Juice, p.17
Juice, page 17
She followed me deep into the haphazard rows until I stopped before a stone child with furled wings. Its face was gouged blank. The plinth on which it stood was canted back so that the effigy seemed to be falling slowly away from the vault at its feet. On the marble slab, chiselled deep into the stone, were five names. I broached the seal and worked the lid back on itself.
The ground around the grave had subsided. The interior was surprisingly shallow. Like mushrooms growing in the dark, the brows of two skulls rose proud of the dust. Endeavouring to ignore Sun’s sorrowful gaze, I raked through the silt. Found three smaller skulls and a femur, but no treasure.
We stand on the bones of those who came before, she said tartly.
Funny. But I don’t take any bones. It’s not like that.
What is it you look for?
Rings, chains. Stones.
These poor bastards.
Don’t pity the dead, I told her. They stand on us, too.
What could you possibly mean by that?
Nothing, I said. Forget it. C’mon. Let’s get moving.
For Sun’s sake, I went to the pointless trouble of coaxing the lid of the vault back into square. We walked back to our rig with a bruised disquiet between us. That mood didn’t lift for hours. Not until we were long clear of the place.
I drove north into the rising wind. We camped on a stony plateau and suffered a restless night.
Next day we kept on in the same direction and slowly came into the old mining badlands. The ground up there was still tacky, but firm enough to drive on. The first new shoots already speckled the edges of the trail.
At the first of my depots we soon realised there was more useful material here than we could cart back in a single trip. The iron cladding alone filled the trailer. It was half a day’s work just loading and lashing it. By noon we lay in the shade, spent.
Next day the country around us was transformed. Tiny flowers – red, yellow, purple, blue – had bloomed as far as the eye could see. Trundling west and bouncing through this endless field of colours, we were beset by clouds of dragonflies.
I told Sun of the time locusts had descended upon the plain in the wake of a cyclone. How at first we’d rushed to secure the growhouse and then spent the next two days running around to catch them. I’d never eaten locusts before. They were fine food. We stuffed barrels with them but sadly didn’t know how to preserve them properly.
Don’t tell me, she said. They ended up as mulch.
I waggled my brows.
She gave a rueful but indulgent laugh.
You people.
Are we that weird?
I’ll get used to it.
I hope so.
For a while Sun said nothing. She looked out at the sea of flowers and the tsunami of dragonflies that billowed from it. When she rolled down the window, the cab filled with wings.
Crazy, isn’t it? I said, batting them away.
Bonkers.
We’re stuck with them now.
I don’t mind. Look at these things.
The dragonflies battered themselves against the screen. They were in our scarves. Our clothes bristled with them.
You think the world is good? Sun asked.
What?
Do you believe the world is good?
Good enough, I said with a laugh.
Benign, I mean. I’m serious.
As opposed to what – evil?
Well, malign, I guess. Some folks say it’s trying to shake us off. Rid itself.
And what are we, vermin? Like the fleas on a chicken?
She shrugged, picking dragonflies from her hair.
Who says that, I asked. Your parents?
She shrugged again.
You believe that?
No. I think the world’s good. And the world made us. That’s what I think.
But that’s not what your parents believe.
Family’s not everything.
You serious?
It can’t be. Nothing works if family trumps every other consideration. Isn’t that the point of the peace? Isn’t that how we’ve survived all this time? Association, co-operation, regardless of tribe and clan? Nothing changes, nothing improves, until you can see past family. Without disinterest, there’s just partisan chaos.
That’s what they taught you at the academy?
Uh-huh.
You’re having second thoughts, I said. About us. Me and my mum.
No, she said. Just thoughts.
How can I help?
You can’t.
But you’re family now. You know that.
Yes, she said brushing the last dragonflies from the cab. I understand.
By September, our house was finished. It was plumbed and wired, and I’d made a start on a new growshed, but before long we were out of materials. I figured there was just enough time for one more sortie south, but things had come to feel a little unsettled in our compound, so I was hesitant about leaving again.
It was hard to pinpoint the source of our agitation. Sun and I lived separately to my mother now. The space between the old place and ours was just beyond shouting distance. For the moment, we all still worked together in the old shed and continued to take the evening meal at my mother’s, but we hadn’t yet settled into equilibrium. Both women were bright, accommodating, courtly, but also watchful in a way that came to seem chilly. Amid all this, I felt a bit lost.
Sun was eager to have our new shed finished, but the heat had begun to knock her around and she wasn’t keen to go back on the road so late in the season. She didn’t think I should go either. My mother refrained from expressing a view. She said I should do what I thought best. At that, Sun flushed but said nothing. She didn’t seem surprised. But neither could she hide her displeasure. I had a suspicion this matter had been discussed before.
I couldn’t bear the idea of being trapped in that vortex for the foreseeable future, so I decided to make one more dash south.
It was an uncomfortable leave-taking. Sun could barely speak to me. It was the only time I ever left her for a genuine salvage expedition. The only time I wasn’t lying about my intentions. But it was the worst way to set off on a trip.
I didn’t get far. And that was the irony.
I was making camp at the pinnacles for the night when a vehicle jounced up behind me.
You’ve led me a merry chase, said the filmlayer.
I had no idea, I said. What are you doing here?
You have to ask?
So, this was the houseboat job.
They flew us the whole way. And it was a long trip. Time enough to be grateful we were high above the stifling blanket of dirty cloud that obscured any glimpse of the islands and waters of the Equatorial Belt. I thought of my mother’s wounded orange. And what it must be like for those still trapped down there.
Once we descended and broke the cloud cover, I saw – ahead of us, to the east – a lake of light. Beneath us lay a vast swathe of shimmering darkness. The Yellow Sea. I guess there’s no harm in saying that now. Hell, I might be dead by morning. So, I figure the vast murky blank falling behind as we turned was the Hermit Kingdom. That’s as close as I ever got to it. Not a light to be seen. Granted, we’d lost altitude and were a long way out, but it was unsettling to see no lights at all in a land mass of such magnitude.
We transferred, after dark, to a ship anchored outside a mighty harbour. Rain beat on the deck. We were led below to be supplied and briefed.
The kit was light. I noted the crossbows.
The planner who briefed us was matter of fact. This would be, she said, a tough job. Six operators only. Two foils. We’d be deploying at close quarters in a densely populated site. Our object was a 76-year-old male. He lived on a houseboat in a busy quarter upstream from the main harbour. Five years previously, having somehow been tipped off to an impending action, he’d abandoned his remote and fortified villa in the highlands. Since then, he’d moved assets in the open, using citizens as both camouflage and shield. He lived surrounded by family and servants, hemmed in by neighbours who were ordinary foragers, grafters, boatmen. He was unknown in that canton, but remained alert and wily, careful to never show himself. His middle-aged son and daughter-in-law seemed to feel more secure. They were often on deck, and his two adolescent grandchildren appeared several times a week in the markets in the company of vassals and guards.
Our job was to acquit all hands with minimal noise and fuss. And no collateral damage. It was important to leave no one alive.
According to the intel, the object’s houseboat had two guards. One posted forward, the other aft. Although they didn’t carry kinetic tools openly, it was reasonable to assume they’d have them close at hand. Both had to be neutralized silently. Hence our archers.
The planner ran us through the route and penetration procedure three times, then stood us down to sleep until dark.
But it was hot down there in the hold. And the rain drummed unceasingly on the deck overhead. I suppose I should have been excited at the prospect of seeing my first great city, but the humidity was punishing. I was breathless. The air felt too fat and wet to inhale.
Early in the afternoon, the operator across from me, a woman with short red hair, began to claw at her tunic. They gave her oxygen and let the rest of us stand in shifts in the rain under the half-opened hatch.
After sunset we checked our kit again and, once the recap was done, the senior, a stocky, dark-skinned woman, distributed pills and motioned for the oxygen kits to be brought out for all.
You know the drill, she said. If we’re captured, the Service can’t help. We’ll be detained as bandits – if we’re lucky. So keep your pill handy. Now have a good suck and get sharp.
With our pills stashed, we huffed oxygen until an hour after dark. Then we strapped up, primed our tools, and filed out on deck to stand in the steady downpour. Even through the curtains of rain, the rim of light onshore and the penumbra above it were dazzling. I felt clean and ready.
The foils were lowered.
I climbed down, settling into position between the senior at the helm and the archer behind. We were still well offshore, but the smells of cooking and welding and the exotic reek of rot were unmistakable.
Once the second unit was ready, the senior signalled night visors down and we peeled away, soon at sufficient speed to rise from our hulls to the faster, more efficient blades of our foils. After the slow tedium of the outbound journey, the sudden rush of momentum felt glorious. I clamped my thighs to the long seat and looped a hand through the senior’s webbing to secure myself. Sea and rain hissed as we cut through them. Wind fluttered in my helmet.
It was dark and flat out there. Between us and the land lay a chain of lights. As we closed, this chain resolved as dozens of anchored freighters. The senior steered us through the gauntlet, hunting shadows until we were past. Once we were inside the harbour, though, there was nothing to be done except put the hammer down.
Ships, cranes, lights – everything flashed by high and fast. And then we were on to the river beyond, where the current was sluggish, the banks low and the city’s towers loomed against the sky.
I’d seen images and clips of places as densely populated as this, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality. Thousands upon thousands of people lived there, pressed in cheek-by-jowl as far as the eye could see. Their dwellings came down to the water’s edge and onto the river itself, which smelt sulphurous and was clotted with refuse. At every bend and bank, the river was festooned with stilt houses, jetties, floating docks and barrages to which a bewildering variety of dwellings was moored. Some appeared to be iron hulks or decommissioned trawlers. Many were hardly more than canoes rafted alongside one another and bound together by films and canopies strung overhead. Others were just sheds – simple boxes with skillion roofs of tin or bamboo thatch, patched with panels and sheets of film. The largest were well-appointed houseboats with verandahs and wide decks and privacy screens. These hummed with fans and clattering AC, and their hulls spewed bilge water in sudden gouts.
The clamour of the river was a surprise to me. But it was obvious our planners had been relying on the noise and rain to give us cover. The waterway echoed with clanks, cries, moans. Every finger jetty was busy with glugs and coughs. Wherever we passed, things were being hammered, sawn, ground and pounded under whatever shelter could be gained. Over that racket, the whine of our jets and the fizz of our foil blades would have hardly registered.
When we came to the designated cove, the senior slowed up and set our hull down on the greasy water. The second boat eased in alongside us, and the senior gave the signal for readiness.
There were very few people out in the open, but those who saw us quickly withdrew. Shutters came down, blinds were drawn. I knew we’d probably have assets on this waterway, but it was unnerving to be observed like that. With our visors and tactical kit, we’d have looked a sinister outfit to ordinary locals.
We angled into the narrow cove and idled along the finger jetties until we found the houseboat that matched the briefing docs. The senior signalled for confirmation from the other foil and immediately got a thumbs up.
It was a larger-than-average houseboat, but not ostentatious. It was low-roofed and looked to be clad in woven matting, but according to the intel the underlying structure was steel. The shutters were closed. Two rattlebox ACs rumbled on the near-side bulkhead. The guards we’d been warned about were not in view.
A motorized canoe was tethered to the transom step facing the main channel of the river. As we eased in between the houseboat and the reeking boardwalk, the senior motioned for me to cut the canoe loose. I sent it clear, and the current took it out of sight.
When the other team slid into position abeam of us, and we confirmed there was nobody on deck for the archers to target, the senior signalled go and we scrambled aboard as quietly as we could. The second team went forward, and we braced for kick-off near the stern.
The place seemed very still, as if the occupants were all asleep, but after a few moments I felt vibrations through the soles of my boots. Not a motor. Bodies moving. I shifted forward to press my head to the aft door to hear better. But there was nothing. Then a viewing slot opened right beside me, not a handspan from my helmet. A blade of cold air jetted out, fogging the edges of my goggles. And before I could even move, a bolt from one of the archers flashed past my head and a man began screaming behind the wall. As doors slammed and feet pounded inside, the senior called it, set the puck charge, and a few seconds later the door blew in.
I was first through, and as I stumbled over the smoking door and the writhing guard with the bolt in his eye, someone came at me from the left and I took them down with a short burst. The injured guard kept wailing until the senior killed him. Then we heard the forward door blow and suddenly we were all in, going room to room in silent pairs.
We left the lights off and used our night vision, taking in the empty, rumpled beds, the strewn towels, the mats askew underfoot.
There were two living spaces, four bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen. The layout matched our intel in every aspect, and yet, for the moment, there was no one else to be seen.
We scoured the ceilings and floors for hidden escape hatches, to no avail. Nothing was said, but I could feel the dismay passing through the company. We assembled in the kitchen. The senior signalled for the archers to cover the decks, fore and aft. They hadn’t even made it through the doors when we heard the sob.
It was a woman. Or perhaps a child. And the sound seemed to be coming from back toward the bathroom. The senior beckoned for me to accompany her while the others stood to.
The bathroom was empty. It took the senior only seconds to find the hatch in the bulkhead between the toilet and the sink. Still kneeling, she turned to me, pointing out the hinge along the left side. It looked like a utilities hatch. Except there was no exterior handle. And it was large enough to crawl through.
The senior got to her feet, ran her gloved hands across the rest of the bulkheads, then took out her clasp knife and scraped some paint away. She set the point of the blade against the naked metal and scored it deeply. Aluminium panel. A false wall.
She drew me back out to the kitchen. Signalled someone to fetch the archers. They arrived within moments. She pointed to the far wall, gave the sign to shoot, and after their first bolts had pierced the wall she ordered more. When she unclipped two gas canisters, I understood the plan. The archers kept loosing, reloading, and loosing again, until they’d thoroughly perforated the soft panelling.
She signalled masks on. Pulled the plugs from both canisters. Rolled them into the bathroom and shut the door.
In less than a minute, the door swung open again. I took out the first comer, the senior got the second. The next four were half dead before they even got to us.
We found the two juveniles in the hidey-hole. When we dragged them out through the hatch, they felt broken, as if they’d been trampled.
We laid the bodies out for processing. It was a brisk business, but the senior lingered a while over the old man, the one I’d taken down, confirming his ID against the image. His chest was scorched and imploded. But his features were clear enough. She gave the thumbs up and left the picture sheet on him.
Except for their smooth skin, good teeth and soft hands, the object and his family looked no different to ordinary folk. Their clothes were indistinguishable from those of their vassals. None of them wore ornaments or jewels, though one of the strongboxes was full of stuff that glistened and shone. Another was full of documents that I helped the senior pack into satchels.
It puzzled me that so many of these clans persisted in keeping records. It was as if they imagined things would blow over eventually, and when that day finally arrived they’d need their bona fides, their promissory notes and deeds of title.
There was no opportunity and no time to dispose of the bodies. Burning the houseboat would put the homes of surrounding citizens at risk, so everything was left in situ. Most locals would figure it for robbery. The rest, whether they were with us or not, would know what had transpired.
