by Paula Weston
He takes out the phone and taps it on his thigh, no idea if she’s authorised to use it. He hands it over anyway and waits for her to leave so he can go back in the bathroom and shut the door.
Julianne De Marchi thinks he’s a mindless grunt who’s sold his soul to the devil. He needs to finish getting rid of the evidence that she might be right.
38
‘Julianne. Is everything all right?’
No.
‘Have you heard from Mum?’ Jules is wedged into the beanbag staring at the bathroom door. She can hear Ryan in the shower on the other side.
‘Not directly, but as far as I know she’s keeping it together.’
Jules almost laughs at the irony. Her mother is exercising self-control while she’s sitting here with her fingertips burning. She’s never released the charge in anger before. It was a different shape, easier to grip, and it’s still churning under her rib cage stronger than it should be. She’s annoyed that Ryan is willing to be a lab rat for the army but not enough to set her off this badly. What is it about him that does this to her?
‘Is this phone secure?’ Khan asks.
‘The Major called Ryan on it, so I guess so.’
A beat. ‘What did he say?’
‘Someone’s stolen video surveillance of Ryan, presumably to figure out who he is, to get to me.’ The reality of the words sinks in and her breath shortens.
‘The footage tells them Ryan’s been shadowing you, nothing more. Did Voss say anything else?’
‘No.’
Khan hesitates, as if he should have. ‘He won’t be impressed you’re using an army phone,’ she says instead.
‘You don’t have to tell him.’
‘Oh, I think I will, in the spirit of inter-agency cooperation.’
The way Khan says it tells Jules all she needs to know about how the cooperation is going—but at least Khan is talking to her. Jules glances at the bathroom door. ‘Do you know if corporate military contracts involve anything other than guns for hire?’
‘Such as?’
‘Bio-genetic experiments.’
‘Julianne, now’s not the time to buy into your mother’s conspiracy theories.’
‘Ryan’s admitted his unit is trialling a drug that helps them recover faster. Someone has to be paying for that research. Is it something Pax Fed would be involved in?’
The line goes quiet while Khan thinks. ‘Peta Paxton’s been lobbying the Pax Fed board to increase investment in military interests for a while now, but there’s resistance. She barely got the numbers to engage forces in Pakistan and even the Q18 experiment has been controversial—particularly with her brother.’
Jules sees Bradford Paxton across the interview table. Humiliating her, enjoying it. Her skin crawls at the memory.
‘Tom Paxton’s looking to one of his children to replace him on the board,’ Khan continues. ‘There’s only one seat at the head of that table and Bradford’s pinning his ambitions on the Priority Agricultural Practices Bill. I can’t imagine him supporting trials to make better soldiers. He’s not going to approve anything that might give Peta an edge.’
‘Would the Major tell you who’s funding the Q18 medical trial?’
Khan gives a short laugh. ‘The Major doesn’t like telling me the time.’ Jules can feel her turning the idea over all the same. ‘Leave it with me.’
There’s a moment of silence and the gnawing worry from earlier in the day returns. ‘Can you promise me Mum’s safe?’
‘Xavier knows she’s on the bus and hasn’t threatened her or attempted to release your video. Waylon’s right there with her—’
‘What about when they get to Port Augusta? How will she be okay if there’s a radiation leak?’
‘It won’t get that far.’
‘It’s meant to happen on Saturday and you don’t even know how he plans to do it or who’s helping him.’
‘We will, Julianne. Give us time.’
Jules ends the call with trembling fingers.
In the bathroom, the shower shuts off and Jules hauls herself to her feet. She drops the phone on Ryan’s bed and heads for the door, needing to be gone before he comes out.
She wants to believe Khan. She and Voss are so sure they can stop whatever Xavier’s got planned, but Saturday’s the day after tomorrow. And neither the feds nor the army have a strong track record in getting it right when it comes to protecting De Marchis.
39
Almost there.
Angie stretches her cramped legs into the aisle and feels the blood return to her knees. The Agitator convoy is barrelling down the highway beside Spencer Gulf. The nuclear plant dominates the horizon, steam pluming from two giant cooling towers and power lines strung out across the plain like spider webs. Beyond it, Port Augusta hunkers between sand hills and saltbush, straddling the top of the gulf. The old coal power stations are long gone, along with the two-hundred-metre stack that once stood sentinel over the sun-faded city.
The sheer size of the plant is enough to bring a quiver to Angie’s chest, a primal response to the sight of a monster capable of devouring the landscape and everything in it. A monster Xavier wants to wake.
The sight of it at least signals the end of the longest, shittiest bus trip of her life. She’s over the endless sitting and inescapable body odour and pretending she doesn’t want to shove Xavier’s head in a compost toilet. Tired of watching every word, careful not to slip up in case someone’s listening. Tired of worrying about Jules and having no idea if Khan or the Major have learnt anything useful about Xavier or the men who stormed her home. Wishing she had something to show for the ride other than sore legs and the taste of dust.
Xavier is riding the final leg of the trip on Angie’s bus. He climbed on board after the morning break, gave her a wave and took the seat nearest the door. There’s no getting off now until he says so.
‘What’s that?’
Waylon leans across Angie to get a better look at the field of solar panels flashing in the sun and the stadium-sized greenhouses beyond them. He’s on the aisle, keeping himself between her and the rest of the bus.
‘That, young Waylon, is the definition of irony.’
Waylon gives her a dry look. ‘I’m gonna need a little more detail.’
Angie rubs her eyes and wishes she’d had a decent sleep. ‘What you’re looking at used to be the most promising sustainability project in the world. The Sun Farm. Pioneering sustainable horticulture using salt water and sunshine.’ She taps the window. ‘They take water from the gulf and desalinate it—use the water on the greenhouse crops—and the whole lot is powered by solar.’
‘Cool.’
‘Yeah, it was. The original plan was to develop a system for Third World countries that have low rainfall—not much fresh water—but access to sea water. Brilliant idea. And then the government changed, they cut off the funding and the corporates swept in. Pax Fed outbid Wesfarmers with all their usual bullshit about feeding a starving world and made it part of the Happy Growers empire. In the end, all they’ve done is supply tomatoes and capsicums to high-end restaurants so cashed-up diners can feel good about being sustainable.’ Angie pauses as an older, dustier anger grips her. ‘Then the government turned its attention to that nightmare’—she points to the reactor—‘and built the world’s largest radioactive waste storage silo right next door, underwritten by foreign investment. Another brilliant revenue-raising strategy.’
Waylon’s watching her with an expression she doesn’t recognise. He’s serious and intense, on the brink of telling her something. But then he blinks and the moment’s gone. He stretches his arms above his head and twists until a shoulder pops. ‘I don’t know how you keep track of all the things that piss you off. Must be exhausting.’
It surprises a half-laugh out of her. ‘It’s a full-time job.’
The bus slows and then comes to a complete stop on the highway. A woman in high-vis is blocking traffic so workers can mark lines on a new overpass. Angie�
�s surprised it’s taken this long to separate the road traffic from the nuclear freight line. It’s been an accident waiting to happen.
‘Where’s the protester camp?’ Waylon is trying to see past her.
‘You’ll see.’
A few minutes later and they’re moving again, the convoy forming a single lane to crest the overpass.
‘Bloody hell…’
The Permanent Anti-Nuclear Assembly has been camped in a bare paddock near the nuclear plant since before they started building it a decade ago. In the beginning, a hundred or so protesters set up camp and kept the vigil. Angie was part of that first push, bringing the Agitators south to lead roadblocks and nonviolent opposition. She knew numbers had been building in recent years. She’d heard the size of the protest camp was at record levels when the plant went online. But even she wasn’t expecting this.
There must be more than a thousand people jammed in that paddock.
From the top of the overpass she can see the protesters are massing in front of a stage at the western end of the camp. There are banks of speakers and a mega-screen, all of it new since the last time she paid attention to what was happening down here. Even from this distance the place feels overcrowded.
‘How come nobody’s moved them on?’
‘No government’s wanted the hassle. There’s never been any real drama over the years, just the occasional skirmish. There’s a cyclone fence around the camp and even if you breach it, there’s a good half a kilometre of saltbush between the fence and the plant. See those towers?’ Angie points to the structures along the plant’s security fence. ‘Snipers.’
She rests her face against the glass, takes in the panorama. The Happy Growers sun farm, the nuclear plant, the protester camp—and the gleaming radioactive storage silo. Modern Australia in all its glory. That sense of unease claws again.
‘I’ve got your back, Angie.’ Waylon says it quietly, eyes focused beyond her on the camp.
‘I can look after myself.’
He nods. ‘I know. I’ve got your back anyway.’
The road returns to ground level and her view is limited to a line of portaloos and washing strung along the camp fence. The bus doesn’t get a chance to pick up speed before it swings into a dirt road and is waved through a boom gate. The convoy stays at walking pace, passing tents of all sizes and a row of outdoor showers. It’s a conspicuous entrance. Deep inside the camp, the crowd parts to let the convoy through, faces upturned to see who’s onboard. Angie shrinks back from the window.
‘Angela De Marchi, are you ready?’
‘For what?’ She kneels on her seat to see Xavier hanging on to the luggage rack to keep his balance. His eyes are flint-like.
‘To change the future.’
Theirs is the only bus to pass through a second barricade and continue on to the side of the stage. Xavier is out the door first and everyone else fills the aisle to follow. Waylon doesn’t push in with them, forcing Angie to wait.
‘Move,’ she says. Good, bad or otherwise, she wants to know what’s coming.
Waylon holds his ground for another beat and then leads her down the bus aisle.
Xavier is waiting outside. The sun is bright but the breeze coming from the gulf brings a shiver. On stage, two girls with acoustic guitars are harmonising about a nuclear winter. Xavier blocks Angie from following the Agitators into the crowd.
‘You’re with me.’
‘And I’m with her.’ Waylon’s tone is conversational, friendly even, but his stance is unmistakably don’t-argue.
Xavier eyes him coolly. He and Waylon have barely spoken on the trip and it’s only now Angie remembers Xavier personally recruited him. Whatever he saw in Waylon in Queen Street he sees now. He nods, a second before a flash of pigtails, plaid and denim descends from the side of the stage holding a clipboard.
‘We had no idea you were coming!’ the girl says to Angie, loud enough to be heard over the frantic strumming onstage. Her eyes are bright as she hugs the clipboard to her chest. She looks from Xavier to Angie and back again, bounces on her heels. ‘This is amazing!’ She hugs Xavier—she’s enthusiastic, he’s awkward—and adjusts her headset. ‘Are you ready?’
Angie frowns. Ready for what?
She follows the pair up the stairs, her gut churning. They wait out of sight behind a stack of speakers. This mob at least looks like the Anti-Nuke Assembly she remembers: dreads, tie-dye, sun-browned faces. Less like the crew on Xavier’s buses with their prison tatts and scarred hands, currently positioning themselves in the front rows. Angie picks at her torn thumbnail and ignores Waylon’s attempts to catch her attention. Xavier shakes out his bun and reties it. Hangs his sunnies from his T-shirt. Changes his mind and puts them on again.
The girls finish their song and exit the opposite side of the stage.
Angie’s heart rate picks up. Xavier speaks to the clipboard girl and she turns away to relay his direction into her headset. A few seconds later, the screen onstage lights up and the crowd cheers. Angie sucks in her breath. It’s her. Old footage of Angie standing in this camp eight years ago. The storage silo behind her, newly constructed and gleaming under an unforgiving summer sky. The nuclear plant seven years in the future.
Onscreen Angie comes to life, her eyes fierce and face sun-reddened.
In 2015, Australia took back the low-level radioactive waste we sent to France for processing in the 1990s. I said it then: it was the thin edge of the wedge.
The camp crowd falls silent.
Because it didn’t stop there. France offered to pay for us to take its intermediate-level waste and our government said yes. Good for the economy, our leaders said. And now we’ve agreed to take high-level radioactive nuclear waste, not only from France, but from any other OECD member country that can afford it.
Onscreen Angie points to the hulking silo behind her.
That’s where it’ll all be stored until our government finds a hole in the ground deep enough to bury it. The Spencer Gulf Safe Energy Storage Facility. Safe energy, what a joke.
Angie stares down the barrel of the camera.
We need to stop this madness—
The picture pauses, leaving onscreen Angie’s face frozen mid-rant.
Real-life Angie is barely moving either. Is that what they’ve been using to fire up the Anti-Nuke Assembly: her old vlogs? In a heartbeat she knows where all this is leading. A quick look between the speakers, and she spots a pack of journos and camera crews crammed near the stage.
Shit. Xavier is on his way to the microphone. The crowd is hushed, expectant.
‘Angela De Marchi warned us eight years ago about the dangers here. What’s changed since then?’
‘Nothing,’ someone calls out from the front row. It’s one of the guys Angie overheard talking at the campsite.
‘Exactly.’ Xavier takes the microphone from its stand and holds it away from himself to clear his throat. ‘That radioactive waste is in so-called temporary storage. The long-term plan, still, is to bury it—but nobody can agree on where. Now we’ve got tonnes of nuclear waste arriving at Port Pirie each year, coming up that freight line. Our own nuclear power station has gone online. They’re talking about building another in Victoria. When is it going to end?’
Xavier makes a show of pausing to look out over the mass of protesters.
‘Most of you don’t know me, so let me tell you why I’m here.’ A beat. ‘When I was fourteen and my sister was five, my parents moved us to Honeymoon. The uranium mine had just reopened. It was the only work they could get. Once I finished school, I joined them underground.’
Xavier worked with uranium? Angie glances at Waylon. He’s fixated on the Agitators’ leader.
‘We were retrenched five years later and by the time my sister was diagnosed with leukaemia, there was no way to prove a link to the mine. That meant no compensation and no help with medical costs.’
Xavier licks his lips and wipes his hand over them. Angie’s trying to spot the signs o
f performance but if it’s an act it’s a good one. He straightens, shields his face against the sun.
‘Successive governments have failed to make good decisions for our nation, and families like mine are paying the price. We need to send our so-called leaders a message. We have to do things differently. Nothing changes if nothing changes.’
The Agitators in the front row are whistling in support, stirring up the crowd.
Xavier points to the cameras. ‘The eyes of the nation are on us. We have to be more than a ten-second grab. We need action. Are you with me?’
More of the crowd is cheering now, shouting and rattling placards.
‘We can change the trajectory of this country.’ He paces from one side of the stage to the other like an evangelist, fuelled by the response. ‘And we’re not doing it alone.’
Xavier flings his arm out in Angie’s direction and her skin prickles.
‘Come on out, Angela De Marchi!’
The entire camp erupts and Angie steps out from behind the speakers. It’s barely a conscious decision: the crowd’s elation is irresistible. The moment overwhelms her, pins her to the spot. The adrenaline, the euphoria…For a good ten seconds, she stands there, halfway to Xavier, basking in the glow of a thousand people cheering at her. For her. She’s been silenced for two years, defamed and disempowered. But these people want to hear from her. Her work still means something. She’s vaguely aware of Waylon prowling at the side of the stage and keeping out of sight of the cameras.
‘Are you with us?’ Xavier asks.
The crowd roars. Angie needs to say something meaningful, not waste the moment.
‘Then be ready to act!’ Xavier shouts.
The crowd erupts again, this time in triumph. Angie looks around, confused. Four guys are carrying guitars and a set of conga drums onto the stage. They’ve got plaited beards and shaved heads and are famous enough that even she knows who they are. They’re all the crowd wants now.
Xavier gestures to Angie to make way and her understanding hardens to anger. He has no intention of letting her speak to this crowd. Of course he doesn’t: the two of them aren’t actually in this together.
