Seventy-six years old, I thought, looking at the body of our object. So that’s what it looks like.

  We got back to the ship without incident. It had weighed anchor and was already running south when we came alongside. Just before dawn, a stat met us to take us the rest of the way.

  There’s plenty to like about flying. But the best thing about it is being high enough to get cool. Don’t you think? The mild air. It renders the world gentle, softens your thoughts.

  That first night out, I looked at the sleeping senior. She was crusted in salt. There was blood on her tunic. She was shivering. And I thought, how peaceful she looks.

  When I got home, it was too hot to finish the second growhouse. Sun and my mother had already begun the move underground. They granted the spoils of my bogus salvage trip cursory acknowledgement, but neither was interested in my tales of misadventure. Sun didn’t hide her distress. It would have been hard for her. Shuttering the house she’d only just moved into. I was left feeling feckless and secondary, the subject of shared glances as I scurried to catch up.

  It was a hard summer. One night I came in from the pump room to find Sun weeping silently on our bed. She lay curled on her side and when I asked what was wrong, she didn’t answer.

  I know it’s not easy, I told her. I know it’s not this tough in the south.

  You don’t know anything about the south.

  Okay.

  You don’t know what you’re talking about.

  You miss the trees, the green grass.

  That’s just bloody nostalgia, she spat. The country’s burning half the year. People still talk it up, as if it’s some kind of paradise. Doesn’t matter how miserable it’s got, to them it’s the best it’s ever been.

  I laid a hand on her hip, but her skin was hot and damp. I withdrew before she brushed me off. I knew how intolerable it could be to be touched during the hot season.

  You’re like a ghost, she said.

  Oh, I murmured.

  You come back all charged and full of yourself. For a few days you’re all earnest consideration. And then you go flat and faint.

  I’m sorry, I said. I guess the road takes it out of me. It only catches up with me once I stop.

  I can feel it. When you’re planning to go. I know it before you even say you’re going. You’re transparent.

  Like a ghost, I said haplessly.

  Sun ignored me.

  Is it my mother?

  At least with her, I know where I stand.

  I won’t go again.

  You have to. I know how this works. I just need you to spare me the humiliation.

  What’s happened? What’s she said?

  It’s not her. It’s you. You run off and have yourself a big adventure, and when you get back I’m a problem to manage, a let-down.

  No.

  Bullshit. I can see your mind racing. Your life was simpler before I came along.

  Not simpler. Different. Look, I shouldn’t have gone. It’s the shed. I thought we wanted to be independent.

  Not if it means we’re never together.

  It won’t be like this forever, I said with more hope than conviction.

  You know it will.

  I said nothing. She stayed silent. And at that moment I felt myself close to a precipice. Sun was perceptive enough to know that something was fundamentally amiss. But she didn’t press further. Whether it was from fear, or loyalty, I couldn’t tell. I hated that I’d done this to her.

  That was the night she miscarried. It was years before I knew. And even that was only half the story.

  As it was, the next evening my mother contrived to get me alone topside, ostensibly to check the array, which I’d already cleaned. She walked me across the dark, baking compound to the stilts of her winterhouse and suddenly seized me by the arm.

  This is hard, she hissed. Competing obligations are painful.

  We’re fine, I said.

  You’re not. That’s beyond dispute. All this having and holding. It’s tough. It can feel impossible. No one knows how to do anything this difficult until they’ve actually done it.

  What’re you saying?

  I’m saying work harder. Try harder. Sometimes you have to perform a role until you inhabit the part naturally, instinctively. That’s how every new and difficult task is mastered.

  That’s just ridiculous.

  No, she said. You’re ridiculous. Your behaviour is ridiculous. And you’re making this girl miserable. So, if you don’t shape up, you can take your self-indulgent mess elsewhere.

  You’d kick me off my own land?

  This is family land. If you shame this family, I’ll remove you. You can be sure of that.

  I was shaken by this conversation. Even if, as it turned out, it was not quite the conversation I thought we were having. But my mother’s intervention had a potent effect. The rift it opened between us served to intensify my allegiance to Sun. In the wake of that evening, I did everything in my power to be more attentive, to demonstrate my loyalty to Sun, to make it clear she was the most important person in my life.

  My mother must have known what this would cost her. She understood all the ways in which a young man like me would show fealty to his wife. During our long incarceration underground, where the spaces were so close and the distractions so few, there could be no subtlety in it. I guess she figured it was for the best. She surrendered me for the greater good.

  And Sun? There was no triumph in her. Only a kind of sad, depleted recognition.

  When we came up into the open next April, Sun’s reaction to being released was muted. She looked relieved, but showed none of the elation of the previous year. She seemed diminished by the season she’d endured. My attention was immediately consumed by the challenges of establishing our winter household and cracking on with building the new growhouse.

  Then I got a message from a pigeon in the market. I didn’t know how to break it to Sun. As it turned out, she took the news mildly, with an air of resignation. She seemed preoccupied. And there was something perfunctory about the way she saw me off.

  This turned out to be a brief job. But it didn’t go well. There were intel failures. Which meant we’d been betrayed. Only two of us survived. And both of us were lucky to make it out. I’d been warned at Basic. Told to expect depravity. But it was deeply shocking to see what this looked like up close. It didn’t seem possible that a man would use his children as instruments. But it’s true. He’ll deploy them for his own survival. Not just as decoys. But as killing devices. Walking bombs.

  The debrief on that show was longer than the job itself.

  I came home hardened. With a new shell of armour. I thought I was okay. I gave a good account of how I’d come upon a full-length sheath for the growhouse as well as the necessary hoop frames and hoses.

  Sun seemed relieved to see me. It was as if she’d recovered something of herself in my absence.

  You look different, she said that night, in the privacy of our own bedroom.

  Tired, I said.

  Was it hot out there? You looked a bit cooked.

  Maybe I overdid it a little.

  She was tender. Solicitous. We made love. And, afterwards, I had the most beautiful dream of my life.

  I was deep in the sea, and it was alive, with a million fish – bronze and silver and gold – pressed against me in one shimmering, quivering phalanx. And I was just like them, one of them, swimming effortlessly. The water was cold and clear. I felt safe, one of many, and we were all turning, turning, weaving and twitching as one, like a single creature, at one purpose, banking and diving through the soup of increase and possibility in which we were all suspended. And we swam together, angling, spearing, hurtling up toward the lucid pale surface. Shining like a complete and unified thought.

  I woke in a kind of rapture. But as the dream receded, I felt wistful. No, it was more than that; I was grief-stricken. Because the dream had felt so real, so precious. It was something I wished I could return to. To summon up again. But afterwards, I never could. Try as I might, I couldn’t conjure the thing itself. And it would not return to me unbidden.

  I had other dreams, though. From those I woke in a sweat to find Sun watching me. When she asked what was wrong, what I’d been dreaming, I told her I couldn’t recall. Often this was true. But the bits I did remember, these could never be shared.

  I worked hard that winter. And so did Sun. We finished the growhouse, and I helped her install the new water-only system she’d designed using the reservoirs and pipe we’d plundered. Together we stocked the aisles with cuttings and seedlings propagated over summer. But although by day’s end I was utterly spent, I found myself resisting sleep, resting only at short intervals, like a parched man gulping.

  You look ragged, Sun would say.

  I’m fine.

  I think you’re pushing yourself too hard. You’re working right until noon most days. You’re going to get sick. And I can’t keep it up.

  I didn’t realize, I said.

  You know better.

  Okay. Yes. I’ll ease up.

  Inside by ten-thirty.

  Yes, I said. It’s for the best.

  Are you worried about something? Not having enough? Not being able to make this work?

  No, I lied. I’m fine.

  You know if we shut the whole thing down, we could still make ends meet with your mother.

  No need. But you’re right. I need to wind things back a bit. More to life than work, right?

  She nodded. Smiled faintly. But she seemed watchful. That winter I caught my mother observing me too. And more than once. Her gaze was cooler. Untroubled.

  I wondered if they’d been talking. I hated deceiving them both like this. Hated the creep of my paranoia even more.

  I kept bracing for another deployment. Dreading it, really. But for months nothing disturbed our routine. Then, one morning at the market, the filmlayer eased up alongside me as I sorted my trades before leaving.

  Ship wants victualling, he said. She’ll be docking tomorrow. Go to the blue boat at four. Don’t wait for anyone to come down for you. Just go up the gangway and say you’re there to arrange the provisions. Bring what victuals you can spare.

  Should I be ready to leave?

  What am I? he said. Your mother?

  The next day, having decided it was better not to try to hide this transaction, I drove into the hamlet with four crates of fresh produce. At the dock stood a small freighter I’d never seen before. I carried a crate up the gangway and was met by a stocky seaman with half an ear missing.

  Thank you, comrade, he said, taking the crate from me. Any more?

  Back of the vehicle, I said.

  This way, he said, leading me to a cabin door.

  After knocking, he let me in, then stepped back out onto the deck again. I found myself in a spartan wardroom. A woman entered from another door.

  Comrade, she said.

  Provisions?

  Please, she said. Sit down.

  Am I going somewhere?

  No, she said. This is just a chat. Please, she said, indicating a chair fixed to the deck.

  I sat uneasily.

  She was a wiry woman, perhaps in her thirties. She wore light coveralls without sleeves. She hadn’t seen much sun. I figured she was no mariner.

  How’s your health?

  You’re a doctor?

  She nodded.

  I’m fit, I said. Good to go.

  Have you ever been told you talk in your sleep?

  What? No.

  Somniloquy, it’s called.

  Okay. Never had it.

  Not even when you were a child?

  Not that I know of.

  I see.

  What’s this about?

  It’s been brought to our notice.

  Me? Really? I don’t even snore.

  She smiled.

  Someone’s said something?

  She nodded sorrowfully.

  In the field?

  Only repat, at this stage.

  I tried to take this in.

  How was the job? she asked.

  They haven’t told you?

  I’m asking you, comrade.

  Well, it wasn’t good.

  The use of children.

  Yes, I said after a long hesitation.

  And how do you feel about that?

  I dunno, I said. Disgusted. Upset.

  Angry?

  Well, yeah.

  Understandably. It’s barbaric.

  These people, I said. Sometimes I’ve wondered if we exaggerate a bit. Because they’re them and we’re us. Like it’s useful, even necessary. To keep the comrades at it.

  You really think that?

  I’m just saying I’ve wondered. I mean, I’ve seen some things. Stuff I couldn’t believe anyone would do. So, there’s that, yeah. But mostly they do what anyone would do to stay alive, protect their families.

  And this?

  I looked away from her. I had to stop a moment. To rearrange myself, catch my breath. To wipe it away. But when I thought of it, when it was there with me again, I had the panicky feeling I would have it all adhering like spilled tar forever.

  Comrade?

  Yes?

  Everything okay?

  When do I go back out?

  Well, she said. I don’t have operational input.

  But I’m good to go.

  I applaud your zeal. But whether you’re good to go is not really your call.

  Honestly, I’m fine.

  Actually, I doubt that.

  What’s this about? I said, suddenly agitated. Talking in my sleep? What was I saying?

  I don’t have details.

  I’m not sure I believe that.

  Best not to contradict me.

  I dipped my head to indicate submission.

  The details of what you’re saying in your sleep may or may not be critical. But your propensity to be doing this – to be having such a thing happen to you – may very well be. I’m sure you understand the risks.

  I understand my obligations. I understand the importance of security. You honestly think I’m going to shoot my mouth off? Betray my comrades?

  No one is doubting your discipline or your integrity. This is probably just a symptom of stress. If this phenomenon is new, as you suggest, then that seems likely.

  This is bullshit.

  Excuse me? she said, sitting back demonstratively.

  Sorry, I stammered. I’m sorry. I apologize. I withdraw the remark.

  I should hope so. There’s no need to take this as an affront. We need to keep you and everyone who depends on you safe. That includes your family. You had a very challenging deployment. You need some time to recover.

  I’ve had some time.

  We think you need more.

  So there’s nothing you can give me? Like drugs?

  I gather ganja is widely used in these parts, correct?

  Yes. In summer. For the heat. We call it choof.

  Ah. And it aids sleep?

  Normally, yes.

  But it hasn’t helped since the repat?

  I haven’t had any. Want to stay sharp, you know? In case of another show.

  She smiled kindly.

  You can’t give me something stronger?

  Nothing that wouldn’t risk a more depressive effect. Nothing that’s operationally safe.

  I gave a curt nod, seething. You’re standing me down.

  You’re owed a rest, comrade. You have family.

  Yes, I said, as if this were an impediment and not a blessing.

  We’ll keep tabs on your recovery. Bring you in when the time’s right. Not me personally, of course.

  I nodded again, defeated.

  You’re disappointed. I understand. But this is just temporary. And our struggle, as you know, is a long game. Thank you for the produce, by the way. Your family’s reputation in that regard is well earnt.

  I went home humiliated. And furious that one of my own, some nameless comrade on the repat leg, had informed on me. I was a loyal and competent operator. To be summarily declared unsound – well, it was stupid, but it stung. I didn’t believe the allegation for a moment. Didn’t understand how this could have happened. But I knew the only way back to operational duty was by submitting.

  We grew good choof, Sun and me. Especially once her water system was established. That season I smoked as if summer had yet to leave us and might never end. It blunted my frustration. And helped me sleep. And increased my anxiety.

  The dreams persisted. And they became more frequent.

  One night I woke to find Sun standing by the window, watching me.

  What is it? I asked, scrambling up onto one elbow.

  Something’s wrong, she said. You have to tell me.

  There’s nothing wrong.

  Do you ever feel a sense of dread?

  Dread?

  Like, doom.

  Me? No.

  Are you afraid to go to sleep?

  No, I lied.

  You’re wearing yourself out. You’re losing weight. I’m worried.

  Don’t be. I’m fine.

  She looked at me as if deliberating. Hesitating. Or just taking stock. Of me, I assumed. Which goes to show how trapped I was in my own mess.

  The next night my mother came across the compound to join us for dinner. Afterwards, the three of us sat outside with the awning cranked back so we could see the stars.

  This could be a good winter, said my mother. If our luck holds. I was sceptical, I admit it, but Sun’s new system has been a triumph.

  She’s brilliant, I said.

  She is.

  Well, it’s nice of you to say, said Sun. It’s nice to have the support.

  You’re family, said my mother, gazing out across the moonlit plain to the rumpled mass of the range.

  It can’t be easy to give up a son.

  My mother sighed. Children leave. Eventually they divide themselves from us. It’s natural.

  I am still sitting here, you know, I interjected with as much good humour as I could summon.

  They’re not ours to keep, said my mother. And our children are not our keepers either.