by Paula Weston
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘Jules recognised you.’
‘I was there, sure.’ Another fit of hacking, more short breaths. ‘Bradford wanted me to threaten her and film her reaction, see what she’d say. I had no idea what she was capable of. I gave the camera and file to him immediately afterwards and he sent in his tech goons to track down and delete every trace of it. I’m telling you, it wasn’t me. It must have been him or one of his lackeys.’
Angie straightens her legs one at a time and waits for the stiffness to ease. It’s Bradford Paxton, then. He’s her blackmailer. Always has been.
‘What happened to Julianne to make her like that?’
She feels the weight of Xavier’s gaze.
‘None of your fucking business.’
They sit in bruised silence, the hum and wheeze of the air-conditioner filling the void.
Waylon shifts his weight. ‘What’s really going down tonight?’
Xavier shakes his head. ‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Yeah, I do.’ He levels the gun at Xavier’s left eyebrow, his hand steady.
‘I thought you wanted to change things, make a statement for your mum?’
‘I want that plant decommissioned. I don’t want it in meltdown.’
Waylon steps close so he can press the barrel to Xavier’s sun-blasted forehead.
‘I’m not playing cops and robbers, mate. Talk.’
Xavier’s face is flushed and the tendons tight in his neck. ‘You can shoot me but it won’t stop what’s coming.’
Angie can’t tell if he’s bluffing. Waylon meets her gaze: neither can he.
‘Hand him over to Khan, let the feds figure it out,’ Angie says.
Xavier’s eyes darken. ‘You’re working with the feds?’
‘Don’t you question my choices. I wasn’t left with many, thanks to you and that arsehole you work for. Waylon?’
Waylon’s thinking it through. He glances at the door and shakes his head slightly. ‘We stay with Plan A until we hear otherwise.’
Typical bloody soldier. He assumes the Major is listening in, and won’t hand Xavier to the feds without an order. That doesn’t help Angie get Jules away from Peta Paxton. How is she supposed to do it without help? It’s not like she can storm the sun farm by herself—
The idea hits, so obvious she can’t believe it took her this long.
‘What are you thinking?’ Waylon raises his eyebrows but the Major’s probably listening in and there’s no way she’s telegraphing her plans to him. He’s already sold Jules out once. She’s not giving him a chance to do it again.
‘I tell you when you need to know.’
56
The public bar is gloomy, even with the sun lingering over the gulf.
The leader of Z12 sits two stools down from the Major. It took a handful of calls through back channels to track down the unit captain, and it’s a testament to the Major’s contacts that this bloke has agreed to meet. Both men crane their necks to watch horses race on the screen above the bar. The captain waits until the barman drifts out of earshot before he speaks.
‘Thanks for not cracking my skull on Sunday.’
‘You gave a kill order. I should have left you in a pool of your own blood.’
‘I didn’t know it was you until we were inside. Once I did, tactics changed.’
‘So I should thank you for the soft touch at the motel?’
The captain tips his glass in the Major’s direction. ‘The beer covers it.’ He waits for the Major to take the lead. The former Z12 leader might not be army these days but he still respects rank, which counts for something.
The Major holds off until the next field of horses leap out of the gates.
‘Why the contract on the girl?’
The captain keeps his eyes on the thoroughbreds. ‘National security risk. Why are you protecting her?’
‘Because she’s not.’
‘I have a pride-sore corporal who would disagree. Is that your directive, to protect her?’
The Major thinks about the geneticist he let into the lunchroom with a suitcase full of syringes. He doesn’t answer, and the captain sips his beer.
‘What do you want, Major?’
‘Do you know what your boy’s got planned?’
‘What boy?’
‘The one you’ve been escorting across the country.’
The Major takes an earpiece from his pocket and puts it on the bar. The captain waits a beat before he reaches for it. As soon as it’s in place, the Major taps play on his flexi-phone. It’s the conversation they picked up an hour ago between Xavier and Angela. French edited out Waylon’s contribution and the reference to the visitor at the gate. When it’s over, the captain stares down into his beer. ‘That stupid little fucker.’ He empties the glass in three gulps.
The Major repositions his good foot on the bar stool. ‘The Paxtons have turned us into their attack dogs. The two of them are in a pissing contest and we’re on the leash doing what we’re told.’
‘Everybody’s still breathing.’
‘The national interest’s coming a distant second though, isn’t it?’
The captain picks up a coaster, taps the edge on the bar. Turns it round, does the same to the next side, and the next. ‘What do you think’s going to happen here, Major?’
‘We can end this right now. Stand down and let my unit do its job.’
The captain laughs. ‘I break this contract and I don’t get paid. Tell me where the girl’s hiding and we’ll finish it quick and clean. No collateral damage.’
The Major’s not in the mood for games. ‘I heard you’ve already got intel on that front.’
‘What intel? Details on your ops are sealed tighter than a duck’s arse.’
The Major drains his beer. That bloody woman. Z12 doesn’t know where Julianne is—hasn’t since she left Brisbane.
‘What’s your priority: the girl or the ratbag?’
‘I’ve got the resources to cover both,’ the captain says. ‘And if you play this smart, we can both do our jobs and go home with a clear conscience—and in one piece.’
The Major doesn’t miss the glance at his foot.
How did it come to this? Two war veterans pitted against each other on conflicting contracts—one army-sanctioned, one strictly commercial.
‘No, mate, we can’t. Not if you take out a civilian and that clown in the camp does more than lead a protest across the scrub.’
‘Then we’re in for an interesting evening.’
The Major stands up and pockets his change. ‘Looks like it.’
57
The solar panels tilt to follow the path of the sun, changing from silver to orange as the sky fades and then bleeds purple. Jules watches the darkness come until all she can see is her own reflection in the window. She barely recognises the girl with the unruly hair and smudgy eyes.
The lunchroom is cold and stale, like it’s never breathed fresh air. Jules has consumed nothing but bottled water for the past few hours, but it’s not hunger that’s making her fingers tremble. Sunset has brought a fresh bout of anxiety, gnawing its way through her paper-thin defiance. She picks at the band-aid inside her elbow. The only thing keeping her from a full-blown panic attack is the hope that Ryan is close by.
Professor Mian is preoccupied with blood and tissue samples, flitting back and forth between the analysis machine, microscope and tablet. Peta Paxton reads her phone and then disappears for hushed conversations on the other side of the door. In between calls, she fumbles in her handbag until her fingers find reassurance that whatever she needs is still in there.
The only time Peta has spoken to Jules has been to fire random questions from the opposite side of the lunchroom. Jules has consistently ignored her. Instead, she’s stared out at the dying light, fretting about her mum and Ryan and knitting the current into a tight ball beneath her ribs.
What are the tests going to show?
What will Pax Fed do wit
h the results? With her?
Peta’s fingers are back in her handbag when her flexi-phone vibrates. She snatches it from the bench and lets it spring flat in her palm. She stares at the device, tapping a lacquered nail on its edge. A quick glance at Jules and she pockets it.
‘This is taking too long. What have you found?’
Professor Mian double-taps the tablet and massages her left shoulder. ‘Julianne’s mitochondria is abnormal and her ATP levels are off the charts.’
Peta gives her an impatient stare.
‘ATP. Adenosine triphosphate: it’s produced by mitochondria. In very simple terms, it creates energy by becoming ADP—adenosine diphosphate.’
Peta bunches her eyebrows. ‘Make it simpler.’
‘The building blocks in Julianne’s cells create energy at a level far beyond normal human capacity. I’ll need to refine my tests to understand how it’s a byproduct of the Afghanistan trials, but it’s deeply fascinating. Do you have any tissue samples from her father for comparison?’
Jules turns in her chair. What did she just say?
Peta aims a black look at the professor and Jules sees the truth in the pinch of her lips. It takes all the oxygen from her. It shouldn’t shock Jules, not after everything that’s happened, but it does. She’s never bought into Angie’s conspiracy theories, not really. Even with Vee’s admission that Pax Fed sponsored something it shouldn’t have two decades ago, there was no evidence it related to her or her dad.
Over the years she’s quietly convinced herself the charge is the product of a random genetic mutation. Nothing more. It’s the tiny thread she’s held on to: that she was made wrong but it’s nobody’s fault. Even the blackmail—she had to believe it was opportunistic rather than part of a more complicated web. That guy—Xavier—was as surprised as she was when the charge sizzled from her fingertips.
But she’s been lying to herself. Of course somebody made her. Paxton Federation made her. Does Bradford know too?
Oh God. She’s going to throw up.
Jules stumbles to the lunchroom bench, vaguely aware of movement elsewhere in the room. She grips the bench and heaves once, twice, until a rush of water spatters into the sink—the contents of her empty stomach. She retches again, her whole body straining until the spasm releases her. Spit dribbles down her chin and her cheeks are wet with tears. One final, spine-straining heave and she slumps over the sink, weeping and aching from the effort.
Nobody speaks.
The current dances beneath her ribs but it’s restrained, as if waiting for her to pull herself together. Jules takes a wet breath and wipes her chin. She unfurls her spine from over the sink and then wrenches on the tap to wash away the bile.
Another deep breath and she turns. ‘Did you mean for me—’
The question dies on her lips. Peta Paxton has a handgun—small, shiny and deadly. The Prada handbag is on the bench, gaping like a dead fish. Jules’ stomach quivers. It’s the second time she’s stared down a gun barrel today, only this weapon was always meant for her. It’s the talisman Peta’s had to touch each time she’s come into the room.
‘Stay where you are.’
‘Are you going to shoot me?’
‘If I have to.’
The charge surges, zapping under her skin on the race to her fingertips. Jules clenches her jaw to reel it in, fighting the pull of the earth. Any sign of a spark and Peta will squeeze the trigger.
And Jules doesn’t want to die.
She turns out her arms, a supplication. ‘I’ve let you take your samples. I’m not a threat to you.’ Not from this distance, at least.
Peta shifts her weight and readjusts her aim. Her bracelets jingle. Professor Mian is flat against the wall, one hand over her chest and the other clutching her tablet. She eyes the door.
‘If you’ve known about me all these years, why the interest now?’
Peta offers a thin, unhappy smile. ‘Because after the attack on our headquarters last week you’re the only evidence left.’
‘Evidence of illegal bio-engineering trials.’
‘Those trials provided research data that has since helped with advances in cyto-bionics. It’s saved limbs and given wounded soldiers back their lives.’
There it is. The truth from her own lips.
‘Not my dad’s.’
‘He gave you a gift none of us anticipated, and if we can understand how that happened we can—’
‘Turn soldiers into human transformers?’
‘No, Julianne. We can stop wars.’
Jules stares at her. ‘You think my cells can do what the greatest minds in history have failed at for thousands of years?’
‘They could open up new possibilities for how we train and deploy soldiers.’
‘And how much will that cost the army?’
Peta straightens her shoulders. ‘Once I’m chair of the board—’
There’s a rapid-fire knock a second before Private French enters. Her gun is drawn and she raises it at Peta as soon she’s through the door.
‘Lower your weapon.’ French sounds a little out of breath. ‘Hand it to me, safety off.’
Peta only hesitates a second before doing as she’s told.
‘Where was that?’ French asks, pocketing the handgun. She glances at the handbag. ‘You’re a piece of work, woman. You good, Julianne?’
Jules slides to the floor on wobbly legs. The charge is testing her grip and she’s going to have to ground it—soon. But first she has to wait for strength to return to her limbs. Jules closes her eyes and pushes her fingers into them, feels her pulse against her eyelids. The weight of the day presses down.
Jamie Walsh with a shotgun jammed under his jaw.
Private French plunging a needle into her neck.
Professor Mian taking her blood.
Peta Paxton ripping the scab from her life.
A fresh longing for Angie hits Jules: a punch that nearly doubles her over. Her mum is across the railway line but she may as well be a thousand kilometres away.
Does Angie know she’s here? Has Khan been able to track her? Is Ryan pacing outside or did he throw another punch and get locked up somewhere?
The only way she can reach any of them is to get out of this room.
And she’s going to have to do it herself.
58
The loudhailer is tacky in Angie’s palm, even though the breeze has turned icy.
She’s bundled in a fleece hoodie, beanie and scarf, waiting out of sight of the hushed crowd. A thousand protesters are crammed in front of the stage with solar torches strung around their necks, jostling each other with placards and trying to keep warm. There’s a single spotlight on stage, enough for Angie to be seen when she’s ready. Waylon stands close in the shadows. Xavier jiggles on the spot from nerves or cold or both.
‘I need to know the plan, Angie,’ Waylon says, agitated.
‘You’re about to find out.’
He leans in. ‘I need to know before this mob does.’
She shakes her head. ‘Xavier’s the only one you have to worry about.’
A sharp whistle snags Angie’s attention. Ollie’s on the opposite side of the stage giving Xavier and Angie the thumbs-up: the fence is ready. Ollie thinks they’re working on Plan A. Xavier checks his watch for about the ninth time in ten minutes.
‘You won’t be able to control what happens once they’re out there,’ Waylon says in her ear.
Angie ignores him. The mob’s ready to march on the nuclear plant. Ollie put the word around twenty minutes ago and the response was immediate. Angie doesn’t know what else Xavier has planned for tonight—his ‘big statement’—but that’s the Major’s problem. She’s been half-expecting cops or soldiers to breach the gate before now. But they’ve been left alone, which means either Waylon’s audio isn’t working and the Major doesn’t know what’s happening this side of the fence, or Bradford Paxton’s got more clout than his sister and Q18 has been ordered to stand down. Do the Paxtons ha
ve a clue about what Xavier intends to do tonight?
She tightens her grip on the loudspeaker and walks onstage, signalling for the crowd to stay quiet; the plant security team is already on edge with all the movement in the camp. Angie glances at the cameras trained on her from the front row.
‘I know what you’ve heard about our plans tonight,’ she says. Even with the breeze at her back, the loudhailer doesn’t carry as far as the PA system. The protesters hold still to hear her. ‘But I need your help. Pax Fed has my daughter. They’ve got her right over there.’
A ripple goes through the mob. The protesters know where she’s pointing. Giving up Jules’ location is a gamble and if Angie’s judged this wrong, there’ll be no undoing the damage. But if she’s right she’ll force Khan’s hand. The feds won’t leave Jules at Happy Growers under the threat of civil unrest.
She wets her lip and tastes the brine in the air. ‘That’s where I’m going tonight, to get her—’
The hailer is pulled from her mouth before she can finish.
‘You didn’t tell me about Julianne,’ Xavier says between his teeth. Waylon hasn’t come onstage but she can see him pacing at the edge of the spotlight, fists bunched.
‘I thought you knew, given you’re so thick with the Paxtons.’
The mood of the crowd has slid sideways, nervous anticipation replaced by a swell of outrage. They know she’s not finished.
‘De Marchi. De Marchi. De Marchi.’
The chant intensifies. It gets under Angie’s skin, sets her alight. She needs to get them moving while they’re primed. She jerks away from Xavier and lifts the loudhailer again.
‘If you march on the nuclear plant you’ll get shot. Help me storm Happy Growers instead. Let’s show Pax Fed they can’t take whatever they want from us. Are you with me?’
Angie knows from the response that she’s got enough followers to make it work.
‘Then come on!’ She bolts for the opposite stairs, away from Waylon and Xavier. The first wave swarms around the stage and carriers her towards the back fence—there’s enough ambient light to see a yawning gap where it used to be. The wire has been prepped by Ollie, cut and peeled back to save skin and clothing. Angie peers over her shoulder but there’s no sign of Waylon or Xavier in the bobbing faces behind her.
