

  ‘You sure the rest of it is okay? That it’s safe?’

  ‘Yellow, blue: it’s all safe,’ Dinn said. ‘But that’s the point: we get this one tested before we harvest the crop.’

  Holland reached for the corn. ‘Give it to me. I’ll deliver it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It might not be safe out there.’

  ‘Exactly: who are they more likely to be watching, you or me?’

  ‘I’m trained. I’m armed, if it comes to that.’

  ‘Yeah, well, five deaths in a month, you’d want to be armed.’

  ‘A month and a bit. But that’s classified. How do you know about —’

  ‘You said it yourself: appearances matter.’

  ‘Does Mum know about the deaths?’

  ‘You’re putting us all in danger, which is all the more reason for me to deliver the corn.’

  ‘I’ve already talked to Walker about the deaths.’

  ‘I bet you have.’

  ‘He’s not thrilled, but it’s fine. I wrote a report.’

  ‘Self-regulation — it’s never failed us yet.’

  ‘It’ll blow over.’

  ‘Like radioactivity?’

  ‘It’s just a run of bad luck.’

  ‘Is that what you wrote in your report?’

  ‘I would never put my people in danger.’

  ‘But five? Five? Mum says she’s going to ask you for the families’ details, so she can send them sympathy messages.’

  ‘How did she even hear about it?’

  ‘Well, I certainly didn’t tell her.’

  ‘I thought you said she was fine.’

  ‘She is fine. Normal people send sympathy messages. Messed-up people write reports about dead people to exonerate themselves.’

  ‘Excuse me for not being a performer. I don’t grieve the way other people want me to grieve.’

  ‘Life is sacred. You’ve been fighting the war, or whatever it is, so long you’ve forgotten that.’

  ‘If that was true, would I be here, doing this?’

  ‘Mum thinks you’re going to disappear. You know, be disappeared. She’s not the only one.’

  ‘No. That’s not Walker’s way.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s an honourable and humble man. If you really believed that, you wouldn’t be here, doing this.’

  ‘I’ve never said he was humble. God, he’s never said he’s humble. Why on earth would he want to be humble? Why would anyone?’

  ‘You should watch your back. You need an escape plan.’

  ‘I’m telling you, he’d never do anything like that. Not to me. Not after everything we’ve been through. And if he does — he won’t, but if he does — I’ll wear it. Besides, I’ve got nowhere to escape to.’

  ‘Have you ever done anything you regret? To another person? In Walker’s name?’

  ‘What, I … why are you even asking me that? No! … Well, not for years. Not since the very early days. And never — never! — without a good reason.’

  Dinn snorted.

  ‘Do we have to talk about this now?’ Holland asked.

  ‘If not now, when? We never see you. We can hardly talk about it over autoscreen.’

  ‘But, look, I’ve told you this so many times before. I can’t believe I have to excuse myself again. We — Walker and Barton and all of us who followed them first — did what we had to do, for the good of those who could go on living.’

  ‘Yes. That’s my point. You did what you had to do.’

  ‘He loves me. He’s like my big brother.’

  ‘Aww, shucks, how sweet. You should put that story up on the screen. Oh, how the peasants would feast.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Holland said defensively.

  ‘Jeez, I know it’s true. But he’s sniffing around you. I can see it in your eyes. We can’t take the risk with the crop. And with God knows what else. You know that I’m right. Come on. It’s time to move.’

  Dinn pulled her shirt off and lifted her arms above her head. Though he was still reluctant for her to be the courier, Holland sat the corn against her stomach, placed a patch over it, and then taped the corn to her body. She put her shirt back on, embraced him briefly, and left. Holland gave the garden a last glance before heading towards the door he had arrived by. But then he paused. Dinn was right. He needed to be careful. More careful than he’d been so far. He chose to leave by a different door, one that took him into a cool, musty tunnel lined with Old Time bricks.

  Holland swept an autotorch before him, lighting the way, until he came to a dead end. He shone the light up and down. There was an Old Time metal disc embedded in the floor. He pulled it up, and stepped down a ladder into a vast tunnel, a long-abandoned Old Time train line. He began the long walk home, leaving Wedge behind a pile of rubble, waiting hopefully but hopelessly, muttering periodic updates — ‘nothing to report’ — into his wearable, while the drone flitted about, piecing together the story.

  ***

  At the opening ceremony of the 33rd Annual Peace Conference, all eyes were on President Heelton of the city-state of Rise and President Rant of the city-state of Shine. Dressed in identical pale-brown pants and white tops to ensure equality, they walked together, hand in hand, through the assembled crowd to the stirring sounds of ‘Let’s Be Tender’ as performed by a digitally produced 200-piece orchestra. They stood for footage beneath a giant banner that read ‘PEACE: not this year, maybe next year’. Soldiers marched around them, children waved streamers, and the crowd cheered wildly and chanted, ‘Not this year, maybe next year, not this year, maybe next year, not this year, maybe next year’. Just like the 32nd year, and the 31st, and the 30th, it was the best opening ceremony ever.

  The opening ceremony was projected onto autoscreens throughout both cities: two laughing, smiling leaders, their relationship something more than chummy, something less than carnal. On a street corner, feeling exposed, feeling that he needed a decent clean, Holland stopped and watched Heelton closely. The man was smiling as widely as ever, and clapping and chatting and waving like he was supposed to, but Holland could see the tension in his frame. He’d seen something similar in his soldiers when they’d sensed — sometimes correctly, sometimes not — that it was their turn to cop an injury. They could feel a bullet coming, and with it, perhaps, the pinnacle and the end of a career. They kept their courage — after all, they were well-chosen
, well-trained, proud — but they lost spontaneity in their movements, their decisions. And whenever Holland saw it, he gave them a break: a few days, maybe a week. Without fail, they came back stronger. But poor Heelton: he’d clearly had enough, and Holland had his doubts that any holiday would help him to come back stronger.

  Holland transferred his gaze to the faces of the people standing around him in the street. Even after all these years, they were all gazing up, rapt. Holland found it incredible. These people weren’t sheep. They were thinkers. Most of them were tough. And yet here they were, eyes upturned together. One old man’s shoulders heaved as he sang ‘Let’s Be Tender’. Holland understood, better than anyone, or thought he did: Walker and Barton had saved lives. They’d saved all the lives. And so, after all this time, the people lined up to cheer a set of negotiations they knew were a sham. They were complicit, and good on them. Walker and Barton made the grand, radical, desperate experiment work. The wonder of it was undiminished, for Holland. But now it was time for change — Holland was certain of it — and the majority of the people weren’t keeping up.

  He looked back at the autoscreen. The presidents shook hands for over a minute, and cameras from all angles caught the moment for tedious posterity. Only then, with a final wave, did they leave through a set of doors, ornately decorated with curved lines of blue and red plastic.

  ***

  Far away from the ceremony, Walker sat with Barton in the meeting room of Walker Compound. A short, muscular woman, Barton wore her hair bundled to one side, as if she wanted it well and truly out of the way. The true leader of the city-state of Shine, she was Walker’s collaborator. His only true equal. Together, the two of them had found a way to survive the chaos and hopelessness of the Old Time. And then, understanding how they’d done it, they’d found a way to keep saving what was left of the world, day in, day out. Each of them had taken a city and declared a war of survival on the other.

  Barton lounged in her armchair, her shoes thrown off, her calloused toes pointing to the ceiling. She watched the presidents shaking hands with a bemused look. She wasn’t sure, five years in, that Rant was right for the job. He was fierce. Quick to anger. She didn’t mind that — it was one of the reasons she’d chosen for him to win the election after President Vannland had retired. But Barton missed Vannland because Vannland had known, without ever needing to ask or argue, what Barton needed her to say. Poor Vannland: grief had got her in the end. It happened, Barton knew. She was surprised it didn’t happen more often. She still hoped Vannland might rise again: a psychological recovery, a political return. But she doubted it.

  Walker sat stiffly, partly because he ached all over — he had positioned himself as comfortably as he could, and was trying not to move — and partly because he was bemused by how relaxed Barton was. Sure, she always discarded her public persona when she was with him. Of course she did. But he couldn’t remember ever seeing her bare feet. It was almost obscene. In the meantime, he wasn’t ready to tell her his secret. Not yet, at least. The less he moved, he thought, the less chance there was that he’d faint or that the sore on his cheek would start bleeding.

  ‘We need a couple of new editors, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘The Sala film is a work of genius, but we need improved content, routinely, regularly — morning, noon, and night.’

  ‘Straight to business, eh?’ Barton said.

  ‘Lots to get through.’

  ‘Have you ever thought that you and I should have a parade to start our talks? It might be fun.’

  ‘You have to agree: some of the battle footage through the August to October quarter was far too predictable. Ours and yours. And the rest of the year has only been marginally better. And the set designers need a shake-up. They got the placement of the rock in the Sala footage right, but there’s been other times when —’

  ‘Details.’

  ‘Details matter. I’m pretty sure you taught me that. This notion that we can serve up the same dusty bloody hill all day every day just won’t do. And as for —’

  Walker paused mid-sentence as a wave of dizziness came over him. He gripped the armchair and forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly, as Curtin was always telling him to do.

  ‘I heard you were struggling —’ Barton said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

  ‘You heard, eh?’

  ‘— but I didn’t know it was this bad. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘It’s just a dizzy spell. It happens to old people, I’m told. It’s nothing to worry about. Give me a minute.’

  ‘A minute? I can give you anything you want.’ She paused and then winked. ‘Anything at all.’

  Walker lifted his head unsteadily. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Don’t tell me, after all these years, you finally want to fuck me?’

  ‘I told you when we were sixteen, and I’ll tell you again now: you’re not my type. Especially in your current condition.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means that your makeup isn’t quite doing its job. It’s a miracle that nobody has twigged yet.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Oh, Sunil,’ Barton said. Walker knew the game was up: Barton hadn’t used his Old Time name in decades. Barton stood, hauled Walker to his feet, and unzipped his shirt. She rested one hand on his belly. Walker made no effort to stop her.

  ‘Well, now,’ Barton said. ‘You should be dead.’

  ‘You knew, eh? Hail been talking to you?’ Walker asked.

  ‘He didn’t need to.’

  ‘Did he tell you about the dog?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me, but I heard.’

  ‘Spies in my midst, is it? Curtin? No, she’d never do that,’ he said. ‘Surely not Cleave?’

  ‘You should have told me yourself.’

  ‘I was … embarrassed.’

  ‘Of course you weren’t. You should have told me,’ she said again.

  ‘It helped, but only a bit. The dog, I mean.’

  ‘Well, that’s typical Hail, isn’t it? Inventive but predictable; different but safe.’

  ‘Safe? The damned thing glowed in the dark. And it slobbered.’

  ‘Forget the dog.’

  ‘I wish I could.’

  ‘How about something entirely different: fancy some broccoli? How about a carrot? I might even grate it for you, if you ask me nicely.’

  ‘What a kind offer. But I’ll pass.’

  ‘What about a bread roll? Pane di casa?’

  ‘Don’t you let dear President Heelton hear you talking like that. The very idea of it will send him into a panic: the corruption of our youth.’

  ‘Well, it takes very little to scare your Mr President these days, speaking of people who need a shake-up. But perhaps in time he’ll grow accustomed to the idea of bread.’

  ‘Not in my lifetime.’

  ‘Your lifetime? What are we talking? Weeks? Days?’

  ‘On my watch, dear Prez Heelton won’t care about the idle dreams of a tiny minority who, trust me, won’t be around for long.’

  ‘New ideas need time to settle, I see. Not unlike a bread roll in your Mr President’s stomach.’

  ‘Now who’s light-headed?’

  She took his shoulders and eased him back into his chair. ‘Sit,’ she murmured. ‘Rest.’

  ‘Ahhhh,’ he muttered in relief. His chest heaved, once, twice, and then settled.

  ‘Should I call for Curtin?’ Barton asked. ‘I’m sure she’s close.’

  ‘I’m sure she is too. But I’m fine. Lots to talk about. Lots to do. Anyway, she’s busy. She’s the busiest person in Rise.’

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me it was this bad.’

  ‘I knew that you knew. For a recluse, Cleave’s an awful chatterbox.’

  ‘I saw it with my own eyes. I heard it in your voice. Have you forgotten tha
t I know you completely?’

  ‘Well, there you go. That’s exactly why no one else will ever notice. Because you see me, really see me, but you’re the only one who does. The people — even Hail, even Curtin, even Holland — see what they expect to see. I could be dead and rotting and they’d still see me standing before them.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Five deaths in a month rings alarm bells, even amongst the most apathetic, the most convinced, the healthiest, the happiest.’

  ‘That information is not public.’

  ‘Sure, but everyone knows. Your most senior, most experienced, and most trusted commander, and yet five in a month.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know.’ Walker sighed. ‘Hail will have a fit if he sees me like this,’ he said. He attempted to fix his shirt, but he couldn’t manage it. Barton leant in, zipped him up, and patted him on the shoulder. He winced.

  ‘What are we going to do about Holland?’ Barton asked.

  ‘Now who’s all straight down to business? … He’s my problem, I’ll —’

  ‘No, he’s our problem now. Does he need a few months off? Is he sick? Is he slowing down? Does he need to retire?’

  ‘I’m looking into it. Now. As we speak.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And … I’m worried about him. Worried about what he’s up to.’

  ‘As you should be.’

  ‘Is there anything about my city you don’t know?’

  ‘He’s a symptom, I know that. A symptom of the big picture. Things are afoot.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Pane di casa.’

  ‘Pane di casa.’

  ‘But we’ll ride it out,’ Walker said. ‘We’ll fight back when necessary, quietly but firmly. We’ll break the resistance, although they’re so weak, so hesitant, so misguided that I hesitate to bother.’

  ‘Fighting words from a dying man.’

  ‘We’ll do whatever we have to do to preserve our way of life. But we’ll do it in our restrained way. Our compassionate way. We leave no one behind here, and —’

  ‘I’m weeping in the face of your forbearance. Your dignity.’

  ‘— and then, if and when we have to change the way we do things, we will change on our terms. We will set the timetable. Nobody else.’