One Saturday, at the end of the morning market, I was packing down the stall when someone stepped up beside me. Stooped at the tailgate, I declared I was out of produce and done for the day. It was only when the woman spoke that I glanced up.

  She said: I’m not here to trade for tomatoes.

  I looked about, immediately alert, and saw there was nobody else nearby.

  She wore hemp boots, dusty work pants and a hooded cloak. A swaddled infant was strapped to her chest. The woman seemed agitated.

  You have a message?

  Yes, she said, smoothing the child’s bonnet with a gloved hand.

  She was much younger than me, with a nose that had been broken and badly reset.

  So, the message?

  I want you to stop looking at me, she said.

  Okay, I said, returning to the empty crates I was stacking in the bed of the vehicle.

  It’s making people talk, she said.

  There’s nobody here, I told her.

  It’s been happening for weeks. It can’t go on.

  I stopped what I was doing and peered at her.

  I’m sorry, I said. I don’t know you.

  You have no right. Looking at my child like she’s some kind of fruit you’re waiting to eat.

  I think there’s been a mistake.

  The error is yours. I’m not a vindictive person. But what you did to that girl was shameful. And you probably don’t deserve to see your child again, but I’m pleading with you. I’ll trade with you to make it stop.

  There’s nothing to trade and nothing to stop, I said. I already told you, citizen. I don’t know you.

  I’m making you an offer. Others will not be so understanding.

  I think you should get out of the sun, I said.

  You think your mother can protect you forever? You’re not the only growers on the plain!

  Now you’re threatening me?

  I have information.

  I think you’re confused, I said, turning my back.

  He doesn’t even want to know! she declared to the empty square. This heartless fool. This succubus. He deserves to be alone.

  I finished packing hurriedly. Drove home at speed.

  The encounter unnerved me. I’d never experienced a breach of hamlet decorum like this. I didn’t mention it to my mother, but later that week, at dinner, she announced that for the remainder of the season, she’d do the market run herself.

  Are you sure? I asked.

  I think it’s best.

  Can I ask why?

  I gather there was an altercation.

  How do you know this?

  I went in for a meeting. Tuesday, if you recall. Someone from the Association mentioned it.

  They’re talking about it there? That’s ridiculous.

  Nevertheless. We’ve had a run of harsh seasons. People are experiencing distress. It’s important to maintain calm and civility. You understand how fragile these are. And what can happen to a community if things slip. You’ve walked through ruins – you don’t need to be told.

  This is an overreaction, I said. Some woman accused me of looking at her. Having evil designs on her baby. She’s not well.

  I’m sorry, she said. But the hamlet can’t afford any more wild talk. And neither can we. I’ll do all the marketing until the heat comes. You should consider a salvage trip, in case this gets out of hand.

  You’re afraid of some crazy person? You’ll let me be defamed?

  We have a higher responsibility.

  This isn’t fair.

  You sound like a child, she said, getting up from the table. I’m surprised at you.

  She began to collect dishes and take them to the galley while I sat before my unfinished meal. When she bade me goodnight, I did not answer. From the deck I watched her cross the compound in the moonlight. I spent the rest of the evening brooding.

  But over the days to come, as I worked alone or alongside my mother, I had time to ponder the stranger’s words in the market. Yes, she’d been mistaken, and she’d uttered a veiled threat, but before her agitation got the better of her, she’d spoken of an offer. She’d mentioned information. And the stuff about me deserving to be alone – could this have something to do with Sun? Was that the trade she was proposing? Some sort of intel about Sun’s whereabouts in exchange for promising I wouldn’t leer at her or her child? It was insane. And yet once the thought arrived, I couldn’t shake it off.

  For the remainder of that week, I was distant toward my mother, but I gave her no reason to believe I would defy her. When market day came, I joined her in the pre-dawn gloom to help pack our surplus into her truck. I stayed out to see her off. Then, two hours after first light, I drove my own rig to the hamlet, arriving as the final trades were being made in the hot shade.

  As I got out, across the square I saw my mother straighten. The pale flash of her face was momentary. She resumed her negotiations with a fellow proffering a sack of something too distant to identify. But I knew she’d seen me.

  I wasn’t even halfway across the square before the woman from the previous week intercepted me. She strode up with a determined expression. She’d come without the child. Strands of her dark hair were spilling from the cowl of her cloak.

  You have to stop this, she said.

  I will, I said. You have my word. But what are you trading?

  You need to go away, she said.

  I often go away.

  You’ve been to the city? she said, leaning in so close I could smell sweat and cinnamon.

  Yes, I said. You’re from there?

  You know the port?

  I do.

  And the hospital district?

  Yes.

  Building 54.

  What is it?

  An academy. There’s a creche. A school.

  Yes?

  I have your word? As a citizen and a comrade?

  What’re you saying?

  Your word, she said. You’ll go away. You’ll leave us be?

  I promise, I said.

  I saw them there.

  What?

  Marjorie, said the filmlayer, suddenly at her side. I think your sister is waiting.

  She can wait, said the woman, shrugging him off.

  Here, he said. Let me help you.

  I don’t need help.

  She’s got your baby, he said, pointing to the corner of the square where another woman clutched the swaddled bundle in the shade. Babies are precious, right?

  Yes, she said, her face softening into a smile of adoration.

  That’s right, said the big fellow, giving me a long, cold look.

  They’re precious, said the woman, turning her attention back to me. Her eyes were pale blue. Fierce.

  Let’s go, said the filmlayer as my mother approached.

  You promised, the woman said, no longer resisting.

  I did, I said as she turned and let herself be led away.

  I told you to stay home, said my mother, her voice close in my ear and quivering with rage.

  The woman’s ill, I said.

  Of course she’s ill.

  She’s worried about her baby.

  There is no baby, she hissed. It’s a doll.

  What?

  Can you not tell the difference between a child and a bunch of rags? Leave now, she said.

  Jesus, I said, bewildered. I’m sorry.

  For everyone’s sake, just go.

  At my vehicle, in the hard sun, a scruffy rustic waited, leaning against the push bar, watching my progress across the square. When I got close, he drew himself up and I steeled myself for a confrontation.

  Citizen, I said, noting the cankers on his cheeks, the piece of his brow missing.

  A message, he said.

  Okay, I said, glancing around. My mother had her stall packed down already. The women were gone and the filmlayer too.

  Same place as last time. A week from today. Noon.

  Understood, I said.

  He walked away without another word and didn’t look back.

  I got in the vehicle, ramped up the air and sat a moment to take in this news. No milk run or briefing ever required a week’s notice. This had to be the job. At last.

  Later, at home, I walked across the compound and hauled myself up my mother’s steps. She was preparing herself for the afternoon heat. Her bed linen was peeled back. She was in her shift.

  I think it’s probably time for me to leave for a while, I said.

  She gave a sigh of resignation and said perhaps that was for the best.

  We could do with some new panels, she said.

  Yes. I’ll have a good look around. It’ll take me a few weeks, I suspect.

  I imagine so. But we don’t have much to trade right now for that kind of kit.

  I still have a stash in the mine country, I told her.

  Ah, she said. You always did well there.

  Yes, I said. You were right about that.

  It hasn’t been easy for you, I know.

  Sometimes it’s a relief to be somewhere people don’t know me.

  I understand, she said. But I worry that you’ll be . . . lost, somehow.

  I know my way around, I said mildly.

  I mean lost to your own. To your people and your place. I hate to think of you becoming rootless. I don’t want you to get used to it.

  It’s only a few weeks, I said.

  Yes, she said. The change will help.

  Five days later, in the early morning darkness, she clutched me and wept. And I was surprised at how thin and delicate she suddenly seemed. As if her old armour had forsaken her. I felt wretched leaving her, but relieved to be going.

  The bowman interrupts me. He comes close, puts his fingers in the mesh.

  This woman, he says. The wife. You never talk about what she was like. In the sack.

  Are you serious?

  You brought it up. Talk of women.

  You want to know about my wife’s body?

  Look at me, he says. Look who you’re telling this to. Look where we are. Can’t you see a man might be interested to know? I don’t mean anything indecent by it. But would it kill you to sprinkle in a few details of a – well, a carnal nature? Fella like you, stories to tell. You set me up, leave me hanging.

  No.

  I don’t care if she’s not real. If she’s your little fancy, she can be mine, too.

  She was real. I’m not going to talk about anything like that.

  Ah, c’mon, friend, he says. Look where we are. Think about how long it’s been.

  Comrade, I say, struggling to manage my fury. Why would you speak like that of a woman? What happened to you?

  Jesus, man! he says with a bitter laugh. The world. The fucking world happened to me. To you, too, mate. You’re just too clueless to see it.

  I know how the world is.

  Do you? Really? Or is it just the version you console yourself with, the bullshit you make up, like these yarns you’re spinning? What are you, anyway? A liar, a fantasist, or just a fucking nitwit? I bet you don’t even know anymore.

  I know who I am. And I know how the world is. I haven’t caved in, comrade. I still know what’s right.

  Baah! You’re a disappointment. That’s all I can say.

  The feeling’s mutual.

  Fuck me, he says. Are you sulking now?

  There’s a child here, I say.

  What of it?

  A girl. You don’t offer me confidence, comrade. I’m not reassured.

  What the fuck are you talking about?

  You know exactly what I’m talking about.

  You should wash your mouth out.

  I want assurances, I tell him. Or it’ll end here.

  He peers at me. Then at the sleeping child. And I know he’s understood me. Because he’s already feeling behind him for his bow. He knows I could break her neck before he even loosed a bolt.

  I shouldn’t have to, he says, sounding genuinely aggrieved.

  And I shouldn’t have to fucking ask.

  I’m not a barbarian, he says.

  Promise me.

  Go fuck yourself.

  I sink back against the jumble of hard shapes behind me. And nothing more is said for a while.

  C’mon, then, he says. Don’t leave me hanging. Crack on.

  I don’t know why they sent us by sea. The decision to make an equatorial transit that way was logistically and tactically bewildering. We lost two operators to calenture in the first leg alone. It’s bad for morale having to watch comrades writhe and cook in their own skins.

  For a stronghold interdiction, we were an unusually large company, so conditions on board were dangerously crowded. As expected, the veteran with the eyepatch was with us. She and I pretended not to know each other. And I wondered how many others aboard were doing likewise. It was just another irregularity to contend with, and I tried my best not to fret about it.

  The vessel was a small freighter. Hardly bigger than the coastal scows that used to visit the peninsula. Its solar sail ran like a black flag before us, and any forceful gust yanked the hull forward so suddenly that the screws cavitated with a disconcerting whinny.

  The crew were equatorials – nimble, hardy, silent, but kindly enough. Many nights they offered us the salty tack they made from jellyfish. For us, it was unnerving to eat things of the sea. But insects and boneless creatures were not proscribed food, so we champed away dutifully, even if we never quite got used to it.

  For several days we ran before the southerly trade winds. As a boy I’d read the stories of birds following boats in clouds, and fish like armies on the march. There were tales of mysterious creatures that lit up the night sea, and great wallowing monsters that huffed and hooted in the darkness. But all I saw was plastic dandruff and the jellies that churned in our wake.

  Then, as if we’d exhausted both sea and breeze, we came into the doldrums, where the only sound was the whirr of the screws and the awful noise your thoughts made as they rattled around your head. We spent our days and nights on deck, beneath strung tarps and camo shrouds. There was little talk. No one had the energy for it. I guess we were each an island afloat in our feverish reveries. We had life-suits aboard, but oxygen and coolant were precious, so we reserved them for emergencies only.

  Every morning at dawn, the crew went aloft to clean the panels of their fixed array. Their voices carried below. I didn’t know their language, but they sounded cheerful in a way that seemed heartening at first but came to feel oppressive for reasons I couldn’t discern. By then, the only breeze was generated by the ship’s momentum. The humidity was frightful.

  Two weeks out, at the first sight of land, the screws stopped, the hull went dead in the water, and we were ordered below. We spent an unspeakably ugly day waiting in the hold. Two more hands were struck down with heat fever. Their torment brought me to the brink of panic.

  At sunset, the order came from above to stand to in full kit. Down in the hold, the air was stifling. We stood there an hour, our webbing like some instrument of torture. It was then that I saw why there were so many of us. The planners had allowed for high losses in transit.

  Eventually we heard a smaller craft approaching at speed. It fell silent just short of us, presumably to signal, and then we heard it buzz in alongside. We felt the thuds of its wake against the hull. After that, the groan of fenders under load. In the grisly fug below deck, we held position as bodies and weights clomped overhead. We heard ratchets, pulleys, low voices, and barely ten minutes later the other boat pushed off and sped away with a hiss. We held stations for another interval before the hatches were opened and our ship got under way again, which at least forced some air down onto our streaming faces. Then, finally, the order came to stand down and we were allowed back on deck. We disposed of one body and tended to the surviving operator until she, too, expired. We stripped her of any identifying apparel and consigned her to the darkness.

  The air was thick, wet, and dirty. There were no stars. The sea was sluggish. Looked greasy.

  At the rail, just short of the bow, the veteran with the eyepatch leant in close and pointed out the yellow smear of lights in the distance.

  Mumbai Archipelago, she said.

  So we’re a long way north.

  With further to go.

  You know the site already?

  I do.

  Jesus. And if something happens to you?

  You’ll be briefed.

  This deviation from protocol. It doesn’t strike you as foolhardy?

  I reckon they figure this one is do or die.

  Even more reason to keep things tight.

  You’d have thought so.

  Is this overconfidence, you think, or desperation?

  Comrade, she said. This is an odd show, but not so odd I’ll be having that conversation with you.

  Understood, I said, chastened.

  On the unlit foredeck, the ship’s crew stripped the new cargo of its nets and webbing and took several smaller supply crates aft. Left behind in the darkness were two rows of identical shapes laid out on the deck. We didn’t have to be told what they were. These were the shell cases containing our field kit. The crew returned to hustle them away while those of us in the action team luxuriated in the moving air.

  It took me a while to notice that along with the kit we’d taken aboard two new passengers. Their soapy scent marked them out as planners. They kept to themselves, bunking in a cabin away from the rest of us.

  Three days later, after sunset, an order came down from the unlit bridge for us to strip and move aft. The ten of us who were still operational shucked our rancid fatigues and shuffled back to the afterdeck. Once we were assembled by the scuppers, two crew members sprayed us down with firehoses. The seawater they pumped at us was warm and hard as gravel against our skin, but the breeze from the ship’s momentum freshened it enough for the effect to be soothing. Field attire was issued. And after we’d buttoned down and booted up, we were ushered into a wardroom for briefing.

  By now I’m sure most of us had figured out where we were. The Gulf of Oman was a sector I’d never worked in before. But I had enough history to know this was the province of the black-oil tribes whose imbricated and endlessly feuding empires had taken in the parched tongue of territory between the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf. If recent rumours of confederation and consolidation were references to these clans, we were up against it. Which is exactly what the briefing confirmed.