But a plot like this. Dear God, it was low. It was unbecoming. And yet it was ingenious. Because of course it worked. Once the initial wave of rage and resentment had washed past, the gravity of the Utah job began to settle on me. The implications of what we’d done became clearer.

  I flicked back through the dossier. Again and again, all through it, from the first page to the last, that same five-letter word was there in blocky capitals. And the sight of it set off something in me.

  You understand, right? You get why my pulse went up just seeing the name. As you say, the name above all names. This was the giant that ate children. All children. Like something from the sagas. And to see it killed? To know that I’d been there at the death? Comrade, it was like a charge going off inside me. And the Service was right, you know. This was the kind of knowledge that’ll change the shape of a life. It did. It has. It does. So you can rob me. And cage me. And even kill me, come morning. But this? This, you can never take from me. You can only sit there in amazement, stewing in your duds. And envy me. Oh, you’ll call me a liar, a fantasist, a smooth-talking bullshitter. But you’ll wonder, won’t you. It’ll eat at you. And, deep down, you’ll suspect you’re in the presence of history.

  You already know the details about the job. But I’ll walk you through the dossier.

  At the point in the file where my codename lay – the tag sticking out, where I’d first opened the stack – there was a single paragraph describing the terminal action in Utah. As in, our bit of the job. It was short, no-nonsense. All the details compressed. Delivery and set-down. The duration of the show, from the trek in, the uplift. No mention of the missing drones and heat blankets, mind. Just an abbreviated account of the three-day stand to, the engagement, and the acquittal. Details about the return journey, with its weather complications and losses, were vague. The irregular extraction that saved my life and that of Spanish – well, that wasn’t mentioned at all. Yet our repat and her suicide were in the record, though her codename had been redacted, which gave me a pang. It would have been nice to know it.

  Overall, the substantive details of the job – our part in it, at least – were logged accurately. It was quite a surprise to see the mission declared a total success. Our casualties had been catastrophic. If you included Spanish – and I certainly did – I’d lost everyone. Sure, we’d acquitted the object and his family. Blew the stronghold to shit. And lived long enough to get word back. But it never felt like a victory to me. That job had burnt me in more ways than one.

  And yet, there it was. Total success. What’s more, the file went on for hundreds of pages after the account of our operation. Evidently, in the years afterwards, the site had been constantly surveilled. The fortress in the canyon had never been rebuilt or reoccupied. No sign of life was ever detected and no connection to the cartel endured in that region or anywhere else. An enormous logistical effort had gone into verifying the death of this object and every sprig and strand of his clan. And after a five-year forensic review of intel, the object’s dynasty had been officially declared extinct. Can you imagine what it was like to see that? Christ, I went weak at the knees.

  You want me to say it, don’t you. The vanquished name. Okay, I’ll say it.

  EXXON?

  Yes. Yes. No word of a lie.

  EXXON. EXXON. EXXONMOBIL. EXXON.

  That bloke. EXXON wasn’t his personal moniker. That was his clan name. And there it was, in bold caps.

  You know, hundreds of pages predated the Utah show in that file. It was all the background and build-up. All the wars the EXXONS had started. The ones they’d fuelled, profited from. In Africa, Mesopotamia, South America. The lands and seas and rivers they’d poisoned. The districts and regions and governments they’d captured and rendered as vassals. I read carefully, trying hard to take it all in, to remember everything. I thumbed open the images and clips. Folded out the family tree, which was half an inch thick and webbed with names and figures so small you’d need a glass to read them.

  God, it must have been painstaking work. Based, I guess, on all those troves left before the Terror by brave folks, angry folks, frightened folks, sick folks. Martyrs as much as scribes and witnesses. And think of it, comrade: the generations of research and intel, the faith and grit that had gone into stalking and destroying this dynasty of overlords. Can you even imagine? What it took to overthrow and finally expunge that empire whose roots spread to every part of the globe like the tendrils of a cancer, spoiling every bit of flesh it touched. It was so big it outlasted its own epoch. Not even the collapse could kill it. They persisted in the shadows, the EXXONS. Feasting on the suffering, dying body of the world, imagining they were safe, as they’d always been safe.

  But our pioneers, the early vanguard of the Service, they knew what a purulent canker smells like. Hell, they could probably taste the rot of it in the air. And the long story of that quest to sniff them out and excise them was all there in my hands, like a chapter from the sagas. Every failure, betrayal and retreat, each small victory and moment of progress. Every scion acquitted. Every oligarch, trader, lawyer, banker, enforcer, collaborator, propagandist who hadn’t already been cast to the winds – all of them winkled out and ablated.

  They did it – we all did it – with volunteers, comrade. With inferior kit and materiel. We did the impossible, the unthinkable. And how? Because our cause was just, and our faith was strong. And eventually, as their blood grew thinner and the clan grew more inbred, feebler, more stupid, they were no match for us. They clung to the language and culture of a fallen dispensation. So for all their many technical advantages and comforts, they were no longer fit for the world they’d wrought. The one they’d left us. And, in the end, there were too few of them, and their fear or delusions of superiority were no match for our conviction. Because for us the work was holy. We handed it on, a sacred task, from generation to generation. And I think of it now: how could they have imagined they’d survive us? Yes, they had every advantage, right down to the suicide serfs and mercenary armies. But the EXXONS could never understand that a free citizen, a volunteer, can do things for pride and for principle, in hope, and in desperation, that a despot and his vassals simply cannot.

  So. To Utah.

  Our object. With his final puff on the terrace. Or his whimsical grope and kiss. He was the last of his kind. The great ogre’s final gasp.

  And I was there. At the end of the age.

  Standing in that empty room, with my legs aquiver, I thought of my nameless comrades. And I wanted to bellow. To howl. And to sing the vanquished name. For them. For my instructors, like Awe. But also for myself, and the hollow thing I’d become.

  Of course, I did no such thing. I straightened up and felt myself slowly fill with juice. As if I’d been hooked up to an array the size of the Outer Cape.

  That was us, I thought. I’d lived to see the extinction of the EXXONS. I’d been there. Had wielded the scalpel myself. And to know it was the gift of a lifetime.

  Jesus Christ alive, says the bowman, scratching wildly at his beard.

  Yes, I murmur, spent now.

  He fills a flask from a drum and shoves it through the wire. I drink again and pass it back.

  You’re fucking good at this. You had me going there.

  It’s the truth. Our object was forty-two years old. His wife thirty-four. Their daughters four and six.

  Brilliant.

  Truly.

  It’s worth the entertainment. Bloody hell, what a story. The old minstrels had nothing on you, mate.

  It’s just what happened.

  Intel leaves you alone to read the whole bloody EXXON file? Yeah, that’s likely.

  I never said it was likely.

  Man, we needed more of your type, he says. They gave us no end of trainers and pointy-heads from Planning, but there were never any bards or jokers in the camps. I swear, we could’ve done with you.

  You’re not listening, I say.

  Beautiful. Bloody beautiful.

  I’m standing there, the dossier’s still open on the table, and five people come in. Planners. Spooks from Intel. To make me an offer.

  Don’t tell me, he says. They’ve got your wife.

  No, I say with a sigh.

  Course not, he says. There never was a wife. She’s too good to be true, mate. You overdid it there.

  Truth is, in that moment I didn’t even give Sun a thought. I’m not proud of it, but right at that instant, in the face of what I’d just read, she’d vanished from my mind.

  Ha! Too excited, eh? Too overcome! By God, he says with a chuckle. This is some wild shit you’re spinning.

  Now the bowman’s laughter irks me. And I wonder what weeks and months or even years of exposure to his scornful pessimism might do to me. Will I survive this night only to strangle the man one afternoon out of sheer exasperation?

  You can’t imagine what it was like, I say.

  Isn’t that your problem? Aren’t you the one telling the yarn? Anyway, you really expect me to believe they flew a disaffected, insubordinate operator out to bumfuck nowhere to show him the EXXON dossier?

  Everything about it was irregular.

  No shit.

  But, like I said, it was a ploy.

  To what end?

  To get me to do a job.

  Because you’re so special?

  If you don’t want to hear this, just say. I’m tired. I’m happy to sleep.

  C’mon, brother. Don’t be like that. Don’t sulk. Cough it out. Really, you’re not bad at this.

  So, as I was saying: five of them came into the room. The spooks among them were easy enough to spot. Planners had that meticulous air. Plain, cautious, plodding. Whereas the folks from Intel had a bit of flash. They needed to show you they had the goods. And while a planner was likely to admit to what she didn’t know for the sake of accuracy, a spook couldn’t help covering her arse. You know, lest they give you a sense of being your equal.

  Well, I told them. This is a rum set-up.

  They all looked sideways at each other.

  Yes, said a wiry little woman with a withered arm. It’s unconventional. But the Service appreciates your attendance here today.

  I came expecting something else.

  That’s a pity. What you’ve been given is a rare privilege.

  It feels like a trap.

  It would be a mistake to think so.

  Accessing restricted files. I could be cashiered for that. Or worse.

  Just as you could have been permanently relegated for dissent and insubordination after your last deployment, said the spook. But we’re here to make you an offer.

  Your record in the field is outstanding, said one of the planners. And missions like these, he said, jerking his chin at the EXXON dossier. They’re rare. To be part of an effort of historic consequence – that should be a source of great pride.

  We’re keen to offer you a special opportunity, comrade. But first we need to ascertain your status.

  My health? I said. Or my loyalty?

  At your previous debrief you expressed concerns about altered conditions in the field. Gas failures. And faulty intel.

  Yes.

  We’ve looked into it. Our gas is sound. But the last holdouts have a defence against it.

  Masks, I said. Stands to reason. If we’ve got them, so will they.

  No mask will hold out indefinitely, said the planner. As you know yourself, the build-up after thirty minutes is lethal. We haven’t found any masks in strongholds, and if they have them they’re not at all like ours.

  Let’s not pretend it’s about masks, said the woman from Intel. Just tell him.

  For a few moments there was silence. The tent walls shivered in the hot wind.

  We have a special job, said the planner. Requiring extraordinary measures. And we need to assemble a unique team.

  You shouldn’t be saying any of this.

  These are exceptional circumstances, said the spook. We have a specific opportunity. To achieve a breakthrough. Which may be decisive.

  We’re that close?

  Well, said the spook, it’s not for me to say.

  But as you can see, said the planner, the Service has gone to unusual lengths.

  This is an inflection point. You understand?

  I nodded, though I’m not sure I really did understand.

  This will be an extremely challenging action, said the planner. We’re not talking about the dregs here. This is a consolidated adversary. With none of the eccentricities of the late-stage EXXONS.

  Okay.

  Okay, what? said the planner.

  Why would you think I wouldn’t be up for it?

  You seem content with civilian life, said the spook.

  It’ll still be there when I get back. When do we go?

  Before you consent, said the planner, you need to see something. Comrades, shall we?

  They marched me out into the webbed light and together we filed across the dusty camp until, at the perimeter, the camo lattice was lifted to let us out onto the spinifex plain of the desert. A truck was waiting for us, whirring under its own lean-to of camouflage. We climbed up onto the cowled tray and the vehicle bumped and wove between the low tussocks across the dirt, until it found a trail through the spinifex.

  After an hour, we pulled up near the mouth of a dry gorge. I followed the others to another lattice-shade shelter, where a stocky operator with an eyepatch met us with water and some provisions for lunch. As the brass sipped and nibbled, she and I surveyed one another frankly. She could see I was an old hand and was doubtless wondering if I still had the sand for it. From the lost eye and the left ear melted to a brown stub, I knew she’d been unlucky. Or perhaps reckless.

  Right, then, said the spook, chucking the dregs of her water against a rock. Shall we crack on?

  Yes, said the operator struggling to hide her disapproval at the waste. Everything’s prepped.

  We have special allowance to use an irregular tool on this mission, said the planner. It’s unconventional, but the only option. You need to acquaint yourself with it and give consent.

  Follow me, said the operator.

  She led us into the gorge a way until, ahead of a blind corner blackened by fire, we reached a pair of shell cases marked BREATHING APPARATUS IV – RESTRICTED. She motioned me forward and directed me to pop the latches of the nearest case. Inside lay a harness, a cylinder and a gooseneck nozzle.

  Looks primitive, I said.

  Does the job.

  But it’s not any kind of breather, is it?

  No, comrade, she replied mordantly. This is not a breather.

  You people can’t be serious.

  Here, she said, hauling it out of the shell and strapping it on. You ignite the juice here. Trigger is down under this. Then it’s point and go.

  This is illegal, I said. This isn’t right.

  It’s the only way we can do the job, comrade. Believe me, you’ll be grateful for it.

  She half turned and, as the sun caught the sheen of the cylinder, the nozzle sparked into a drooling flame. And without warning, as she triggered the thing, it spewed a howling arc of fire that splattered against the charred wall of the gorge thirty metres away.

  Now, she said. You try.

  You gave them the nod, says the bowman.

  I did.

  We should have used it sooner. All those poor bastards you’d see coming back in bits.

  I just don’t think we understood what was happening. Not even the spooks.

  But everyone could see the gas wasn’t working anymore. Why’d it take them so long?

  Maybe because it’s ugly.

  Jesus, man, gas is ugly.

  But fire – it’s barbaric.

  What choice did we have?

  You ever use it?

  I did. If we’d cooked those clunkers the first moment we could, the world wouldn’t have turned to shit.

  Well, I didn’t even know we were up against something like that. Anyway, it was a mistake. Things might’ve worked out if we’d responded differently.

  The only thing we should’ve done different is to use fire on them sooner. Fucking horrible things.

  You ever actually meet one?

  Me? No. Jesus.

  Not even in the field?

  He shakes his head. Burrows a finger into one ear.

  I saw enough to know they’re unnatural, he says.

  I don’t argue the point. I’m too tired.

  So you went? he asks me.

  Yes.

  Well, come on, brother, have at it.

  From the desert camp I was flown home and instructed to stand by for this special op. But a year passed and no word came.

  The seasons grew perverse. Our yields fell. More folks left the hamlet and took to the road. By the winter solstice of the year after that, I’d begun to suspect the job had fallen through. Or that it had been crewed and executed without me. So my state of readiness began to decay.

  One indication was that I found myself noticing women in the market square. Watching them in ways I hadn’t for years. Maybe this had something to do with my mother. The sadness of watching her age. How complaisant and forgiving she’d become, as if finally ground down by the hardships of plains life. Local girls looked hunched and careworn, even in adolescence. In their hoods and scarves, their older sisters and mothers were like crones. And as they pawed the produce on the trays before me, the fingers protruding from their sun gloves reminded me of the gnarled sticks on which the eagle of my youth had perched.

  I was afraid to think of Sun. Had been for years. Because the thought of her and the memory of madness seemed inseparable. And yet, during that second winter of waiting, I was registering the many ways in which those hamlet women were unlike Sun. At least Sun as I had known her.

  I’d never considered looking again for companionship or marriage. After Sun’s departure, I didn’t raise the prospect with my mother. I’d spent time in the company of women while on active service, people who were comely in their way, or fierce or staunch, or bore all these attractive aspects at once, and yet I never felt a flicker of interest. Madness and sorrow had burnt something out of me.