In the galley I filled a jug with water. Doused myself. Saw it pooling wastefully on the scrubbed floor. Registered the freshly dusted surfaces, the sprig of rosemary on the bench with its purple flowers. And when my pulse came down, I filled the jug again and drank it all in a single draught. Tasted nothing. Stood at the window and saw the plume of my mother’s approaching vehicle.

  I stepped feebly onto the deck. Waited in the hot shade. Watched her dirt-caked flatbed rattle into the yard. She got out hurriedly. Made for the stairs in a flustered shuffle. But seemed to hesitate at the bottom step.

  She tipped her head back, shielding her eyes, as if searching for me in the shade. Then her face lit up.

  It’s you, she said. Really you.

  Yes, I replied. Me.

  You didn’t want to stop in first?

  Oh, I didn’t want to interrupt anything.

  Interrupt? she said, halting again, blinking, eyes darting. What could you possibly be interrupting?

  I guess that’s what I was wondering.

  She smiled uncertainly, forming shapes with her mouth.

  I suppose it’s none of my business.

  You’re home, she said, squinting in the sun.

  Yes.

  I’m so glad.

  She’d come over in such a hurry she’d forgotten her hat. She hadn’t even wrapped her head. Tracts of pink scalp showed through her outgrown hair.

  Come up into the shade, I said.

  Yes. Yes, of course.

  When she got close enough to see me properly, there was no hiding her shock.

  Dear God, she said. Your poor face!

  I turned back into the house. Filled the jug a third time. When I returned, she was standing by the table in the shade. She’d already switched on the misters and fans. I brought her the jug and she doused herself and drank. And only then, when she was somewhat recovered, did we embrace. She smelt of clean hemp and the greenish scent of herbs. So familiar. And yet there was something inescapably awry between us.

  The beard, she says. For a moment I wasn’t sure it was you.

  It’s me.

  But what’ve you done to yourself?

  Stupidity, I said.

  You’ve seen a doctor? How did this happen?

  I gave her a chair and started in on the story I’d rehearsed. Even as I trotted it out, it sounded threadbare and implausible. But she received it avidly, without puzzlement or resistance.

  The whole trip was a mess, I said by way of summary. That’s it for me. No more foraging.

  You’ve had rough trips before.

  I’m done, I said.

  You just need some time to recover. You’ll bounce back.

  No, I said. That’s it. I’ve decided.

  She looked at me searchingly.

  You really think you can settle for growing food and trading water? You think that’ll ever be enough for you?

  Neither of us is getting any younger.

  Meaning what, she asked. This is about me?

  No, I said. You’re still doing fine. Besides, it looks as if you’re getting help.

  She pursed her lips, let this pass.

  I’ve done my bit, that’s all, I said.

  Your bit? she said, the mask of her indulgence slipping.

  They shall sit, each of them, beneath their vine and fig tree, to live in peace and unafraid.

  Wouldn’t that be pretty? To live out some fantasy from the sagas.

  I said nothing.

  You’re going to hide? Go back to living with your eyes down?

  The moment she said it, I saw the twitch of self-correction, the sudden brightness in her cheeks.

  You know it already. Your friend knows it.

  You’ve lost me, she said, flapping her hands.

  Yes, I said. For good.

  What? Back up, she said. I’m confused. What’re we talking about now?

  How long have you known him?

  Who?

  Who? Really? You’re going to do this?

  Oh, she said. Him.

  People must have wondered how we managed it, to have the best kit. The envy of the plain, we are.

  We work hard. Always did.

  You really think folks put it all down to hard work?

  Why would people gossip? she said, too forcefully. How would they even know?

  Well, I said. Why would they think I had another wife and family in the south? How would they know?

  Tradesfolk and hawkers come and go, she said. Who knows what they say.

  How long has he been coming out here?

  It’s really not what you think, she said, with an uncharacteristic tinge of desperation.

  You believe you know what I’m thinking?

  Sons are predictable, in their way.

  I can only imagine.

  I have never been disloyal, she said.

  What does that even mean? Especially now. Disloyal to whom? To what?

  He knew your father, that’s all. He’s looked out for us.

  At what price? I asked, causing her to flinch.

  It was never a matter of price, she said vehemently.

  But he knew my father?

  Yes, she said at last.

  From the Service?

  I don’t know what service you mean.

  My father didn’t drown at sea, did he?

  Yes, she said. He did.

  On active duty.

  In the course of his work. I’ve told you this many times.

  And you’re going to keep this up? Even though I know?

  I have never been disloyal, she said again. Never.

  And what about to me? I asked. How about to Sun?

  She glared at me then. The steadiness of that look was all the confirmation I needed. To give her credit, a lesser person might have turned away.

  You let that happen, I said. Probably even engineered it. Was any of it real? Or was it all just an arrangement?

  I don’t know what you mean. Son, you’re unwell.

  Unsound, I think is the term.

  You’re being hysterical.

  Like you said. Sons are predictable. That’s how they’re recruited.

  Listen to yourself.

  I was just a boy!

  You were old enough to be with a woman. Old enough to think for yourself.

  I wonder.

  Things don’t always turn out as we expect them to. We don’t always have control. We can’t see the larger picture.

  And things are never what they seem, right?

  She said nothing, picked at a callus in the heel of her palm.

  These feelings will pass. You’ll be well again.

  Dear God, you really believe that, don’t you. You think I’ll recover. Settle down and go back.

  She set her mouth and gazed along the verandah.

  The look on your face, I said. Comrade, you can’t even disguise it.

  What’re you talking about now? Honestly, I can’t keep up with you.

  I’m out. Discharged. You’re embarrassed. That’s it, isn’t it?

  She pushed back her chair and stood. Don’t be ridiculous.

  I’m home safe. And you’re mortified.

  This is wild talk, she said, stepping away, glancing along the misted deck as if it were a space unfamiliar to her.

  Everything good we did, Mother, we threw it away. Do you understand? Do you even see what’s coming?

  Stop this. Right now.

  Or what? I asked her, shaking with rage.

  You’re scaring me.

  You think I’m crazy? You think I’m going to blow this thing up? It’s blowing itself up already. Soon it won’t even matter.

  You’ve been searching for them. Sun and Ester.

  Now how could you possibly know that?

  I can see it in your eyes.

  No. You can’t see anything, Mother. You don’t need to. You have informants. You’re a spook.

  I could help you find her, she said, turning back to me breathlessly.

  What?

  She looked at me in sick bewilderment. As if she could not believe what she’d just said. And I had a moment or two to think, to process things.

  So now you’re bargaining?

  What I meant to say, she said, tamping down her tunic at the hips, is that I wish I could help you.

  I don’t know you.

  Of course you do. I’m your mother. I’m very worried about you. I’m trying to help you. Why don’t we just get you washed up and settled in?

  You can find her?

  No, no, I misspoke. Forgive me. I’m old. And foolish.

  Well, yes, you made a mistake – I think that’s clear. But let’s leave that for the moment. Tell me, honestly, do you even know? Where they are, I mean.

  Son, you need to calm down.

  And you need to be very careful, I said, darkened by this terrible shadow of knowing-and-yet-not-quite-knowing that, I realized now, had been stalking me for days.

  When have I not been careful?

  Today, I said, tipping my head in the direction of her house. I think today you weren’t so careful.

  Yes. I admit that. But it’s not what you think.

  So you keep saying.

  I know you’ll have questions, she said. But you must understand – I’m constrained.

  I can only imagine.

  That man, the filmlayer, is not your father.

  Well, I said. There’s an answer I wasn’t after. But thank you for the clarification.

  What will you do? she said, touching a hand to her face.

  I’ll look for them. Of course.

  Don’t. Please.

  Are they even alive?

  I can try to find out.

  Building 54. They’re not there, are they?

  She sighed. No.

  But they were at some stage.

  Yes. I believe so.

  Along with poor Marjorie. The madwoman in town.

  That’s not for me to say. Son, I’m afraid for you. I worry you’ll destroy yourself for nothing.

  I’m already destroyed, I said. And it was all for nothing.

  No. Never. I can’t bear this.

  Was it you who planted the rumours? About me?

  Defame my own family? What do you think I am?

  Honestly, I said, feeling as if I was losing the thread now, struggling to stay upright. I couldn’t say.

  We need to end this conversation. You need to rest. Dear God, look at you.

  You do understand what I’m trained for, what I’m capable of?

  Please, son, don’t talk like that. You wouldn’t.

  Who can say? I’m unsound, comrade. And very agitated.

  You’ll need more than threats to make me talk.

  Oh, I don’t doubt it, I said, sensing, with horror, the turn things were taking. You’re staunch. It wouldn’t be easy. For either of us. But the crims had their methods. Maybe you spooks did too.

  No.

  No, you didn’t? Or no, don’t think about it?

  You wouldn’t. I raised you better than that.

  Not something I really want to hear right now.

  It’s not sanctioned, she said. It’s immoral.

  Don’t speak to me about what’s moral.

  I understand you’re angry.

  This is my whole life we’re talking about.

  And mine. Don’t you see?

  You betrayed me.

  That wasn’t my doing, she said. None of it was my idea.

  Your own child? Your granddaughter?

  I told you, she said quietly. I was constrained.

  By what – higher loyalties? Orders? You let them go. You sent them off on a lie.

  I did what was required. For the greater good.

  Tell me, I said. Did you ever resist? When you knew it was wrong. When it caused so much pain.

  She didn’t answer.

  No, I didn’t think so.

  I’ve suffered for it, she said.

  You have? You really believe that? You reckon you’ve suffered enough?

  You’d do this? she asked faintly, eyes brimming with tears. For information. You’d torture your own mother?

  What if it was for the greater good?

  It wouldn’t be. And you’d never know if what you got from me was true. You’d have sullied yourself – destroyed yourself – for nothing. People say whatever torturers want them to say.

  Ah, you’re impressive, I said bitterly.

  No. I’m afraid.

  Honestly, I said. What did you expect?

  This is unbearable.

  Yes.

  You’re trembling, she said.

  I’m insane, remember?

  Is that how you plan to explain it? To yourself, to everyone else?

  I haven’t planned anything.

  I’ve never been afraid of you, she said.

  Perhaps you should be.

  This is unbearable.

  Yes, you said so.

  We need to stand down, she said. This is dangerous.

  Was it worth it? To scrape the world clean even if it meant peeling off your own flesh and blood?

  I used to think so, she said. I thought I had it in me to bear whatever came. But this.

  We were silent then. Exhausted. Shaken. Outside, the hot day proceeded without us. We’d seen the end of days, my mother and me. Our world was over. And yet the breeze kicked on, rifling through the cowlings, stirring the turbines into life as if none of that mattered.

  I wish it could be different, she said at last.

  Yes.

  I have food ready. There’s lunch prepared.

  I’ll sleep, I said.

  Dinner, then.

  She steadied herself against the back of the chair. I saw the light catch the sheen where the misters had beaded her hair with tiny specks of water. She was beautiful.

  We’ll start over, she said. We’ll need to.

  Perhaps, I said.

  All I want is to help you. I’ll do everything I can.

  She stepped out onto the deck. I didn’t get up. Not from rage. I simply wasn’t capable. She stood at the rail a moment and looked across the compound. Then, without turning back, she went slowly, stiffly, down the stairs. When she drove off, the plume of her dust rose between us like a bastion.

  I did not go over to my mother’s place that evening. I couldn’t eat, didn’t wash. My limbs ached and itched, and my head was so heavy it felt as if my neck wouldn’t support it. It was all I could do to lurch to the bedroom, strip off, and lie stupefied beneath the HiVap fans. Everything – every foundational detail of my life – had been blasted to rubble. And I felt crippled in a way no battle wound, and no burn or concussion, could have prepared me for.

  I couldn’t imagine where this awful new knowledge left me. I needed a plan, and very quickly, but my mind was a fireground.

  One moment I wanted to kill my mother. And the next I was awash with shame for having threatened her. We were at an impasse, she and I. There could be no recovering from this. But what were we supposed to do? I hadn’t just uttered threats – I’d outed myself, broken the Service’s code of silence. Was it now her duty to acquit me for the sake of security? How long before the filmlayer arrived to mop up? Where could I possibly go that was safe?

  I tried to focus on Sun and Ester. But I couldn’t even summon their faces.

  In the middle of the night, naked, I staggered downstairs to my rig and drew a crowbar from the tin trunk as quietly as I could. I brought it up into the house, set it on the floor beside the bed, and waited.

  I was still awake at first light. And while I was relieved – almost surprised – that nothing had happened yet, I was convinced something dreadful was about to occur. I wasn’t heat sick. But the symptoms – that sense of foreboding, the creeping doom – were horribly familiar.

  Eventually, I made myself get up. I bathed properly, applied liniment to the places where my flesh had cracked like droughted earth, and dressed gingerly, with meticulous care. I ate the corn patties my mother had evidently left in the cooler for me. There was a jug of orange juice, also. It was cold and sweet, but the acid burnt my lips so badly I had to soak my face afterwards.

  Later, I sat on the deck under the shade of the sail to watch for a trail of dust in the east, but nothing came. Across the compound, my mother’s truck didn’t move. I sensed no activity in her growshed and heard nothing from mine.

  Sometime after midday I woke in the same chair, drenched in sweat. Nothing seemed to have changed in the compound. If someone had come to collect my mother, I hadn’t heard the vehicle. Given the heat, it didn’t seem likely she’d fled the place on foot, but I figured it wasn’t impossible.

  That evening, there were no lights at her place.

  I put the storm bar on the door, washed and ate, took some pills, and slept all night.

  In the morning, before dawn, there were still no lights, so I figured she’d been collected after all. I tried to game out all the possibilities that could flow from that.

  At daybreak, I wrapped up, hefted the crowbar, and crossed the dusty compound.

  Her winterhouse was empty. But there was no sign of a hurried departure. Every room bore my mother’s signature order. Judging from the stock of food in the cooler, there was no question she’d known about my homecoming. She’d been cooking for days. And, now I let myself think it, this was how it’d always been. That solved those longstanding puzzles – her perennial preparedness for my return, and her robust incuriosity.

  Downstairs, her bird hall was empty of fowls. Her growshed was damp from the morning spray. I walked each aisle. Checked every corner. Nothing was out of place. But she was not here.

  Checking the cellars was just an afterthought. The hatch was open. This wasn’t uncommon during winter. But the smell from the shaft hit me before I’d even started down.

  It was dim in the hab. The only light was the spill of morning sunshine from the entry well. I saw the oilskin first. A groundsheet. It was spread on the floor. Over it, like a battle map, lay a half-evaporated puddle. Then, suspended above it, I saw her boots. Once my eyes adjusted, I registered the rest of her. Also, the tool in its holster on the table behind her. Like the webbing that held her up, it was Service issue. The moment I stepped through the doorway, the flies stirred. The swirl of them made my head spin.