‘Are you all right? Do you need to take a break?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘Curtin says that these dizzy spells are becoming very dangerous. They’re a sign that you’re at Stage Three.’
‘She hasn’t said anything about stages to me. It’s a new disease. If it’s got stages, it’s because she’s making them up.’
‘She doesn’t want you knowing. She thinks it might hasten your deterioration.’
‘But you know better than a doctor.’
‘I know you better.’
‘How many stages does she say there are?’
‘Three.’
‘Terrific.’
‘And one of these days you’re going to close your eyes and not wake up, and —’
‘That’s not relevant.’
‘Not to you, maybe.’
‘Anyway, I know my body. I’ve got plenty of fight left in me.’
‘What if the situation — your health, I mean — becomes public knowledge?’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘Of course it’s not. You know it’s not. God! How can you even ask me that? Haven’t I always been completely and utterly committed to what we set out to do? To what we achieved? Haven’t I always played the team game? Haven’t I always shown you the greatest respect? Haven’t we danced this dance together for all these years? I’m not threatening you: I’m trying to help you, to save you.’
‘Why does everybody want to save me?’
‘Because you saved everybody.’
‘We saved everybody … Oh, Christ, here it comes again.’ He closed his eyes, fighting off a dizzy spell. ‘I’m right about this. I’m —’
‘Keep your eyes open,’ Barton said. ‘You make it worse when you close your eyes.’
‘— I’m certain of it, I’m telling you: it’s too soon.’
‘No point just telling me. You have to convince me. I can’t take your word for it. Not this time.’
‘Take my word for it? Nothing has changed. Nothing. Can we feed everyone with a few plants that may or may not be poisonous?’
‘Today? No, of course not.’
‘So, when? Tomorrow? The day after? Next week? Next decade? Next century? Never?’
‘My projections say five years, if we get a wriggle on.’
‘If if if.’
‘That’s near enough to tomorrow. There would need to be a transition period. Compassion at a local level, like it was when we started out, re-edits of file footage, supplemented by plants. But in time, plants will be the main supply, supplemented by compassion.’
‘Five years! Those projections are a sham. Cleave will back me on this.’
‘Come now. She doesn’t play politics. She’d just “forget” to reply.’
‘I’m telling you: sack your scientists. It’ll take fifty years minimum. And even that’s being wildly, crazily optimistic. And if we do it your way, we’ll all die in the meantime.’
‘Okay. If the dissenters must prove themselves — if they must fight to win, if they must prove that they can handle the consequences of winning — perhaps it’s time we made it a fair fight.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’
‘Fifty-fifty. You keep fighting them. I’ll … give them a hand.’
‘Hang on: “give them a hand”. What do you mean by that? What do you actually mean? You mean “lead them”, don’t you? You mean “be them”.’
Barton didn’t reply. She just smiled a sad smile at Walker. She hadn’t necessarily planned this break, this way, this day. She felt ripped open. But she knew — all of a sudden, she knew — that it was the right thing to do. The only thing. Listening to Walker flail around with arguments he knew weren’t true clinched it for her. There was no way that Shine and Rise could carry on the way they were. But she also knew that Walker was right about one thing: they couldn’t yet guarantee plants for everyone and they couldn’t be certain whether there would be side effects. Even if they all just had new tumours, the strain on medical services would be overwhelming. What they needed was time.
‘No, I won’t do it. I don’t want to fight you,’ Walker said.
‘We’ve always been at war.’
‘But with a common purpose. This is different.’
‘No, it’s not. Our common purpose is unbroken. We’ll be as united as we’ve ever been. United in war. Look, you can crush the resistance with a wave of your hand, without even leaving this room. You know you can.’
‘Not without people knowing.’
‘Sure, but just tell them they were extremists. Maniacs. Make something up.’
‘I wouldn’t need to make it up: they are terrorists.’
‘They’re not. You know they’re not. But is that what you really want to do? Destroy them? If that’s it, what’s stopping you? Why haven’t you done it already?’
Walker felt his heart start to race, his hands start to shake.
‘Are you all right? Do you need me to call for help?’ Barton asked.
‘Shhhhh: I’m trying to think. I need to think.’
‘But are you having a —’
‘Fine. I’m fine, I tell you. I’m never f, f, fucking better. Just give me a minute.’
Walker sat with his eyes closed for so long that Barton could no longer tell if he was awake or asleep, alive or dead. When his hard, dry lips parted and he began a wretched snore, she stood, touching his cheek on her way out. She came away with powder on her fingers, and a smudge of blood.
As she reached the door, Walker called out. Somehow, through the fog of his mind, he was back with her. ‘Let’s talk tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You’re bound to see things differently by then.’
Barton left the room without replying. After a moment, Hail and Curtin bustled in.
‘Not now,’ Walker muttered. ‘Leave me be, I say. I’ll call you when I’m ready.’
Hail was about to protest: he needed an update. Actually, given Walker’s condition, he wished that he had been in the room for the leaders’ meeting, not as a participant — he knew his place — but as an observer. He knew that Walker and Barton needed privacy. He knew that they fed off each other, that they had their own private rhythm. But these were not normal times: he had seen it in Barton’s face. Change was afoot. Serious change. But Curtin held her hand up. They stood together, waiting, until Walker drifted back towards unconsciousness. Then Curtin unzipped his shirt, attached a new sensor, and retreated to the corner of the room. Hail eased into Barton’s chair, to wait it out. To watch Walker sleep. But Walker sensed his presence.
‘What. Is. It?’ Walker asked, in between snores.
‘I just wondered,’ Hail said, ‘if now was a good time to talk succession plans? Before it’s too late.’
‘Will you … serve Curtin?’ Walker said.
‘Yes, of course: with my entire being.’
Walker nodded and then nodded off. Hail glanced at Curtin. She was hunched over an autoscreen.
‘Did you hear?’ Hail whispered.
‘Not now,’ she said. ‘I’m working.’ A multi-screen of battle scenes appeared just beyond the tip of Walker’s nose. ‘Get ready to wake him up. He needs to see this. Now.’
‘But did you hear what he said?’
‘I heard. Shake him. Harder. Not that hard. Yes, good. Good.’
***
Sala slept late the next morning. She needed e-painkillers some nights, even though she’d healed — at least, as well as she would ever heal — weeks earlier. She was still lying on her bed, half-dozing, when the ‘The Battle of Sergeant Sala’ woke her. She threw a pillow at the autoscreen: it passed right through the footage of her crouching behind that ridiculous rock sitting in its splendid isolation. She let out a short, sharp scream of exasperation. Quickly, though, she fought for control over herself.
She could not, would not, allow herself to wallow, to slip into dejection, rancour. Hold your head high, soldier, she told herself. Be proud, she told herself. If you must have fame, make the most of it, she told herself.
Wide awake and calm now, she spoke into her wearable. ‘Turn off “The Battle of Sergeant Sala”. Play “The Battle of Red Earth”. No. Correction: play “The Aftermath of Year Seven”. The highlights package.’
She fell back onto her bed. The autoscreen shifted, accommodating the fact that she was lying flat on her back. She watched the famous footage, still sharp, of ex-soldiers, their bodies damaged in some way or another, going about their days. She ate her fill of them, and then slept some more. She had nowhere she had to be, no one she wanted to see.
***
Malee sat in an interrogation room, on a straight-backed plastic chair. Two purple-clad military officers, a man and a woman, sat facing her. The interrogation had been going poorly, mainly, in Malee’s view, because the officers assumed that she was lying to them when in fact she had nothing to hide. She was telling them the truth, at least so far as answering the questions they had the wit to ask. She certainly wasn’t going to do their jobs for them. She was surprised to learn that they didn’t have some device that they could point at her to make her reveal all.
‘I’m terribly sorry to drag this out,’ the man interrogator said, ‘but I’m going to go ahead and ask you this one more time: who are you working with?’
‘I told you already: I work alone.’
‘Who supplied the seed that you used in your crime?’ the woman interrogator asked.
‘I took a train to District 35. But what crime?’
‘Rough area,’ the man interrogator said.
‘Then I paid a woman to drive me further. I found the seed myself.’
‘Who was this woman?’ the woman interrogator asked. ‘Name, address, known associates — if you’d be so kind.’
‘I’d never met her before. I don’t know her name. The vehicle was a Size One. That’s all I can tell you, and I tell it to you happily. I could barely squeeze into it. But we didn’t have to go far.’
‘How much did you pay her?’ the woman interrogator asked.
‘One fifty.’
‘Are you sure? Not to second-guess you, but only 150?’ the man interrogator said.
‘It was a lot of money to her. It’s a lot to me.’
‘I wouldn’t go out there for 5,000,’ the man interrogator said in a voice of wonder.
‘Well, exactly,’ the woman interrogator replied.
‘Lady, could I politely suggest that it might be worth you reconsidering at least this part of your story?’ the man interrogator said.
‘Please don’t call me “lady”. My name is Malee.’
‘Malee. Yes. Sorry. That was rude of me. It’s nothing personal, but —’
‘All right, let’s not get bogged down debating your name,’ the woman interrogator said. ‘He apologises.’
‘I really do,’ the man interrogator said. ‘It’s just that I try to keep things nice and impersonal. It’s how I was trained.’
‘She probably doesn’t need to know about our training.’
‘It’s not meant to be rude. It’s meant to make things easier all round. Easier for us — it’s a tough job we’ve got, as I’m sure you realise — and easier for you. If it’s all right with you, I’ll go ahead and think of you as a nameless citizen, for the purposes of this interview. That’s a reasonable middle ground between “lady” and “Malee”, I hope you’ll agree.’
‘Interrogation,’ Malee said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s an interrogation, not an interview. And I’m a prisoner, not a citizen.’
‘Now, that’s rude,’ the woman interrogator said.
‘Yes, I’m a little hurt by your attitude, to be honest. A little insulted,’ the man interrogator said. ‘But I don’t intend to stoop to your level. I learnt that in training too.’
‘Fair enough,’ Malee said, by now thoroughly bored.
‘Who supplied the water?’ the woman interrogator asked.
‘I harvested it myself.’
‘You … harvested it? Harvested? But from where?’
‘There are streams in the area where I found the seed —’
‘“Streams”?’ the woman interrogator said.
‘She means water running along the ground, on top of the dirt,’ the man interrogator said.
‘I know what she means.’
‘Please, don’t snap at me.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You di—’
‘That was the first time,’ Malee cut across them. She was ready for this to be over — ready to be back in her cell. ‘And the next time —’
‘“The next time”?’ the man interrogator said.
‘That’s what I said: the next time, I took it straight from the sky.’
‘Not possible: the domefield goes up when there is a rain disturbance,’ the woman interrogator said.
‘Thanks be to Walker,’ the man interrogator said.
‘Thanks be to Walker,’ the woman interrogator said, although Malee thought she used a desultory tone.
‘You could say it too,’ the man interrogator said to Malee, ‘if you wanted to.’
‘What?’
‘You could say “Thanks be to Walker” too. It’s no big deal. It’s not a rule. Not a demand. It’s just polite to say it when other people say it. My mum taught me that. Surely yours did too?’
‘She didn’t, funnily enough. But, sure, if it makes you happy. Thanks be to Walker. Thanks be to Barton. Thanks be to Ralphe. Thanks be to Spense. Thanks be to —’
‘What about your mum?’ the man interrogator said to the woman interrogator.
‘All right, no need for an etiquette lesson,’ the woman interrogator said.
‘Yes, I’m getting off track, aren’t I?’
‘But do tell us,’ the woman interrogator said, ‘how did you harvest water from the sky?’
‘When there are forecasts of a rain disturbance, I go outside the domefield area.’
‘You’ve really got to work on your story, lady.’
‘My name is Malee.’
‘Don’t let’s start all that again,’ the woman interrogator said. ‘Look, how about you tell us the names of your collaborators, and we can wrap things up here. We might even be able to let you out today. With your monitoring device left on, of course —’
‘Of course,’ Malee said.
‘— and assuming you make certain undertakings to us.’
‘We just want everyone to be happy,’ the man interrogator added. ‘Including you. Especially you.’
‘I told you: I’m a movement of one. I’ve heard rumours that there are others like me. But I know nothing of these people. If you don’t believe me, you might as well go ahead and torture me. Do your worst. I’m ready. I’ve already told you the truth, but it doesn’t seem like it’s the truth you’re looking for.’
The woman interrogator was shocked. ‘Torture you? We will do nothing of the sort. The very idea disgusts me.’
‘A devastating suggestion,’ the man interrogator said. He puffed himself up, and then deflated in his chair.
The woman interrogator gazed at him, half-sympathetic, half-exasperated. ‘He’s had a big week,’ she said to Malee, ‘and this just isn’t helping.’
In that moment, Malee almost apologised. But she held her nerve and folded her arms, waiting for them to keep asking their questions.
***
‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Walker said to Barton, inclining his head towards the autoscreen, on which ‘The Battle of Sergeant Sala’ silently played. ‘I don’t mind if you want to take a lunch break.’
Walker had slept tolerably well,
and he was feeling as good as he’d felt in weeks. It didn’t surprise him, this sudden rally. He’d long understood that he was at his best in a crisis. And it had been a long time since he’d had a proper one to deal with.
‘I’m fine. I only left my rooms half an hour ago. But do you need a break?’ Barton replied.
‘Curtin will break us up when she thinks I need a rest. But I’m feeling great.’
‘That’s exactly what’s got her worried.’
‘But are you sure you’re not hungry?’
‘Nah, that’s not my favourite battle.’
‘I never did get your taste. That film is pure genius. It’s the one bright spot in an average year.’
‘I agree that it’s technically superb. And Sergeant Sala herself does brilliant work. And the people love it. I can see why it’s been so successful, but it’s just not for me. To be honest, I think your people are running it a little too often.’
‘You could always play something else. One of yours, maybe.’
‘I told you, I’m fine: I ate earlier.’
Barton flashed a broad smile, and held her lips back, inviting Walker to lean in for a close look.
‘What’s that stuck between your teeth?’ he asked.
Barton closed her mouth, sucked hard, and ran her tongue over her teeth. She opened her mouth.
‘Better?’
‘Now it’s on the tip of your tongue.’
‘I know.’
‘What is it?’ he asked again.
‘Surely you remember spinach.’ Barton touched her tongue with a fingertip and lifted the speck of green matter towards Walker. ‘Want to touch it?’ she asked.
‘No thanks,’ he said.
‘You don’t seem surprised.’
‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since yesterday.’
‘From what I heard, you were passed out most of the time.’
‘Didn’t stop me from thinking. Mostly about you.’
‘Know your enemy, eh?’
He nodded. ‘Know your enemy. But how long have you been … ?’
Walker found himself unable to finish his sentence. He wasn’t shocked: he’d known something was afoot. But he didn’t want to say the words.
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