The Undercurrent

by Paula Weston

  The frontline protesters surge through and fan out on the other side, trampling paths between the saltbush. It’s hard to tell whether they’re headed for the plant or the sun farm because a bottleneck has already formed and Angie’s been herded into the middle of it. The pace has slowed by the sheer volume of bodies trying to push through.

  She stumbles along with the tide. Muttered apologies turn to curses as the protesters crush together. Angie’s jabbed in the neck by a placard, elbowed in the ribs. Someone shoves her and she stumbles into a woman carrying a solar torch above her head. The light disappears. Angie loses her beanie and her gunshot wound flares every time she’s bumped. She doesn’t care; she has to get through the fence. She has to get to Jules.

  But she’s not moving. The crowd on the far side has the tide now; her side is an eddy trapped against the riverbank. She needs to get through.

  Fingers clamp around her wrist and a body wider than hers shoulders protesters aside without apology, making a path. Even in the dark Angie knows it’s him. She ignores the instinct to wrench free of his touch, too relieved at moving forward. Angie lets Xavier drag her through the throng. More elbows, a few stomped toes, another placard in the side of her head and she’s through the gap and stumbling between clumps of saltbush.

  Xavier is checking his watch again, hauling her towards the railway line one-handed. Her jeans snag on dry branches. A siren starts up and spotlights wash the world in white: the snipers at the plant are in place, ready to pick off protesters. Angie squints against the glare and lifts the loudhailer.

  ‘Second target. Second target!’

  Xavier drags her clear of the throng and the spotlights but he’s heading south, away from the sun farm and the surging mob.

  ‘Let me go.’ Angie tries to pull free. His fingers only dig harder into her skin. His attention is fixed on the railway line, searching for something.

  ‘Let me go.’ She jerks her arm free with such force that she loses her balance and lands on her knees in the dirt. The loudhailer tumbles away from her and Xavier scoops it up before she can reach for it.

  Angie scrambles to her feet and takes off towards the crowd—the protesters are already a good fifty metres away. She yells to them but the siren drowns out her voice. Where’s Waylon? He should have caught up by now. All she’d wanted was to get clear of the fence before he—

  She’s yanked off her feet by the hair and hits the ground hard enough to drive the air from her lungs. Xavier looms, and Angie’s vaguely aware they’re under power lines. He grabs her by the scruff of her jacket, still holding the loudhailer in his other hand.

  ‘You disappoint me, Angela,’ he says, and slams the hailer into the side of her head.

  59

  ‘Sir, Angie has deviated from the mob. She’s headed south on foot with Xavier.’

  The Major grunts. Walsh has rejoined him on the roof of the packing house and has his finger to his ear, trying to hear the feed relayed from the van. The Major watches the horde of protesters stumble about in the scrub, backlit by the nuclear plant. Best he can estimate through binoculars there are around three hundred of them headed his way instead of towards the nuclear plant. They’ve passed the power lines, but to reach the sun farm they have to get over the two security fences flanking the track and then find their way through the field of solar panels.

  ‘Does Waylon have a visual?’

  Walsh turns his face to the camp. ‘We’re waiting on confirmation.’

  The Major keeps his eyes on the scrub. What a rabble. The guns waiting for them here are loaded with real ammo, not rubber bullets. And in any case, more than half of them have stuck with the original plan to charge across the flat to the nuclear plant, even with the saltbush lit up like daylight.

  That’s not his problem.

  His problem is Peta Paxton.

  It took all of two seconds for her to decide the best option was to put Q18 at risk defending a company asset rather than changing location. But then Paxton Federation’s long had form for that brand of decision-making. Just ask Mike De Marchi. Paxton’s also convinced Z12 is lying in wait to snatch up Julianne the minute they leave the sun farm, and she’s not ready to give up her prize.

  The Major has spent the last five hours planning contingencies, and Angie De Marchi’s stunt to send the protesters his way adds a new degree of difficulty. He’s got Z12 prowling out there somewhere and he’s still unclear on Xavier’s primary action.

  ‘Sir,’ Walsh says. ‘We’ve got a vehicle approaching via the main entrance.’

  The Major finds the security booth in his binoculars as a sedan pulls up. He sharpens the focus on the drivers side.

  Oh for fuck’s sake.

  It’s Bradford Paxton.

  60

  The siren is loud in the distance, like a wartime air raid alarm.

  Jules has no idea what’s happening outside but Peta Paxton is spooked. A quick exchange with Mian, and the professor lost all interest in her tablet. She dropped an empty vial in her haste to pack up and now keeps crunching the glass underfoot as she moves between the tablet and the lab equipment.

  Jules needs to get off the floor. The current is surging and stinging, demanding release. She uses the bench to haul herself up and fumbles for a bottle of water. A couple of mouthfuls to wash away the last of the bile.

  By the exit, French lifts a finger to her ear and then seeks out Jules. ‘I’ll be back.’ She disappears.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Jules asks and Peta Paxton looks up from her phone. She’s as far away from Jules as she can get without leaving the room.

  ‘The camp is marching on the power station.’

  Is Angie out there in the scrub with him?

  Is this it—Xavier’s big move?

  The blind is up but all Jules can make out is the reflection of Professor Mian bent over her screen, saving data. The plant and storage silo are on the other side of the sun farm, so there’s nothing out there to see anyway. But anyone out there can see in.

  A spike of adrenaline propels Jules to the window on rubbery legs. She grabs the twist of cords and flattens herself against the wall so she’s out of sight while she separates them.

  ‘Julianne—’

  ‘Do you want to make it easy to get shot?’ For an intelligent woman, Peta Paxton is acting extremely dumb.

  Jules gives a hard, panicked yank and the blind slaps to the sill. Another jerk and the louvres shut against the darkness. It won’t stop bullets, but it will make it harder to find a target… unless the mercenaries have thermal imaging sights.

  The siren drones on and the charge is becoming almost unbearable. Fiery pinpricks at her fingertips. She pulls one arm across her chest and then the other, the way she’s seen Ryan stretch, and feels the muscles give a little.

  Professor Mian clears her throat and straightens her kaftan. ‘I can pick this up again when you find me space in a fully equipped lab.’

  ‘Have you saved everything?’

  ‘Only to the tablet. Your data network has gone down.’

  Peta gestures to the suitcase and the tablet. ‘Leave all that.’

  Professor Mian falters. It takes her a long moment to decide her safety’s worth more to her than the data and equipment, then she leaves without a backwards glance. She bangs her hip on the doorjamb on the way out.

  Peta’s phone buzzes and she answers with a forceful tap, eyes on Jules. ‘What?’ She licks her lips while she listens. ‘Send him in.’ Peta shakes out her wrists and her bracelets jangle. Whoever is coming, Jules has to act before they get here. Peta’s not a large woman: Jules should be able to push past her without using the current. She heads for the door.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Peta says, alarmed. Her energy is erratic, anxious, but Jules can’t tell if it’s about her or whoever is about to arrive—

  The doorhandle turns and Jules freezes. She’s missed her chance and now she’s stranded in the middle of the lunchroom.

  ‘After you,’ Priva
te French says from outside.

  Bradford Paxton steps through the door and Jules’ heart gives a confused little hop. He’s dressed in suit pants and polo-neck jumper, his dark hair and beard trimmed shorter than when she last saw him. The energy he brings into the room is as cold as it was at Pax Fed Tower.

  French follows him inside.

  ‘He’s unarmed,’ the soldier promises Jules.

  Bradford stops a good two metres from his sister. ‘I take it you’re aware the Anti-Nuclear Assembly fence is down and there’s a plague of crusty ferals swarming your way?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ Peta says.

  Jules looks to French. ‘The protesters are coming here?’

  The private checks the safety on her handgun, and nods. Jules exhales. Angie knows she’s here.

  ‘You think this keeps her safe, bringing her to my facility?’

  Peta bristles. ‘It’s ours, and yes, I do.’

  Jules can feel the uneasy swirl of energy between them. They’re physically similar—long neck, narrow shoulders—but there’s nothing about their mutual proximity they find comforting. Peta has to work to act aloof; Bradford’s detachment is effortless.

  Peta shifts her weight. ‘I can’t believe you’ve set your dog loose on a nuclear facility.’

  ‘Don’t be so gullible.’ Bradford strolls to the nearest lunch table—two away from Jules—and sits at the head as if he’s in a boardroom. ‘Do you honestly think I’d risk the viability of my crops here? His only job is to lead the Agitators to the point of no return and silence Angela De Marchi.’

  ‘Angela was already silent. It’s your paranoia that’s the problem. As usual.’

  Another piece falls into place for Jules.

  ‘You’re a sore loser, Peta. Dad made his choice. You need to move on.’

  ‘Dad may have prioritised agricultural investment, but he still approved long-term funding for my research. He knew the advances we’re making.’

  The way Bradford rolls his eyes suggests this is a well-worn argument, and one he thinks is long won. ‘Yeah, and he would’ve dropped it like a hot brick if he’d known you lied about destroying the Afghanistan research.’

  Peta shakes her head. ‘Either way, you were told to leave this alone.’

  ‘Things change.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Dad understands the importance of the bill and what it means for the future of our company. What it means for the world.’

  ‘Dad has Alzheimer’s, Bradford, he doesn’t know his name most days.’

  ‘Peta’—Bradford shakes his head as if embarrassed he has to spell it out—‘Dad knew what I was going to do last week.’

  ‘Did he understand you wanted to have an eighteen-year-old girl executed in our building?’

  Bradford raises his eyebrows as if it’s a rhetorical question, and not a particularly interesting one. For a few long seconds, all Jules can hear is her own breathing. The moment stretches out like frayed elastic. More puzzle pieces are falling, falling… and when they click into place the current bites into every nerve ending in her hands.

  ‘Dad can’t give you permission, he’s legally incapable. Does the board know?’

  ‘Listen to yourself. We have the opportunity to eliminate human starvation within a generation if every piece of arable land in Australia is used effectively.’

  ‘Like you give a shit about that. All you care about is being the one to solve a problem nobody else has been able to.’

  He shrugs, not disagreeing.

  ‘And what if you succeed? The next war will be over food rather than oil or religion. You’ll still need armies, you always will, and I’m helping make better soldiers.’

  ‘As long as your program is legal you’ll always have my support for funding. But that’—he points to Julianne—‘is the biggest risk to both our futures. Is deconstructing her DNA worth losing everything? Your work will be worth even less than mine if our friends in Canberra find out about her.’

  Peta’s gaze slides to the suitcase and tablet beside it. She doesn’t look at Jules.

  ‘Are you going to let the mob out there overrun this place?’ she asks.

  ‘My security force won’t let them get that far. But a little chaos can work for us tonight if we use our heads.’

  Jules understands exactly what his so-called security force will do to her and Angie in the ‘chaos’.

  Peta taps her forefinger on her lips while she thinks; the gesture is vague and dismissive. Is that all the consideration their lives deserve, a lacquered nail on a collagen lip?

  Jules can barely breathe because the fear, as always, is suffocating.

  And she’s done with it.

  She’s sick of always being afraid, of always being held together so rigidly she can never simply be. After all the hiding and pretending and mistrusting herself, Jules has ended up here anyway, alone and vulnerable. But not helpless. She’s not without skill to manage this current that flows through her: she proved that last night.

  And now, what’s left to be afraid of?

  The anger rises and she leans into it. The charge snakes up her spine, zapping between sinew and bone and surging to her fingertips. She lets it break across her skin, sizzling blue-white lightning strikes that leave her feeling wild and raw…and free.

  ‘Julianne—’ Peta stops, eyes widening at the sight of her hands. ‘Private, do something.’

  Private French raises her gun. ‘De Marchi, you need to calm down.’ She doesn’t sound particularly calm herself. ‘Nobody’s going to hurt you.’

  Bradford is out of his seat and backing away, his spindly fingers outstretched behind him to feel for the kitchen bench. ‘Shoot her.’

  ‘No,’ Peta says. ‘Let me think.’ Her eyes flick to the lab equipment, to the tablet and the suitcase filled with vials of Jules’ blood and slides with tissue samples. No matter what she’s indicated to her brother, Peta wants that evidence.

  Jules moves closer to it.

  ‘De Marchi…’ Private French warns.

  Jules cups her hands as if carrying water and the lightning strikes curl around themselves to form a ball. Her breath catches. This is what her dad wanted—for Jules to set aside her fear and own the current. The terrifying beauty of it momentarily arrests her. She’s so wired she feels weightless.

  ‘De Marchi.’ Private French raises her gun.

  Jules pauses near the table, straining to keep the charge in her palms. The Paxtons bump shoulders, their energy flowing together instead of against each other. United in fear. They’re frightened of her.

  ‘Just shoot her,’ Bradford snaps at the private.

  Jules cradles her beautiful ball of crackling light. Lifts it towards the lab equipment. Without Professor Mian’s results, Peta needs Jules alive.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ Peta says. ‘Julianne—’

  Jules releases the charge. The current arcs in the air to earth out through the nearest grounded object: the table and everything on it. The electron microscope and tablet spark and pop, and the suitcase bursts into flames.

  Jules steps away a split second before a final violent short takes out the power.

  ‘Do not move.’ Private French steps forward, finger on the trigger. Her face dances in the light of the blazing suitcase. ‘Where’s the fire extinguisher?’

  Bradford searches under the sink. He doesn’t care about the safety of anyone in this room bar himself: all he’s worried about is protecting his facility. Jules flexes her fingers, waits for him to get closer—before thoughts of what she might do to him are cut short by a new sound in the compound.

  Gunfire.

  Bradford’s mercenaries are here.

  61

  Ryan ducks for cover behind a stack of crates. He’s inside the packing house waiting for his sight to adjust to the sudden blackness. He’s listening hard, trying to figure out if one of the shooters has come in behind him; checks for zip ties in his chest rig just in case.

  The absence
of light doesn’t freak him out, not with so much space to breathe in. Ryan briefly thinks of the lift and that moment of heart-splitting panic when the dark closed in. Jules kept it together then—and again later when she was hanging off the side of the elevator shaft, terrified. It’s only now that he understands how much control it must have taken for her to not ground the charge. She would have killed them both if she’d lost it on that climb.

  Another round of gunfire, outside and close. The reality of the moment thuds through him: Z12 is here and he has to get Jules out before they reach her.

  His earpiece buzzes with urgent reports. There are three shooters in the compound, more closing in on foot. The concrete is cold under his fingers but his blood pumps hot as he counts off another five seconds and peers around the crates. Shadowy forms take shape in the gloom: conveyer belts and sorting stations, stacks of styrofoam boxes.

  It’s as good as his sight’s going to get. He scampers across the concrete, handgun drawn, eyes sweeping ahead of him.

  Something hits the wall in the lunchroom.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ It’s Frenchie, strung tight.

  Ryan runs for the lunchroom door—

  Thump.

  A shadow crash-tackles him to the ground. His shoulder crunches on the concrete as the mass of muscle lands with him, grappling to pin his arms. Ryan’s gun clatters away in the dark. He reacts with fists and knees, breathing in a bitter tang of sweat and gun oil. The merc is shorter than Ryan, and he’s fast. They wrestle on the ground, grunting and panting, both searching for a submission hold. Is this the guy who held a rifle to the back of his head last Sunday night? No. That bloke would have put a bullet in him already.

  Ryan wraps his legs around stocky hips and rolls the merc onto his back, clamps an arm around his neck. The guy ducks his chin and jams fingers between his throat and Ryan’s arm, but Ryan is too strong. He’s locked in the hold, squeezing to slow the blood flow to the other man’s brain, careful not to crush the airway. The merc thrashes for a full six seconds before going limp.