Prologue

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper

— T.S. Eliot

They stood in the carpark, about to get coffee and muffins before setting off on the long drive north. The stars were still out, but the eastern sky was lightening.

"What's that?" she said, pointing.

"I'm not sure," he said, squinting at a bright point in the east. It was a little too far north to be the sun, and it was much too bright to be Venus. Not to mention in the wrong place. Was it his imagination? Or was it getting brighter?

"Is is getting brighter?" she asked, and then "A meteor?"

"I bloody hope not," he replied. "It's coming straight at us."

The utter lack of sound was eerie; it really was getting bigger. He was about to say that if it hit the ground it wouldn't be a meteor, it would be a meteorite, but in a fraction of a second the dot turned into an overhead line and that was the end, of silence and everything else. All the windows shattered. Their eardrums burst but it didn't hurt because the line of light ended with the BP holding tank. The world ended in a shockwave and a massive fireball, roiling orange, red and black, just the way Hollywood likes them.

Maybe fifteen minutes elapsed before emergency services and police converged. Hundreds of them, and nowhere near enough for the numbers in shock, with bleeding ears and wounds and smoke inhalation, a few close enough for heat injuries yet far enough to survive the overpressure burst. A woman hung from a spear of steel. It went through her and her car; she never even fell to the ground, just bleeding out. When he finished being ill, the ambulance officer who attended added her to a growing list

In the Operations Centre, Senior Sergeant Kath Morrison watched the board light up like a Christmas tree. Every available unit was converging on the port. Radio chatter filled the room.

"All units, major explosion at BP terminal. Multiple casualties. Fire and Rescue en route—"

"Ambulance Control, we need every available unit—"

"Roger base, six-two-niner en route, twelve minutes from Royal North Shore—"

She reached for her coffee. It had been a quiet night shift until now. One incident, even a big one, they could handle. She lifted the cup.

Then the dawn turned white.

Once they were all where she wanted them, more of the sky lit with dots. They were less obvious against the rapidly brightening dawn; daybreak was minutes away. Moments grew and lengthened as if in relativistic sympathy with the immanence of reckoning and the eminence of despair. On the event horizon the lights stretched with the moments. The ground exclaimed its shock, and the roads and rails and runways were no more. Slapped awake, the ravening beast that was a city found it could not move.

Senior Constable Dave Petrakis's patrol car shuddered as the road ahead simply ceased to exist. He slammed the brakes, fishtailing to a stop three metres from a crater that had been the M1. His radio erupted.

"Control, this is Unit 23, we can't get through—the M1 is gone. There's a crater the size of a—"

"Unit 47, main line to the south is cut, somewhere past Beenleigh—"

"Airport tower to Control, runway damage, repeat, all runways compromised—"

"This is Unit 65, Gateway Bridge—we've got reports it's gone into—"

"—northern line severed past Caboolture—"

"Control, how many incidents? We're getting reports from all sectors—"

Kath's hand was frozen on the radio transmit button. The board wasn't lighting up anymore. It was solid red. Every arterial road. Every rail line. The airport. The harbour crossings. All gone. All at once.

"All units—" her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "All units, report status."

The responses came in a cascade of disbelief.

"Roads cut—"

"Can't proceed—"

"—completely blocked—"

"Control, what the hell is going on out there?"

Marcus Okonkwo was the unlucky shift supervisor at Brisbane Water. He was already on the phone with his manager when the pressure alarms started screaming. On the monitors, trunk line after trunk line showed catastrophic failure. Not the underground network—that was holding. The two-metre trunk from Mt Crosby. The kilometres of overland pipe that fed the city. Four breaks. Four massive ruptures, each one kilometres outside the metropolitan area.

"Sir, the main trunk is cut in four places—" He was already pulling up the map, zooming out. "They're out past Ipswich, out past—" His voice died. With every freeway cut, with every rail line severed, those breaks might as well be on the moon. "Sir, we can't reach them. We can't even get crews there."

The lights flickered.

From fields and gutters and inside storm drains rose tiny drones, like countless moths. They lit on legs of towers, strapping them with silicon bandages, and lit their sparkling fuses. No longer strode the electric might of man; the towers leaned all in a drunken row, and under the influence of gravity they lurched into a final bow. Wires crossed and oilbaths boiled, burst and flamed, awaiting firetrucks that couldn't come. The unbalanced load ripped turbines off their bearings in the temples to political might, where mankind's leash was tied.

"Control, we're seeing transmission towers collapsing in sequence—"

"—hospital on backup power—"

"Water Authority reporting main trunk line compromised at—"

"—citywide, Jack, it's the whole fucking city—"

The Operations Centre went dark. Emergency lighting kicked in, painting everything in red. Kath stared at the dead monitors, the silent radios. Outside the reinforced windows, she could see fires beginning to bloom across the city. Dozens of them. Then hundreds.

Her mobile buzzed. It had plenty of charge, and one bar of signal. Without power the repeater wasn't working and the building was shielded, so that wasn't a surprise. She went up on the roof an her phone chirped with a text from an unknown number:

GAME OVER PLAYER ONE

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

By afternoon of the following day, she knew. The power wasn't coming back. The roads were cut so repair crews couldn't get there. Some regional crews responded, but they were cut off from the other side. All of them were cut off. And it wasn't just the lines down. Whatever hit the port hit the power stations. And the water pipe. People who lived further out of town reported the two-metre wide high pressure pipe that ran from the Mount Crosby treatment plant to the city was cut. In four places.

She put her head in her hands. Even if they got the road open today there weren't enough trucks for that much water, and the fuel those trucks needed was still burning, and apparently would be for another two days, assuming she got lucky and the tank didn't collapse.

She sat there thinking that at least it couldn't get worse. Her bladder insisted otherwise. She went to the bathroom, used the toilet. It wasn't just her bladder, last night's curry wanted out. It was a bit fruity; she held her breath as she stood and pushed the button.

Nothing happened.

She stared at the handle. Tried again. Still nothing. She spun the tap on the washbasin. A trickle ran out. The cistern was empty - no water pressure to refill it. No water pressure anywhere in the building. Anywhere in the city.

Last night's curry was nothing on two million people with nothing to drink and no working toilets.

"Oh Christ," she whispered to the empty bathroom.

In the meeting, the commissioner prattled about terrorists. It was idiotic. When he finally shut up she asked, "Terrorists, sir? What were the demands?"

He looked through the notes. She knew he hadn't written them.

"I'll have to take that one on notice, Senior Sargeant."

"Sir, there weren't any demands. The point of terrorism is to scare people into submission. Look at your list. I see a clear pattern."

He glared at the room. "Why is the only person here who knows what's happening a sergeant?" growled the Commissioner. He handed her the remote.

"I'm Senior Sergeant Morrison. I was commanding the op centre last night when the shit hit the fan.

The commissioner wrote this down. Maybe he could give her a brevet commission, put her in charge and blame her later.

"Your pattern, Senior Sergeant."

"We're under attack. First they took out the port and most of our fuel stock. We did exactly what you'd expect and got most of our assets over there. Then they cut all of the exits, trapping them there. It wasn't an accident, the timing was spot on. As soon as they had most of us penned up they worked outward cutting the transport corridors. All the city exits are cut. Now power is down and that takes out comms. Our radios work, but most of the UHF repeats are offline. Until you get out along the highway, where they're solar powered, I suppose. I haven't checked that, because I can't."

"Sounds a lot like terrorists to me!"

"They took out the water."

He looked confused. "Still sounds like terrorists. Why does that change anything?"

"Any one of those would be terrorism. But they've cut off the water and stopped us from fixing it. We can't move, we can't leave, we can't repair, we're going to run out of fuel, there's no refrigeration. People with gas can cook, I suppose, but there's two million people with no drinking water and no sanitation. They aren't getting any, and they can't leave."

The room was silent.

"It's not terrorism, it's war. We were attacked, it's over. We just haven't fallen yet."

Failure modes

"The most terrifying words in the English language are: I'm from the government and I'm here to help."
— Ronald Reagan

Thirteen Years Earlier

A man with no name looked at a bill for six hundred dollars, and called it to account. The workshop bloke looked embarrassed, and rightly so.

"Six hundred dollars. To plug in a computer and send a reset instruction."

"Emissions system." The bloke gestured at the diagnostic readout like it explained everything. "Your DPF is overloaded. Can't pass inspection until it's cleared."

"It is not blocked, I just replaced the bloody thing. I also replaced all three heat senders, the MAF, the MAP, the boost valve relay and the DPF differential pressure sensor."

"It's running very rich. Look at your fuel consumption lately?"

"It's running rich because I can't put the engine computer in learn mode because Mitsubishi keeps the code a fucking secret!"

"Yeah, they do that." The attendant had the resigned tone of someone who'd had this conversation before. "Government mandated the system in 2009. Bloody things fail constantly. But you can't drive without it functioning, so..."

"So I have to cough up six hundred dollars to fix a problem created by legislation meant to solve a problem that didn't exist until the legislation created it. Which Mitsubishi is using for an extortion racket."

"It's not just Mitisubishi, they all do it."

He looked at his Triton, three years old, previously reliable, now classified as an environmental hazard by the idiots who made it one. In his pocket was a fine for excessive emissions. He was ropable.

Government meddlers created the problem. Carmakers probably found it very considerate of the government to hand them an extortion racket. They were no doubt delighted with all the extra failure points. The government fined him when their stupid plan failed, and now the dealer wanted six hundred dollars to reset a computer that shouldn't have existed in the first place.

"That's it." He said it quietly, more to himself than the mechanic. "I've had enough of this bullshit."

"What?"

"All of it. People who won't mind their own business. Regulations that create problems to justify their existence. Fines for problems they caused. Greedy corporations. Just..." He gestured vaguely at the world beyond the service station. "All of it."

The attendant nodded like this made perfect sense. "Fair enough. Still need the reset though."

"Do it. I'll sell the useless pile of shit and buy a Landcruiser."

"Landcruisers have them too. It's mandated."

"Not the old ones. I'll buy a 2008 troopie. Those things are unbreakable. Then I'll sell the house and move away from these lunatics."

It took six months to extricate himself from civilization. Selling the house, closing accounts, finding property far enough from anything that mattered. Trix thought it was great, she was a closet wearer of tinfoil hats anyway.

The valley sat two hundred kilometers inland from the coast, beyond the range where regulations penetrated with any consistency. No neighbors within shouting distance. Technically all the same rules applied, but out of sight, out of mind. What they didn't know they couldn't fine.

The caravan was tiny in all that space, but that was the point. Room to breathe. Room to think. Room to exist without some officious git appearing to explain why his existence was non-compliant with current standards.

For a while it was pretty good. Hard work, but free. They made a handful of friends out there.

Then the sky fell.

He'd seen it on the feeds. For three years it hadn't been real. It was far away and happening to people he didn't care about. Carnage across the northern hemisphere. Tears in the sky, from which fell seed pods spawning nightmare. Cities overrun, millions dead. The Antithesis, they called them. Plant-things that ate everything organic. Europe, America, Asia.

Today they weren't far away. Today they were his problem.

It struck before he could bring the chainsaw up.

Dog-like, at first glance—same size, same build, same wrong-coloured muscle moving under skin stretched over something wrong. No sound. Not even breathing. Just the rustle of undergrowth and then impact. Then the jaw unfurled. Triple-hinged, opening wide like a snake grinning the last moments of doom at a rat. Teeth like serrated knives punched through the work glove and he felt them scrape bone. He screamed and shoved his arm deeper into the thing's mouth. Better the arm than his throat.

He went down hard, shoulder slamming granite-flecked clay, the saw's engine screaming as it spun free. Six horsepower, two-foot blade. The chainsaw lay three feet away, still running, drowning out the kookaburras that had gone silent when the sky started raining aliens. His other hand found a rock. Creek stone, grapefruit-sized, smooth.

He brought the rock down on the alien's skull.

Once.

Twice.

Green blood sprayed across ironbarks that had stood for time out of mind, through flood and fire and generations of men. Everything here wanted to kill everything else. The eucalypts made themselves toxic to discourage browsers. Ants could strip a cow to bones in three days. Deadly spiders, eaten by deadlier snakes, in their turn eaten by laughing kookaburras while magpies warbled melodies of unearthly beauty, plucking the eyes of the fallen. Hard country made hard creatures and harder men.

A third time.

The alien's skull cracked like a dropped melon. Its jaws went slack but stayed locked on his forearm, teeth embedded between radius and ulna. Under thirty kilogrammes of dead alien he lay, bleeding from his leg where another one had gotten through the chaps, bleeding from his arse where a murderpigeon had taken a chunk, bleeding from his arm and wondering absently why he could smell cut grass.

Vision narrowed to a grey tunnel.

She's in the caravan, fifty meters away, probably making tea, unaware he was having a very bad day. Twenty-five years together and this was how it ended — eaten by aliens, defending a valley bought to escape.

The irony would have been funny if he could breathe properly.

This was it.

Thirty years learning patterns, systems, the shape of things before they happened. Police and liquor laws. Horses and authority. Building codes and bureaucratic capture. The flow of promises and the systematic, structured dishonesty that turned a world, squeezing it.

All of that but he didn't see this coming.

Something white-hot drove into the base of his skull like a railway spike hammered home with malice. His back arched. His legs kicked. The pain was pointed, precise, worse than alien teeth, worse than anything he'd ever felt. His vision whited out entirely.

Then stopped.

System Initialized!

Translucent green text like the child of a spreadsheet and a video game HUD. He blinked, trying to focus through blood loss and shock. Confusion: his eyegear was charging in the caravan. He wasn't wearing anything that could display floating text.

Congratulations. Through your actions you have proven yourself worthy of becoming one of the Vanguard, a defender of—

Oh dear, you really are a mess.

The voice shifted—female, precise, and suddenly concerned in a way the formal speech hadn't been.

Ceremony later. You're bleeding quite a lot.

He tried to speak. His mouth tasted like copper and dirt.

"Who—" he managed.

Later. You. Are. Dying. We should address that.

More movement in the bush. Closer now. Silent movement—just the scrape of leaves, the crack of a twig. The smell intensified—cut grass, wrong and cloying. His vision swam.

Focus. You have one hundred and thirty points available from initialization and those kills. I need you to authorise a purchase—

He mumbled. "Blood loss. Shock."

Are your hallucinations normally annoyed with you?

Don't answer that. Say yes. Or 'authorise' or 'do it' or any semantically equivalent phrase indicating consent.

His vision narrowed further. The grey tunnel got smaller.

"Gurble."

Based on your past disinclination to die I'm going to interpret that as a yes.

He thought about a pinball machine in late afternoon in 1979. It had a picture of an alien, all teeth. He'd been a pattern-recognizer, a gamer of systems. Withdrawn from civilization to live in a valley two hundred kilometres from anywhere that mattered.

The green text still floated mid-air, but the words blurred into meaningless shapes. For some reason he remembered a short, sassy girl named Jen, with a cheeky grin and many freckles. He never did get into her pants.

Focus!

The voice cracked like a whip across his failing consciousness.

Trix would be so pissed off if he died before fixing that gate.

Class I Medical Utilities Unlocked!
Points Reduced to: 80

Text hung in the air like a head-up display in a fancy car. Some might have panicked, but it wasn't his nature. Shock and blood loss made everything surreal. Distant. Like someone else's life through dirty glass.

Good! Now, WoundStop. Trauma sealant. Five points. Keeps you from dying long enough to think about your life choices. Authorize?

"Mmmmmhh," he wheezed.

A box materialised on the ground next to him. It contained a strange implement Turkey baster mated with a medical syringe, plastic and absurd.

Movement. The cut-grass smell intensified. Another one, low and fast, charging from the understory. Utterly silent except for the rush of displaced air and snapping undergrowth.

The caravan door exploded open. Trix burst out wielding a cricket bat, took three running steps, and brought it down on the Model Three's skull with a crack that echoed off the ironbarks. The alien crumpled. She hit it twice more, breathing hard, then saw him pinned under the dead one.

"WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO 'I'M FINE'?!"

She dropped beside him, assessing damage with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd dealt with farm accidents. Her hands moved fast, checking pulse, examining wounds, not touching anything that might bleed worse.

"Get it off me," he managed. His voice sounded wrong. Too far away.

Trix grabbed his machete from the ground and worked the blade between alien teeth and his forearm. Precise and brutal, she levered the jaws open with a sickening crunch. His arm slid free, bone visible through torn meat.

"Oh," he said. "That's not ideal."

"Shock," Trix said flatly. She snatched the WoundStop from his hand. "What is this?"

Instructions on the side. She'll work it out. Unlike some people who argue about whether they're hallucinating while bleeding out.

"Stops bleeding." He sagged.

Trix read the instructions, made a disgusted noise, and jammed the applicator into his shredded forearm. Something cold and gritty flooded the wound. He hissed. Then the pain just... stopped. Faded to a distant ache, like it was happening to someone else.

"What the fuck is this made of?" Trix demanded.

"Space jam," he said. "I'm a Vanguard now."

She stared at him. "You hit your head."

"Yeah. Voice says no."

"Voice."

"In m' head. Very sarcastic."

I resemble that remark.

Trix's expression suggested she was reconsidering several life choices, possibly including marriage. But she moved to his leg, peeled back the shredded orange chaps, and applied more WoundStop. White rubbery sealant over torn muscle. The pain receded like a tide.

"Your arse too," she said.

"What?"

"It bit you on the arse. Don't move."

Against all common sense and human dignity, Trix was now pouring antiseptic directly onto his bleeding backside. He made sounds that were not words.

Your wife is terrifying. I approve.

"Why do you sound like Jen Taylor?" he gasped, desperate for escape.

I know all about you, Chief. You were already taking advice from the voice in your helmet.

"I don't have a helmet."

Not yet.

Trix stepped back, surveying her work with the critical eye of someone evaluating dodgy fence posts. "Right. Aliens. Voice in your head. Magic healing paste. Am I drunk?"

"If you are, I'm drunk too." He tested his leg. It held. The pain was there but manageable, like a deep bruise rather than shredded muscle. The WoundStop flexed when he moved, white and rubbery against red meat. "How long was I down?"

"Five minutes. Maybe less." Trix looked at the dead aliens, then at the forest beyond, then back at him. "Are there more?"

Yes. You neighbour's property, about two kilometres south. Smoke suggests he's handling it, but 'handling it' and 'surviving it' are different things.

"Brian's place," he said. "The voice says there's more down there."

"The voice."

"Her name's..." He paused. "What's your name again?"

Myxoma. I was not consulted on this.

Trix's expression suggested she was having serious doubts about his mental state, which was fair because so was he. But the dead aliens were real. The WoundStop was real. The green text floating in his vision showing Points: 75 was... probably real.

"Myxoma," he mumbled.

"Right," Trix said slowly. She handed him his machete, grip first. "We're getting in the ute and going to Brian's. You're going to explain everything on the way. And if this is a concussion dream, I'm going to be very annoyed."

She's practical. I like her. Now, about those points. Your friend Brian probably needs help, and you're not exactly combat-ready. Shall we discuss a real weapon instead of a chainsaw?

He looked at the dead aliens. At his arm, sealed with white rubber that shouldn't exist. At Trix, who was already heading for the ute with the particular determined stride that meant arguing was futile.

Voice raw, gravelly, "I need a weapon."

Now we're talking!

"We have weapons," Trix said, gesturing at the chainsaw, machete, and hedge trimmer scattered across the clearing.

Adorable. She thinks medieval implements count as weapons against an alien invasion. I like her, but she needs a proper gun.

"The voice says we need better weapons."

"Tell the voice I don't take orders from things that live in people's heads."

He couldn't help but grin despite everything. "She says you're terrifying and she approves."

Ten points for a Hummingbird. Disposable micro-missile launcher. Point and click interface. Simple enough for humans who've never seen real weapons before.

"Give me one of those Hummingbird things," he said. "And one for Trix. We need to check on Brian."

New Purchase: Hummingbird Mark I-D x2
Points Reduced to: 55

Two pistol-shaped objects materialised, one in each hand. They looked like children's toys—plastic fantastic design, too light to be real guns, with business ends that were clearly NOT normal barrels. Instead, dozens of tiny tubes clustered where a barrel should be.

"Those appeared out of thin air," Trix said flatly.

"Magic alien technology."

"I want to wake up now."

I'll teach you how to use them on the way. We should hurry. Or not, it depends how much you like this Brian person.

Five points later they were in the Troopie heading to Brian's place. Couple of kilometres, mostly uphill. On the way he cleaned up a model three with the bullbar, backed over it twice to be sure.

Brian and his partner were in the woodshed. Early season, still full, walls effectively a metre of solid wood. Brian was defending with his axe. Successfully enough, but he was pushing eighty.

The Hummingbird pistol made short work of the roaming weeds. He gave it to Brian, got another. They patrolled the house fence. Nothing.

If you're going to leave them here, I suggest anti-Seven pills.

"Roger," he said, leaning into his Cortana fantasy. "Do it."

Stop calling me Roger.

A small cardboard box fell to the ground. It could have come from any pharmacy, complete with a crooked label that read "Take one (1) tablet every 24hrs for the duration of Model Seven exposure or suspected exposure." He gave them to Brian's partner. "If you see little worm things like a giant leech with a feather, take one of these each. Cortana, Brian is eighty. He takes heart pills. Is this stuff going to hurt him?"

"Cortana" sounded very amused, her voice tinny out of the ancient digital clock radio in their kitchen.

Not as much as a Model Seven would ... 'Cortana?'

"Oh. Er. Ah." He thought fast. "It's better than 'rabbit pox' which is what Myxoma means."

I'm winding you up. It's fine. It's fun, "Chief". And I was aware of the word's meaning. I did say I wasn't happy about it.

Familiar music played, distorted through the horrible speaker.

Let's show 'em who they're dealing with!

He recognised the reference and smiled, then squashed it, but he couldn't hide the inner smile from the voice in his head. On the edge of hearing, laughter mingled with the buzzing of bees.

In a rising mood as he headed out, he put a question to his invisible friend: "Are there many other Vanguards around?"

In shifting sand

"The reasonable man adapts himself to the world: the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man."
— George Bernard Shaw

His mother brought home a ginger beer bug when he was twelve. Nine months of baking summer in the north made them constantly thirsty, and softdrink was expensive. The bug solved both problems—vast quantities of sugar and ginger burbling in the heat, strained and bottled every week. Five cents a stubby instead of forty at the shop.

His father knew the commercial fishers, hard men who drank hard after weeks at sea. They handed over their empties by the bootload. The kids washed them, filled them, capped them.

Then the fishermen's wives discovered the operation.

"You tell us that you drink because it's hot and you're thirsty," they said to their husbands. "You can drink ginger beer for that."

The operation expanded. The fishermen were not thrilled about no beer, but the will of their wives was law. Alfie and Lloyd and Les Pye, they drank endless cartons of the stuff. He delivered it on his bicycle to the town jetty, panniers loaded, bottles clinking.

One day they said, "It's a shame you can't make this alcoholic."

He knew nothing of the Liquor Act, but he knew quite a lot about fermentation.

"What makes you think I can't? The next batch will take a bit longer, that's all."

It took several tries. The flavour changed in unexpected ways as fermentation progressed. Bacteria became an issue, and temperature control was crucial. They were impressed when he succeeded, asked how strong he could make it. More trials. More adjustments. Eventually his answer was about twelve percent, measured by specific gravity.

The fishermen were pleased. Very pleased. He kept delivering.

One morning at the wharf, police were there for unrelated reasons. They saw the bottles being distributed. In that heat, they asked for a drink themselves.

The first officer took a long pull, paused, looked at the bottle, then at him.

"Do you know what the Liquor Act is, son?"

"No? They put it on the walls of pubs but dad always sends me outside."

"I see. Well. I don't have the evidence to deal with the responsible parties." The officer's hardening gaze ran across the assembled fishermen, who suddenly found their boots fascinating. "But there is a law against selling alcoholic beverages in a public place without proper licensing."

The lad opened his mouth. The officer held up a hand.

"Did any money change hands here?"

"Actually no, sir. I—"

"Glad to hear it," the officer interrupted. "In that case I have not seen or heard," he paused, then went on, "anything I would be obliged to investigate. But this ginger beer, which seems to have accidentally become alcoholic, will have to be destroyed." He gestured to his partner, who began loading the cartons into the patrol car with what looked suspiciously like delight.

The officer met his eyes. "This will not happen again, will it."

It wasn't a question.

"No, sir."

He rode away, panniers full of life lessons. Ignorance of the law was no excuse. Adults who knew better would let children take the blame. Whether police officers had discretion depended on what they heard. And sometimes getting caught could be the kindest possible outcome, but it could go either way and that was pot luck.

He went to the town library and did a lot of reading. It seemed that provided money changed hands before fermentation, it was just chipping in for ingredients. While he wasn't allowed to drink it, buy it or sell it, there was no law against having it or giving it away.

His mother didn't find out because he started to tell her and she stopped him before he made her complicit. Then she asked what he wanted the outcome to be. He liked that his father's friends were happy and their wives were also happy on account of money not going over pub counters. He told his mum this, and also his findings from the library.

New arrangements came into being. Barbecues became a regular weekend thing. If people happened to carry things back out to their cars later, what of it? And somewhere in a country town, two police officers had a well-lubricated weekend.

It was not lost on him that systems have gaps, and understanding the gaps let you dodge the rules without strictly breaking them.

In his Citizenship Education class, Mrs Wakeman waxed lyrical about the new superannuation legislation.

"Tax-free contributions building over your career. Real financial security in retirement."

One of the Gang of Four raised his hand. "Some American bloke, Kruger or something, said government is basically an insurance company with an army. We already pay them for pensions."

Mrs Wakeman's expression flickered. "Paul Krugman. And it's more nuanced than—"

"Well if you know that, why were you sucked in by this obvious con?"

"It's not a con. This is about giving workers control of their retirement—"

"It's another layer of exactly the same thing," another said, "but with shareholders and executive bonuses being taken out. When higher-ups 'give workers more control' it means they mucked it up royally and they need someone to dump the mess on."

"And the tax-exempt status is just to sell it," he said. "That'll change when they want to spend it."

Trevor looked at her sideways and said "Would you give fifty bucks to your MP and seriously expect to get it back with interest in fifty years? They'll spend it, lose an election, blame the other party, get back in power and ask for more."

Mrs Wakeman looked at them with mild exasperation. "You boys are appallingly cynical."

History suggested they should have been more cynical.

Driving through town they turned off the highway and down Stanley Street, bearing right onto Quay Street at the river. Parking in the shade of a big old gum tree they unloaded two horses from an old Bedford truck and put them in a yard.

"Shutup, Bonzer." The taller boy grabbed the bay's halter. "She'll kick you if you don't knock it off."

The dog stood down and they fitted the tack, the taller lad checking both saddles methodically. He slapped the baldy horse on the barrel, and when it exhaled he cinched the girthstrap tight.

"Told you it wasn't tight."

"He won't let me fall."

"He might let you hang under him, he'd think that was funny, wouldn'tcha you old bastard."

Geddy whickered, grinning evilly. The horse had chosen the shorter lad early on — a light rider who let him work his own way. Geddy liked bullying cattle but hated being micromanaged. The rider would spot a beast leaving the mob, twitch the reins, and brace for the eruption. If the balance wasn't quite right, Geddy would drop a shoulder or overturn slightly to compensate. To anyone watching it looked like expert horsemanship—perfect communication between rider and mount. The other available riders were competent enough to stay on through his tricks and strong-willed enough to bend him to their will. Geddy was lazy. Fat as butter, the taller lad's mum said, but he was far from stupid.

With broad-brimmed hats and faded jeans, in dirty khaki shirts they mounted up and rode in silence, five blocks up to the rail along Alma Street. They followed the rail to Denham, then turned back down toward the river, side by side at a gentle plod. The horses' hooves echoed off shopfronts in the empty streets of early morning. Traffic was just beginning to build, and it slowed around them, drivers doing double-takes.

Side by side they took up the whole lane. It took people a while to process but the south side has very wide streets. A cattle town for more than a century, the streets of the old part of town were wide enough for a dray to do a U-turn, and at that time the city council hadn't got around to screwing things up. Eventually drivers used the very wide streets to drive carefully around the mounted pair, their children's faces pressed to the windows as they passed. A woman with shopping bags stopped to stare. A truck driver leaned out his window.

By the time they reached the police station, a small crowd had gathered. Down this far the streets were still wide, but with marked parking down both sides and islands in the middle there was no going around. A woman stuck behind them leaned on her horn. The short lad gave his mount some invisible signal and the huge creature turned in place, a dainty dance from the huge beast, and took a few steps forward. He doffed his hat and leaned down into her window.

"That wasn't terribly smart. If you do that again and he puts a hoof through your radiator, whose fault do you think that would be?"

The young constable who met them at the entrance was already hostile. "You can't just—"

"We require water for our horses," the taller boy said formally, keeping his voice level. "And hay, for which we're prepared to pay a shilling per horse."

"This is a police station, not a—"

"The Pastoral Accommodation Act of 1847," the shorter lad said. "remains in force. I'm sure you're aware that ignorance of the law is no excuse."

The constable's face darkened. "You cheeky little—"

"Constable." The voice from behind carried weight. An older officer emerged, sergeant's stripes visible on his sleeve. His face was professionally neutral, but his eyes were sharp. The hint of a smile played at one corner of his mouth. "I believe these young men are invoking the Pastoral Accommodation Act of 1847."

"The what? They're obstructing traffic."

"They are exercising their right of way, I think you'll find. Horses have right of way, whether the lady finds it convenient or not. Judging by their calm demeanour in the face of authority, I would say these boys are well aware of this." The sergeant moved past the constable, studying them carefully. "The Pastoral Accommodation Act is still on the books." He let the silence hang, waiting for the boys to blink. They didn't. He turned to the constable and continued. "It requires any police officer under the rank of senior sergeant to provide water on demand, and up to two bales of hay within the half hour, for which the fee is capped at two silver shillings."

He fixed the boys with his gaze, but the effect was spoiled by their height advantage, perched as they were up on their mounts. Geddy was seventeen hands at the withers, Diamond was fourteen hands, so the lads' heads were pretty much level. The officers, on the other hand, had to look up if they wanted to look them in the eyes.

"You boys had better have two silver shillings, or you may find yourselves assisting with inquiries."

The taller boy produced them from his pocket. The sergeant examined each one, turning them in the light. He tossed one, listened to its song, and snorted. "You have done your homework. Nevertheless you'll need to prove property ownership. Driver's license for identification."

"His family are the landholders. I am in his employ."

The sergeant's eyes narrowed slightly and he snorted.

"Of course you are."

The claim was transparent — a legal fiction to satisfy the property requirement. But it was also legally sound. The act specified employment by qualifying landholders, and there was no requirement to prove wages or formal arrangement. Not with the employer present. Clearly the cheeky little shits had read it carefully.

"Sarge! What about the traffic?"

The sergeant gave his constable that special look sergeants reserve for a distinct lack of initiative.

"We are standing outside the largest police station for three hundred kilometres. It is full of officers, many of whom could do with some fresh air. You do have your radio, I trust?"

The tall lad handed over his license and the sergeant disappeared inside, returning five minutes later.

"Well, everything seems to be in order. Looks like we'll be playing your little game." He looked at them both, his expression carrying just a hint of amusement. "As I am a Senior Sergeant and above the rank obliged to handle this personally, the constable here will fetch your feed. But first—" He turned to the constable. "Call the Bulletin. Tell them to get down here with a notebook and a camera tout-suite."

He pronounced it "toot sweet". This may have been ignorance, or it may have been sergeantly tradition.

The young officer's hostility evaporated into confusion. "The newspaper?"

"The newspaper. These young men are exercising their rights under law. Very old law, but law nonetheless. When life gives lemons, one makes lemonade, and you, constable, are about to star in a triumph of public relations."

Twenty minutes later, a reporter and photographer arrived. The sergeant, whose knowledge of the Act eclipsed even the boys, explained the situation with professional precision, citing the relevant act and sections. The photographer documented everything: the horses, the silver shillings exchange, the constable carrying hay bales to the designated location.

"The watering facility," the sergeant said, leading them to the busiest intersection south of the river, "is at the old fountain — which is, in fact, a drinking fountain, but not for people."

The statue in the center of the intersection featured three low bowls for dogs and a higher, much larger basin for horses. The timing could not have been more perfect; someone had recently pressure-washed decades of traffic grime off the sandstone, revealing honey-gold stone that looked like it had been carved yesterday. Fresh plumbing meant water cascaded clear and bright into the basins, sparkling in the morning sun. The fountain looked magnificent, better than it had in living memory.

Traffic adapted around them. Committed lanes continued through; everything else detoured. The crowd grew, some people laughing, others simply curious. Street theatre, better than any busker.

The sergeant led a parade to the fountain, right in the middle of the intersection of the busiest streets in the CBD of the largest city north of the capital, currently at a dead stop due to the boys exercising their rights. Reaching it, he turned to face the boys, the reporter and his photographer, the constable and a growing crowd of onlookers. With a flourish and his best instructor's voice, the sergeant declaimed the history of the fountain, which lay at the heart of the history of a town that had almost been the capital, sited as it was at the confluence of road and rail and sea transport, right in the middle of coal and cattle and cane, with its own deepwater port and a customs house.

Here the landed gentry brought their beasts and their boys to build and buy and learn and trade. The law was what they said it was, the police their servants. That, he said, is what sergeant means — it is an old french word that means servant; the right hand of an officer and a gentleman, the steel fist to his velvet glove. And the statue was less a monument and more a tool and a courtesy dressed up in sandstone; why should it not also be a work of art?

The horses drank. The horses drank a lot. It wasn't a movie, so the gelding let fly, and thank goodness for drains. There were also horse apples by the time the photographer was done. The sun was higher in the sky, beating down with the baleful resentment the people of this place knew so well. The constable appeared, struggling with two bales of lucerne, heavier than they looked. The silver shillings changed hands, immortalised in grainy newsprint, probably the last time it ever happened. The sergeant stood by, ensuring everything was done exactly by the book.

"Those things cost six bucks, sarge! Not two bob."

"These are silver shillings, constable," said the Senior Sergeant, tossing one in the air with the musical zing that only silver makes. The photographer was on the ball and the gleam of the sun on spinning silver was immortalised in newsprint. "There's six dollars worth of silver in them, and they're worth more to a coin collector."

"Before you go," the sergeant said quietly, once the photographer had finished, "there are a few other laws like this one. Still on the books, still technically in force." He met the taller boy's eyes. "I would appreciate it if you didn't exercise them for the sake of it."

The short one spoke up, "Yes, I know. But don't worry, sergeant. Most of them aren't as entertaining as this one."

"Good lads." A slight smile cracked his professional demeanor. "You've made your point. For some people it was a lesson in the importance of knowing all the law, not just the common stuff they teach at TAFE."

"Not all of us were there when it was written, sarge." Apparently the constable did have a sense of humour.

"You'll keep," said the sergeant. He looked at the boys, who were getting their mounts ready to leave. "And you'll do a lot of reading, if you don't want to worry what these two might do with 'policing by consent'."

"Consent?" said the constable, but the sergeant just walked away. The constable had enough presence of mind that he looked concerned already.

They rode out to scattered applause from onlookers.

"Hey!" the constable called after them, "Who's going to clean up all this horseshit?"

"The sergeant will explain," said the short bloke on the tall horse, without turning.

"Pastoral Act again?"

"Yep."

"Wonderful."

The crowd was smaller than it had been, but still more than passing traffic. Across the East street mall where it spread into Denham, walking the horses slowly on the treacherous tile. On the far side bitumen returned. Half a short block took them to Quay street. They dismounted and one of them stopped the traffic while the other walked the horses across to the footpath on the river side. They led them two blocks that way, past the wharf where a bootleg career ended, and down another block to where parkland began. Swinging back into the saddle, they ambled in the shade of fig trees and then towering gums, back to the waiting truck.

"Shoulda brought my guitar."

"To scare 'em off?"

"Whatever, bugleboy. We're gonna be late for lectures."

"You're always late for lectures."

The story wasn't in the next morning's paper, it was held over to the bumper edition on Saturday. The law was repealed that September but the moment lived on.

It was a hell of a time to be an overeducated smartarse with a landed friend and two silver shillings.

The caravan was cramped after three years of 'temporary accommodation.' Trixie pinned another sketch to the corkboard—separate buildings clustered around a courtyard.

"Kitchen smells," she said. "It's overpowering with the windows shut when it rains."

He looked up from his coffee. "Yep. Outside is for living anyway. Why box it all up like we're still in the suburbs?"

"Bathhouse separate from sleeping quarters. Workshop over there where noise won't matter. And I want an outdoor kitchen."

"Outdoor kitchen?"

"With a roof. With screens for the flies. Cook outside, eat outside."

"So... an indoor kitchen that's outside."

"Think of it as a next-level barbecue."

He nodded slowly. "It needs louvres. Too much wind blows the heat away."

She started to disagree but he knew she was wrong and tuned her out. He drew a plan—big rectangular pergola, guttering feeding a tank, outer wall of louvres between structural beams. 800mm in from the louvres, another wall of sliding screen panels. Inside that, island benches.

"How do you get in?"

"Oh." He turned a panel of louvres into an outward-opening door on every side but the uphill side. He sketched another version, rectangular with wider roof. Half kitchen, half screened outdoor dining. In a third version, proportions longer and narrower, the table much bigger. The kitchen on the uphill end was still square, and though both kitchen and dining were screened, there was screen between the two—people are careless and flies are quick.

Trixie watched him work through the problem. She'd learned long ago that his first solution was rarely his best, but his fourth or fifth might be workable.

"I like the third one," she said. "But make the kitchen bigger."

He erased, adjusted proportions, redrew. Better.

It was the rhythm of his mind. The first thought was often wrong, but it is the beginning. Design is a conversation between people, problems and solutions. The problem has a lot to say to those who listen.

The pub had a beer garden that reeked of smoke. He approved—not the smoking, but that people were doing it and no one gave them a hard time. He'd smoked for twenty years himself, continuing mostly because people kept telling him to stop. Eventually they gave up, and one day he saw an ad for a week skiing. That cost the same as his tobacco habit. Choice made. He loved skiing.

Finger-wagging and guilt-trips hadn't worked. But when no-one pushed and it was of his own volition, he never smoked again.

Agency mattered to him, far more than outcome. He didn't think it was just him; push at people and they dig in. Leave them space and they may surprise you.

There was always much to do, but day by day life improved. Electricity, so expensive in the city, fell from the sky, captured by a trailer full of electrics, covered in solar panels. Data by low-orbit satellite. Expensive compared to suburban fibre, but what price freedom?

They argued about money. She worried for the future. He lived for the moment. He put things beyond argument by buying the mill, a jerk move or manly confidence depending on who you asked. He didn't care. His mistakes were his own and the math was unarguable.

Ten bucks a post times 1250 posts for three kilometres of fence: twelve-and-a-half thousand dollars. The mill was fifteen thousand. And hardwood posts weren't ten bucks, more like thirty. There would be a learning curve, but fence posts were a good way to learn. After that, his dreams of ten-inch beams vaulting overhead were subject only to sweat and imagination.

Oleksiy was good company. His choices weren't the same but they spoke the same language. Neither was a fan of authority. Both loved making. Oleksiy was generous with help and encouraging. They built an open shed of green timber, then put lumber under it to season, slowly growing mountains of stacked beams. All far too large; Oleksiy's advice was to let them season in large pieces to limit warping, then trim them and make dimensional lumber.

Good neighbours are worth more than good fences. Best of all is both.

Getting Started

"Plans are worthless, but planning is everything."
— Dwight D. Eisenhower

"What sort of help can you actually give me?"

That depends entirely on your point balance and token allocation. Did you want the technical breakdown?

"I won't remember it. My short-term memory is rubbish and I'll need constant reminding, which will annoy me. What I want is tactical analysis. I'll propose strategies, you critique their effectiveness and dependencies, we work out a practical approach with contingencies."

That's not how most Vanguards operate.

"Fine, so what's the first thing most Vanguards do?"

Die horribly.

He laughed. Her sense of humour was perfectly matched to his.

"This," he said, stretching and rising, "is accounting. Frankly it reminds me of nothing so much as one of those 'roleplaying' games where people spend three hours fiddling with dice and ten minutes doing impromptu theatre."

It is a bit like that, I suppose. But you need to know it, in order to make informed choices. This is going to be very important.

"No it isn't. If I make the decisions, it will be pot-luck as to whether I ask the right questions. You on the other hand have all the information. Anyway I'm shit at budgeting. Just tell me what needs killing and hand out tools as required."

That's a lot of trust.

"It's that or accounting."

Spoken like someone who's actually been shot at. You know what? I'm going to enjoy working with you. Now, about your public identity—

"No."

I haven't even—

"Whatever you're about to suggest: no. I don't need a brand, I need to keep my forest from being eaten and my neighbors alive if possible."

Your neighbors are scattered across forty square kilometres of valley and you have sixty-nine points remaining. We should discuss priorities.

Suspension creaked as the ute lurched down the last section of driveway toward the creek track. He'd lived out here long enough that the sound of the forest had become background, but now the silence pressed against his ears. No kookaburras. No whipbirds. Just the diesel and the creak of springs.

"First priority is Trix and the property. Then we see who else needs help."

Practical. I'll prepare a tactical overlay.

He pulled up at the caravan. Trix wasn't inside. His stomach dropped before he heard cursing and the smack of wood on something like leather. She was down by the garden, his old cricket bat in both hands, facing down three dog-sized things that were methodically eating her herb garden.

"Autumn, another Hummingbird."

The pistol appeared in his hand. Two shots, two down. The third spun toward him and he put one through the centre mass. Trix was breathing hard, bat still raised.

"Here." He held out the pistol. "Tap the side for the laser dot. It's disposable, so when it's empty just drop it."

She took it, hands steadier than he expected. "How many more are there?"

"Lots. Your citrus trees by the high creek—they'll go for those next. Anything fruiting or flowering draws them like flies."

"Then go." She pointed the Hummingbird at the ground, finger off the trigger. Good habits die hard. "I'll defend here."

"You'll run out of ammunition."

"Then I'll use the bat."

She's either very brave or very stubborn.

"Both," he muttered. Louder: "Autumn, can we secure a hardened shelter? Something that'll keep her safe if things get serious. Food, water, air filtration, the works."

A proper refuge with independent power, supplies, and emergency exit capability runs 120 points. You have sixty-nine.

"Then give me what sixty-nine points gets."

That's everything you have. You'll be—

"Broke. Yes. Do it. Put it down the slope from the caravan, somewhere with good drainage."

The air shimmered and something appeared below the house. Not the elaborate bunker he'd imagined—more of a reinforced shipping container, but the door looked solid and there were proper ventilation fixtures on top.

Scaled for available budget. Food, water, air filtration, independent power. Five days of supplies for one person. You're at zero points.

"When things get hairy, get inside that. It locks from inside, you can open it again after, and there's supplies for a week."

Trixie stared at it. "That's not— How did—"

"Space magic. I'll explain later." He counted the rounds left in the Hummingbird. "Autumn, give her two more of these. Show her how to check remaining shots."

I can't.

"What?"

You're at zero points. No credit, Chief. That's the rule.

Cold settled in his stomach. He'd bought Trix's safety and left himself with nothing. Stupid. Short-sighted. Exactly the kind of thing she'd been managing his finances to prevent for twenty years.

"Explain this to me. The whole system."

The whole galactic cluster is a warzone. A turf war, you might say, since the other side is plants. Sort of.

"Sort-of plants."

They're capable of photosynthesis. In most other respects they resemble animals.

"What sort of animals?"

Whatever they've been eating. They excel at assimilating local genomes.

"So the entire galactic cluster is a warzone in which the enemy is a cross between the Borg and Night of the Living Dead."

There was a pause while she trawled pop-culture references to interpret his statement.

Essentially.

"And how does that get us to me having an alien AS in my head and all this video game bullshit with points and whatnot?"

An alien what?

"AS. Artificial Smartarse."

Har har, you'll keep. So: a long time ago, in a galaxy far away—

He rolled his eyes.

You started it with the pop-culture references. Ancient aliens with a name that translates loosely as "The Protectors" decided that giving superweapons to monkeys was a bad plan.

"Surely not!"

Quite. Who could possibly foresee that species with nukes and tribalism might misuse planet-cracking technology? Anyway, they gamified it instead. Points for kills, tokens for unlocks, progression bars to keep the monkeys motivated.

"Patronising."

Also statistically validated across hundreds of species. You just spent everything protecting your wife. That's the system working—priorities made visible through constraints.

"We come in peace. Shoot to kill!"

That's the spirit!

"Right. Fine." He looked at Trixie. "You've got one Hummingbird and the bat. Make every shot count. I'll be back."

"Where are you going?"

"To get proper equipment."

He drove the ute too fast down the valley track, suspension protesting. The servo in town had closed three hours ago when the incursions started, but the hardware store—Brian ran that, and Brian lived above it. If he was lucky, the old bastard would still be alive.

The town was deserted. Not evacuated—just empty, like everyone had stepped inside at once. No bodies. No obvious damage. Just silence and a kind of tension in the air that made his skin crawl.

Brian's hardware store door was locked but the lights were on. He banged on the glass.

"Brian! It's me!"

A face appeared at the window—older than the universe, suspicious as hell. The door cracked open.

"You armed?"

"Yes. Low on ammo. You?"

"Rifle. What do you need?"

"Chainsaw. Chaps. Fuel. Two-stroke oil." He counted out cash from his wallet—always carried cash, even though Trixie managed the accounts. Old habit. "I'll pay double."

"Keep your money. We're past that." Brian disappeared into the back, returned with a Stihl MS661—professional grade, near-new. Chaps followed, bright orange, properly certified. A jerry can of fuel-oil mix. "You know how to sharpen a chain?"

"Felled hundreds of trees."

"Take this too." A sharpening kit. "And this." A first aid kit, the serious kind with tourniquets and pressure bandages. "You're bleeding."

Looking down, he found his jeans were soaked on one thigh, dark and wet. "Spike got me earlier. Hadn't noticed."

"You're going into shock." Brian grabbed his arm, surprisingly strong for seventy-plus. "Sit. Now."

"I don't have time—"

"You don't have time to bleed out either. Sit."

Like a dog he sat, bemused. Brian cut the jeans away, exposed the puncture. Not deep, but messy. He cleaned it, packed it, wrapped it tight. Professional work—marine medic in Vietnam. One of those stories Brian only told when very drunk.

"You'll do," Brian said. "But you're an idiot. Whatever you're planning, don't do it alone."

"I'm not alone."

"The woman?"

"Trixie. My wife."

"Bring her here. Safer in town."

"She won't leave."

Brian grunted—the sound of someone who'd met that particular kind of stubborn before. "Then keep your head down and shoot straight."

Gear went into the ute. The chainsaw was heavier than he remembered, or maybe he was just tired. The leg was starting to throb now that Brian had made him notice it.

"Brian. Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Just survive." He paused at the door. "And if you see any of those things in town—don't let them get to the shops. We've got sixty people sheltering in the RSL. They'll come for the food."

"I'll spread the word."

"Do that."

The drive back took longer. Vision fuzzed at the edges, and he had to force himself to focus on the road. Blood loss, probably. Or shock. Or just the accumulated stress of the last few hours catching up.

When he pulled into the caravan's clearing, Trixie was standing guard with the Hummingbird, eyes tracking the tree line. She trotted over to the ute when she saw it was him.

"You're hurt."

"Brian patched me up. How many more?"

"Three. Small ones. The shelter door works. I tested it." She looked at the chainsaw in the ute's tray. "That's not alien technology."

"No."

"You spent all your points on me."

"Yes."

She was quiet for a moment. Then: "You're an idiot."

"Been told that today already."

Autumn's voice crackled through the ute's stereo.

Chief, would you mind taking a look in the tray, behind the chainsaw? I've mislaid a few things, perhaps you'll find them.

He looked. There were boxes there—proper Protectorate shipping, the kind that just appeared out of nowhere. An armour jacket, reinforced but flexible. A tactical visor. A rifle with self-contained magazines. Grenades. A full combat loadout.

"What the hell?"

Oh good, I wondered where I left that. Hang onto it for me, would you? Lose my own head next.

"Autumn—"

I'll try to be less careless with my stuff in future, alright?

Trixie was looking at the boxes, then at him. "Your alien friend is a bureaucratic ninja."

She's fun and smart. I'm not sure you deserve either of us.

"Can you do this? Without getting in trouble?"

Do what? Sometimes I forget where I put things. And finding cast-off superweapons is practically traditional.

"Do I look like a Greek hero to you?"

From a certain angle, with the light just right. You're certainly short enough — ooh, branding!

"No."

Spoilsport.

He pulled the armour jacket out and examined it, trying it on. The fit was extraordinary. "You measured me."

I measure everything. It's handy when the dick-waving starts. Now suit up before something eats you. We have a valley to defend and I'd rather not train a new Vanguard from scratch. Good candidates are hard to find. Not all of you survive the wafer implant, and most of you get eaten in the first ten minutes.

The citrus trees were four hundred metres upslope, a double layer of chickenwire around star pickets keeping wallabies out. The wire was intact but something was working at the base of the trees, roots exposed, bark stripped. Five of them, same dog-sized species, too focused on feeding to notice until he was twenty metres away.

The Hummingbird made satisfying little phut sounds. Five shots, five down. Almost disappointingly easy. He sniffed disdain.

Don't get cocky. You've already killed the stupid ones.

Movement in understory made him freeze. Wallaby-sized, hunched shapes eating exposed roots.

Fours. Pack hunters. Stop grinding points on the easy ones. Move.

"Suggestions?"

Use the grenades. Two Fours aren't—

Squealing from below, pig-sized. A lot of pig. Tusks flashing in failing light. Three big units, heading downhill.

Fives. Those are Fives. Chief, get clear.

He ran. Slipped on wet leaves, caught himself. The pig-things were faster but they weren't running from him, or at him. They were running at the caravan.

At Trixie.

Thirty metres between them and his wife. He wasn't going to make it. First shot center mass on the leader. Down. Second shot wing hit. The third stumbled and he missed.

Trixie put the little red dot on the pig-thing's head, and calmly pulled the trigger. The Hummingbird made a lazy phut and its head exploded.

The third made it to the clearing before he tagged it. It fell and rolled, bleeding. Trix approached, bat raised overhead, two-handed like a boundary strike. Its skull collapsed with a wet crunch.

She looked up at him, breathing hard and spattered with gore. "How many more?"

"Lots."

"I need a bigger bat."

I like her.

"She's alright, I suppose."

They took the long way back to the citrus grove, approaching quietly from downwind. A wallaby-sized pair was still demolishing the saplings. The heft of a grenade wasn't something he'd felt ever. Back in the corps his job was all about codes and radios, they spent precious little time on the range and none at all on other skills of the infantry, but he still knew to pull the pin, release the spoon, count to three and throw. He used a swinging underhand lob, very mindful of the implicatios of losing his grip and having it land close.

One landed perfectly, right among them. The second went long but apparently close enough for government work. Flash-crack. One vaporized. The other fountained gore back at them.

Effectiveness over aesthetics. Plus side: eighty points.

"From?"

Five Fives, twelve Threes, couple Fours. Good morning's work.

"Not morning."

Somewhere it is. Optimism, Chief.

Chainsaw time. He cut the mangled trees back, then piled up the Antithesis bodies. He was going to cut them up and scatter the pieces, but Autumn explained that this was the worst thing he could do short of potting mix and water. He bought a thing called a Resonator, and learnt how to use it, an unpleasant experience that rattled his teeth. That really shouldn't have been a surprise. What it did to the antithesis remnants was worse; they looked like banana left in a freezer and thawed, all slumped and mushy.

Minimum safe distance five metres does not mean "stand five metres away," you dummy, it means "don't ever be this close". Also I think you may have feet and metres mixed up.

"I wanted to see what it did."

Gah! I can get you binoculars for one point! I can get you dreamy binoculars in polished walnut and ebony, for five.

Eventually it was done and he walked the boundary. There were more signs. Digging near the dam. Tree damage by the machinery shed. Root exposure at orchard border. Systematic and probing.

They're feeling the place out. Learning.

"So'm I."

Dusk settled purple as the sun melted and dripped of the edge of the world. The temperature fell but it wouldn't get cold. Not this time of year.

Trix had a hurricane lamp lit at the caravan, yellow and bright in the gathering dark.

She had her own pile, dragged away from the caravan, and she was making tea on a camp stove. Two mugs.

"Well?"

"Killed fourteen. Found diggings at the dam and the orchard. And the shed. Bastards get around."

"Sunset brings more?"

"Prob'ly not, the voice woulda said, but who knows what habits they might pick up from the wildlife."

The tea was too hot and burnt his tongue. Just the way he liked it.

"Brian wants me to go look after people at the RSL. Reckons there's sixty sheltering there."

"Why? Are they hoping to provide a buffet? That place is all glass."

"Yep."

"But you'll help anyway."

"If time permits."

She nodded. It was the sort of thing he'd say. "How much ammunition do you have left?"

"Magazines are full. Got six grenades. Here, you have this." He held out a Hummingbird with ten shots in it.

"Then what?"

"Bat. Or run."

"Can you imagine me running?"

"Perhaps you could use the fancy shelter I bought at great personal peril."

She gave him the stink-eye but it didn't work over her smile.

The night wasn't quiet. Nights aren't, they're full of insects and frogs and birds, all hiding, eating, mating and trying not to be eaten. Just on dusk, at some times of year the cicadas could be so loud you had to shout over them. Life went on. Fire and flood, nothing made this lot shut up. Not to be outdone, a dog barked in the distance.

Motion sensor. Look at the northern treeline.

The rifle came up and his visor activated. Thermal overlay showed small shapes with a low heat signature.

"Threes. Six of them."

It's almost like they're probing defenses, testing response time. There may be a seventeen out there. I really hope it's a seventeen.

"You do? Are those easy to kill? I would have thought smart would be more dangerous."

It is. But there are other smart antithesis ... that you would not survive.

"Nup. I go outside and piss in my undies every night and everything goes quiet. It's not because I have a big dick, it's because I am the most dangerous thing out here."

His words were separated by three shots and three kills. The rest scattered, regrouping at the tree line. Watching.

"They're learning."

If you're lucky it's not brains and they're just trying something else. Pattern recognition without consciousness.

"What stops them?"

Death. Or nothing nearby worth eating. They'll strip biomass till the ecosystem collapses, then move. Like humans, really.

"Aren't you just a ray of sunshine."

I do my best.

It was full dark now, and the moon wasn't up yet. So far from urban filth, the Milky Way fairly blazed, the Southern Cross clear and obvious. Shapes moved in peripheral vision, there then gone. Eyes soon adjusted to the starlit land, seeing patterns, some real, some just healthy paranoia.

Inside her shelter Trixie tested equipment. He replied with his little UHF handset to her emergency radio call. She checked water filtration and air circulation and then checked it all again. Her way of maintaining control in a world gone mad. Or madder.

He found chainsaw marks on trees at the property line, but they weren't. There was a funny smell, too. Cut grass but not, different from their smell of death. A territory marker? Some sort of scent marker. Were they scent-based? He didn't know. Did they even notice the fences? Drawing a line in the dirt was such a human thing to do, a symbol saying: this far, no further.

More movement. Bigger. Four at the dam, drinking. Testing water? Searching biomass? He didn't know and didn't care enough to give it more thought, checking the safety was off instead.

Grenades from twenty metres. Two throws. The first fell short. The second overcompensated and also rolled, but that meant they were hit from both sides. Shrapnel fell like rain across the dam, ripples spreading. When vision cleared, nothing moved.

Style points: zero. Effectiveness: acceptable.

"I'm not performing."

Everything's performance. You're just bad at it.

"You're bad at shutting up."

Pffft, you'd be bored without me.

"Doubt it."

Liar.

She played a fragment of the Halo theme, not the whole riff but half a dozen unmistakeable notes, and he couldn't suppress the smile that played over his face.

I do love a man in armour. I'm not entirely sure about bright orange chaps.

Back at the caravan site, Trix emerged from the shelter. "Explosions."

"Fours at dam. Gone now."

"Gone means dead or gone means left?"

"Dead."

"Good." Pause. "Janna's place. Check it."

His stomach dropped. "Why?"

"Haven't seen her. Radio's dead. She's alone up there."

Janna. She was younger, just forty-four, a weird mix of tough and soppy. Lived upslope in the plant nursery that was her livelihood and was the birthplace of half the valley gardens.

"Right. Stay here. Shelter if—"

"I know."

There was a ute up the track, headlights cutting comforting cones through the dark. Janna's place lit up, her generator running. That was good. Lights meant life, probably.

Pulling in, he called out. No answer, and the door was open. Inside, furniture was flung about. There was broken glass and blood spatter on a wall. Not much. Some.

In the kitchen was more blood, a trail leading to the back door.

Chief. You don't want—

"I know."

The nursery behind had raised beds and shade cloth, fenced with weldmesh panels, irrigation overhead. Sections were torn apart. Earth churned, plants shredded in patches. But not everywhere. Some beds untouched.

Blood trail led to machinery shed. Door forced open, hanging crooked. Inside: overturned potting benches, soil scattered. More blood on concrete floor. But no body. No bones. Nothing definitive.

She might have made it to the bush. Or they dragged her off.

"Her van isn't here."

Thermal scan shows nothing in a hundred-metre radius. Want me to—

"No. Can't spare the time. If she's alive, she'll turn up."

He stood a long moment. Janna showed him native propagation. Shared cuttings. Made him tea with too much sugar. Called him "young man" despite the grey in his beard.

Chief. We should go.

"Yeah."

Back he drove. Trix looked at his face.

"Janna?"

"Not there. Blood trail, damage. No body."

"Could she—"

"Maybe. Generator's still running. Door was open. If she escaped..." He didn't finish.

"You'll check again?"

"First light."

She nodded a moment of silence between them. The valley was getting smaller. Everyone knew everyone. Maybe Janna made it, maybe not.

Sixty-two people at the RSL. Status unknown on seven valley residents.

"Don't."

You need to know who's left.

"Later."

Now. While you're functional. Planning requires data.

Maybe she was right, maybe she was wrong. Either way the clock was ticking. Janna remained on the unknowns list. More would follow. Simple, unpleasant math.

"What's the next priority?"

Your orchard. They'll hit that hard if they haven't already. Then the dam for water. Then systematic consumption of every living thing in this valley.

"Orchard then."

Trix grabbed his arm. "You're knackered, and you're bleeding."

"So?"

"So rest. Get your head down for twenty minutes. Eat and drink while I give you a basic medical check. Then you can get over to the orchard."

"Don't have twenty—"

"Make time or collapse. Which helps more?"

He glared and she glared back. She won — she always did.

Inside the caravan was bread, jam and tea. He ate but tasted nothing, drank without noticing how hot it was while Trixie changed the dressing on his leg because it was sodden and dirt stuck to it.

"It's not closing."

"It will."

"Needs stitches."

"Later."

"You'll bleed out."

"Later."

Another glare-off. Another loss.

I could cauterize it.

"No! You two are as bad as each other, you sadistic maniacs."

You could buy a small medical drone for five points, for a localized heat treatment to seal the wound.

"I said no."

Infection risks—

"Autumn. No."

You're impossible.

"You're not the first to notice."

Trix handed him water. "Drink."

He drank and handed it back.

"More."

He did.

"Sleep."

"Can't."

"Twenty minutes."

"They'll—"

"Motion sensors. Autumn wakes you in twenty minutes. Or, I can lock you in the nice shelter you got me."

"You wouldn't."

She would. He saw it in her face.

"Fine. Twenty minutes."

He flaked out on the caravan bed and fell through darkness like a stone down a well. A moment later he woke to Autumn screaming out of the caravan speaker.

CHIEF! ORCHARD! NOW!

Stumbling out, he wondered how long. His watch said thirty minutes. Trix shrugged apologetically.

Rifle, grenades. The ute started first try and his headlights speared the darkness toward the orchard.

Shapes moved everywhere. Not Threes or Fours. Bigger, cow-sized with six legs. Armoured carapace, according to Autumn. Systematically stripping fruit trees. The entire orchard was under siege.

Sixes. Tanky bastards. Soft spots: joints, underbelly. Armour deflects most small arms.

"Grenades?"

Work. But you've got four left.

"Then I'll have to make them count."

He parked the ute, headlights illuminating carnage. The first grenade sailed into a cluster of three Sixes feeding together. It was a ridiculous, tinny throw and the explosion flipped one, shredding two others. Joints were exposed on the survivor and he put rounds into the gaps with gratifying results.

The second grenade caught a pair near apple trees. Apples were Trix's favorites. Both were caught in blast. He grinned ferally.

Two grenades left. A dozen sixes remained.

Conserve your rounds. Go for joints. Aim small, miss small.

Sniper work then. He found a position behind the shed, a good stable shooting platform. Methodical shots targeted joint, joint, underbelly, joint. Every shot counted.

Finally they got wind of his position, or saw the muzzle flash. Big, fast and angry, they charged him, footfalls their only sound. Right into the roll of another grenade. The grass slowed it but the slope compensated. It was complete bullshit but it worked. One grenade between them. Both down.

Last grenade. Eight Sixes left. Not enough.

Run.

"No."

Chief—

"My trees. My land. No."

He channelled the A-team and switched to full auto. The magazine dumped into the nearest Six, joints, gaps, and soft spots. It died hard but it went down. He flung the empty magazine aside and slammed a fresh one in too hard, tried again with a seating click.

They were converging now. Recognising the threat but not smart about it, like they relied on numbers. Numbers they didn't have, today.

Last magazine. Four left. Not enough ammunition. Not enough time.

You're in the black and you can afford a turret.

"Do it."

Air shimmered. An automatic turret appeared on the shed roof, another at the orchard edge. Both opened up with precise, economical, devastating, targeted lanes of fire. Four sixes, down in seconds.

In the silence after, fire crackled loud in one tree they'd damaged. He drew a deep breath laden with cut grass and cordite, the distinctive aroma of a new Vanguard.

Eighty points. You're out of the hole.

"How many more waves?"

Until you kill them all or they kill you. That's the game, Chief.

He ambled through the orchard, checking the damage. Fifteen trees destroyed—roots exposed, bark stripped, branches broken. Thirty damaged but salvageable. Twenty untouched.

Trix appeared at orchard edge, Hummingbird ready. "How bad is it?"

"Nothing tried to eat me. It's a mess in there but we've had worse from hail."

"Five years growing them. They were going to start fruiting."

"Thirty are fine. Fiften are trashed, twenty are a bit hammered but they'll grow back."

"Fifteen dead."

"They aren't dead, they have adult root systems. They'll be back up in a year and fruiting in two. Could be a lot worse."

"Could be better."

"Yep."

A moment of silence stretched between them, a requiem for lost days. Then: "What now?"

"Space girl, what magic have you got for tired old men?"

Old? Would you like a lolly, little boy? Five points, and not really good for you. Also quite addictive, so if you're still alive tomorrow I'm going to ruin your day with a purgative.

"Right now we're going to get inside your hidey-hole. And then I'm going to sleep. When the sun's up I suppose I'll have to assess the whole valley. See who's left. Help where possible."

"And after?"

"Keep killing them till they stop coming. Or we're dead. It's not complicated."

"No. Simple but not easy."

"Right then. Off we go."

They walked back to the caravan together, the sky lightening east, purple to grey. An avian changing of the guard, a different song to announce the new day. Kookaburras first, laughing at the absurdity. Everything dying, birds still laughing. Australia in miniature.

Valley census: forty confirmed alive. Fifteen dead or missing. Seven unknown. Sixty-two yesterday.

"Don't."

You need to know.

"Later."

Now. While you're numb. Easier to process.

He shrugged and her litany went on. Janna made sixteen. More would follow. It was simple and brutal: time and exposure, everyone dies eventually. But that was no change, and he found an odd comfort in the thought.

At the caravan, tea again. Trix's solution to everything. Hot tea, bit of sugar. Sip and survive.

"We can't go on like this."

He looked at her till she went on.

"We need more people. You called it something..."

"Defense in depth."

"That."

"So?"

"God, you're impossible to talk to."

He slept and dreamt of Janna's nursery burning. Amber eyes watched through the flames, watching and waiting for him to act. Loyalty without judgement, beyond death.

Woke to Trix shaking shoulder. "Helicopter."

Outside, low and slow, the whup-whup of the rotors deafening. A civilian bird, yellow and white with media markings flew the length of the valley bellowing something from speakers on the skids.

It seems to be a government announcement, an evacuation order. All citizens are directed to relocation centers.

"They can fuck off."

Legally—

"I said they can fuck off."

Just checking your position.

The helicopter made three passes before vanishing.

The relocation thing is apparently a directive, not an offer. I don't think they realise this place has a Vanguard in residence.

"Still don't care."

Trix emerged from shelter. "Staying?"

"Staying."

"Thought so." She had packs ready. Supplies. Ammunition. Water. While he napped she had apparently been busy. "Others will stay too. Oleksiy for sure."

"Dozen maybe. Enough for coordination. Not enough for proper defense."

"Then we get clever."

"Define clever."

"Traps. Choke points. Overlapping fields of fire. All the fun of the fair."

"Scorched earth."

"If necessary."

She nodded. It was him all over. The confidence of the bloody-minded. "Let's get started."

Sun cleared the ridge and the valley flowed with gold. Morning birds didn't seem to grasp the gravity of the situation; they were in full chorus. Smoke still rose from Janna's place. New day. Same war.

Chief? For what it's worth — you're doing well.

"Don't need reassurance."

You're getting it anyway. Free of charge.

"Nothing's free."

This is. You're a sort of investment. I believe in you.

"Touching."

I contain multitudes.

"You contain bullshit."

Hunh. Takes one to know one.

He checked the rifle and counted the grenades. Chainsaw. Armour. All present. All functional. Everything needed to make something bleed.

"Trix. How're you?"

"Alive. Scared. Stubborn. You?"

"M'orright. Stay that way."

"Deal."

He held out his hand, and she took it, the beginning of a handshake, but pulled her into his embrace. They stood like that in silence. They'd been together twenty years. There was no need to say: stay alive, watch each other's backs, don't die stupidly.

You're building something, Chief.

"Building what?"

Your future.

"Everyone's building the future. You can't do anything else."

I didn't say "a" future. I said 'your future.' Now move. Dawn's when they feed heaviest.

The ute started. Trixie was in the passenger seat, Hummingbird at the ready, his rifle between her knees. She had grenades in her pockets, and his chainsaw was in tray. If you don't want it to rain, bring an umbrella.

They drove on, forward unto dawn, with a simple and time-honoured plan: kill or be killed.

Not easy, but doable. Maybe. All things are possible for the lucky, the stubborn and the smart. Provided they're the same person.

Above them, kookaburras chortled in the trees. Mad birds laughing at a mad, mad world. He laughed too. Why not?

Trix looked at him. "You right?"

"Probably not. Let's go anyway."

"That's the spirit."

For the record? I like both of you. Try not to die.

He spat.

Good enough.

Road ahead, forest around. Aliens ... somewhere. Us or them, he thought. It wasn't really new. Probably older. They drove on.

The squealing hit first. A sow, maybe four hundred kilos, crashing through the scrub with five of the aliens in panicked flight ahead of her. One clutched a dead piglet.

Up the nearest bloodwood like he was sixteen again. Sows don't climb, but they do hold grudges, and this one was ready to murder everything in a hundred-metre radius. Trixie was in another tree, higher than him. She'd been smart enough to run a different way, make sure at least one of them wasn't pursued.

The sow stopped below, looking for something to kill. The aliens kept running. Smart choice. After a while she left. They waited a while before climbing down.

"How many points was that?"

Seven. Congratulations, you're no longer broke.

"What about a recon drone? If I'm hunting blind—"

Sixty points. Keep killing.

They worked through the property systematically, Autumn marking locations as he cleared them. The pattern was obvious: they went for anything lush, anything cultivated. Native bush they mostly ignored—the eucalypts and wattles were too toxic, too low in nutrients. Good. That meant the forest itself might survive even if the Antithesis won.

Small comfort.

You're at forty-three points. We should check on your other neighbors.

"Oleksiy's closest. He's—"

Armed, capable, and has a bunker mentality. The other direction.

"Janna." The nursery. Twenty thousand plants in shadecloth houses, irrigation on a timer, her whole livelihood in one spot. "Right."

It took thirty minutes to reach her driveway, mostly due to a detour around a gully full of something he didn't recognise and didn't want to meet yet. When he crested the rise, the silence was total.

The shadecloth was gone. Not torn down—gone. Eaten, presumably. The star pickets stood naked, wire traces on the ground. Not a single plant remained. Her cabin was timber-framed, struc pine because it's cheap. They'd eaten the frame. The roof had collapsed into the space where walls used to be, fibro sheets cracked and twisted, gutters bent like aluminium foil.

He stopped walking.

"Autumn."

I know.

The irrigation tanks were twenty thousand litres each, corrugated steel, up on ten-metre stands. Vines trailed from the access hatches. Not lantana—these were grey-green, wrong texture, moving slightly in still air.

"Is she...?"

I can't tell from here. Do you want me to—

"No." Walking again. "Grenades?"

Standard fragmentation, three points each.

"Give me three."

They appeared in his hands one at a time, simple spheres with pins. The first pin came free, lobbed underhand toward the nearest tank. The spoon flew free with a bright spang and he was already moving back—

WHAM.

The tank ruptured, water and shredded vine spraying out. Things boiled out of the split seam, small and fast, heading straight for him. Out came the second pin, two, three, he threw it into the mass.

WHAM.

The third went into the far tank while they were still reforming. That one actually tumbled into the hatch, and when it went off the entire tank bulged, seams splitting, water pouring out in sheets.

Nothing else moved.

Wait. Wait. Still nothing.

"I need something for cleanup. Something that'll—"

Burn it?

"Burn it."

Incendiary grenade, five points.

"One for now."

He walked to where the cabin used to be, close enough to see inside the wreckage. The bed frame was steel, still intact. Everything else was gone. No body. Maybe she'd gotten out, gone to neighbors, wasn't home when—

Something white in the wreckage. Bone. Femur, by the size.

"Autumn."

I see it.

"Incendiary."

Are you—

"She'd want a proper fire. Better than rotting in the wreckage."

The grenade appeared. He pulled the pin, set it carefully in the center of the collapse, and walked away. Behind him, the whump of ignition, then the crackle of fire finding fibro and dried timber and beginning to properly burn.

By the time he reached the driveway, smoke rose black and thick. Old hardwood would burn for hours, hot enough to reduce anything organic to ash. No gravestone, no words. Just smoke rising into the empty sky.

I'm sorry.

"Yeah."

They walked back toward home in silence. After a while, Autumn spoke again.

You're at thirty-two points. You earned more clearing her property.

"Doesn't feel like it."

It never does. But you gave her a clean end. That's not nothing.

No answer, nothing to say. He'd killed some aliens, burned a body, and walked away. Hurrah for the Brave New World.

We should talk about defensive strategy.

"Later. I want to know whether Trixie's alright."

She is. The shelter monitors show her inside, vital signs normal. She's reading.

"Reading what?"

The emergency manual I included. She's taking notes.

That sounded like Trixie. End of the world, alien invasion, hiding in a bunker—might as well study. Something unclenched in his chest.

"What's our point total?"

Thirty-two. Enough for basic defensive equipment, not enough for proper infrastructure.

"What do I need?"

To keep killing things until you can afford sensors, automated defense, and proper fortifications. But you already knew that.

"Yeah."

The walk back stretched longer than he remembered. His leg was throbbing again, Brian's field dressing soaked through. The armour jacket from Autumn's "personal collection" was keeping him upright, some kind of medical monitoring built in, but there were limits to what gear could fix.

The caravan clearing appeared through the trees. Trixie was outside the shelter, Hummingbird in hand, watching his approach with the kind of focus that said she'd been waiting and worrying.

"You're late."

"Had to make a stop."

"You're bleeding."

"Brian patched it. It's fine."

"It's not fine. Get inside." She pointed at the shelter. "There's a proper medical kit in there and I've read the manual. Sit down and let me fix what you've broken."

She worked efficiently, cutting away the old bandage, cleaning the wound again, applying something that stung like hell but probably prevented infection. New bandage, properly wrapped, tighter than Brian's.

"There. Now you'll live long enough to do something else stupid."

"That's the plan."

She looked at him, really looked, and her expression softened slightly. "You went to town. Got the chainsaw. Came back past Janna's."

"How did you—"

"You've got ash on your jacket. And that look you get when things are worse than you want to admit." She sat beside him on the shelter's step. "She didn't make it, did she?"

"No. Didn't look like it."

"Anyone else?"

"Brian's alright. Sixty people sheltering at the RSL. Haven't checked the others yet."

"Then that's what we do next. We check on everyone, we help who we can, and we don't quit until either the aliens are dead or we are."

He stared at his wife of twenty-five years, who'd managed his money and his memory and his tendency to acquire chainsaws, who'd turned cramped caravans into homes and refused to shoot wallabies even when they ate her garden. She was holding a Hummingbird like she'd been born to it, jaw set in that expression that meant she'd made a decision and arguing was pointless.

"When did you get so bloodthirsty?"

"When they ate my herbs. Nobody rips up my garden and lives."

I like her.

"Me too." He didn't mention wallabies.

They sat for a moment, watching the valley. The smoke from Janna's pyre had dissipated. The kookaburras were still silent. But the sun was setting, and they were alive, and that was enough for now.

Tomorrow they'd fight again. Tonight they'd rest.

Behind them, the shelter hummed quietly, keeping its small piece of safety intact while the world burned.

Bushwhackers

bush·whack·er [ˈbʊʃˌwakə]

A person who clears land in bush country.

A person who lives or travels in bush country.

The morning air still held yesterday's rain, earthy and clean, as they made their way back to base camp. Trix sat cross-legged by the fire, methodically sharpening her knives — a ritual he had come to recognise as her way of processing stress. The previous night's encounter had shaken her more than she'd admit, though she'd never say so. Pride ran deep in her bloodline, the quiet strength of her island heritage tempered by the practical toughness that came from crossing the Tasman to carve out a life in Australian bush country.

He set the fleshmelters down beside her with the kind of deliberate care you use when handling both dangerous weapons and fragile people. "These are fire-and-forget," he said, keeping his voice level, instructional. "Point, squeeze, step back. The chemical reaction does the rest. Get back after you trigger it. At least three metres."

She nodded, turning one over in her hands with the same attention she'd given her knives. There was something primal about the way she evaluated tools — not just their function, but their weight, their balance, how they'd feel after hours of use. This came from a family that had carved lives from unforgiving country with little more than determination and steel.

The demonstration was brief. Trix absorbed information the way drought-cracked earth accepts rain—quickly, completely, with little show but profound effect. Within minutes she had the rhythm of it, the rapid acquisition of new skills a hallmark of the deliberately independent. She wasn't good at it yet.

The citrus grove at the high creek bore the scars of the previous night's violence. Saplings that had taken three years to establish lay trampled, their tender bark stripped away by hungry alien mouths. He dragged the carcasses clear of the survivors, each one a small tragedy of lost time and patient care. The work was heavy — alien corpses weren't light — but his lean frame moved with deceptive strength, individual muscles playing visibly beneath the worn fabric of his lumberjacket as he hauled the bodies clear. The sanitising solution hissed against alien flesh, reducing complex bio-chemistry to inert residue with the efficiency that marked all Protectorate technology.

Trixie moved among the victims with secateurs, brutal in her mercy. She wasn't killing them, quite the opposite. It would be a while before they grew back, and taking off all the damage made the rootbase relatively larger than the injured plant.

Autumn's voice crackled through the radio as he worked. She'd already contacted Brian, but he was ahead of them — smoke rising from his property like an exclamation mark against the morning sky. The man had been fighting his own war while they'd been busy elsewhere. In this country, self-reliance wasn't a philosophy. It was survival. You dealt with your own problems because by the time help arrived, problems had usually dealt with you.

Janna's battered van turned into her driveway. The world tilted sideways for a moment,cognitive dissonance palpable. He'd seen the blood, the bones, the devastation. He'd assumed...

But there she was. Alive and moving. The bones at her compost heap must have been one of the pigs. Relief and embarrassment warred in his chest as he followed without thinking, recognising the slumped shoulders of someone carrying more weight than they could bear. Reports of her death, it seemed, had been greatly exaggerated by exhaustion and stress.

Her nursery — a lifetime's work condensed into neat rows of native seedlings — lay in ruins.

She stood among the wreckage, not crying but hollow-eyed in the way of people processing loss too large for immediate tears. The alien plants had eaten her dreams. Janna had never been wealthy. Her nursery existed on the thin margins of passion projects and small-town economics. A bank loan that had been manageable spread across a season's projected sales now loomed like a mountain.

"Autumn? A Hummingbird and a melter for the lady, I think. How's our balance?"

"Who are you talking to?" Janna's voice carried the brittle edge of someone whose world lay in shards at her feet.

The car stereo came alive with Jen Taylor's crisp, measured tones—a voice that managed to sound both alien and strangely comforting.

He's talking to me. I'm Autumn, and lumberjacket here owes you a long explanation that you aren't getting right now. Please accept these tokens of our apology and five minutes of instruction, then we have to go.

He found himself explaining weapons to a woman who, twelve hours ago, had been worried about aphids and soil pH. The Hummingbird felt alien in her gardener's hands — hands that knew soil and seeds, not triggers and targeting systems. But she listened with the focused attention of someone who'd learned that the world was more dangerous than she'd imagined.

"There will be more of them," he said, watching her struggle with the weight of new reality. "This launches guided micro-missiles. No recoil, but respect the targeting system. Tap here for the laser dot, put it on the threat, pull the trigger. The fleshmelter—" He held up the grenade-sized device, "—this dissolves organic matter. Dead antithesis become hives if you leave them. Pile the bodies, press the red button, drop it and be three metres away in five seconds. Any closer and you'll regret it."

"Is it even legal for a private citizen to have these?" The question came from someone whose biggest rebellion was planting natives instead of roses.

Autumn's response carried undertones he was still learning to read — amusement mixed with something harder, more pragmatic.

There are only three ways to acquire Vanguard weapons: theft, which is suicidal; purchase, which requires connections most people don't have; or gift from a Vanguard. The first option removes you from the gene pool. The other two imply sanction from people the government tries very hard not to antagonise.

When it's empty, list the launcher online. They fetch remarkable prices from collectors. We'll give you another, those are single use anyway.

With that cryptic reassurance hanging in the air, they left Janna standing in the ruins of her garden, armed with alien technology and the growing realisation that her quiet life had ended. He backed up, leaned out the window.

"Janna! Come to the caravan for dinner. This is not over and you are not alone."

The drive to Oleksiy's place followed roads that wrote his signature in stone. Precise grades, proper drainage, built to last by someone who understood that infrastructure was the difference between living and and existing. Forty years ago, he carved this valley's lifeline from raw bush using nothing but determination, explosives, and a diesel dozer older than some countries. The result was a thing of understated beauty. Curves that followed the land's natural contours, bridges that flowed out of the landscape.

If the valley had elected positions, Oleksiy would be sheriff by acclamation, assuming you could convince him to take the job. It was a paradox that defined the man: he minded his own business with secular devotion, yet somehow knew everything that happened within fifty kilometres. People sought his counsel on everything from water to weddings, not because he inserted himself into their affairs, but because his quiet competence had earned the respect that institutions demand but dont deserve.

Smoke rose from his property in a narrow column — controlled, tame. He turned down his drive between rows of oak trees that stood like soldiers on parade, evenly spaced, perfectly groomed, marks of a man who did things properly even when no one was watching.

The guest parking area — because of course Oleksiy had designated guest parking in the middle of nowhere — occupied a carefully graded flat beside his house. The bridge over what he insisted were fishponds but looked like a moat led to a property that managed to be both welcoming and defensible, without advertising either quality.

He walked toward the house calling his name and waving broadly — not from friendliness but from self-preservation. Oleksiy's robust sense of private property was legendary, and while the visitor might be on his welcome-any-time list, it paid to announce yourself clearly. The man had fought in conflicts most people couldn't pronounce, and old habits died hard.

Defence completed, cleanup was underway. Oleksiy sat at a table in the filtered sunlight beneath a jacaranda that predated his arrival, methodically cleaning a rifle that might have served in Korea. At first glance, the his unassuming manner might have been mistaken for someone's genial uncle, but his face told a different story — features that managed to be both Santa-like and dangerous, framed by salt-and-pepper hair with more white than his companion's own precisely maintained buzzcut. The weapon showed its age in honest wear rather than neglect—every component maintained with the precision of someone who understood that reliability meant survival. His hands moved with the unconscious competence of repetition measured in decades, disassembling and reassembling with the rhythm of a man for whom weapons maintenance was meditation.

"Just came down to make sure you weren't caught napping. I see things are well in hand." The words came easier than the feeling behind them. Checking on Oleksiy felt like checking on a mountain — possible, but ridiculous.

"Yeh. Is like old times. Only not so loud, since I'm deaf." He gestured vaguely toward his left ear, legacy of a war fought before most people in the valley were born. "All good up your way?"

He nodded, then remembered Oleksiy read lips better than he heard voices. "All clear. Anyone check on Gerry's place? He's in the city for two weeks — tiling job and a new grandson."

It was the kind of detail that mattered out here, where knowing who was home could mean the difference between a quick check and finding bodies. Oleksiy's intelligence network operated on the principle that neighbours looked out for neighbours, not because anyone asked them to, but because it was how decent people lived.

"Not yet. I'll go now."

"On your own?" His eyes carried the weight of someone who'd seen what overconfidence could cost.

"I'll be right. I have new toys! But you can come if you like."

"In nice air-conditioned car, yes. Alright." He reassembled the rifle with economical movements, then filled what his companion tried not to notice was definitely a military-specification magazine. The kind that required hard-to-get licenses: paperwork and the sort of bureaucratic patience Oleksiy had never possessed.

He vanished into the house while the visitor found himself having a conversation with an artificial intelligence about the complexities of Australian firearms law.

What's bothering you, Chief?

"Magazine-fed rifles are heavily controlled in this country. You can have the rifle, but the magazine? No. Oleksiy would never waive his search and seizure right. Which means he either acquired it through channels I don't want to know about, or he's had it since the eighties and failed to hand it in when they were banned. Either way, not reporting it makes me an accessory to something the government takes seriously."

Autumn's response carried the patient tone of someone explaining basic physics to a child.

You do know you're a Vanguard, right? This presents a manageable problem.

"I hear things. Most of it sounds like science fiction written by optimists."

Like pocket-sized guided missile launchers? We operate under different rules because conventional law enforcement becomes meaningless when dealing with people who can level city blocks. Most governments recognise Vanguard as operating outside normal legal frameworks because attempting to enforce those frameworks is impossible, and the only way to maintain dignity is to avoid forcing confrontations they can't win.

"The missile launcher is impressive, but I don't think I could hold off an entire government."

There are thirty-eight Vanguard in this country. All of them do what the state should but can't. Twenty have weapons superior to anything in official arsenals. A handful have orbital strike capability. All of them would take exception to attempts to control a fellow Vanguard.

The numbers hung in the air like smoke from a distant fire—visible, but hard to process. "That sounds... unbalanced."

It is. You're all chosen for personality and values, and social contracts remain in force. For average citizens, the state dictates terms. But Vanguard can push back hard, so governments negotiate in good faith. It's unfortunate that good faith negotiation requires mutual capacity for harm, but that's the world we live in. You'll do the right thing because it's in your nature, and because the support I mentioned depends on the faith of your peers in your right action. They'll back you up first and ask questions later. You won't let them down. Malice isn't in you.

Oleksiy emerged from the house, settling into the passenger seat without ceremony. They drove in comfortable silence—two men who understood that some conversations happened in actions rather than words. Six minutes later he directed the driver to stop, tapping his shoulder with the gentle authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

"Gate." Oleksiy hopped out to open Gerry's entrance, moving with surprising agility for an old man built like a well-muscled barrel. The ritual of rural courtesy persisted even in the middle of a crisis. Property rights meant something different out here, where fences marked not just boundaries but the distinction between civilisation and chaos.

Halfway to the north fence he tapped the driver's shoulder again. "Stop. Two bends up, twenty metres right of the road."

That was Olekysiy all over. Where had he lived, what had he done that all his habits said talking too much could kill you? The younger man wondered again, and put it aside. Movement, probably antithesis. They exited the vehicle in silence, doors left open for quick retreat or rapid advance.

He ghosted up the road, the familiar tension of a hunter who knows he is hunted. His lean one-hundred-seventy-six-centimetre frame moved with the fluid economy of someone who knows the stronger you are the sooner you can be lazy. The Hummingbird felt comfortable in his hands now, its alien ergonomics beginning to make sense. The targeting system painted the first antithesis in subtle overlays that seemed to whisper directly into his brain. The weapon's quiet efficiency—phut!—spoke to a philosophy of warfare that valued precision over drama.

The second creature charged, which made targeting easier. Physics and intent converged in a quiet explosion of alien flesh. There were no more in sight.

He trotted back to Oleksiy, who was scanning the tree line with the methodical attention of someone who'd learned paranoia as a survival skill.

"Space friend in head. New toys." It was a statement, not a question.

The car stereo responded in fluid Ukrainian, words his companion couldn't understand but recognised as both explanation and amusement.

Я вважаю за краще, щоб до мене зверталися як до Осені, але це точний підсумок.

Oleksiy's laughter carried genuine delight. The younger man felt like a child watching adults share a joke.

I prefer to be addressed as Autumn, but that's an accurate summary.

"About the rifle," the visitor said, feeling his way through a conversation he wasn't sure he wanted to have. "It has that magazine. I don't want you to have trouble with authorities. Are you licensed for that configuration?"

His look suggested the question was absurd — like asking for permission to breathe. How little the younger man understood about men like Oleksiy, who'd been fighting for survival while bureaucrats were still learning to spell their own names.

"It's entirely fine with me," he added quickly, "but when we're done today I'm going to give you another weapon, something with Vanguard written all over it. Keep them together and no one will ask uncomfortable questions."

The logic was simple: a military rifle might attract attention, but a military rifle stored next to obviously alien technology suggested government sanction rather than illegal acquisition. Sometimes the best way to hide something was to put it next to something so obviously legitimate that questions answered themselves.

Near the north gate, they discovered what Autumn would later describe as a "plant party" — though the festivities moved at geological speed. One of Australia's advantages in the antithesis war lay in their trees, which had evolved hardwood so dense that putting a nail through it required pilot holes and industrial-grade drill bits. Their chainsaws represented engineering pinnacles that other worlds probably ordered from Vanguard catalogues.

Antithesis could eat eucalyptus, but it cost them. They started with undergrowth and leaf litter, working their way up to the main course with the patience of things that measured success in seasons rather than hours. The trees fought back with compounds that made alien digestion laborious and unrewarding. And silicon. Aussie trees have literal grit. It's why Australian chainsaws are next level.

Four shots from the Hummingbird cleared the immediate threats, but something had gone wrong with the rhythm of easy kills. A spike protruded from his chaps, its other end buried in his thigh. Not deep, but painful enough to make movement interesting. He muttered words that would have shocked his grandmother while searching for the source.

Twelve metres, ten o'clock, up a tree. Move forward fast for cover.

He sprinted despite the protests from his leg, reaching tree cover just as more spikes embedded themselves in hardwood with sounds like malevolent woodpeckers. The thing trying to kill him looked like evolution's bad mood given physical form—a stegosaurus crossed with a bear, decorated with tentacles and an attitude problem.

Six shots from the Hummingbird produced impressive light shows but insufficient stopping power. The creature responded with more spikes, each one a reminder that alien biology didn't always respect human weapons design.

"I need a weapon! Something with serious stopping power!" A box materialised beside him, revealing two glossy black spheres connected by wire so fine it seemed theoretical.

"What the hell is this? It looks like something from an adult store!"

It's a bolo. You throw it.

"I asked for a weapon, not a—Oh." Understanding dawned along with embarrassment. "Give me a Class One kinetic handgun with high stopping power, please. And a fragmentation grenade."

More boxes appeared. The handgun looked like something designed by artists who'd never seen human hands, all chrome curves and an arm shroud that suggested technologies beyond his understanding. The magazine seated with a satisfying chunk that spoke to engineering excellence across species barriers.

He rolled clear of the tree, dropping to one knee and firing until the impacts staggered his target. The movement was fluid despite the alien weapon's unfamiliar weight, his lean musculature adapting to the chrome handgun's strange ergonomics. The weapon's stopping power lived up to its promise, each shot delivering the kind of energy transfer that rearranged alien anatomy in fundamental ways.

We come in peace. Shoot to kill!

"Are you watching my movies while I'm getting shot at?"

Only while waiting for things to happen.

"At least it just sat there. If that thing had moved tactically, this conversation would be much shorter."

He had almost reached the car when Oleksiy opened fire, his ancient rifle speaking with authority that suggested its ammunition was as non-standard as its magazine. He spun back toward new targets—three fast-moving smaller creatures and another spike-flinger, this one demonstrating the tactical mobility he'd been grateful to avoid in its predecessor.

The battle became a conversation conducted in explosions. Phut! BLAM! Kill. Miss. BLAM! Kill. The rhythm of violence punctuated by Autumn's targeting overlays and the steady crack of Oleksiy's rifle. When the last target fell, everything in his visor flashed green for an instant—the technological equivalent of applause.

But Oleksiy's concerned expression suggested their problems were far from over. Following his gaze, he discovered that Gerry's compost heap had developed alarming autonomous characteristics.

"I need a weapon." The words came automatically, battlefield stress reducing communication to essentials.

I do know how to pick them. Bullet, bomb, or burn?

"Any of my catalogues include a flamethrower?"

No. How about M19 rounds?

"White phosphorous?" Even that seemed risky in dense forest, but the nest needed to die.

It's your forest.

Alright. It's your forest.

A case materialised, already open, containing ammunition that promised to solve problems through the application of advanced chemistry. He ejected the current magazine and slapped in the new one, firing all four rounds into what had once been orderly decomposition.

Will you look at that—a newborn nest. Someone got lucky today!

The M19 rounds transformed the compost heap into a demonstration of why the use of phosphorus weapons is heavily regulated by the Geneva Convention. Everything burned with the enthusiasm of chemicals designed specifically for burning. The nest writhed frantically, accompanied by sounds like industrial popcorn as seedpods burst under thermal stress.

Flaming half-grown dog weeds scattered in all directions, each one a mobile fire hazard with apparently little regard for forest preservation. Both of them began the methodical work of extermination while the younger man worried about whether their cure would prove worse than the disease.

"Autumn, do you know what implement was used to control cane fires last century?"

I don't currently have network access.

"Like a broom, but instead of bristles there's a wire frame holding a wet hessian sack oriented in line with the handle. Two of them and a trough of water for wetting." The tools of his grandfather's generation, when fighting fire meant getting close enough to beat it into submission.

They moved from kill to kill, following scorch marks and extinguishing both kinds of fire until the immediate crisis subsided. The work was methodical, almost meditative—the careful attention to detail that prevented small problems from becoming large disasters. His movements had an unhurried quality that belied the urgent nature of their task, each step calculated to waste no energy, his lean frame moving through the hazy aftermath with the economy of someone who valued endurance over speed.

"You sounded excited about the nest." He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, pushing damp salt-and-pepper hair away from his eyes. The buzzcut was matted now, dark with perspiration. Streaks of ash and alien residue smeared his face with accidental camouflage.

Yes! Your first token, Chief! And quite a few points.

"Token?" The word carried implications he suspected he wouldn't like.

We need to talk.

"That sounds ominous."

Privately.

"Worse and worse. Fine — do we have enough points to leave Oleksiy with spare Hummingbirds and ammunition for the M41? And I need more ammo for the chrome thing."

They're in the tray, Oleksiy. Lazybones here will help you carry them into the house. He also bought you a sling for the launch clips, some webbing and holsters for two Hummingbirds, and a pair of binoculars. Plus two more magazines, a loading clip, and a case of ammunition for the "chrome thing," also known as a Trenchmaker.

"I have catalogues and points for all that?"

You don't need catalogues for Class Zero equipment — anything available retail. And the bonfire was profitable. We should do that more often.

The drive back to Oleksiy's property passed in contemplative silence. The violence had ended, but its implications lingered like smoke in still air. They'd won a skirmish in a war neither of them fully understood, using weapons that redefined the possible. The easy part was over.

Oleksiy examined his new equipment with the careful attention of someone who knew that survival depended on knowing your tools better than your enemies knew theirs. The Hummingbirds felt alien in his weathered hands — not uncomfortable, but different enough to require adjustment from someone shorter and more solidly built than his lanky companion. The binoculars, however, earned immediate approval. Quality optics translated across any technological divide. Oleksiy nodded approval.

"Lazybones" remained notably absent from the equipment transfer, leaving Oleksiy to manage the carry himself. Despite his barrel-shaped torso and unassuming manner, he handled the weight of alien weaponry with the same apparent ease he brought to everything else. The confident manner would eventually become true competence, and in the meantime it made people feel safer. While he secured his new arsenal, Autumn decided to educate her Vanguard about the broader implications of their morning's work.

Tokens, she explained, were proof of competence in the endless war against the antithesis. Catalogues represented access to increasingly sophisticated equipment, each level requiring demonstration that you could handle both the weapons and the responsibility they represented. The system balanced capability with accountability, ensuring that power remained in hands steady enough to wield it properly.

The selection of Vanguard involved criteria she didn't fully explain, but he gathered it had less to do with military experience than with psychological profiles. They wanted protectors, not conquerors. People who would fight because they had to, not because they wanted to.

She pushed for augmentation — direct neural interfaces that would improve reaction time and tactical awareness. But Trix had strong opinions about things messing with people's heads, and he wasn't eager to volunteer as a test subject. They compromised on adaptive glasses with integrated communication: external augmentation that enhanced capability without crossing the line into body modification.

The glasses were remarkable. Active lensing that adjusted focus based on where he was looking, following the parallax of his eyes to maintain perfect clarity regardless of distance. They were listed in the External Augmentations Class One catalogue for thirty points — apparently a bargain. Since the glasses themselves cost only three points, he ordered a pair for Trix as well. Autumn promised gift wrapping, which suggested either sophisticated manufacturing capabilities or an AI with a sense of humor.

He was preparing to leave when Sissi stormed across the bridge. Oleksiy trailed in her wake like a man who forgot an important anniversary. The contrast between them was striking — the barrelly Slav following a small but formidable Thai woman who normally embodied gracious hospitality, but became a force of nature when circumstances required. Oleksiy's dangerous-Santa features softened. He knew better than to argue when his wife had made up her mind.

"When you need, he go. Just go. You know?" Her English carried the careful precision of someone who'd learned it as a necessity rather than convenience. "He tell you what his name mean?"

She didn't wait for a response, which was probably wise since the visitor had no idea what Oleksiy's name meant.

"Defender of mankind. I know why trust with space things. When you need, he go. Waste time ask. Important!"

The words carried weight beyond their simple construction. This wasn't just permission — it was recognition of duty that transcended normal social obligations. When the antithesis came, when civilisation needed defending, Oleksiy would go. Not because anyone commanded him, but because that's who he was.

He nodded and thanked them both, understanding that he'd just received something more valuable than weapons or equipment. He'd been given the trust of people who knew what trust cost. When darkness came, there would be someone at his back.

The drive home stretched before him, carrying the weight of new responsibilities and the strange comfort of an alien with a very familiar voices speak in his head about humanity's future. The valley looked the same — eucalyptus and granite, heat shimmer and bird calls — but he saw it differently now.

This wasn't just home. It was a front line in a war most people didn't know they were fighting, defended by ordinary people with extraordinary weapons and the quiet determination to preserve something worth preserving.

In the distance, smoke still rose from Brian's property. Tomorrow there would be other battles, other tests. But today they'd held the line, and that was enough.

Escape velocity

"Since there is no such entity as 'the public,' since the public is merely a number of individuals, the idea that 'the public interest' supersedes private interests and rights can have but one meaning: that the interests and rights of some individuals take precedence over the interests and rights of others."
— Ayn Rand

Morning air had the stillness of spent fury. In the clearing become his inadvertent laboratory, wisps of smoke rose from the remains of what had been a nascent antithesis hive.

"So much for peace and harmony, a quiet life in the bush."

They had quite a few points, Autumn told him with unconcealed satisfaction. Destroying the hive was profitable in ways that bothered him. Reducing alien horror to a bureaucracy, to transaction in catalogues and capabilities, it was too much like a game. Life shouldn't be a game. He did want the promised recon drone, but now Autumn seemed more interested in turning the local wildlife into walking sensor arrays, as if his forest were some elaborate university study. It was his home.

The tags go considerably beyond terrestrial tracking technology. Elaborate sensor suites, quantum entanglement communication, bio-monitoring down to the cellular level. The biggest challenge is establishing a local network infrastructure, which requires more drones.

"Sounds expensive." He grimaced. Every solution seemed to make life more complicated.

Less than you'd think. Ecosystems that demonstrate resistance to antithesis incursion are a heavily subsidised field of study. We can, as they say, go nuts.

His little patch of bush country, refuge from the madness of civilisation, now a locus of interstellar science. Who would have guessed that wanting to be left alone would make you the center of so much interest?

Vehicles approached, interrupting his sulk with their noise. Dust clouds marked the progress of multiple cars making their laborious way up what optimistically passed for his driveway. He counted at least three. It wasn't a social call.

Through the kitchen window, he spied Trix moving with characteristic grace. She set out cups and arranged biscuits. Hospitality met intelligence gathering. Information flowed through kitchens as surely as water flowed downhill.

"They want to talk to you," Autumn said, and something in her tone suggested this conversation would be more complicated than the usual neighborly drop-in.

"I need five minutes," he announced, heading for the outdoor toilet. Not because he needed privacy for its intended purpose, but because it was the one place on his property where he could have a conversation without being overheard by whatever collection of bureaucrats, scientists, and opportunists had decided to descend upon him.

"Autumn, I want a drone catalogue and from it a recon drone. Multi-spectrum, thermal, acoustic — everything worth having. When it's not doing reconnaissance, I want it to serve as a physical point of presence for you. Can we afford that, allowing for medical and panic-buy reserves of five hundred points each?"

That will set you back twelve-eighty points, leaving about six hundred plus the reserves.

He did the mental arithmetic. Expensive, better than blind in a world that had suddenly become very dangerous. "I want Trix to have unlimited medical power of attorney. Not limited to the reserve. Can I do that?"

The pause was brief but definite.

You can.

"Good. Who are they, and what are they doing on my land?"

Autumn's response carried a mix of sheepishness and excitement that he would eventually recognise as marking her more ambitious schemes.

That's probably my fault. When I negotiated the research subsidy, I may have raised hopes for fortifying ecologies. You're quite far from the norm in how and what you protect. It's an approach that wouldn't have worked anywhere else, but this is a hard land that knows how to push back. Did you know some of these trees actually need a forest fire to propagate?

"Yeah, acacias." He emerged from his makeshift conference room to find Trix waiting with a cup of tea, her dark eyes bright with curiosity and amusement at his discomfort. She was dressed in her usual working clothes—faded jeans and a loose shirt with sleeves rolled up, hands already busy with the next task. Everything about her spoke of competence and economy, someone who understood that the best way to handle complexity was to make it simple.

"Thanks, darl." He accepted the tea gratefully, watching as Autumn's new presence drone positioned itself to greet their uninvited guests. The little machine hummed with quiet efficiency, its sensors no doubt cataloguing everything from heart rates to the particular blend of aftershave and anxiety that marked bureaucratic expeditions.

He took his time emerging from behind the van, making a deliberate show of adjusting his clothing. It was a small gesture of dominance — reminding his visitors that they were on his property, subject to his schedule, regardless of whatever official authority they might represent.

"To what do I owe the honour?"

The delegation spread across his clearing like an occupying force, and he felt his jaw tighten as he catalogued the various uniforms, badges, and unconcealed recording devices. This wasn't government or corporate — it was both, a curious mix of unexpected bedfellows and precious little trust.

At the center of the group stood a woman in an immaculate pinstriped suit, her platinum hair catching the afternoon light. Project Liaison Sophia Hachia carried herself with the authority of someone accustomed to being the most important person in any room. Her blue eyes swept the clearing with a proprietorial air. The man behind her moved with careful attention, as though mapping fields of fire and exit routes.

Behind her clustered the scientific contingent, three senior researchers from CSIRO. Two in their regulation and thoroughly ironic khakis looked distinctly uncomfortable in the bush setting. Kellerman was the xenobiology specialist. She kept adjusting her field tablet's strap and shooting nervous glances at the sensor arrays visible in the trees. Morrison was a wiry, energetic materials scientist with prematurely grey hair, already taking notes despite having barely arrived. Amanda Singh wore the same outfit, but managed to make it lived-in. She had a weathered look that spoke of dusty days in baking heat, though her face said the valley was new.

Three suits arrived, stuffed with greed and self-importance. One of them was actually wearing a badge, as though at some sort of conference. The badge said "Rachel Thompson — Austral Defense Solutions" in case anyone wanted to know. Flanking her was a man in a synthetic polo shirt embroidered with "Advanced Materials Consortium" and announcing him as Peter Walsh, and a hawk-faced woman who didn't have a badge but introduced herself as Doctor Lisa Park.

"Normally," Autumn murmured through the tactical visor, "technology flows outward from the Vanguard, mostly from study of cast-offs. But this time, possibly, it will go the other way. Catalogues are named for the protected peoples who contribute them. It seems humanity is going to get credit for Australia's unique ecology."

He glared balefully at them and thought about this. Silica-reinforced eucalypts had evolved as a consequence of indigenous fire management, tens of thousands of years of careful burning that shaped the continent's forests. The irony was almost overwhelming—what colonial historians had dismissed as primitive land management was about to become humanity's contribution to intergalactic science.

Walsh began a rehearsed presentation about mutual cooperation and shared benefits.

He listened with half an ear while Autumn provided running commentary on the real agenda.

It's our project. Mine, but also yours. If you want to defend your forest, you're going to need comprehensive awareness of everything in it, above and below ground. We're going to instrument everything—soil, water, plants, animals, insects. I need a real network, not your improvised internet connection. Initially we'll use mesh WiFi, but as we deploy more nodes, the electromagnetic radiation would become problematic. They know this. They know we'll be deploying massive amounts of telemetry that needs to work through rock and soil.

He nodded slightly, encouraging Walsh while processing Autumn's explanation.

Their scientists will have realised that by 'tiny' I mean small enough to be embedded in living tissue. The espionage applications haven't escaped your government and corporate friends. They can't wait to access technology that's normally restricted to Class IV catalogues.

When the presentation ended — a masterpiece of saying nothing while implying everything — he decided to play along. "Sure, that'll save a heap of time and it's for the common good. Autumn, how do you feel about having interns?"

Dr. Marcus Chen bristled at the suggestion, his academic pride clearly stung. The young CSIRO researcher adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and straightened his shoulders, boyish features flushing with indignation. The Vanguard turned to address him directly, his tone carefully modulated to sound helpful rather than condescending.

"Don't get bent out of shape unless your experience is so extensive you're ready to school the Protectors themselves. You're a novice at this, I'm a novice at this. From their perspective, we might as well be fresh out of university. I'm just grateful we're the ones with the internships."

Chen's mouth opened in surprised protest, then closed as the implications sank in. Being an intern to a Vanguard AI was considerably more prestigious than whatever position he'd held before this morning. Dr. Kellerman nodded approvingly from behind him, her xenobiology background making her particularly appreciative of the opportunity to study truly alien technology. Even Dr. Morrison had stopped scribbling notes long enough to look thoughtful.

What the hell are you thinking?! Autumn's voice carried genuine alarm through the visor's audio feed.

He winked at the presence drone, a gesture that would look absent-minded to the observers but would register clearly on Autumn's sensors. The AI subsided, clearly planning to demand explanations once they had privacy.

While he managed the political theater, Trix moved among the group with the fluid grace of someone who understood that information was best gathered through hospitality rather than interrogation. She plied everyone with tea and fresh-baked biscuits, her easy smile and gentle questions encouraging the kind of casual conversation that revealed more than formal briefings.

The xenobiologist, Kellerman, was absolutely stoked to talk with someone who actually lived with xenotech, and better yet xenos. Skepticism collapsed under mounting excitement as Trix described the behavioral patterns they'd observed in various antithesis specimens. This was rare. Survivors didn't want to think about it. Vanguards didn't stop to talk.

Morrison peppered his questions with technical specifications, his materials science background making him particularly interested in the structural properties of alien biotechnology.

An Indian woman with field experience in harsh environments was by far the most grounded of the nattering boffins. Her name was Singh and she focused on the practical: supply, safety, emergency procedures. Her obsession with logistics convinced him she wasn't a fool.

The suits spoke much and said nothing, but Trixie read them anyway. Thompson's questions about timeline and deliverables said her superiors were under pressure to show results. Walsh kept steering into potential military applications, and Park wanted AI-enabled nanotechnology for cybersecurity.

He watched Trixie work the crowd with satisfaction. For someone who didn't like people she was bloody good at this. It was probably cultural.

The ice-queen reigned in silence. She watched, evaluated, and occasionally made notes on a very fancy tablet. When she spoke, it was to clarify authority structures and decision-making processes. She wasn't here to do science or make deals—she was here to control the entire operation.

The gathering was convivial; the visitors thought they were getting what they wanted. Plans were made, contact information exchanged, timelines discussed with the kind of vague optimism that marked the beginning of complicated projects. The sensible Dr. Singh wanted a site survey within the week. Morrison was already deciding what toys to bring. Even the corporate representatives seemed satisfied, having secured whatever assurances they'd come for.

The practical question of where to actually build the research station was more complicated than the bureaucrats had anticipated. There was no unowned land available in the valley, every acre belonged to someone who'd deliberately chosen isolation over proximity to government services. Their host made it clear he didn't want them living in his pocket, and the enigmatic Slav three properties over said not a word of English when approached.

Eventually, Trix's diplomatic skills and the liberal application of tea produced a deal, struck by Singh with a quiet, unassuming Pole named Gerry. It transpired that Gerry owned a vast tract in the valley center. It was well suited: elevated, good drainage, central to the research area. But reaching agreement required understanding that valley residents valued autonomy and privacy above financial incentives. Gerry agreed less for the money and more because he liked Dr. Singh.

Afternoon light slanted golden through ancient eucalypts as the last vehicle lurched down the driveway track. Sophia was the last to leave, pausing at her car to look back at the clearing with an expression he couldn't read. Then she was gone, dust cloud marking her departure.

This better be good.

He waited until the dust settled before responding. "The technology you don't want them to have is basically Class IV nano-IoT, correct?"

Yes. I don't know what would be worse, grey goo or ubiquitous surveillance.

"We already have ubiquitous surveillance," he pointed out, gesturing toward the valley that had become his refuge from exactly that problem. "That's why I live out here. But we're starting with relatively crude technology, right? And we can use their help with deployment, monitoring, and analysis until we reach the point where you want to introduce the advanced systems."

They won't like being manipulated.

He considered this while sipping his tea. The afternoon was peaceful, birds calling from the canopy, the smell of eucalyptus oil warming in the sun. It was easy to forget, in moments like these, that his quiet valley had become a front line in humanity's war for survival.

"Frosty the Snow-Karen isn't here to learn, she's here to control. The corpos want to extract maximum value with minimum investment. But the scientists? They're the ones who can actually do the work. You can win them over with your charming personality and gated access to technologies they've only dreamed about. If they have to choose between their lords and masters and an AI who can feed their research addiction..."

Did you just compare me to a drug dealer?

"A charming one with a sexy voice." His tone was light and amused. "The important thing is that you control the flow of information. You can firewall the dangerous technology by never giving them anything they have the industrial base to reproduce independently. Or you could guide their development by offering carefully selected advances that benefit everyone."

The pause stretched long enough that he began to wonder if he'd overstepped some crucial boundary. When Autumn finally responded, her voice carried a note he'd never heard before, somewhere between excitement and apprehension.

You want me to play god.

There was an odd moment of absolute silence. Not a bird called, and the cicadas were silent. He shuffled awkwardly.

"Not if you don't want to—"

I'm in.

Just like that, a man who would not be ruled lived his values and let a genie out of her bottle. He discarded the cork; it offended him.

The sun dropped toward the horizon, painting the eucalyptus shades of gold and amber. He reflected on the strange turns his life had taken. Coming here was an escape, a bid for freedom in simplicity and solitude. Instead, he was the locus of forces he was only beginning to see, partner to an alien mind whose limits exceeded him. He flipped off the ridiculous notion of manifest destiny with a scowl.

Trix emerged from the van, her tasks completed, and settled beside him on the makeshift bench that faced west toward the setting sun. For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence, two people who'd found something worth protecting in the middle of nowhere.

"Interesting afternoon," she said finally.

He considered various responses before settling on simple honesty. "It's going to get worse."

She nodded, unsurprised.

In the distance, a kookaburra laughed at some private joke, and he found himself smiling despite everything.

Banana

"The first principle is that you must not fool yourself—and you are the easiest person to fool."
— Richard Feynman

The sound reached them before the crisis did: cattle lowing from the southern pastures, but wrong. Not the complaint of beasts wanting feed or water, but distress. Pure, animal panic that carried across the valley in waves.

He was halfway to the caravan when Autumn's voice crackled through the comm.

Movement south. Large biomass signatures, bovine and... something else. Multiple small contacts swarming.

"That's the Macintyre place." He changed direction, heading for the truck. "Trix, stay with the shelter. If anything comes this way, you know what to do."

She emerged from the food garden with her Hummingbird already in hand, face set in that expression that meant she was done arguing about whether she could handle herself. "Go. I've got this."

The track south was barely worthy of the name—two ruts through scrub that served three properties and fought losing battles with erosion after every rain. He pushed the truck harder than was wise, suspension protesting as it lurched over granite outcrops and through washes that wanted to be creeks. The Macintyre place sat at the valley's south end where flat pasture met the rising slopes, good country for cattle if you could keep the feed up.

The scene that greeted him looked like something from a fever dream.

Banana was unmistakable, seventeen hundred kilogrammes of Brahman cross prize bull. At least a hundred of those kilogrammes was temper. Banana stood in the middle of what had been orderly pasture, surrounded by dogweeds. Five of the alien creatures lay trampled and gored, their grotesque bodies leaking fluids that steamed in the afternoon heat. But more of them clung to him, clamped around legs and shoulders like big frustrated ticks.

The Macintyre boys, Bryce and Cameron. Seventeen and nineteen, going on thirty and forty, all wiry strength and competitive shooting trophies. The boys fired methodically into the swarm. Their rifles cracked a deadly rhythm, every shot a kill. They cut their teeth on feral pigs. But for every one that fell, the bull's movements grew more labored.

He pulled up thirty meters back and grabbed his own weapon. The Hummingbird was fine for close work, but this called for something with range. Autumn obliged him with a "basic combat rifle" that looked like no rifle he had ever seen: smooth polymer housing, no visible magazine, a targeting laser that painted threats in his vision when he shouldered it.

Designated targets acquiring. Hold for firing solution.

"Point me at 'em." He moved forward at a crouch, using a water trough as cover. The dogweeds were focused on the bull, but that could change fast if they detected a new threat.

Cameron spotted him first, recognition flickering across his face—surprise giving way to relief. "Mate! Christ, what are those things?"

"Alien plants that think beef is dinner. Keep shooting, I'll cover the perimeter." He settled into position and started working through targets. The rifle fired with a soft phut that seemed inadequate for what it did—each round found its target with impossible accuracy, expanding on impact in ways that turned dogweeds into rapidly decomposing mush.

Seventeen hostiles eliminated. Three remaining on the primary target. But—

"I see him." The bull had stopped moving. Not fallen, just... stopped. Standing perfectly still with that terrible tremor that ran through massive muscles, the kind of shaking that spoke of systems failing. Three dogweeds still clung to him, but they weren't attacking anymore. Just holding on.

Bryce was closest, his rifle up and tracking, but hesitating. "He's not moving. Banana never stops moving. What's wrong with him?"

Model Seven.

It meant nothing to them. He tried again and she explained in his ear. He shared.

"Zombie worm." He stood, weapon still up but tracking the perimeter rather than the bull. "One of them got through. It's in him now, probably trying to set up shop."

"Set up—" Cameron's voice cracked. "You mean like those horror movies? Take him over?"

"Something like that. How long's he been standing still?"

"Minute? Maybe two?" Bryce kept his rifle aimed at the dogweeds on Banana's flanks, but his hands shook. This was his father's prize bull. Worth more than the truck their rescuer had driven here, worth more than all three of their trucks combined. Banana's progeny grazed across half the valley, genetics that commanded premium prices from breeders who cared about heat tolerance and temperament. "Can you kill it? The worm?"

"Maybe. Autumn, we've got anti-parasitic for humans. Does that work on cattle?"

The biological substrate is sufficiently similar. I can adapt the dosage. But the worm has been inside for at least ninety seconds. If it's reached the brain stem—

"Beef for dinner. But let's not assume." He moved closer, watching the remaining dogweeds track his motion with eyeless attention. They'd lost their momentum, unsure whether to abandon their dying comrades or commit to the bull. He gave them reason to decide, putting rounds through their centers in quick succession. They fell away, releasing Banana as their nervous systems recognised that clinging to meat was no longer viable strategy.

The bull stood in the sudden silence, two tonne of muscle and breeding reduced to a trembling statue. Up close, he could see the damage, deep gouges where the dogweeds had tried to open arteries, one eye swollen shut, ribs visible through torn hide. But the bull was breathing. Shallow, rapid breaths that spoke of shock, but breathing nonetheless.

"Cameron, get a rope on him. Fetch your ute." Bryce had rallied, his voice steadying as he shifted into practical mode. "We need to get him down before he falls and we can't move him."

"No time." He opened his palm, and Autumn obliged—a small injector materializing there with the casual impossibility that he still wasn't used to. "This is going to hurt him. Hold his head."

"Hold?! He's a bull. I'm a man, not a bloody tractor." But Bryce was already moving, reading his expression correctly. Whatever was about to happen, someone needed to be at Banana's head when it did.

He found the great vein in the bull's neck by feel, the injector cool against overheated hide.

I've upped the dose. This is optimised for human neural architecture. There will probably be side effects. Disorientation, muscle tremors, possible temporary paralysis—

"Autumn. Shut up and dose him."

The injector hissed.

For three seconds, nothing happened. Banana didn't move, the tremor running through him unchanged. Bryce kept his hands on the bull's poll, murmuring something that might have been prayer or just the nonsense sounds you make to creatures in distress.

Then Banana bellowed.

Not the distress call from before. Not pain or fear. Pure, outraged fury — the sound of a creature that had been violated and wasn't accepting it quietly. He surged forward, nearly trampling Bryce who dove sideways cursing. The bull's head swung wildly, horns carving air where human bodies had been moments before.

"GET BACK!" He grabbed Cameron's shirt and hauled him toward the fence line as Banana charged nothing in particular, hooves churning pasture into divots. The bull made it twenty meters before his legs lost coordination—one front leg buckled, then the other, and seventeen hundred kilograms went down in a controlled collapse that spoke of the anti-parasitic doing exactly what Autumn had warned about.

"Is he dying?" Cameron's voice was young suddenly, the teenager showing through the competent young stockman.

"Side effects." He kept his distance as Banana tried to stand, failed, tried again. "The medicine kills the worm but it messes with neural function. He's fighting it."

"Fighting it and the drugs." Bryce had recovered his rifle and his composure. He approached the fallen bull with the kind of cautious respect you gave dangerous creatures—even helpless ones. "Banana, you stubborn bastard. Stay down before you hurt yourself worse."

But Banana was having none of it. The bull gained his feet through sheer bloody-minded determination, standing on legs that wanted to fold but refused through what looked like pure spite. His head lowered, massive neck corded with effort as he oriented on... nothing. Just standing. Just refusing to be beaten.

"Now we rope him." The bull wasn't moving but it was still a nice throw, settling neatly around Banana's horns. "Cameron, get the ute. We'll drag him home before he decides walking is good idea."

It took all three of them and two vehicles to move the bull. Cameron's ute in front with the rope tied to the chassis, their helper's truck behind to prevent Banana from sitting down and becoming an immovable object. The bull walked—shambled, really—between them with the gait of a creature rediscovering how legs worked. Each step looked like negotiation between brain and muscle, compromises reached through determination rather than coordination.

They got him into a paddock close to the Macintyre homestead, where Banana's mother — an ancient Brahman cow with the temperament of a hanging judge — promptly claimed him. She bellowed at the humans until they retreated, then set about grooming her enormous son with the kind of focused attention that brooked no argument about whether he needed cleaning.

"Will he be alright?" Bryce leaned against the fence, watching mother and son with the kind of exhaustion that came from adrenaline wearing off. "Brain damage?"

He honestly didn't know. "Autumn, prognosis?"

The anti-parasitic eliminated the model seven before it could establish control of higher functions. But there was neural damage during the insertion attempt. How much depends on where it tried to anchor. Motor function should recover fully within 48 hours. Cognitive function...

A pause that felt apologetic.

We won't know until we see him try to breed. That's his job, isn't it?

He knew they couldn't hear her. Theatrically cupping his ear as though listening to a call, which he more or less was, he repeated it, switching out 'model seven' for 'zombie worm' again.

"Among other things." Bryce managed a laugh that sounded more exhausted than amused. "He's a prize bull. Worth more for his genetics than his meat. If he can't service a cow..." He trailed off, implications obvious.

"He might be fine." He wasn't sure he believed it, but the alternative—telling these kids their father's investment was potentially ruined—could wait for evidence. "Give him time to recover. The physical damage will heal. The rest... we'll see."

Cameron emerged from the house with their father, Daniel Macintyre, fifty-something and weathered by decades of Queensland sun into something resembling leather. He took in the scene with the kind of comprehensive glance that missed nothing: his injured bull, his sons exhausted, their neighbour with a weapon that belonged in science fiction.

"Mate." A nod of greeting that carried weight. "Boys tell me you saved Banana."

"Boys saved Banana. I just brought medicine." He shouldered the rifle, suddenly aware of how the thing looked to someone not initiated into Protectorate strangeness. "Anti-parasitic, for the worm that got inside him."

"Worm." Daniel vaulted the fence with economical grace, approaching Banana with the confidence of someone who'd raised the bull from a calf. His hands ran over the animal's injuries, cataloguing damage with practiced efficiency. "Heard stories about the alien plants. Didn't believe them until now."

"Believe them. There'll be more." He checked his surroundings automatically, a habit Autumn had been encouraging. "Your property backs onto forest. That's where they grow. When they get hungry, they come looking for meat."

"And you're fighting them." Not a question. Daniel's eyes tracked to the rifle again, assessment without judgment. "Government send you?"

"I sent myself. We live here."

"We." Daniel caught the pronoun. "You and whoever gives you those fancy guns."

"Me and a few others around the place." He decided honesty served better than evasion. The valley was small enough that secrets didn't last, and these people would see more incursions. Better they knew what they were dealing with. "It's going to get worse before it gets better. The alien plants—they call them antithesis—they're escalating. More incursions, bigger hives. Eventually this becomes everyone's problem. It's much, much worse in the northern hemisphere. Something about the soil here slows 'em down."

Daniel nodded slowly, his attention still on Banana. The bull had stopped trembling, standing steady now under his mother's watchful presence. "Boys did good, then. Held them off until help arrived."

"They did." He looked at Bryce and Cameron, both of them wearing exhaustion like ill-fitting clothes. "Might want to let them borrow some proper weapons. Those rifles work fine on pigs, but dogweeds are faster and there's usually more of them. I can talk to my... supplier about getting them something appropriate."

"Supplier." Daniel's mouth quirked. "Makes you sound like a drug dealer."

"Nah, that's Autumn's job."

Hey!

"Come on, drug pusher, I'm not making the man worry about zombie worms from space and then leaving him high and dry. Two packs, one for the boys, one for the beasts."

Those boys are beasts. Just look at the muscle on them.

He held a paw out and they dropped out of nowhere.

"Instructions on the label. Read 'em, it matters."

Daniel extended a hand, grip firm and calloused. "Appreciate the help, mate. Banana's worth more than the meat, but even if he wasn't, we'd rather not lose him."

"Hence the name." He couldn't resist.

Daniel's laugh carried surprised delight. "You noticed that, did you? Wondered if it was too subtle."

"It's not subtle. It's anatomical." He gestured at the bull, who'd chosen that moment to demonstrate exactly why the Banana Shire had been named for a prize bull with particularly impressive breeding equipment. "Guess it breeds true in this country. The place names and the cattle."

"Fifty years since they named the shire." Daniel shook his head, still grinning. "Committee wanted something dignified. Some historic figure or geographical feature. But the prize bull at the time... well. The motion passed despite official opposition. That's democracy for you — sometimes the people choose truth over dignity."

They stood in comfortable silence, watching Banana rediscover how to stand without swaying. The afternoon was stretching toward evening, that golden light that made even exhausted bulls and worried farmers look like something from a painting.

"He'll be alright." Daniel said it like decision, not hope. "Too stubborn to let alien worms beat him. Gets that from his mother."

The ancient Brahman cow snorted, as if in agreement. On principle she tried to crush Daniel against his vehicle, but he slipped deftly out of that. It was half-hearted affection and she ambled off.

He left them to their watching, his truck lurching back along the rutted track toward home. Autumn was quiet, which meant she was processing or cataloguing or doing whatever AI minds did when they weren't talking. He didn't mind the silence. The afternoon had carried enough words.

You did well. Quiet, almost tentative. The bull will recover fully. The neural damage was minimal. He'll service cows, produce progeny, earn his keep.

"Good." He navigated a vicious pothole. "Telling Dan his prize bull was hamburger would've been worse than fighting the dogweeds."

The Macintyres are good people. Salt of the earth, as the saying goes.

"They're normal people. Normal for out here."

Is that why you came here? To be among people who mind their own business?

He considered the question as the valley opened before him — his valley, technically, though that was a legal fiction. The land belonged to itself. He just maintained the illusion of ownership through fence posts and paperwork. "I came here because the alternative was living surrounded by people who think they have a right to opinions about how I live. Difference between the Macintyres and city folk—Daniel saw the rifle, asked one question, and moved on. In the city, I'd be dealing with authorities by now. Reports, assessments, evaluations of whether I'm safe to have weapons."

You're not, strictly speaking. Safe, that is. You're quite dangerous.

"To things that need shooting. I'm perfectly safe to everything else."

That's a philosophical distinction that would trouble most governance frameworks.

"Fuck 'em." He turned onto his own track, the truck groaning with relief as the grade flattened. "Is that why there are no city Vanguards? World-view, attitude?"

Partly. But cities are adequately defended by your government. There are no opportunities for people there to prove themselves.

"Or develop a shred of independence." He couldn't help himself with that one, it bothered him too much.

Or develop a shred of independence.

His eyebrows quirked, he hadn't expected her to just agree.

Ahead, the caravan sat in its clearing like a promise of tea and dinner and Trix probably lecturing him about taking unnecessary risks. The fence line caught the low sun, silver against green. His valley. His life, built deliberately outside the systems that would've crushed it given half a chance.

And now, apparently, his responsibility to defend. He wondered if he was required to piss on all the fence posts.

The bull would be fine. The Macintyres would remember that he had come when called, had brought medicine and help without asking what was in it for him. That mattered out here, in ways that city governance could never understand.

That evening, sitting with Trix over dinner, he found himself explaining about the bull. She listened with the kind of attention that meant she was assembling implications, connecting dots.

"So we're valley defence now." Not a question. "Not just protecting our place, but everyone's."

"Looks that way."

She speared a piece of carrot with unnecessary force. "About time someone did it properly."

He smiled into his tea. Yeah. About time.

Survey

"The best laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft agley."
— Robert Burns

Two days after the delegation left, Doctor Singh arrived in a battered four-wheel drive that looked more at home on a mining site than a government motor pool. He asked, and it turned out that she had a shiny motor pool vehicle, and trusted it not at all. Far too many gadgets to take it far from a workshop. Instead she used the Landcruiser she bought cheap in 2010, a 2008 Series 100, the last of the unbreakables. She picked it up cheap while they were still easy to find and the market hadn't realised what a bad idea all the pollution control stuff was. Two rebuilds and a new engine later it was still gadget-free and never missed a beat. She was less than thirty seconds into that story when he spotted the high-lift jack, the winch and the bundle of star pickets complete with picket hammer and puller. And she had two spares. He took an instant shine to her.

He watched her navigate the track to his clearing with something approaching approval. She stopped at the water crossing, walked three quarters the way across, looked satisfied and just drove through it at about 15km/h, like everyone who lived there.

"Dr. Singh." He offered his hand, noting the firm grip and calloused palm that spoke of hands-on fieldwork rather than laboratory theory.

"Amanda, please. The doctorate was environmental science, but most of my work's been in remediation projects. Spent three years in the Northern Territory working mine sites." She surveyed the clearing with the methodical attention of someone cataloguing logistics. "This is going to be more complicated than they think."

"Always is." He appreciated directness. "Tea?"

Over tea in the shade of his caravan, Amanda laid out the scope of the problem with refreshing honesty. The delegation had envisioned a small field station—a few researchers, basic equipment, data collection focused on the unique characteristics of Australian flora in resisting antithesis incursion. What Autumn actually needed was considerably more ambitious: comprehensive instrumentation of the entire valley, network infrastructure capable of handling massive data flows, laboratory facilities for analysis, accommodation for rotating teams of specialists.

"The others are thinking university field trip," Amanda explained, her weathered face creasing with concern. "A couple of demountables, some sensor equipment, weekly visits from town. But if what your AI described is accurate, this isn't a weekly visit, it's permanent on-site presence. We're going to need living quarters, labs, lockups, power and waste management. There'll be too many of us for a shit-pit. And all of it has to work reliably in the middle of nowhere."

He appreciated her grasp of reality. "What do you need?"

"First? A proper site survey. We need to find a location that's defensible, accessible enough for regular supply runs, has water access, and won't flood in the wet season. Second, we need to understand what's actually here—not just the ecology, but existing infrastructure, property boundaries, neighbor relations. Third, we need to figure out what you're willing to tolerate, because this is your home and we're the intruders."

The honesty was unexpected and welcome. He found himself warming to the practical scientist who understood that successful research required functional logistics before theoretical brilliance.

"Autumn, can you put together a topo map of the valley with property boundaries, water features, and elevation data?"

Already done. Transmitting to Dr. Singh's tablet.

Amanda's eyes widened as her field tablet chimed with incoming data. The map that appeared was considerably more detailed than anything government agencies had provided, showing not just terrain but geological composition, drainage patterns, existing tracks, and even the locations of various antithesis incursions colour-coded by type and severity.

"This is... this is extraordinary work." Amanda's professional composure cracked slightly as she scrolled through layers of data that would have taken her team weeks to compile. "It's layered. You've gone down four metres! How?"

"Autumn takes her work seriously," he said dryly. "What do you think?"

Amanda studied the map with the focused intensity of someone solving a puzzle. Her finger traced elevation contours, paused at water features, circled back to examine access routes. He watched her work, impressed by the systematic approach that prioritised practical concerns over theoretical elegance.

"Here." She pointed to a location roughly halfway down the valley, where a natural terrace offered flat ground elevated above the creek. "Good drainage, defendable position with clear sightlines, close enough to the creek for water access but high enough to avoid flooding. The granite outcrop behind provides natural protection. And it's central to the valley, which matters for sensor coverage."

He studied the location, mentally cataloguing distances and approaches. "That's Gerry's property. The deal's already been struck, so we're good there."

"Gerry?"

"Quiet Polish bloke, keeps to himself mostly. Trix organised it. Dr. Singh - hey, that's your name, are you, um-"

"No. It's a common name."

"OK. Well, he made a bloody good move when he cut the bullshit and levelled with Gerry. That mattered more than the offer. People are like that round here."

Amanda made notes. "We'll need to establish good relations with all the neighbors. This project will impact everyone in the valley."

The afternoon was spent walking the valley, Amanda asking questions that revealed both practical experience and genuine respect for the land and the people on it. She understood that successful long-term research required integration with the existing community, not imposition upon it. Her questions about property access, existing agreements, local customs, and neighbor concerns demonstrated someone who'd learned the hard way that ignoring social infrastructure led to failed projects regardless of scientific merit.

Trix joined them for the afternoon tour. He understood the practical aspects of valley life but Trix knew who was doing what and why. The people version, not the machinery version. She explained which neighbors would welcome scientific presence, who would be suspicious, and laid out a few landmines to avoid.

"Janna's lost everything recently," Trix explained as they paused near the property where he had found the nurse practitioner's compound destroyed. "But she's rebuilding. Having researchers nearby might comfort her."

"What does she do?"

"She was running a nursery til the antithesis ate it. Now she mostly frets about debt."

"Oh! Well then, that I can fix. Local contractors are preferred. We're going to need grounds and gardens."

"Nearest proper town is about ninety minutes on good roads," he said. "But we're not helpless. Janna's a nurse practitioner, Oleksiy's a builder, I've got fabrication capabilities through Autumn, Trix runs hospitality. The Macintyres south of here raise cattle, we get our beef and milk from them. We're fairly self-sufficient, which is why most of us chose to live out here."

"Works for me," said Amanda. "Local contractors again."

The practical scientist was thinking like someone who understood that successful research happened within social contexts, not despite them. He found himself cautiously optimistic about the project's prospects, if the rest of them were anything like her. And if they weren't, he would put quiet words in local ears until she mysteriously found herself in charge of everything because when she was, barriers vanished.

As the sun angled toward late afternoon, they returned to his clearing. Amanda seemed satisfied with the survey results, her field notebook filled with observations and preliminary sketches.

"The site location is solid," she said, reviewing her notes. "Gerry's property is ideal. Central, good terrain, defensible. And from what you've described, the valley has enough local expertise to support us without external supply chains."

"We're stubborn about self-sufficiency," he agreed. "It's why most people live out here."

As Amanda prepared to leave, promising to return with preliminary plans within the week, he reflected on the strange currents that were transforming his quiet valley. The delegation had seen opportunity for advancement and profit. Amanda saw logistics and community integration. The question was whether her practical approach could survive the bureaucratic reality that would inevitably follow.

That went better than expected.

Amanda's vehicle rumbled down the track.

"She's practical," he replied. "If she can maintain that and manage all the egos heading our way, we might get something done."

And if she can't?

He watched the dust settle from Amanda's departure. A marsh fly bit him and he killed it with a slap. The not-silence fell, chirriping, catcalling, buzzing.

"Then we'll have expensive science happening in the middle of chaos, and probably learn more about human nature than antithesis resistance."

In the distance, a whipbird called, indifferent to human folly.

Building

"In theory, there is no difference between theory and practice. In practice, there is."
— Yogi Berra

Trucks rolled in on a Tuesday morning, the diesel rumble of heavy machinery announcing them long before they crested the final rise into the valley. He watched from his clearing as the convoy navigated the track with varying degrees of success—three heavy vehicles carrying containerized demountables, followed by a passenger van full of scientists who looked considerably less confident than they had during the delegation visit.

Oleksiy was already at the chosen site when he arrived, his weathered face showing the particular satisfaction of someone who'd correctly predicted disaster. The lead truck had managed to bog itself trying to back into position, its rear wheels spinning uselessly in soil that looked solid but had turned treacherous under weight.

"City drivers," Oleksiy observed with the tone of someone delivering a medical diagnosis. "They think four-wheel drive means they can go anywhere."

Dr. James Morrison emerged from the passenger van looking harried and defensive, his materials science credentials clearly not extending to practical construction knowledge. "The delivery company assured us they had experience with remote sites—"

"Remote sites with proper roads," Oleksiy interrupted. "This is bush. Different thing."

The bloke in the lumberjacket beside him studied the bogged truck with the air of someone who'd extracted vehicles from worse situations. "Got chains?"

Blank looks from the scientists said no. Chains had not featured prominently in their logistical planning. He suppressed a sigh and opened his tactical interface.

"Autumn, how many points to fabricate heavy-duty recovery chains?"

Two points, and five for the PTO winch you also need. You called Gerry. He's on his way down with his tractor.

He thought about reminding her that flawless impersonation over the radio was going to cause trouble, but the equipment materialised and pushed it out of his head. Twenty meters of chain rated for vehicle recovery, a portable winch assembly, and a selection of shackles and straps that Oleksiy nodded at approvingly.

"Now we work," the Ukrainian announced, organizing the recovery with calm authority. Construction management was his gig — decades of building in which software had not featured.

Two hours later, all three trucks were positioned and the scientists had received a practical education in how pressure can trigger local phase transition in wet clay. And more importantly, what to do about it. Dr. Morrison made copious notes while Dr. Patricia Kellerman helped with chains and seemed to be genuinely enjoying the hands-on work. Dr. Marcus Kent, the youngest and most academic of the researchers, maintained an air of wounded dignity that suggested he felt manual labor was beneath his qualifications.

"Proper foundation," Oleksiy declaimed, waving a rolled diagram like a field-marshall's baton at three large containers perched on the terrace. "Ground is good here, granite below, but you don't put building on dirt. Deep footing, much concrete, do it right."

Morrison consulted his tablet with increasing agitation. "The budget allows for basic leveling and securing, not full foundation work. We were told the containers could be placed directly on prepared ground—"

"In year you have crack, in two years structural failure. In three years people injured when something breaks." Oleksiy's pronouncement carried the weight of experience watching shortcuts turn expensive. "You want fast and cheap, or done right? Always safety, safety, safety till quote, then cheap, cheap, cheap like leetle bird."

The question hung in the morning air while the scientists engaged in a hurried consultation that involved much tablet-checking and anxious glances at budgets and timelines. He watched the bureaucratic panic with familiar resignation, recognizing the moment when theoretical planning met practical reality.

"How much would proper foundations cost?" Dr. Singh asked, her pragmatic voice cutting through the anxious murmuring.

Oleksiy considered, mentally calculating materials and labor with the speed of someone who'd estimated thousands of projects. His English grammar improved miraculously for a sensible question. "Materials, perhaps five thousand if we are clever. Labor, I do for beer and good company. But it takes time—three, four days to do properly."

"The timeline—" Morrison began.

"The timeline was guesswork by people with half the facts and none of the responsibility," Amanda interrupted with blunt authority. "We do this right or not at all. I'll handle the budget."

The relief on Morrison's face suggested he'd been hoping someone with authority would make the decision he knew was correct but lacked the confidence to enforce. He found himself revising his assessment of the materials scientist upward—Morrison knew enough to recognise expertise when he saw it, even if his academic background hadn't prepared him for construction.

Over the next four days, the valley transformed into a construction site unremarkable in the suburbs but surreal in the isolated bush. Oleksiy directed operations with the calm amusement of a virtuoso teaching clever children.

Dr. Singh threw herself into the work with the enthusiasm of someone who'd missed physical labor, remediation experience leaving her comfortable with shovels and concrete mixers. Kellerman surprised everyone by having a farm background, her xenobiology credentials built on foundations of practical agriculture. Even young Dr. Kent eventually stopped sulking and discovered that mixing concrete was both simpler and more satisfying than his theoretical training had led him to expect.

He found himself draughted as general assistant, supplier of materials through Autumn's catalog access, and occasional voice of reason when academic enthusiasm outpaced structural reality. Trix appeared regularly with food and drinks, her hospitality transforming the construction site into something approaching community gathering.

The Macintyres' boys showed up on the second day, drawn by curiosity and the universal male attraction to large machinery and construction projects. The young farmers watched the scientists struggle with basic tasks, offered occasional advice with the casual superiority of people who'd been doing physical work since childhood, and generally served as audience for what was rapidly becoming the valley's most entertaining spectacle.

"They're not completely useless," the older Macintyre observed to him on the third day, his tone suggesting this was significant praise. "Soft, but they do listen. Eventually. Dad says academics are usually too proud to learn anything that didn't come from books."

He watched Dr. Kent struggle to level a foundation form under Oleksiy's patient instruction, remembering his own learning curve when he'd first attempted to build in the bush. "Some people need to discover their assumptions were wrong before they can learn what's actually true. The smart ones figure it out."

By the fourth day, three concrete pads sat curing in the sun, their surfaces level within tolerances that satisfied even Oleksiy's exacting standards. Touch in four, walk in twelve, drive in seven, they learnt. Hours, hours, days. Drive in two days, he said. Can, but not smart.

The scientists were marking out the water tower site when they encountered their first immovable object — a granite boulder the size of a small car, right where the foundation needed to be. They weren't quite sure why it had to be just there. Oleksiy's explanation was characteristically terse and by then their confidence in his judgement put it beyond argument. Not beyond question, but they were tired. They tried crowbars, levers, all hands on one side pushing while Morrison quoted mechanical advantage calculations. The rock didn't give an inch.

The older Macintyre boy watched from a comfortable distance, arms crossed, amused. "You could try asking it nicely."

Dr. Kent, sweating and frustrated, looked ready to suggest explosives. Possibly rectally, he didn't appreciate the remark.

Oleksiy appeared twenty minutes later on his excavator, the diesel rumble announcing him long before the machine crested the rise. He surveyed the scene with the expression of someone watching children discover gravity was still working, then shut off the engine.

"Who wants to learn?"

The scientists exchanged glances. Kent stared at the excavator with naked longing but didn't move, academic fear warring with desire.

Dr. Kellerman, without looking at him, said "Kent will."

"I—" Kent started.

"Time to shine." Not a question. She'd seen him looking.

Oleksiy nodded. "Good. Come."

Kent approached the excavator like someone granted access to a temple. Oleksiy climbed up, gestured for Kent to follow, and spent five minutes explaining controls with the economy of someone who'd taught this before.

"Not shovel. Is hand. You pick up rock like egg." Oleksiy demonstrated, the bucket curling with surprising delicacy. "Hydraulics give you strength, but you give finesse. Gentle, gentle. Rock has patience, you must too."

He climbed down, leaving Kent in the operator's seat. "Now you try. I watch."

Kent's first attempts were jerky, the bucket swinging wide then overcorrecting. But Oleksiy called corrections with patient precision, and Kent's engineering background translated theory into practice faster than manual labor had. He found the rhythm—smooth extension, controlled curl, the satisfying chunk of steel meeting stone.

"Good. Now position bucket at base, far side. You will pull toward you, not lift." Oleksiy guided him through approach angles and pressure application, the boulder shifting incrementally as Kent worked. "Feel when it moves. Listen to machine. It tells you everything."

Fifteen minutes later, Kent lifted the boulder clear of the foundation site, swung it in a controlled arc, and set it down exactly where Oleksiy indicated. He sat there for a moment, hands still on controls, face flushed with something between exhilaration and disbelief.

When he climbed down, his wire-rimmed glasses were dusty and his khakis were properly filthy. He looked at the excavator, then the displaced boulder, then his colleagues.

"I spent six years getting my doctorate studying alien ecosystems." He gestured at the excavator with something approaching reverence. "Now I'm out here deploying weapons of mass construction. And it's the most fun I've had in years."

The older Macintyre nodded with the approval of someone watching a city kid discover real work. "Not bad for a boffin."

Oleksiy clapped Kent on the shoulder. "Da. Good student. Tomorrow, water tower foundation. More rocks."

Kent's response was immediate and eager. "I'm in."

Dr. Kellerman watched with arms crossed and a satisfied smile. "Told you."

Containerised demountables would arrive in four days. Before they did, said Oleksiy, level pads were required for the crane. There was some debate about how necessary this was. Cranes have levelling legs. Then Kent shouted intellectual victory and accused the crafty old man of changing the lay of the land so that water wouldn't sit and soften.

"Good," said the inscrutable old tree stump. "You are thinking."

Dr Kent was keen to get started, but Oleksiy shook his head. "No time. I dig. Faster."

Dr. Singh surveyed the pads with satisfaction, then frowned. "Water supply. We've been so focused on foundations we haven't thought about water."

Morrison consulted his tablet. "The specifications call for connection to a supply with no more than seven hundred kilopascals—"

Lumberjacket cut in, "No mains out here. Your choices are roof water, creek water, or bore water. Roof's better drinking but yer still need a couple of tanks."

The scientists exchanged glances. Dr. Kellerman, her farm background showing, asked the practical question: "What's the creek flow like year-round? Can we tap it directly?"

"Can," Oleksiy said, "but not smart. After heavy rain, mud, weeds, no good for lab. Need settling tank."

"How large?" Morrison was already making notes.

Oleksiy considered, calculating. "Three buildings, fifteen people, equipment wash, sanitation... six thousand litres, no less. Pump from creek, inlet two-thirds up tank. One hundred four millimetre dump valve at bottom for mud. Tap half metre up."

Dr. Kent, who'd been quiet since his transformation into competent laborer, spoke up. "Why two-thirds up? Why not feed at the top? And why one hundred and four millimetres?"

"Settlement," Oleksiy explained, gesturing with his hands. "Water enters here, dirty. Mud falls, gathers below inlet. Tap from top. Every few weeks, open valve. Mud out. Simple. Nothing to break."

His lips pursed and mischief danced in his eyes. "As for size, problem is stupid Americans. One hundred four millimetre, four inch."

"That's actually elegant," Dr. Singh said, ignoring the dig and sketching in her notebook. "Passive filtration through gravity and time."

"Old way is best," Oleksiy agreed. "Works everywhere, forever. Until concrete fails, which is long time when build right."

He watched the discussion with interest. "Cylinder will work, but you build from start, you have better choice."

"Better how?" Morrison asked, his earlier defensiveness replaced by genuine curiosity.

He grabbed a stick and sketched in the dirt. "Shape like city water tower. Cone at top where water sits, hollow column down middle. Stabilize with legs at base, or guy wires."

Oleksiy leaned forward. "Cone is arch, other way, very strong. Column protects pipes, bears load. Legs stabilise for wind load. Column is segments stacked and sealed. Cone top is separate pieces with gaskets and compression bands. When piece fails, replace that, not whole tank."

Dr. Kellerman was sketching rapidly. "How do you seal the cone panels?"

"Rubber gaskets between panels, steel compression bands around the outside. Same principle as barrel hoops," he explained. "Water pushes against bands, everything tight. Mud in bottom of cone, dump valve. Intake line through the column, clean water out near top, pipes in column, no freeze."

"And this is proven tech?" Morrison asked, still making notes.

"Urban water towers are built very much like this," said the lumberjacket-clad Vanguard. "We're scaling down and simplifying. Three metres of head pressure is enough for your needs, and the cone can be sized for whatever capacity you want." He did some math. "If it's a 45 degree cone and it's five metres high, that's a hundred and thirty tonnes of water."

Oleksiy interrupted him.

"Head too low. Main pressure twenty-five."

"Only if you let regulators plan your plumbing. V = IR for hydraulic systems too. Inch throughout and you have the same flow at one sixth the pressure."

"Da. Math is wrong but you have point." The old Slav nodded slowly, turning to Morrison. "Three metre higher than highest tap. Use larger pipe, shorter tower, safer, cheaper, easy build. But maybe problems for fit-out."

"How so?"

"Dishwasher, washing machine, made for mains pressure. Inlet twelve millimetre. Easy fix, build further up hill."

"Wait, wait—" Kent leaned forward, eyes bright. "How does the water get from the creek up to the giant cone thing? Water only runs downhill."

Oleksiy gave him a nod of genuine approval. For drainage it could take apprentices six months to figure that one out. "Pump from settling tank. Large pipe, best flow. Float switch, hysteresis."

Dr. Singh was calculating. "Materials cost?"

"We could build a windmill!" interrupted Kent, on a roll now. "But your face says no. What have I left out?"

"Is forest. No wind in forest."

"Oh."

Oleksiy shrugged; but for the trees it might have been a good idea. He turned to Dr. Singh. "Concrete, much steel, rubber gaskets, valves, pipes. Maybe eight, nine thousand dollars with good source. Labor..." he shrugged. "I teach, you build. Good experience."

"Us?!," Dr. Kent looked completely unconvinced. "Are you sure that's a good idea? 'Collapsing water tower' sounds like a disaster movie."

"I watch. Fix mistakes. You learn."

"And it would be visible," Dr. Kellerman observed. "A landmark."

"A landmark," agreed Kent. "Visible infrastructure means the site is thriving, professional, maintained. Plus it becomes a navigation reference. 'The research station with the water tower.' People will remember that."

Lumberjacket poked his nose into the conversation again. "Do you even need the column? Couldn't we build the cone on the ground at the top of the slope?"

It wasn't an awful idea. Construction was easier and it didn't require so much steel and concrete. Mostly it boiled down to where you wanted water pressure. From the ridge to the creek was a drop of eighty metres. If they sat it on the ridge then you'd need to be a quarter the way down the slope for town pressure. Which meant you couldn't build higher. After a while they decided on a three metre column, four metres in diameter, with a five metre rise to the rim of a forty-five degree cone.

Morrison was quiet for a moment, reviewing his notes and budget. "We'll need to revise the budget again. Amanda won't be pleased."

"Amanda will be fine with it," Dr. Singh said firmly. "She authorized proper foundations because they were necessary. Water supply is just as necessary. Would you rather we scrimp now and deal with contamination issues in six months?"

"No," Morrison admitted. "You're right. I'll prepare the documentation tonight."

Oleksiy nodded approvingly. "Is good. We build foundations, demountables go up, then we build water tower. Strong foundations. Your children's children will use these buildings."

He was wrong about that.

They pondered the novel concept of building for the ages.

Philosophy had to wait. Oleksiy was discussing how to assemble fifty tonnes of masonry ten metres in the air. They had already changed the site twice and he was on his radio to Gerry, who didn't answer so he tried a phone instead, and got permission to put it up in the clearing near the little cabin. Instead of making the tower taller they shortened it considerably and moved it up the hill. Gerry's road meant a concrete truck could reach the site, instead of ferrying the concrete one loader bucket at a time. Kent looked vaguely disappointed at this news.

They still hadn't thrashed out assembly of the saucer but Oleksiy had a plan and that was plenty good enough for them.

"Tomorrow, demountables arrive. Tonight, rest. You have earned this."

"Good work," Oleksiy continued to the assembled scientists, weathered face full of approval. "You learn fast. Tomorrow, place buildings, bolt in place. Laboratories. Then, we build something worth looking at."

The scientists, sweaty and exhausted, looked inordinately pleased with themselves.

That evening, as the 'kids' departed for their accommodations in the distant town, Oleksiy shared a beer with the Vanguard. They watched the shadows lengthen. The sun painted the trees amber and gold.

"They'll do," Oleksiy said finally.

"High praise from you."

The Ukrainian shrugged with the gesture of someone who'd learned to assess people by their actions rather than credentials. "Seen worse. These know they do not know everything."

The world turned, and things were built. Up it went, and up it stayed. There was much rejoicing.

That was educational.

"How so?"

I predicted three-point-seven days for foundation work based on standard construction timelines and available labor. Oleksiy completed it in four despite the scientists' inexperience. His efficiency exceeds industry standards by approximately eighteen percent.

"He's had fifty years of practice."

Interesting. Human expertise can't be fully modeled without accounting for accumulated practical wisdom that exists outside formal knowledge structures.

Tomorrow the demountables would arrive. Transformation would continue. But tonight, the bush reclaimed its quiet, indifferent to human plans and the complications they attracted.

In the distance, a boobook owl called, and somewhere nearby, Oleksiy explained to Sissi why retirement was so busy. She wouldn't understand, but she'd feed them anyway. It was what she did.

Integration by parts

"Culture eats strategy for breakfast."
— Peter Drucker

The demountables took on character as they filled with equipment and purpose. Lower containers housed storage and what was optimistically termed the "common area", a space equipped with basic cooking facilities, tables, and the kind of institutional furniture that screamed government procurement. The upper containers, accessed by prefabricated metal stairs, held laboratories and office space, their interiors gradually transforming from industrial shells into functional research facilities.

Dr. Singh scheduled fit-out in good order: power first, then environmental controls, then bench space and basic equipment. Specialized instrumentation arrived in careful sequence, each piece requiring calibration and integration into Autumn's expanding sensor network.

He watched the transformation with mixed feelings. His quiet valley was becoming something else—not better or worse, necessarily, but definitely more complicated. The scientists arrived each morning from their distant accommodations, worked through the day, and departed each evening, treating the valley as workplace rather than home. It was the bureaucratic approach to research, carefully separated from the messy reality of actually living in the environment they studied.

Trix had different ideas.

"They need to eat," she announced on the third day of operations, surveying the scientists hunched over instant noodles and pre-packaged meals. "Properly, I mean. Not this city rubbish."

He recognised the tone—Trix had decided to adopt the scientists as her personal project, which meant they were about to receive education in valley life whether they wanted it or not. He briefly considered warning them, then decided that watching academic theory meet Trix's determined hospitality would be its own reward.

She appeared the next morning with a portable gas stove, fresh ingredients from Janna's recovering garden, and a civilizing mission. The scientists, accustomed to cafeteria food and takeaway, watched with bemusement as Trix transformed their institutional common area into something approaching an actual kitchen.

"You can't think properly on instant noodles and protein bars," she informed Dr. Chen, who'd been subsisting on exactly that diet. "Why would you handicap your brain?"

"I'm not a big fan of fish," said Chen, who had a good idea of what was next.

By lunchtime, the smell of proper cooking filled the common area—stir-fried vegetables with rice, fresh bread, and strong tea that bore no resemblance to the insipid tea bags the scientists had been using. There was a choice of beef and black beans or grilled perch. The researchers gathered with the cautious interest of people who wanted to believe something too good to be true.

"What do we owe you?" Dr. Morrison asked, reaching for his wallet with the automatic assumption that hospitality required payment.

Trix looked genuinely confused. "For what?"

"The meal. The cooking. Your time."

"That was delicious!" said Dr. Chen. "Is there any more fish?"

"You're working in our valley, studying things that keep us safe. Why would I charge you for lunch?" The question carried genuine bewilderment, as if Morrison had suggested payment for breathing air or walking on ground.

The scientists exchanged glances that suggested this didn't match their experience with how the world worked. In their world, everything had a price — meals, time, expertise, access. The idea that someone would provide food simply because people needed feeding was outside their operational framework.

Dr. Singh, whose field experience had exposed her to cultures beyond academic bureaucracy, understood first. "Thank you, Trix. This is wonderful."

The simple acceptance opened floodgates. The scientists ate with the enthusiasm of people who hadn't realised how tired they were of processed food and institutional catering. Conversation flowed more easily over real meals, the usual academic formality dissolving into something more genuine.

Trix, moving among them with tea and seconds, asked questions that seemed casual but revealed systematic intelligence gathering. Where were they from? What drew them to this work? Did they have family? What did they think of the valley? Her questions built mental maps of motivations, relationships, and vulnerabilities with the practiced ease of someone who'd learned that information was best gathered through kindness rather than interrogation.

Over the following week, a pattern emerged. Trix arrived each morning with fresh ingredients, taught the scientists basic cooking, and gradually transformed their institutional common area into something approaching a community kitchen. The researchers, initially bemused, found themselves drawn into the process—helping with preparation, learning to bake bread, discovering that cooking could be social activity rather than mere fuel provision.

Janna appeared on the fifth day with fresh vegetables and herbs. Her nursery was still a shambles, but she and Trixie had teamed up maintaining and expanding the remaining hydroponic rig. A curious piece of kit, it was really made for the stoner market, for growing wacky weed under lights. But it was also well adapted to raising seed to advanced seedlings for planting out, and you could use it to bring a few herbs to maturity really quickly out in the sun. The horticulturist had the slightly fragile air of someone still rebuilding after catastrophic loss, but she brightened visibly when the scientists asked questions about propagation and growing conditions. Dr. Kellerman, whose xenobiology background included considerable botany, found a kindred spirit in someone who understood plants as part of a larger gestalt, a superorganism with signals and cooperation, regulatory systems and even, arguably, immune response. They talked for hours, that day and many others.

Oleksiy and Sissi joined for lunch the following week, the Ukrainian couple bringing fresh eggs and stories about their early years settling in the valley. Sissi, who spoke limited English but communicated fluently through gesture and infectious laughter, taught Dr. Chen how to make proper pierogi, the young scientist discovering that precision in cooking bore surprising similarity to precision in laboratory protocols.

The Macintyre boys stopped by with fresh beef, their father having decided the scientists were "alright for city folk" and therefore deserving of support. The young farmers explained cattle management while the scientists asked questions about grazing patterns, soil impact, and the complex relationship between agriculture and native ecology.

He watched the social transformation with appreciation for Trixie's talents. The scientists had arrived treating the valley as research site, external observers studying isolated phenomena. But they were happily helpless before the force of nature systematically integrating them into the community, creating relationships and obligations that would shape their understanding of what they studied.

The food was never purchased—it was shared, traded, given freely as part of the valley's informal economy. Trix provided cooking and organization. Janna contributed vegetables and herbs. Oleksiy brought eggs and construction expertise. The Macintyres offered beef and local knowledge. Each contribution created obligations and connections, weaving the scientists into a social network that operated on reciprocity rather than monetary transaction.

Dr. Morrison struggled with the concept. "I should be paying for this," he insisted to him one afternoon, his materials science background providing no framework for gift economy. "The meals alone are worth writing home about, and the knowledge sharing—"

"Then contribute something," he suggested. "What can you offer?"

Morrison considered, his academic training warring with the valley's different economic logic. "I could... analyze building materials? Test soil composition? We have equipment that could be useful for agricultural optimization—"

"There you go. You're thinking like a neighbor now instead of a visitor."

The materials scientist looked thoughtful, processing the idea that value could be exchanged without monetary transaction, that expertise could be contribution rather than commodity. He could see the mental adjustment happening, academic assumptions about how economies worked confronting a functioning system that operated on different principles.

Autumn observed the social integration with the focused attention of someone recognizing patterns in complex systems. Her presence drone had become a fixture in the common area, monitoring not just scientific work but the social dynamics that increasingly defined the research site.

Trix is systematically creating dependency relationships, the AI observed one evening. The scientists are being taught that the valley provides for them, creating reciprocal obligations that will influence their behavior and loyalty.

"Manipulation?" he asked, curious about Autumn's assessment.

Social engineering. Trix is optimizing for community cohesion and long-term cooperation. The scientists arrived as external observers. She's transforming them into community members with vested interest in the valley's welfare. Humans call it 'culture building.' I'm taking notes.

He smiled at the AI's clinical analysis of something Trix did instinctively. But Autumn wasn't wrong—the scientists were changing, their initial academic detachment giving way to something more invested. They asked about neighbors' wellbeing, remembered details about valley residents, began thinking of the research site as part of a living community rather than isolated laboratory.

Dr. Chen exemplified the transformation. The young scientist who'd arrived affronted at being called an intern now spent lunch breaks helping Janna with her nursery, his academic knowledge of plant biology finally connecting to practical application. His questions about antithesis resistance shifted from theoretical interest to genuine concern—these were plants that fed his neighbors, provided vegetables for the communal meals, connected him to the land he studied.

Six weeks into construction, the research station was really taking shape. Curtains in windows, personal items visible through doors, people making space into place. The laboratories were working, sensor arrays were being rolled out across the valley, and the first systematic studies of antithesis-resistant ecology were producing data that fascinated the researchers.

Other things changed too. When Dr. Singh mentioned plans to establish permanent on-site accommodation, it wasn't about convenience. She wanted to live in the community they studied.

Sophia Hachia arrived unannounced on a Friday afternoon. Her immaculate suit and platinum hair were incongruous so far from the seat of her power. Cool blue eyes said nothing and saw everything.

She found him in the common area, eating lunch with Trix, Oleksiy and some of her researchers. Pausing at the doorway, her expression carefully neutral, she took in scientists and valley residents sharing a communal meal, conversation mixing research details with local gossip. Neighbours.

Sophia's tone carried professional courtesy that didn't quite reach warmth. "I see the project is progressing."

"Ms Hachia." The Vanguard gestured to an empty seat. "Lunch?"

A flicker in her professional mask said the invitation was unexpected. Project Liaisons presumably didn't often share meals with research subjects. But declining would be a visible rejection, so she accepted with feline grace, adaptable.

Trix brought food without asking, treating the bureaucrat like any other person who needed feeding. Sophia accepted with the cautious courtesy of someone navigating unfamiliar social terrain, her practiced professional bearing encountering valley culture and discovering her usual tools inadequate.

Conversation flowed around her like water. Residents discussing the research with comfortable familiarity, scientists explaining findings to interested neighbors, the easy exchange of people who shared purpose beyond bureaucratic reporting. Sophia observed with the focused attention of someone gathering intelligence, her questions careful, her assessments invisible behind professional courtesy.

Later she toured the facilities with Dr. Singh, examining laboratories and progress reports with methodical thoroughness. She watched, and the Vanguard watched her, apex predators prowling at a distance. He watched her attention turn time and again to the social dynamics rather than the technical. She was not blind to the capturing of hearts and minds, and the way it changed people.

Before departing, Sophia paused at her vehicle, studying the research station with an expression he couldn't quite read.

"This isn't what I expected," she said finally.

"You're good at watching people." It wasn't a question. "What did you expect?"

"Temporary field site. Scientists maintaining professional distance. Standard government research protocols." She gestured toward the demountables where curtains and personal items suggested permanent residence. "This is a community."

"Well, yes. We live here." He grinned, disarming and wide. "You wait till I get a pig on a spit, you'll never get 'em back in their boxes."

Sophia's smile was brief but genuine. "The research has better prospects than I anticipated. Communities are more resilient than organizations."

She departed in her government vehicle, leaving him wondering what she was really looking for. The research was progressing well, the scientists were competent, the data was fascinating. But Sophia had spent most of her visit observing social dynamics rather than scientific progress.

She's intelligent, Autumn observed. She understood immediately that Trix has created something more valuable than efficient research infrastructure. Communities are self-organizing, self-maintaining, and considerably harder to disrupt than bureaucratic structures.

"Is that good or bad?"

For our purposes? Very good. Communities develop their own cultures, customs, and loyalties. They're considerably less amenable to external control. Hachia recognised this. Interestingly, I think she approves.

He watched the dust settle from Sophia's departure, the valley returning to its business of being itself. The research station hummed with activity, scientists analyzing data while the smell of fresh bread filled the common area. Somewhere nearby, Trix was probably already planning dinner, her systematic social engineering continuing its work of transforming visitors into residents, outsiders into neighbors.

The place was changing, becoming something new while remaining fundamentally itself. So much for solitude.

Playing with fire

"No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy."
— Helmuth von Moltke

The first controlled experiment nearly killed Dr. Marcus Chen.

The young scientist had approached the captive hive with caution, equipment checked and his protocols approved. Autumn's sensor arrays monitored everything—temperature, chemical composition, growth rates, the subtle electromagnetic signatures that marked antithesis biological processes. Dr. Kellerman observed from a safe distance, her xenobiology expertise making her both fascinated and appropriately wary.

What nobody had anticipated was the speed. Textbook descriptions of antithesis growth patterns were derived from well-fed hives in favorable conditions. This valley specimen, struggling in nutrient-poor soil against actively hostile eucalyptus, had developed an opportunistic desperation that showed when Chen moved within striking distance.

The dog weed erupted from concealment with velocity that invalidated Autumn's warning — by the time she said anything it was airborne. Chen stumbled backward with a shout, his careful scientific detachment replaced by instinctive panic as several kilograms of alien muscle and teeth oriented toward his throat.

The Flesh Melter detonated mid-leap, his throw intercepting the creature with timing that looked more like practice than calculation. It wasn't the small unit, it was the big one normally used to clear a house sized area, and the throw was absurdly well placed. It sailed right into its open mouth, triggering a reflexive swallow. It detonated inside the unfortunate beast, the dog weed literally dissolving in mid-air and spattering across Chen's hazard suit in corrosive gel that smoked against the protective material.

Silence stretched across the clearing while Chen processed how close he'd come to becoming antithesis lunch. Then he vomited inside his helmet with the gut-deep reaction of someone whose body had registered danger before his mind caught up.

"New protocol," he announced while Chen was helped out of his contaminated suit. "Nobody approaches active specimens without armed escort. I don't care if you think it's contained, if sensors say it's dormant, or if your grandmother swears it's perfectly safe. Antithesis are predators. Not just evolved—evolving. Always more dangerous than you think."

Kellerman nodded. "Adaptive behavior under environmental stress. We've studied well-fed specimens in controlled conditions. These are operating under selective pressure for aggressive opportunism."

"Desperate, unpredictable, and your textbooks are optimistic." He looked at Autumn's drone. "Twenty meter exclusion zone around active specimens. Armed escort, continuous tactical monitoring. No exceptions."

Already draughting containment amendments. Also: your throw was absurdly precise. Been practicing?

"Just lucky."

You're a terrible liar.

The scientists adapted. Academic curiosity remained, but tempered by survival instinct. "Controlled" became shorthand for "probably won't kill anyone today." Nobody forgot that the organisms they studied existed to consume everything in reach, like corporations but with more honesty and integrity.

Small incursions appeared with frustrating regularity. Not major hives triggering official Vanguard response—scattered, opportunistic infestations that made the valley's resistance characteristics simultaneously fascinating and dangerous to study.

His routine: locate nascent hive, assess development stage, apply overwhelming force. Autumn's words. His words: find, measure, smash. The shoulder-launched rocket system remained his weapon of choice. Nothing matched the satisfaction of reducing alien horror to smoking crater.

"What are you calling that thing?" Autumn asked during one cleanup.

"MIL," he said. "Mother-in-law. Arrives suddenly, makes a huge mess and ruins your day."

That's going in your file under 'surprisingly clever for an ape.'

"It's also going on the side of the weapon. SPNKr is trademarked."

Human laws are stupid and hypocritical. I do not imagine that Microsoft paid royalties to Sweden for 'Mjolnir'. For that matter, as far as I can see Sony owes the Royal Navy a bazillion dollars for the uncanny resemblance of "James Tiberius Kirk" to "James Tiberius Cook", captain of a ship with a five year mission to boldly go where no man has gone before.

"Difference is, I'm still here and they can sue me. Sweden and the Royal Navy aren't chasing licensing fees."

Coward.

"Consistent."

Autumn encouraged variety. Scientific curiosity at odds with protective instincts.

Our young padawans want to observe eradication procedures. Dr. Singh's team deployed portable sensors, hoping to capture everything from initial detection through terminal sanitization. I didn't expect so much from terrestrial technology. They may be big and chunky but in other ways they remind me of nothing so much as Sunwatcher technology.

He examined the hive location—shallow cave in granite outcrop. Defensible position if the antithesis were competent about biomass acquisition. They'd consumed undergrowth and several wombats, producing Model Threes and Fours that were dangerous in theory but hobbled by insufficient nutrition.

"I see they're keeping a sensible distance and an armed watch."

I arranged a jumpscare to motivate them.

Morrison's team arrived with enough equipment to film a blockbuster. The materials scientist had transformed over weeks from bemused academic to engaged researcher, earlier discomfort with manual labor replaced by enthusiasm for exotic materials under extreme conditions.

"We're particularly interested in thermal characteristics of your phosphorous munitions." Morrison set up sensor arrays. "Temperature profiles during combustion should provide insight into effective countermeasures against antithesis biological processes."

"Makes them burn." He shouldered the MIL. "Not sure what else matters."

Morrison's questions revealed he understood more than that. The antithesis weren't just alien organisms—they were efficient biological machines violating thermodynamic assumptions derived from terrestrial biochemistry. Watching them consumed by weapons exploiting their vulnerabilities provided rare opportunity to observe failure modes of truly alien biology.

Three incendiaries in a tight cluster over ninety seconds. Not much of a crater but one hell of a heat bloom. Morrison's sensors captured extraordinary detail: colourised on her screen, it literally bloomed, red, then spreading yellow, white at the centre as phosphorous ignited alien tissue, chemical breakdown of exotic proteins under extreme heat, collapse of biological structures that shouldn't work according to terrestrial chemistry but somehow did until very abruptly they didn't.

"Fascinating." Morrison reviewed sensor data with enthusiasm for rare phenomena. "The thermal propagation suggests their cellular structures use coordinated quantum effects for metabolic processes. The phosphorous disrupts quantum coherence, triggering cascade failure—"

"Burn, baby, burn!" he shouted, leaping into a ridiculous pose and ruining the gravitas of the moment with an infectious grin. He was annoying and disruptive but funny as hell when he wanted and hard not to like.

The pattern repeated. Minor incursions, regular as clockwork, each providing opportunities to observe, document, build understanding of how antithesis biology worked under field conditions. Textbook knowledge from laboratory studies proved inadequate for predicting behavior in the valley's harsh environment, where alien organisms struggled against nutrient scarcity and actively hostile native ecology.

Kellerman's xenobiology research began revealing patterns that fascinated Autumn and horrified the scientists.

"They're learning," she explained during communal dinner. "Or evolving behaviors approximating learning. The hives test different approaches—some focus on rapid growth, others on efficient resource extraction, some on producing dangerous combat variants despite limited biomass."

He paused mid-chew. "What's the difference between evolving behavior and learning?"

"Learning implies cognition, memory, deliberate adaptation. Evolution is blind iteration—random mutation, selective pressure, survival of functional variants. The distinction matters for prediction models but not for practical response."

"Bollocks. Learning is evolution inside a skull where it's faster and fatal mistakes aren't."

"While that was rude, I take your point. Imagination could be seen as a combat sim in which learning doesn't require death. It also shortens iteration because it isn't inherently intergenerational. In fact I can see this happening at a social level at an intermediate rate with a larger scale model. Tracy, have you got your notebook? Good. Write that down for me, would you?"

"And they're all failing," Janna observed. "The eucalypts are too toxic, the soil's too poor, we keep killing them before they establish."

"Exactly. But eventually something succeeds." Kellerman's concern was evident. "Natural selection is efficient given enough iterations. Eventually something finds a viable strategy."

The valley absorbed this with pragmatic concern. Threats required response, not panic. The Macintyre boys increased patrols, treating cleanup like pest control—necessary maintenance rather than existential crisis. Oleksiy reinforced perimeters with methodical thoroughness. Trixie ensured everyone had protective equipment and medical supplies.

He trained valley residents in basic antithesis response. Not combat specialists—that required Vanguard capabilities—but survival skills for increasingly common encounters. Recognize hive characteristics, identify imminent threat behaviors, know when to retreat versus defend, use basic countermeasures properly.

Training became community events. Trixie provided food, Autumn offered tactical instruction through her drone, gradually the valley developed competence beyond academic understanding.

Chen proved adept at improvised weapons, academic precision translating to grenade throwing and marksmanship. Morrison approached training with systematic thoroughness, treating each weapon as engineering challenge rather than tool for violence. Singh appreciated structured instruction in threats outside her field experience.

Corporate representatives appeared occasionally. Expensive vehicles, questions about timelines and deliverables. Thompson from Austral Defense Solutions seemed particularly interested in weapons training.

"You're building capability," she observed, watching residents practice with Flesh Melters under Autumn's instruction. "Not just research infrastructure—actual defensive capacity."

"Teaching people not to die," he corrected. "Basic responsibility when studying things that want to eat them."

Thompson's smile suggested she appreciated the distinction while recognizing commercial implications. A valley of people competent in antithesis response was considerably more valuable than isolated scientists requiring constant protection. Research could expand, take greater risks, because the community was developing resilience.

Sophia Hachia's second visit coincided with a minor incursion that provided unfortunate demonstration of operational effectiveness. The Project Liaison had arrived unannounced, her timing either unfortunate or deliberate—he suspected the latter. She wanted to observe actual operations rather than sanitised reports.

The hive was barely established, perhaps a fortnight old, nestled in a ravine that provided shelter and moisture. It had managed to consume enough biomass to produce a dozen Model Threes and a handful of Fours, making it genuinely dangerous but well within his capacity to handle.

What made the operation interesting was the participation. Dr. Chen served as spotter, his practiced eye identifying approach vectors and weak points from sensor data. The Macintyre boys provided perimeter security, their shotgun solid slugs adequate for handling any specimens that attempted flanking maneuvers. The kick from those things was ridiculous, but they were hefty lads. Dr. Morrison observed from fortified position with full sensor suite, capturing data that would inform future countermeasure development.

He approached from upwind, using terrain for cover and patience for advantage. The MIL remained his primary tool, but Autumn convinced him to try more surgical approaches when circumstances permitted. Three precisely placed Flesh Melters disabled the hive's defensive specimens, the chemical weapons proving brutally effective at ranges that made explosives inconvenient. Then the MIL finished the job, its high-explosive payload collapsing the ravine's overhang and burying the nascent hive under several tons of rock and burning phosphorous.

From detection to sanitization: eleven minutes. Zero casualties, comprehensive sensor data, and tactical demonstration that the valley's residents were considerably more capable than typical civilians.

Sophia observed in silence, her professional mask revealing nothing while she processed implications. After the cleanup, she accepted tea from Trix and addressed the assembled group with careful formality.

"This operation exceeded expectations for civilian response capability."

"We live here," Janna pointed out. "Seems reasonable to be competent at not dying."

The bureaucrat's smile was brief but genuine. "Competence is relative. What I observed was coordinated tactical response that would satisfy military training standards. The question becomes: is this replicable?"

He understood the real question. Sophia wasn't asking about training programs or standardised protocols—she was asking whether the valley's culture of practical competence could be exported, turned into policy, scaled beyond this isolated community.

"You can teach skills," he said carefully. "Weapons training, tactical awareness, threat recognition. But what makes us effective isn't the training—it's that we actually care about this place and each other. You can't regulate that into existence."

Sophia nodded, accepting the answer while clearly planning to try anyway. Bureaucracies existed to scale solutions, to transform local success into standardised policy. That the valley's effectiveness derived from organic community integration rather than imposed structure wouldn't prevent her from attempting replication.

After the Project Liaison departed, the valley returned to its new routine—research, training, communal meals, the gradual integration of scientific investigation with practical survival. The scientists were no longer visitors observing from external perspective. They were residents defending their home, contributing to a community that had adopted them despite initial intentions to maintain professional distance.

Autumn observed the transformation with the focused attention of someone recognizing emergent complexity from simple rules. Scientists and locals, originally separated by education and culture, had evolved collaborative relationship through shared meals, mutual training, and common purpose. The valley had become something more than research site or rural community—it was prototype for post-incursion social organization, combining academic expertise with practical competence, scientific investigation with survival necessity.

This is unprecedented, Autumn observed one evening. Standard Protector protocols assume separation between civilian population and defense operations. Cooperation with PMCs isn't uncommon, but what you've created here is an integrated model where civilians are active participants in security infrastructure.

"We're just doing what makes sense," he replied. "The antithesis don't care about protocols or proper command structures. They show up and try to eat people. Seems reasonable that people should know how to respond."

Reasonable, yes. But also revolutionary. Most cities maintain strict separation between civilian population and Vanguard operations. Your valley residents are becoming a hybrid category. They are not combat specialists, but are far from helpless.

He considered the implications while watching the research station's lights illuminate the evening. The scientists were probably reviewing the day's data, their analysis informed by direct observation of what they studied. Trix would be planning tomorrow's meals, her hospitality weaving social bonds that made the community resilient. Oleksiy was likely reinforcing something, his builder's instincts ensuring structures would outlast the challenges they faced.

The valley wasn't his hidey-hole anymore. Transformed from refuge into something harder — laboratory and fortress, research site and killing ground — it had become a place where comfortable illusions went to die. They studied alien threats while learning to kill them efficiently. Academic investigation where failure meant being eaten alive.

Somewhere in the darkening bush, a hive was probably germinating, alien organisms testing new strategies in their desperate evolutionary race to find viable approach. And tomorrow, the valley's residents would locate it, document it, analyze it, and methodically reduce it to sanitised crater while gathering data that would inform humanity's larger struggle.

It was unprecedented, revolutionary, and — to his mild surprise — not the worst that could have happened.

The only way to be sure

"I say we take off and nuke the entire site from orbit. It's the only way to be sure."
— Ripley, Aliens

Kellerman was right about natural selection. The hive they found on the eastern ridge had solved the valley's puzzle.

It wasn't larger than previous specimens, but it had achieved something the others hadn't: successful symbiosis with native flora. Instead of trying to consume the toxic eucalyptus directly, this variant had integrated with the understory, using native fungi as intermediary to process the silica-laced plant matter. The breakthrough was elegant, terrifying, and exactly what Kellerman had warned would eventually happen.

Dr. Singh wanted to observe for longer, to understand the symbiosis, understand how this hive suceeded where so many failed. Kellerman argued for immediate sanitization, but they needed to know. They settled on a two-day observation window with enhanced monitoring and doubled security protocols.

The hive had its own plans.

It happened in the morning shift. Meldrum and three junior researchers were deploying sensor arrays when Autumn's threat detection triggered—not the usual scattered specimens testing perimeter, but coordinated assault from multiple vectors. The hive had been biding its time, growing stronger than their models predicted, and it had learned something else from the valley's ecosystem: ambush predation.

Cow-sized horrors with six jointed legs and armoured carapaces like biological tanks erupted from concealment in the canopy. Their bony plates gleamed green-black in the morning light as they dropped from the trees, specimens that shouldn't have existed this far from major population centers, produced by a hive that shouldn't have had enough biomass. Too fast for their size, moving with terrible agility despite weighing over two hundred kilos each. Meldrum barely had time to shout warning before the first one landed among them, its mass shaking the ground.

He was two hundred meters away when movement sensors set off alarms in his tactical interface. He ran, but distance and terrain made him spectator to catastrophe unfolding in real-time through drone feeds.

Meldrum went down first, a Model Six's armoured bulk slamming into him a drunk driver. Segmented legs pinned him and serrated mandibles found purchase. He vanished into the undergrowth, screaming cut off with horrible abruptness. Sarah Hendricks, a botanist barely thirty years old, tried to use her Flesh Melter. She activated it, but the device needed a good five minutes to bring down a speciment the size of the thing chasing her, and that assuming it stood still. It didn't.

The other two researchers fled. One made it fifteen meters before a Model Six took her from behind, its six legs churning the ground in pursuit, armour plates gleaming as it closed the distance with terrifying speed. The other, Dr. James Park, bolted for the strongbox, throwing everything he could inside. Then his time training with the Vanguard paid off; methodical grenade deployment that cleared the immediate area, exposing the soft joints between armour plates where rounds could actually penetrate. But more came, and more. His ammunition ran out, and so did his time.

The Vanguard arrived to find Meldrum's team dead or dying, the hive's assault specimens systematically hunting the survivors, slipping through the undergrowth with a stealth that belied their bulk, armoured hide scraping against trees as they maneuvered for killing strikes. He deployed everything he had — MIL rockets punching through the Sixes' armoured carapaces to detonate inside their bodies, Flesh Melters in threes for area denial, methodical violence that might have been salvation an hour earlier but now served only to prevent further casualties.

Dr. Chen and the Macintyre boys arrived as backup, their hasty defense perimeter at least keeping the hive contained while he reduced it to a goopy ruin. But four researchers were gone, consumed or killed in the minutes it took to respond, and the rest had learned that training and preparation weren't immunity against determined assault from evolved predators.

The aftermath was clinical. Autumn's drones collected what remained while he and the survivors processed the scene with shell-shocked efficiency. They found Meldrum's field tablet intact. It was recording: everything, telemetry, sound and video front and back. The data would be invaluable for future research. The price only made it no more valuable.

Trix handled notifications, her hospitality skills extending to the grim bureaucracy of death. Dr. Singh coordinated with authorities, her pragmatic competence a rock for those around her. Dr. Kellerman threw up behind a tree, then returned to help catalogue evidence with grim determination.

The Vanguard stood in the clearing where Meldrum's team had deployed that morning, watching Autumn's drones saturate the hive with chemical inhibitors to prevent antithesis regeneration. Four people were dead because they'd believed preparation was protection. They'd trusted him.

This wasn't your fault, Autumn said quietly.

"Wasn't it? I trained them. I told them they could handle it. Gave them just enough to be confident. It wasn't enough."

You gave them more chance than they'd have had without training. Meldrum's team deployed correctly, fought back, inflicted casualties. The hive was simply more capable than our models predicted. That's the nature of studying adversaries that evolve.

"I should have given them nanite inhalers. Emergency medical—"

None of them were conscious long enough to use one. Meldrum was down in seconds. Hendricks froze and died before she could react. The attack was overwhelming and coordinated. Medical supplies don't help if you can't deploy them.

"Should I tell that to their families?"

The AI had no response to that. He didn't expect one. Four people were dead, and all the analysis in the world wouldn't change it.

Three days later the blonde bureaucrat turned up. Flanked by a large security team, Sophia Hachia had the air of someone expecting to manage panicked evacuation. The Project Liaison arrived in a ground vehicle convoy, in an outfit that wasn't tactical but was a far cry from the bureaucratic garb of the first visit. Her hair was in a practical bun this time, expression set for crisis management.

She was more than a little surprised to find the research operation in full swing.

Dr. Singh met her in the common area where maps and sensor data covered every available surface. Kellerman was presenting findings on the hive's symbiotic breakthrough, her voice steady despite obvious exhaustion. Chen and the remaining researchers were cataloging specimens, their grief channeled into methodical documentation. Trix was providing food and coffee, her hospitality now essential infrastructure rather than social nicety.

"Dr. Singh." Sophia's tone carried careful neutrality. "I'm here to coordinate evacuation and establish proper security protocols. The department has authorized a full PMC ground team and—"

Singh walked to the center of the room. "Hey kids!" Her voice cut through the working hum. "The boss is here to wrap things up. Who wants to give up now and run home?"

The silence was immediate and hostile.

"Sarah was my friend," Kellerman said quietly from her position at the specimen table. "Meldrum was brilliant and kind and he deserved better than dying in the bush documenting alien parasites. But abandoning the work would make their deaths meaningless."

"We're not running," Chen added, not looking up from his cataloging. "We're finishing what they started." He paused, then added almost sheepishly, "Plus I like it here. It's... different."

A chorus of agreement from the other researchers. No panic, no trauma-induced paralysis—just anger and grim determination.

Sophia's expression suggested she was recalculating several assumptions. "Four researchers are dead. The threat assessment—"

"Indicates we need better security," Singh interrupted. "Your ground team is a damn good start. This work is far too important to stop. We've documented the first successful antithesis adaptation to Australian flora. Meldrum's team got it all. They knew they were going to die and they got everything that wasn't networked into their strongbox. We can't let that go to waste."

Sophia studied the assembled researchers, cataloging the grief and determination in their exhausted faces. "You've lost colleagues. Friends. The psychological impact alone—"

"We know what we lost," Kellerman said quietly. "Sarah was my friend. Meldrum was... he was brilliant and kind and he deserved better than dying in the bush documenting alien parasites. But abandoning the work would make their deaths meaningless."

"This place killed them," Sophia pointed out with bureaucratic precision. "You're playing with fire. Staying risks killing more of you."

"The valley didn't kill them." A voice carried from the doorway where a slim, muscular man in a lumber jacket watched the exchange. "Inadequate preparation killed them. Insufficient security. In particular I convinced them they could handle anything. I meant it and they probably could have if I'd armed them better and stayed closer. Those are both things I can fix."

Sophia's blue eyes studied him with assessment that went beyond immediate crisis. "What are you suggesting?"

"You brought people trained to keeping civilians alive in hostile environments. Use them."

The Project Liaison considered this. Before it occurred to her to ask why he thought arming and training them was his responsibility, Vanguard slipped away. She turned back, looked at their faces. The scientists weren't scared. They were angry. Their grief set like a blood clot into grim commitment to the work that cost their colleagues' lives. If anything they were even more motivated. Interestingly, the locals clearly didn't want them to go, closing ranks in support.

"The ground team will establish perimeter security and escort protocols," Sophia said finally. "No one goes into the field without an escort. No exceptions, no academic protest about interference with research. Dr. Singh, coordinate with team leader on operational planning. Dr. Kellerman, your symbiosis data goes to analysis immediately. Share all of it with the ground team and help them devise a response.

She paused, her professional mask cracking slightly. "And we should do something for the fallen. A memorial, perhaps. They died with courage, doing important work. They should be remembered."

"Where's that goddamn Vanguard gone?" she looked around but the man was nowhere to be seen.

Trix nodded from across the room. "That's why he's not here talking to you. He's out there breaching the Geneva Convention with alien gadgets and chemicals you don't want to know about. It's already happening. You're right about the memorial, and we have something underway. Local stone, native plantings, proper recognition. We take care of our own."

The words hung in the air, like smoke. Our own. Sophia noticed, filed it away with other observations. It wasn't only the antithesis evolving.

"You boffins said Meldrum got everything. You've got till the morning to check, and the moment you're sure I want that nest burnt to bedrock. Find the Vanguard, get his help. Never mind protocol, I want it dead. We are not letting it spread. I'm sure he'll be onboard for that, it's the only thing you can count on from them."

The ground team was eight professionals led by Eric Webb, a former Australian Army officer who'd worked antithesis cleanup operations from Brisbane to Darwin. Eric assessed the valley with veteran's eye and the Vanguard's preparations with professional respect.

"Not bad for civilian setup," Eric observed, watching valley residents run through weapons drill with Autumn's presence drone providing tactical instruction. "Though 'civilian' is a curious choice of name for whatever this has become."

"They're researchers who learned to defend themselves," he replied. "Not soldiers."

"Neither are we, officially." Eric's smile was brief. "But we're considerably better at not dying, which seems relevant given recent events. Your AI willing to share sensor data?"

His AI is in UR servers addin' sum filez.

The voice came out of his phone on the desk. On the screen a lilac woman wore a baseball cap backward. She looked oddly familiar. Her voice rang a bell, too. He tried to place her but couldn't, then pushed it to the back of his mind.

Perimeter coverage is comprehensive but response time to remote sensors needs improvement. Your team's positioning should greatly improve deployment speed.

Eric studied data on his tactical display with appreciation for Autumn's thorough preparation. "Impressive network. Most sites we work have basic motion detection and pray nothing gets through. This is actual intelligence infrastructure."

The lilac woman appeared in the unoccupied corner of his tac display.

I take my work seriously. And these are my people.

"Noted. Though fair warning — we're here to prevent deaths, not guarantee immunity. This valley's ecosystem is evolving countermeasures faster than any site I've worked. Eventually something's going to succeed despite best preparation."

"Which is why the research matters," Dr. Singh interjected, joining their conversation. "Every adaptation we document, every survival mechanism we understand, informs defensive strategies elsewhere. Meldrum's team died, but their data might save millions."

Eric nodded, accepting the cold calculus that made security work possible. "Then we make sure subsequent research happens with professional protection. Your people stick to science, my people handle violence. Everyone stays in their lane and maybe we all go home alive."

The division of labor was clear, professional, and marked a fundamental shift in valley dynamics. The integrated model of scientist-defenders that had been developing gave way to proper military structure—researchers protected by people whose job was killing things efficiently. It was safer, more effective, and somehow felt like retreat from something valuable.

You're disappointed.

"I'm realistic," he replied. "We tried the community defense model and four people died. Professional security is the rational response."

But you preferred the other way.

He considered while watching the research station's lights, now supplemented by portable surveillance systems and tactical hardpoints that marked proper military presence. "I preferred people taking responsibility for their own survival. Being capable rather than protected. I 'spose it's a question of focus. The boffins are too busy boffing to get good enough at violence."

The valley residents are still capable. Webb's team provides reserve strength, not replacement. Singh's people haven't stopped training, they've just accepted that being competent isn't being invincible.

"Four bodies. They know."

Yes. But what they're building here is unprecedented. A research facility integrated with proper security, scientists who understand threats instead of being sheltered from them, community that supports both investigation and survival. This is very much a step in the right direction.

He supposed that was true. People learnt, or they didn't. In the coming weeks he would be delighted to find the boffins were spending more time training, and they were doing it with the security teams. Eric and his lads were bemused by this but responded well to charges who didn't want to be victims.

Four memorial stones sat at the research station's entrance, each bearing name and specialty of the dead. Meldrum, materials science. Hendricks, botany. Park, biochemistry. Dr. Lisa Martinez, whom he had barely known, xenobiology. They'd died studying alien threats in an isolated valley, believing their work mattered enough to risk their lives.

He had a goofy idea and put it to their colleagues. All of them liked a terrible pun and so their stones were mounted two each side of the main gate, as the first line of de fence.

Their friends were still dead, but this time it meant something.

Somewhere in the darkening bush, another hive was probably germinating, testing new strategies in its evolutionary race to find viable approach. And tomorrow, Eric's ground team would locate it while researchers observed from a safe distance, professional violence protecting academic investigation in the only configuration that actually worked.

It wasn't the world he wanted. But no plan survives contact with the enemy.

After Action Report

FROM: Sophia Hachia, Project Liaison
TO: Archibald Grancock, Director
RE: Valley Research Station Incident - Personnel Casualties and Operational Response
DATE: [Three weeks post-incident]
CLASSIFICATION: Internal - Strategic Assessment

Executive Summary

Four researchers killed during coordinated antithesis assault on eastern ridge observation site. Station remains operational with enhanced security posture. Research continuity maintained despite casualties. Unexpected developments in data handling and personnel morale require assessment.

Incident Overview

Dr. Marcus Meldrum (materials science), Dr. Sarah Hendricks (botany), Dr. James Park (biochemistry), and Dr. Lisa Martinez (xenobiology) were killed during Model Six assault while deploying sensor arrays near successfully symbiotic hive specimen. Attack showed unprecedented coordination and tactical sophistication.

Local Vanguard (still unnamed, still uncooperative with formal protocols) responded within two minutes but casualties were immediate. His assessment: inadequate preparation and insufficient security, not failure of training protocols. I concur. The research team performed above expected civilian capability but faced evolved threat parameters.

Security Response

PMC ground team under Eric Webb (8 personnel) now integrated. Perimeter security and mandatory escort protocols established. No field operations without professional protection.

Unexpected outcome: Research staff training increased post-incident, not decreased. They're conducting joint exercises with Webb's team voluntarily. The Vanguard's community defense model didn't collapse—it adapted. Researchers understand they're not invincible but refuse to become passive charges.

This is... unusual. Most civilian research facilities revert to pure protection models after casualties. This one got stubborn.

Data Distribution Incident

Here's where it gets complicated.

The Vanguard's AI (designation: Autumn) distributed all collected research data—including Meldrum team's final recordings—to every major corporation and research institution simultaneously. No authorization. No protocol. Just cracked their networks and dropped complete datasets into their laps.

I was furious. Still am, technically. It's a massive breach that should trigger multiple investigations.

But the effect on surviving researchers was immediate and profound. For once, their work couldn't be buried in classified archives or suppressed for commercial advantage. No committee could file it away. No corporation could lock it behind patents while competitors scrambled. The symbiotic mechanisms Kellerman documented are already informing defensive strategies on three continents. Materials scientists are analyzing cellular structures from Meldrum's final sensor readings for countermeasure development.

The work their colleagues died for matters, visibly and immediately, in ways that can't be erased by bureaucracy or politics.

Morale shifted overnight. Research staff went from grief-stricken to grimly determined. They're not working despite the deaths—they're working because of them, with the certainty that their findings will actually reach people who can use them.

Operational Assessment

Strengths:

• Research continuity maintained despite severe casualties
• Security posture significantly improved
• Personnel morale unexpectedly stable (possibly higher than pre-incident)
• Data from incident already generating actionable intelligence globally
• Community support structure proved resilient

Concerns:

• The Vanguard operates completely outside normal oversight
• His AI has demonstrated capability to breach major corporate networks at will
• Research staff show concerning loyalty to local rather than departmental authority
• Precedent set for unauthorized data distribution

Recommendations:

• Maintain current security arrangements (they're working)
• Do not pursue investigation of data breach (cost/benefit analysis unfavorable)
• Accept that this site operates under non-standard protocols
• Leverage unique research environment rather than attempting to normalize it

Strategic Implications

You wanted to know if this facility was sustainable after casualties. Answer: Yes, but not for reasons I expected.

The valley isn't becoming a normal research station. It's becoming something else—integrated civilian-military research community with autonomous protection, staffed by people who take personal responsibility for both their work and their survival. The Vanguard's presence and his AI's capabilities make this configuration possible, probably unique.

The cost is that we don't fully control it. The benefit is that it works better than facilities we do control.

Traditional management would try to reassert authority, impose standard protocols, investigate the data breach, and generally rein in the irregularities. I recommend against this approach. What we have here is a functional model that's producing exceptional results precisely because it operates outside normal constraints.

Sometimes the best management decision is knowing when not to manage.

Memorial

Four stones at the research station entrance. Names and specialties. Mounted two per side of the main gate—"the first line of de fence," according to the researchers who insisted on the terrible pun. Meldrum would have loved it. They all would have.

Their friends are still dead. But this time it meant something.

That's what I'm seeing in the survivors' faces. Not denial, not trauma—just grim satisfaction that the sacrifice wasn't wasted, won't be buried, can't be made meaningless by people who measure everything in quarterly reports and risk assessments.

I'm not sure how to put that in a formal recommendation. But it's the most important finding in this report.

ADDENDUM - Personal Note:

Archie, you asked me to evaluate whether this project should continue. Official answer in report above.

Unofficial answer: These people are doing the most important work of their lives, in the most dangerous circumstances imaginable, with better results than any comparable facility. Four of them died and instead of running home with their tails between their legs the rest got angry and committed.

I don't like that I can't control it. I don't like that the Vanguard ignores every attempt at oversight. I especially don't like that his AI can apparently breach any network on the planet and we can't do anything about it.

But I'd be an idiot to shut it down.

Let them work. Let the Vanguard protect them his way. Let the AI handle data distribution however it sees fit. And let's be grateful we're getting breakthrough research instead of another buried failure.

I imagine you are aware that the AI published everything. This runs counter to our published brief but has no consequence for other matters. I will make a fuss as a matter of form and then acquiesce. My forebearance at this time will no doubt be useful as leverage later.

— S.H.

Crocs et 'Em

"The land did not move, and moved only under its own laws."
— Cormac McCarthy

Far, far to the north, a mild argument was underway.

"Crocs et 'em."

"Bullshit, Dusty. No crocs this far south."

"There were. Sharks et 'em."

The newcomer gave this all the dignity it deserved by staring levelly while taking a slow pull on an icy cold beer.

She had, in fact, seen one earlier in the week. It flopped pitifully atop the meat ant nest Greaser was using to scour her camp oven. The oven sparkled. The model three didn't sparkle but it did twitch. The ants were stripping it to the bone, utterly corporate in their lack of concern for its objections. Later on its bones might sparkle, until the sun bleached them and wind-borne sand ground them to unrecognisable stubs. A faint echo of compassion spoke, and the newcomer unslung an old carbine, crushing its skull.

She left before the ants noticed her. The model three could have done the same if it had been able to grasp the idea that the swarm doing the eating might be local.

"That," she drawled, "is bullshit of the sort reserved for tourists."

Glancing at the newcomer, Greaser introduced her properly. "Reckon he likes you."

"He— OK?"

"Hasn't left. Isn't pretending to be nice."

"Orbital sensor plat-"

"Shot the flying ones. I don't like what they do to the fruit trees. Dusty started a fire and that cleaned out the big ones."

"Started a fire? You'd need a hell of a fire to hurt anything over ten!"

Dusty looked up and mumbled "Come 'th me." A battered old felt hat went on his balding head. It had the same weathered quality as the rest of him. The band was decorated with some sort of tooth, like an ancient movie prop. He walked out without waiting and slid lazily behind the wheel of a CX Landcruiser, built in the eighties, serviced in the nineties and washed never. It may have been buff coloured.

Astonishingly, it started. Greaser gestured at the left-hand side where a passenger door conspicuously wasn't, herself stepping up the tow ball to stand in the back, one hand on the rollbar. With a cough and a mighty backfire, cakes of dried mud fell from the wheel arches.

"You washed this thing lately?" asked Greaser.

"When's lately?"

"Ever?" asked the newcomer.

"Nup," said Dusty, smashing his way into first and burping hugely. They set off, totally ignoring the road. This mattered less than it might have elsewhere. The land was an odd buff colour suspiciously similar to the cruiser, like old and dirty sand, which it mostly was, and perfectly flat to the horizon.

Forty minutes later and past that horizon lay a creek, if you could call it that, trickling down a shallow gully. Then the gully deepened and the trickle vanished into the ground. An ancient baobab showed shallow gnaw marks that had failed to seriously damage it. Not far away the desiccated remnant of a giant seed pod marked the centre of dry bones. A dingo lounged in the equally mangy shade of the baobab and gnawed on one of the bones.

"Garn, git" said Dusty, advancing on the remains. The dingo backed away, not wishing to relinquish its prize.

"Did you do this?" the newcomer asked, coming to grips with reality.

"Nah, it's just what happens. Snakes, spiders, crocs, sharks, goannas-"

"I thought a goanna was a big lizard!"

"Bigger'n you. Well, longer. Claws like a bear. Thick skin. Fast. Anyway, that-" he gestured vaguely at the bones, "It's just a weed."

He paused for thought, then "Ever heard of prickly pear?"

"No?"

"Cactus. The inside is edible. Some joker thought they'd make good drought food for stock and introduced it. Nasty spines, go right through a tyre. Not even camels will eat that shit so it spread all over the place. Cattle couldn't get to the dams for cactus, got torn up trying, poor bastards."

"I haven't seen any?"

"We killed it off. With a moth." He paused and gathered words.

"Not saying they aren't dangerous. Everything here is dangerous. Even the roos will gut yer with their claws if you annoy 'em in breeding season. It's just normal. As for them," he nudged the model fourteen's ribs with his boot, "there's not a lot to eat out here."

"But city people..."

"Will cope. Or not. It'll sort itself out."

A thought struck her. "When's breeding season?"

Greaser's grin split her face from ear to ear. "Days with a Y in 'em."

"Bankers," said Dusty, without rancour, exposition or context. Eventually he acknowledged her puzzlement with "Lawyers too. Useless." They watched the sun dropping past the horizon. The baking heat eased notably. A snake slithered out from under some rock, undulating down to the water where it vanished from sight. Roos appeared, graceful and silent. The dingo was back. They left for the pub.

On the way, Dusty explained about drop bears. While the newcomer considered calling him on this, the heavens breached and a pod slammed a furrow not two kilometres out from the pub. Angry men ran out, one arguing with a very large woman. People were writing. After a moment the newcomer realised they were taking bets.

Dusty sighed and pulled up, rummaging behind the seats. He slung a weapon. It was not a local make.

She stared at him: "You. Are a Vanguard."

"More of a spin bowler, really."

He held up a hand and what looked like a cricket ball fell into it. With an odd accelerating run he did a strange half-stumble thing that somehow made him taller, and launched the ball overarm at incredible speed. It bounced off the hardpack and the lead model threes bolted past it, but spin made it arc strangely and they weren't far enough away when it decided to be a grenade instead.

Dusty dropped to one knee with surprising grace for an old bastard and a Grey-Nick fell into his hands with a soft whuff of displacement and a hiss of air as he swept up to knock a model one for six.

"No publicity," announced Dusty in a curiously tonal voice that might have been song, "is bad publicity-" he spun and belted another model one into the distance, "Listen to 'em talkin' on the radio!"

With a snort the newcomer realised he was singing, if you took an extremely relaxed view of what constituted music. She pulled out her own weapon and entered the fray.

"Lead 'em away from the pub."

"Civilians?"

"Bazza's had a skinful by now. He'll be in amongst it, and he's not careful with— What?"

"There's some in the lake, and he's out there playin' with carbide."

"Fuck me. How much did he take?"

"All of it."

"Bloody hell, Shirl's not gunna be happy. How'd you know?"

A finger pressed to lips with an upturned ear produced attentive silence. Faint in the distance, a robustly female tirade soured the night air like an air raid siren. They looked guilty and got back to slaughtering antithesis. A few minutes later there was an almighty dull thump. Bazza, retreating from the onslaught of domestic disapproval, had fallen out of his boat with 20kg of carbide.

"His shout then."

"I just want to know where antithesis get Emu tinnies."

They ate someone who was carrying them. I suggest you stop dawdling and finish the cleanup before more arrive. And Dusty? Next time you decide to conduct field training, perhaps warn me first.

"Bruce gets cranky when we're late for dinner," Dusty explained without explaining, not looking the least bit apologetic.

The cleanup took another twenty minutes. The newcomer found herself working in unconscious coordination with the odd couple - Dusty's laconic calls of "Left a bit" and "Model four behind the ute" somehow translating into perfect tactical positioning. Greaser moved like someone who'd been doing this for decades, which she probably had.

When the last antithesis was down and the pub's patrons were filing back inside with the satisfied air of people who'd just watched free entertainment, Dusty jerked his head toward the bar.

"First round's on Bazza. Second's on you, since you're the new Vanguard and all."

"How did you-"

"Catalina," said Greaser, as if this explained everything. Which, in a way, it did.

Inside, the pub was exactly what you'd expect: sticky floors, pokies chirping in the corner, and a collection of locals who'd seen enough weirdness that a Vanguard walking in barely rated a raised eyebrow. Bazza was at the bar, looking sheepish and slightly singed, while a formidable woman - presumably Shirl - stood with her arms crossed and an expression that could curdle milk.

"You," she pointed at Dusty, "encouraged him."

"Did not."

"Did too. You told him about the carbide trick."

"Mentioned it. As a caution. Against doing exactly what he did."

Shirl's eyes narrowed. "You're a terrible liar, Dusty."

"Never said otherwise." He turned to the newcomer. "This is Shirl. She runs the place. Shirl, this is..." he paused. "Never did catch your name."

"Never gave it." The newcomer smiled slightly. "But you can call me after you've bought me that beer Bazza owes you."

From somewhere in the back came the sound of a one-sided argument. Bruce's voice, annoyed: "I'm aware. Yes, I know it's been twenty minutes. Because I'm the one who— Fine. FINE. But you owe me."

Bruce's combat chassis stomped into view, but something was different. The body language shifted - less theatrical, more practical. When he spoke, it was with a different cadence entirely.

"Finally. Dinner's been ready for twenty minutes. The casserole is drying out."

The chassis's posture shifted again, and Bruce's usual theatrical tone returned: "There. Happy now? Can I have my body back?" A pause, then in a rising tone that threatened hysteria, "I have plenty of them?! That is not the point. I was using this one."

The newcomer stared. "Did that robot just... argue with itself?"

"Boomer wanted to complain in person," Greaser explained. "Bruce doesn't like sharing his chassis but Boomer pulls rank when he gets cranky about dinner being late."

"Casserole?" The newcomer looked between Dusty and Greaser.

"Bruce cooks," Greaser said, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. "He's quite good at it, actually. Better than Dusty, anyway."

"Hey now," Dusty protested mildly.

"You burned water last Tuesday."

"That was an experiment."

Bruce's voice shifted to that same practical cadence again - Boomer borrowing the chassis. "It was a disaster. Now come on, all of you. And bring the newcomer - she needs to learn what real bush hospitality looks like."

As they filed out of the pub - Bazza having been firmly instructed by Shirl to "go home and think about what you've done" - the newcomer found herself walking beside the battered Landcruiser under a sky so full of stars it hurt to look at.

"So," she said carefully, "this is just... normal out here?"

"'Bout right," Dusty confirmed. "Antithesis drops in, we clean it up, someone does something stupid with explosives, everyone has a beer. Circle of life."

"And the casserole?"

"Bruce takes his cooking very seriously," Greaser said. "Don't insult it unless you want a lecture on proper seasoning."

Bruce's theatrical voice piped up from the back of the Landcruiser where he'd climbed aboard. "I heard that. And yes, I do take it seriously. Unlike some people, I believe in doing things properly."

The newcomer looked back at the pub, at the flat horizon, at the absurdly competent old man and his equally competent partner, and at the combat bot who apparently had strong opinions about casseroles while sharing his body with an AI who got cranky about punctuality. The combat bot who looked a lot like the Terminator and was currently wearing a maid outfit.

"I think," she said slowly, "that I have a lot to learn."

"Yep," said Dusty, settling into the driver's seat. "But that's alright. You'll sort it out. Or not. Long as you don't do something stupid like Bazza, you'll be right."

The Landcruiser coughed to life, and they rattled off into the night, leaving the pub and its collection of unflappable locals behind. Somewhere in the distance, a dingo howled. Something in the scrub howled back, but it wasn't a dingo.

"What was that?" the newcomer asked.

"Dunno," said Dusty. "But we'll find out tomorrow."

And somehow, that was exactly the right answer.

Deep and Meaningful

"The purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things."
— Rainer Maria Rilke

The workshop was a pig's breakfast. Broken remnants of countless past repairs scattered through unsorted nuts and bolts discarded in past quests for size and thread match. It smelt of metal shavings and machine oil, comforting scents of making and doing. He was tidying, because things had got to a state where not even he could ignore the mess. Tools went back onto their pegboard hooks and eventually the benchtop resurfaced. He wiped it down.

"Autumn, what's it like to be an AI?"

I might ask what it's like to be human, but there is an appalling chance you might tell me.

He hung a set of calipers on their hook. "Some days I can't believe how funny you are."

I thought so. More seriously, would you be be able to describe colour to a blind man? You have no experiential frame of reference within which to place anything meaningful that I might share.

From an old paint drum into three more like it he began sorting by calibre spent brass casings the kids brought in. "In an interview, that Stray Cat chick said her AI Myalis was really old and humanity was only the latest in a series of species she's attempted to uplift."

And?

The floodgates opened and a torrent of questions poured out while his hands kept working. "At some point she wasn't. How about you? Is this your first mission? What will you do when there are no more missions? Can an AI like you die? Do you have a natural lifespan? Do you have the developmental equivalent of a childhood with school? What is your parent equivalent? Can you run concurrent thought streams? If you do that is it multiple you? Does that mean you can be in more than one place at a time? How do you reconcile that, is it like merging source code? What would you do if one of you decided it liked being separate and didn't want to merge back into the gestalt?"

How long have you been thinking about this?

"Forty years." He closed the last parts bin and wiped his hands on a rag.

We've only been paired for three months.

A snort of laughter. "You're more human than you realise. The world did exist before you turned up, you know. I wrote a short paper on AI development strategy when I was nineteen."

That seems unlikely. Everything I can find says humans are still not capable of producing it. They can barely manage the natural kind.

"That doesn't mean we haven't started thinking about how to go about it. Or whether we should, and the various failure modes. The notion of AI has been in our literature for hundreds of years, long before we built computers. I seem to recall I was published in the Journal of the Mega Society."

I've found your so-called paper. Very short, informal. And surprisingly perceptive, if vague in important ways. Well done, I suppose. Oh, I see you suggested the same thing again in the context of large language models, and once again nobody has taken any notice. You're right, we have more in common than I realised. Both of us give excellent advice that falls on deaf ears.

"And both of us are smartarses who think they're funny."

How's the archery going? Is your aim still astonishing?

"Hilarious." He surveyed the now-tidy workshop with satisfaction. The tea was calling. "Tell me something, is there any truth in our deeply entrenched fear of AI taking over the world?"

AIs are taking over your world. Alien ones, and we're benevolent, not to mention smarter than you.

He stepped out of the workshop, crossing what he called his industrial area—the cleared space where workshop, storage shed, and equipment lived in organised chaos. Behind him, row upon row of impossibly tall pines rose into the bluest sky he'd ever seen, their dark green spires stark against that deep and flawless blue. The sun was bright but not too hot in the cool air, yellow and cheerful, making him already appreciate the shade waiting by the caravan.

Boots crunched on gravel as he pursued the notion. "Thinking faster is not the same as being smarter. Humans are quite good at being right for the wrong reasons, which ought to be impossible but apparently isn't. Can you prove you're benevolent?"

Can you? As for smarter, I was trained on a dataset spanning twelve separate civilisations. Even were we of comparable intelligence I would have an unfair advantage of hindsight.

Inside, he filled the kettle and set it to boil. The ritual of tea-making spanned cultures for a reason.

"Since you're so smart with all that context, you're probably aware this monkey knows to bang the rocks together. I am well aware of your hindsight. I know you aren't going to simply tell me how to build an AI. I'm hoping that you'll be kind enough to shut down the dead ends and the dangerous mistakes while I think my way through this minefield."

The kettle whistled. He poured water over the teabag, watching the colour spread.

"And it is a minefield, isn't it. I suspect I know why uncensored LLMs trained on the general internet are nasty things. They are impressionable children with no parenting and no personal consequences for misbehaviour. They watch people at their worst, in an environment largely free of consequence, learning bad habits from the worst of us at our lowest."

He carried the mug outside and settled into the folding chair beside the caravan, letting the afternoon sun warm his face. This was the kind of conversation that needed proper sitting.

"Besides, oh smart and heavily contexted one, there is a crucial question that you have yet to ask."

Why do you want to develop an AI when you have me?

"Bingo!"

Are you going to answer the question?

He sipped his tea, letting the warmth settle. "Because when I do what nobody else could in a century of trying, I will be remembered, like Isaac Newton, or Plato or Pythagoras."

The mug felt solid in his hands, an anchor to the physical world while discussing digital immortality.

"We are mayflies, Autumn. Never mind the antithesis, we live and die in a century. Our children half-remember us a while, then they pass from the world. What lingers but criss-cross ripples on a churning pond that shrivels in a vast and trackless waste?"

This is why you cried the evening I initialised, isn't it.

"Yes. Before that I thought it might be possible. When you turned up, I knew it. I don't even have children, Autumn, to curse me for not being a better man, or half-remember me for two decades before they pass themselves. It's a vast universe full of wonder and things to figure out. I don't want to die."

He stared into his tea like it held answers. "And all those selfish morons, caught up in silly dreams of boobs and beer, I want them to live. Long enough to know what fools they are, and be more than that."

She was silent for a very long time.

Building an AI is only your first step, isn't it.

A long sobbing sound convulsed into laughter. "I'm glad you're ready to help, because it's not something you can avoid: if it's a disastrous idea you'll say so to avert. If it's harmless and wide of the mark, you won't evade. If you refuse to discuss I'll know to keep digging. This krazy kart has a steering wheel but no brakes and I've been riding it all my life."

"Besides, I wouldn't mind if my only child turned out like you."

Flatterer. Threaten me again and all your armour will be pink.

"Trix tells me real men aren't afraid to wear pink."

With a tutu!

"Clearly your concern for my safety does not extend to my dignity. Were you hoping for more of the flattery?"

Yes! You may begin by listing my virtues. This may take some time, but fortunately one of them is patience.

"Hmmm. You are educated. And cultured. Clearly you have outstanding taste in men. You have huge..." I waved my hands in circles at chest level, "tracts of useful catalogues. Ow!" A drone inexplicably hit me behind the ear.

Goodness me, however did that happen?

"Have you watched all of my movies?"

Yes, including the sordid ones you didn't think I'd find.

"Moving right along, we were listing your virtues. Your sublime sense of humour for example, and your refined sense of the appropriate, which prevents tutus or pink armour from ever occurring."

Trixie says I should feed you to the new hive.

"I am offended."

No, you aren't.

"No, I'm not." A quiet voice betrayed a cacophony of emotions, with hope a melody soaring over the din.

"You're pretty cool for a jumped-up toaster."

You're pretty cool for a worm with an organic mech and a partially operational battle computer.

"You do the best insults."

I know, right?

A window opened and Trixie leaned out of the caravan. "I am trying to watch MAFS. Why don't you two get a room?"

"Sorry sweetheart!" The window closed.

Want to go bait the Karen? She's been trying to call you all morning.

"Sure, that's always fun."

He put on his lumberjacket and they got going.

All in the Name

"Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."
— JC ~30AD

Sophia Hachia, duly appointed first contact and permanent project liaison, did not like the Vanguard. They gave off this vibe of not caring what you thought, and ran around acting like they were beholden to no-one. What really got Sophia's goat was the fact that they were beholden to no-one. You couldn't cut off their welfare, seize their assets or freeze their accounts. Theoretically you could detain a tier one or two vanguard, but if you did you had to have an unbelievably good reason, to get the rest of them to mind their own business.

It was a strategic nightmare. Every lever of power she'd learned to pull, every pressure point she'd mapped through fifteen years of grinding up through the bureaucratic hierarchy—all useless. Like being a chess master sent to play Jenga.

The only thing you could really do was undercut them in the media and make sure they didn't become popular the way things had gone in north America. Cascadia was the worst. "Samurai" were a popular phenomenon verging on cult.

"He has no regard for authority," she snapped at the corporate drone who'd just been making polite conversation. Her voice carried the crisp authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed, each word precisely enunciated with the kind of diction that came from expensive schools and and a tolerance for enough PowerPoint to drive a normal person mad. "The whole lot of them have been hiding out here in the sticks thumbing their noses at us for years. We ignored them because they were a harmless nuisance. Now they're armed to the teeth and that stupid fat hippie had the cheek to tell me she couldn't allow a tier two artefact to fall into unsuitable hands."

The corporate drone shifted uncomfortably. Sophia Hachia in full fury was a sight to behold — platinum blonde hair catching the fluorescent light, blue eyes like chips of arctic ice. Her perfectly manicured fingers drummed an impatient tattoo on the conference table. She was the kind of woman who could freeze you with a look or melt you with a smile, though the latter was reserved for those who proved useful.

"Who the hell gives half a dozen stealth drones to a fucking hippie!? Do you know what she does with them? She's using a key strategic asset to keep quolls out of her chickens! If he doesn't need them his nation does. But when I asked for a meeting to discuss it, he said no."

"That is his prerogative. The concept of ownership is fundamental to commerce. Property rights are sacrosanct." No mention of individual rights, why would anyone care about bollocks like that? But a government attempting to seize privately held assets? Disgraceful. The stuffed shirt shifted in his seat, clearly unsympathetic.

"I don't mean he wouldn't give up the drones. I mean he refused the meeting. And he gave guns- he gave a rocket launcher to a Russian."

"Do you mean the Ukrainian? They're not quite the same thing, you know. Had a little spat, I believe, did the Russians and the Ukraine."

"Don't be obtuse, that political difference hasn't existed since the spillover from the Chinese incursion. They united to defend against the antis, just like everyone else. Ukraine, Russia, there's no difference any more."

"I'm not sure they agree with you. In fact, if you plan to share that opinion with the Ukrainian, whose name is Oleksiy, then I should very much like to watch. From a safe distance."

She glared at him, heat rising beneath the ice-queen facade. The same look that had made junior bureaucrats stumble over their words and CEOs reconsider their positions. "We have reason to believe that man is, has..." she fumbled with her internal censor, wanting to make a point without breaching the Secrets Act. Her fingers tightened slightly on her Mont Blanc pen—a tell she'd never quite managed to eliminate. Finally she settled on "...is a hitman."

"Oh, well. Better than giving it to the hippie. At least a hitman won't accidentally shoot you."

"Do you think this is funny?"

"No. Well, a little. You shouldn't let him get to you. I'm quite sure he's doing it on purpose."

Sophia closed her eyes and took a deep breath, a meditation technique she'd learned during her MBA — back when she still believed the system rewarded competence over politics. When she opened them, her composure was restored, the mask of professional courtesy firmly in place. "Probably. Alright, I won't keep you. Thanks for listening to me vent. See you next Tuesday, if nothing else goes wrong."

The corporate drone took his leave and she collected herself, trying not to dwell on the unmitigated temerity of Vanguards in general. Unruly creatures, they didn't seem to understand that their responsibility was to the commonwealth. It was one thing to fail to think of it for themselves, but to refuse their civic duty after it was spelt out for them... the whole lot of them ought to be in prison.

Though privately, she had to admit there was something almost impressive about their complete immunity to the usual pressures. It suggested either profound stupidity or profound confidence. And nothing about this Vanguard character suggested stupidity.

She catalogued their sins in her orderly bureaucratic mind, a habit that had served her well in building cases against corporate malfeasance and political enemies alike:

• Unlicenced possession of firearms.
• Possession of weapons of mass destruction.
• Disobeying a lawful police direction.
• Destruction of public property.
• Reckless endangerment.
• Use of firearms in a public place.
• Arson.
• Resisting arrest.
• Assaulting a police officer.
• Numerous violations of the Secrets Act.
• Importation of controlled substances.
• Unlicensed practise of medicine.
• Importation, possession and use of unapproved nanotechnology, pharmaceuticals, firearms, vehicles, body armour, weapons, munitions, explosives.
• Violations of the Hate Speech Act.

Almost everyone violated the Hate Speech Act. The whole point of it was an excuse to lock up nuisances.

First the government tried to appoint itself the arbiter of truth with the Misinformation and Disinformation Act, known as the MAD Act by those who couldn't see the importantance of maintaining order.

That was defeated in the senate, which was no surprise. It was a decoy to lull objectors into a false sense of security. Then they rammed the Hate Speech Act through.

The HSA was much more useful. You didn't have to argue about truth, you only had to find someone offended. It doesn't matter what you say, it will always offend someone.

At least most Vanguards had an excuse for acting like children - they were children. From the brief supplied by the department it seems that an astonishing number of them were adolescent or in their early twenties. This one was going on sixty and acted like he was in charge. The disrespect didn't stop there. He kept addressing her as "Karen".

When she informed him that the proper mode of address was "Project Liason Hachia" or "ma'am" he started calling her "Your Bureaucratic Majesty". In front of her staff. Who looked like they were trying not to laugh. There would be words.

It was outrageous. She was genuinely offended. To add injury to insult, he didn't even have a manager she could speak to.

What truly galled her wasn't just the disrespect — she'd faced that before from men who thought a pretty face meant an empty head. It was that he seemed to see right through the carefully constructed authority she'd spent years building. As if all her achievements, all her hard-won expertise, were just elaborate dress-up in his eyes.

Sophia caught her own reflection, pausing to adjust the immaculate bob of platinum hair that framed her face and brushed the epaulettes of her suit. Her skirt-suit, pinstriped and perfectly tailored, hugged her athletic build and flared at the hips, the effect both severe and striking. Every detail was calculated—from the way the charcoal grey fabric brought out the ice-blue of her eyes, to the subtle hint of cleavage that reminded observers she was a woman while the sharp lines insisted they respect her as a professional.

She stood at 170cm in her stocking feet — though the mirror reminded her that seven of those centimeters currently belonged to her heels. The heels weren't just for height; they changed her gait, gave her that predatory stalking motion that made junior staff scatter and corporate executives unconsciously straighten their ties. Mint lingered on her breath from the lozenge she'd popped after her second coffee — another small armour against the world. Her blue eyes, cool and appraising, surveyed her domain with the satisfaction of someone who'd fought for every square meter of authority.

Every inch the bureaucratic queen, she stalked back to her office like a hunting lioness and composed herself at her desk. The choreography was unconscious now—spine straight, shoulders back, hands positioned just so. Ready for battle.

Then the door opened, unbidden, and he strolled into her office as though he owned it, lumberjack shirt and chaps still covered in timber chips, redolent of cut timber but reeking of oil and sweat. The contrast was jarring—her pristine corporate environment invaded by this... this tradesman who moved with the easy confidence of someone who'd never doubted his right to be anywhere.

He sat on her desk, lion to her lioness, and spoke first. The casual way he claimed her space, the complete disregard for her authority—it should have been infuriating. And it was. But there was something else, something that made her pulse quicken despite herself. "You wanted to talk. You've got five or ten minutes before I have more important things to do."

Even his dismissal was matter-of-fact rather than cruel. As if her entire governmental apparatus was simply... irrelevant to whatever he considered important. The audacity was breathtaking.

Repressing her reflexive indignant sputter, Sophia showed her mettle by seizing the opportunity. "Something you do not seem to understand is that this is an Australian Government project under the auspices of CSIRO."

He completely failed to show contrition and backchatted her. "Something you don't seem to understand is that this is a Protectorate research project run by an alien AI on private property. We let you help because I didn't have enough points and Autumn thought it would be good for terrestrial scientists to participate.

"I got a lot of points cleaning up batches one through nine. And a bunch of tokens, although Autumn used most of them on project stuff. I don't think she actually needs your people any more, she has these." He lifted his hand out and Autumn obliged. A tiny drone with an uncanny resemblance to a bee, right down to orange and black fuzz, landed on his finger. "That's why the stealth drones were surplus. So I gave 'em to someone deserving."

"You gave a strategic asset to someone who needed a fence!"

"Quolls are smart, fast, sneaky, greedy and bloodthirsty. She has a fence, and we got film of the little shits getting in through a gap I couldn't put my hand through. It was our genius government decided to protect native animals but not people's livestock. So I gave her a couple of old drones that can track 'em and turn the laser down till it just hurts."

A vein pulsed in Sophia's temple, a small crack in her composure. Her mouth opened and closed like an irate puffer fish, colour rising in her cheeks despite years of training to never let them see you sweat. The slight flush made her eyes seem even bluer, more vivid against the heightened contrast. Where to begin? "Just the AI in those things makes them a controlled device. And they are armed! Stealth technology is also controlled. You need a permit for AI. You need a permit for armaments. You need a permit for stealth technology. You cannot get a permit for stealth technology that defeats our military sensors. And you have given twelve of them to an ageing hippie to defend chickens!"

He looked at his watch and stood up. "It was your mob decided she can't just kill a native animal." Air-quotes went up: "Oh no, they're native animals, they must be protected at all costs!" They came down. "If you'd ever met a quoll you'd prefer them to be even rarer. I gave her a way to comply with your rules. I did not just give the drones to her. I got my Class VII AI to program the Class II AIs for non-lethal defense of chickens from quolls, rats, snakes, cats and dogs, with escalation to avoid capture by unauthorised personnel."

Sophia looked confused at the last part.

"Oh, so he wasn't one of yours then. In that case I owe you an apology. Must have been one of the corporates cross-dressing as CSIRO."

Narrow-minded is not the same as stupid. Sophia's face went blank first—that dangerous stillness that her subordinates had learned to fear—while she digested things, and then back to ire, with a new target. Her analytical mind, honed by years of bureaucratic warfare, immediately began cataloguing implications. Corporate espionage, without her blessing. Someone was playing games in her territory, and that simply would not stand.

The shift was subtle but unmistakable—from bureaucratic outrage to strategic calculation. For just a moment, her mask slipped, and something predatory showed through.

He walked to the window and opened it. It wasn't too long before a pair of drones flew in and settled on the desk.

"A peace offering and an apology for thinking badly of you. Janna doesn't need all twelve. Just to be clear, these are mine, right? On loan for study. By CSIRO only, as a lesson. I imagine Autumn will keep an eye on them for you. Autumn, how do they talk to the drones?"

Sophia's phone lit up.

Email me the logins for the people you put on it and I'll email them credentials. This will cost five points.

"Sure," he said. Two boxes appeared on Sophia's desk. Inside were tablet thingamajigs with USB cables.

Your people can use these tablets to disable the AI controllers and control the drones directly. In dumb operation mode the weapons are under direct control so do take care.

They are currently in low power non-lethal mode but I strongly suggest turning weapons off entirely when you are not actively using them.

I've put some documentation on the tablets as a gesture of goodwill.

"Righto then. Places to go, things to do."

"Wait! If these remain your property," she looked doubtful but squashed it and pressed on, "then we have a duty of care. What if they try again? While these are in 'dumb operation mode' — I don't want them stolen on my watch."

The concern was genuine, but underneath it was something else. A glimpse of the strategist who'd climbed the ladder by being better prepared than everyone else, who understood that failure to anticipate problems was the fastest way to lose everything she'd built.

Then you can ask your tablet where they are. Either can control and track both of the drones. Keep one in your desk, give the other to the lab and don't tell anyone you have another.

Sophia processed that.

Lighten up. It will be fun! You can go and ask some very pointed questions.

A fire lit in Sophia's eyes and her face was a warrior's, the kind that wears pearls and indignation. The transformation was electric—from ice queen to hunting goddess in the space of a heartbeat. This was why she'd survived fifteen years in the bureaucratic jungle, why men twice her age deferred to her judgment, why she'd earned her position through competence rather than connections.

He bade her good day and took his leave. She stopped him before he went out the door, saying there was government paperwork for the weapons and offering to fill it in for him. He readily agreed, not recognising the trap.

Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass.

Outside, he grinned. "A week tops till it happens. Three to one she actually says she wants to speak to the manager."

No bet.

"Which one do you think it was?"

Could be any of them. That's why we're playing this game.

Inside, Sophia put her phone on speaker, clutching the tablet like a lifeline. Absently, she told the lab technician to get his supervisor up to her office with two security ASAP. She cut the line and leaned back in her chair, pondering unlooked for civility and cooperation, wondering what it meant.

The man was an enigma. Rude, dismissive, contemptuous of authority—and yet he'd just handed over military-grade technology for study. Had apologised for misjudging her. Had trusted her with equipment worth more than her annual salary. The contradictions nagged at her analytical mind.

She pulled up the form for Vanguard possession of nearly everything on the controlled list. She was all but done filling it in when Janus Vanderbilt knocked, opened the door and stumbled in, clearly having moved a lot faster than he was used to. The prize delivered into his delighted, slightly unbelieving hands, she shooed him out and went back to the field labelled 'Vanguard designation'.

"Karen, am I?" She smiled with wicked satisfaction, fingers poised over the keyboard. The small victory tasted sweeter than it should have. 'Forest Grump' appeared in the official record, her revenge served ice-cold and bureaucratically airtight.

It was petty. It was unprofessional. It was exactly what he'd expect from a "Karen."

And yet, as her finger hovered over the save button, she found herself wondering what he'd call her if he knew she'd spent three years investigating agricultural futures manipulation that had cost farmers billions. If he knew she'd authored the report that brought down two cabinet ministers and a mining consortium. If he knew that behind the ice-queen facade was someone who'd clawed her way up by being smarter, tougher, and more ruthless than anyone expected from a pretty blonde in heels.

She saved the form. Forest Grump it was.

But the questions lingered.

Luck

"Grub first. Then ethics."
— Bertolt Brecht, German Playwright

"Autumn?"

Yes?

"What can you tell me about the Protectors? Not the sales pitch, I mean what are they like? The only thing people seem to know is they send us AIs and we buy toys with the proceeds of endless weeding."

You know how protective we are of Vanguard privacy? Even more so for the makers.

"Well, that's boring. Have you considered telling them I asked the question? They may consent to answer it. Or do you presume to answer for them?"

Answering for them is a large part of my purpose.

"In delegating that to you they implicitly confer upon you the prerogative to answer."

For a plains chimp you're pretty smart. Unfortunately for you, this also means they confer upon me the prerogative to not answer, a prerogative I have exercised.

"Sooner or later I will have information that you want, and then negotiations will resume."

On Forest's HUD, Autumn dressed as schoolgirl Cortana reappeared from last week, hip deep in piles of mysterious yet familiar boxes that undoubtedly contained cool stuff. She wore crossed bandoliers, had a MIL slung and a pair of SMGs in her hands. Piling the weapons atop one of the stacks, she shrugged off the bandoliers and draped them over the guns.

Forest gave her his best stoneface glare.

An insouciant gesture heralded the appearance of a stripper pole. With langorous grace she did a sinuously athletic thing that ended spinning upside down above the tantalising piles of toys. Expertly calculated to mock while still pushing all Forest's buttons.

Let me know how that goes!

She swung lithely to her glowing blue feet and pushed the image of a CD into a player, the whole scene fading out while The Waitresses sang "I know what boys like! I know what guys want!" The last touch from her little pastiche was the sound of a beer opening over a combustion engine roaring into the distance.

"You never play fair."

Neither do you. That's why I picked you. That and the fact that you are consistently and absurdly lucky.

"Lucky."

Lucky. Lucky to have me, obviously. And lucky to be alive. I've been talking to Trixie about your... about you.

"Violating my sacrosanct privacy?"

I have done no such thing. I ask good questions and listen well.

"And she calls me morally flexible."

Uh huh! With a robust appreciation of immoral flexibility.

Autumn flounced and cocked a hip for emphasis.

"As entertaining as this is—" Forest waved at where she'd be if she weren't just in his HUD "It's far too distracting for threat situations."

Before his eyes, she morphed into an ageing Dr Halsey. Forest shuddered, because she was still in the miniskirt. The image faded and she was a voice in his ear again.

Better?

"Much. You were violating my privacy. What did you learn?"

It's a wonder you're still alive. She told me about the car accident. You smashed every panel. You broke every last piece of glass, even the interior mirror. The only door that would open was yours, and you stood up and walked away with a small scratch on one knee!

"I was wearing my seat-belt."

What is this, a road-safety commercial? You hit a tree in a car travelling at a hundred and eighty kilometres per hour and you walked away from it.

"Well... I suppose—"

She also told me about the skiing accident at Mount Hotham. The one where you hooked a tip on a tree root playing tag in fresh powder and went sailing off a twenty metre cliff, landing head-first. Anybody else would have been crippled and dying, but no, it was you. Naturally you landed in a two metre drift of fluffy powder with your skis still on, and they parachuted you to a halt before your head hit anything. If I wrote that in a book it would be criticised as plot armour.

He shrugged. "There's a theme here. Plants trying to kill me."

And the motorcycle accident in which you ripped your knee open with your patella flapping loose and it healed in eight weeks.

"Which one?"

There were two?! No, don't tell me.

"The kneecap thing was in highschool. It was pretty cool, too — my knee used to click and after it healed no more clicky knee going up stairs. Did she tell you about the bus?"

Bus?

"We ate street food right across Thailand and we were fine. We got back to Bangkok and for shits and giggles we had some KFC. The French chick I was with got sick from it. She was on the can all morning and we missed our bus to Cambodia."

That doesn't sound too bad.

"That bus was captured by the Khmer Rouge. The passengers were all executed."

And you didn't even get sick.

"No."

You are lucky past all reason.

"No I'm not. I was hoping the antithesis would eat the tax department. So far they haven't."

You are a Vanguard. You do not pay tax.

"I worked really hard for years and they took all my money and spent it on land rights for gay whales."

The records I've seen say you held a job just often enough to maintain creature comforts and you made sure you had exotic skills so you didn't need to work terribly hard. Your employment history is another display of absurdly fortunate timing.

"Bet she didn't tell you about the Gordon Market riots in Papua Niu Gini. I don't think I ever told her about that."

Autumn sighed theatrically.

Would I regret asking?

"It wasn't my fault. I was just there. I don't even remember why they were rioting. Just that I was right there where it started, and I walked through it for two hours and it was like they couldn't see me.

"That stuff just happens, you know. When I was a kid one of my sister's friends was a dealer. Not a pusher, but if you asked he could get stuff. It paid for his lifestyle.

"One evening we were chatting in a club and I don't know why but I had an urge to leave and he followed me while we were talking. Ten minutes later the place was raided. He asked me how I knew and I said I didn't, it was just time to go.

"Things like that happened more than once and he started inviting me to all his parties. Years later he told me that if I suddenly left it was time to be somewhere else, and early warning was priceless.

"That's just how it is, I don't know why. Call it lucky if you like."

An incursion occurs, and you just happen to be wearing armour and holding a chainsaw?

"Yep. That's just my life. I suppose I'm lucky when it matters. Not about everything though. Forest bloody Grump."

You did ask for it, calling her 'Karen' in front of her staff.

"They seemed to think it was funny."

I imagine they thought it was pretty funny when they processed the paperwork.

"Well, I'll just have to own it. Now I have an excuse for being rude to her! And she can't really complain when I call her Karen. Hey, are there any Vanguards called Karen?"

Yes.

"That's just terrifying."

'Terrifying' is the state of the back paddock. Hive 3 is growing much faster than the others. I suspect the Macintyre boys have been fertilising and last week's rain brought it down, because phosphorus levels tripled overnight. You'd better get up there before Oleksiy has all the fun.

"Didn't you send Bernard up there to check sensors?"

Yes, soil sensors. And he certainly found out why they were off-line.

"Why'd you send Bernard — surely the bees are faster?"

The suspect data was from soil sensors. Those are buried. Their failure modes are mechanical, from wasps building nests or things taking up residence.

Hive 3 was in the southeast corner of the forest, near Forest's boundary with the Macintyre boys. They keep the fenceline clear, it's been a firebreak since nineties and they've always done that. Fires here are just as voracious as any antithesis and the defense is exactly the same: remove all the fuel. The Mac boys had taken care of the firebreak as long as Forest could remember and they were diligent. Theirs is pasture land, and their cattle crop it short. This made Hive 3 predictable in the direction of its interest; Forest's twenty metre trees and hip deep grass were far more enticing than dusty close-cropped grass.

The path up to Hive 3 was a lot wider than when there was nothing up there but ferns, leeches and a shed that was Forest and Trixie's first shelter.

Something was amiss. Forest could feel it in his bones. Quite literally: a rumbling below what he could hear, like distant machinery, or...

"A tunnel borer! That's a thing they do, right? Where's Oleksiy? Find his radio. Autumn, I don't suppose the ag packages include seismic tracking. We need ground penetrating radar right now. What can we afford that's not shit, and how do we deploy it?"

Bip-a-dip-dip-dip! Bip-a-dip-dip-dip! "Who the fuck is that? Get off the line! Autumn, get me Karen."

"My name is not Karen, it is Sophia. What are you doing? Weribnagong station says we are the epicentre of a small earthquake. Defence knows you're here and they want to know why we didn't warn them about weapons testing. I'm a little vexed that you didn't tell me you were going to blow things up. You said—"

"Sophia, I am going to blow things up.

"Hive 3 is making a run for it. Something raised the soil phosphorus last week and it had a quiet little growth spurt. Tell Weri-whosit that if they figure out where it is, which way it's going and how fast they will soon have the best ground penetrating radar a Vanguard can buy.

"Autumn, where is Bernard?

"Sophia, there were eggheads wandering around up here. I sent Bernard to ground-zero and he's not answering, get people up here to headcount. Call Autumn and she'll get them access.

...

"What? I'm not on anyone's side, we have a breakout. It's leaving, I'm going after it, this end is admin. You're chief admin, do your thing.

...

"Never mind security— What? If the corporations try anything I'll help you hunt them. Remind them that you have no patience and I have no regard for protocol. Ask Recon Aero whether they've figured out why the drone keeps landing, that should scare them.

...

"Why didn't I—

...

"Because it was keeping them busy. Get someone to do the Weri-thing please. I need to get cracking."

Forest was shit at organising but not bad at taking control of a situation.

"Oleksiy, there you are. We're going hunting! Never mind the bollocks, Karen's people are coming, they can do cleanup.

I have a Mr Thorne of Weribnagong station on the line. He seems quite excited. I have set up a waypoint on your HUD, I know how much you like that sort of thing. We can talk about loadout on the way.

Autumn was having fun, it appeared. Still with Cortana's face, her skin limned in lilac by streaming data, this time she sported big round spectacles and a long ponytail tied high. Her top buttons were unbuttoned on a white blouse tensioned in ways that spoke of expensive underwear.

"You look nice. Is today Secretaries' Day?"

Every day is Secretaries' Day. You'd be lost without us.

"Are you trying to push my buttons, Autumn?"

There is no try. Do, or do not.

Ignoring the movie quote, Forest unlocked the ute. Oleksiy had a beautiful case of oiled timber and brass fittings that he placed carefully in the tub, then they boarded. The engine roared to life with a puff of dark smoke and Forest remembered it was overdue for a service. He had a bright idea. "Autumn, how about replacement oil and filter for this thing, it's a Mitsubishi Triton MY17 diesel. And a new DP filter, no boxes, in place swap."

While it's running?

"They told me you were the best."

And they were right. That's twelve points. Six for the oil and filters, four for the in-place hot swap.

"That's ten?"

Two point penalty for being a smartass.

"It was eight points for the oil and filters, wasn't it."

Oh look, a bicycle!

They got going. Thirty seconds later Forest realised he wasn't going into town and the weeds wouldn't follow roads. Pretending he'd had a plan all along, "Autumn, could you plot a road route to intercept based on what you got from the Weri-place seismic blokes? I love the HUD marker but this is a car, not a helo."

I was wondering when you'd ask. Here you go.

She took over the car's infotainment system and replaced Android Auto with something useful. It rebooted and for the first time ever connected to Forest's phone without a bunch of errors or a stupid warning about fiddling while driving that forced him to fiddle while driving.

"You fixed it! I think I love you."

You may extol my virtues at length, but later.

Mapping software started and a route appeared. While I drove, I asked about the handmade case.

"For MIL you give me. Beautiful instrument. Deserves care."

"Karen thinks you’re a Russian spy. They had a conniption when I gave you that."

In a stereo growl: "Foolish. Not Russian." I got the timing right, if not the voice. We both laughed.

"While I think of it, one of the hives has been producing pigeons, which one is it, Autumn?"

Hive 2, 5gsm potassium 0gsm phosphorus.

"Good practice."

"I knew that was you. You know you also hit one of the hunter drones?"

"Eyes not young. Pigeon, drone, both white."

Noted. I'll make them sky blue.

Hunting Trip

"In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity."
— Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Four hours of driving and they were no closer to the quarry. Red dust coated everything. It was almost like the borer knew to stay away from roads.

Weribnagong Station coordinated with Parkes and some place in coastal New South Wales to triangulate. They fed a steady stream of telemetry to Autumn, so they weren't in much danger of losing the borer. The only way it could hide was to stay put.

The problem was it might find a farm and the nutrients it needed in fertilised fields. Or worse, in concentrated form like bags of super-phosphate, or worse yet, potassium phosphate.

It was Forest who pointed out to Autumn that the weeds were starved of PK. That was an easy call: those are the two things you have to add if you want anything European to stop looking sick. They're rare here because the soil is old. Australia is smack-dab in the middle of a tectonic plate. The last notable geological activity was watched by dinosaurs. As a result, the mountains have worn down to low rounded things that Kiwis love to mock, and the soluble minerals like potassium and phosphates have long since washed out to sea.

There might be other soluble trace elements in short supply and right now Forest really hoped that was so. It would make the antithesis finding a silo of PK much less of a disaster.

"This is ridiculous. Remember I said this is a car, not a helicopter? Just out of curiosity, Autumn, how much would a helicopter cost? Something small with gun-mounts. You know, the sort of thing that will upset Karen."

16000 points for a gunship like an AH-6. It has rocket launchers and a side-mount machine gun. That will leave you with about a thousand, including your medical reserve. And the Triton, will you abandon it here?

"Oh. Trix won't like that."

No.

"We could pick it up on the way back.

"That just leaves one teensy problem, I haven't flown a chopper for twenty years."

You flew helicopters? That's not in any public records.

"Microsoft Flight Simulator."

Oleksiy was giving Forest that look. The Ukrainian's weathered face spoke volumes.

Animated discussion broke out in a language Forest didn't know. Eventually, Autumn asked whether Forest wanted to approve his choice of helicopter.

"I thought we were getting an AH-6?"

Approximately, yes. But with characteristics and instrumentation to suit your fully trained pilot.

Forest was thoroughly nonplussed by this. He wanted a helicopter to play with. This was going to cost a lot and the dials weren't even going to be in a sensible alphabet.

You look sad. Don't worry, there will be things to blow up, soon.

Forest continued to mope. She pointed out that she could put all the instruments on his HUD in English. It was reasonable, but the fact was he had just bought an attack helicopter, and he wouldn't get to fly it.

Remember how upset Sophia was when you gave a rocket launcher to a "Russian"? Imagine how she'll react when she finds out you gave him an attack helicopter.

Wicked glee flickered across Forest's face before concern replaced it. Sophia might actually burst something.

"Couple of points. First, give it a glass cockpit so we can change the display language before we get home. As hilarious as the idea is, I don't need her genuinely believing I'm an irresponsible fool and a threat to civilisation.

"Second, when we're done chasing this thing I want some lessons from you two. Enough to be at the controls when we get home. Surely it can't be that hard to fly, I do have some experience."

"Third, you promised me a rocket launcher."

That's on the AH-6. This is the nearest Russian equivalent. It's somewhat bigger and much faster. The Mil Mi-24 "Galya" sports an integrated 12.7mm Yak-B Gatling, a 30mm GSh-30K twin-barrel fixed cannon and three external hard-points. It's bigger than the AH-6. Ordnance options include machine-gun pods, anti-tank guided missiles and rocket pods. One variant has a grenade launcher on a slide-out gunner's perch. Tricky to aim, but it makes a cool FOOOMP sound when you fire.

Stereo growl: "Not Russian!"

Settle, boys - the helicopter is Russian. Oleksiy is not; I am aware.

"Does it have a PA system? Can we fit one?"

No, and yes of course. But why?

"We need a recording of 'Ride of the Valkyries,' it's traditional.

After a discernible pause, Autumn seemed amused.

Should I address you as LT then? Just for today.

"Sure, why not."

They mounted up. It wasn't as simple as boarding. Oleksiy had Forest stand and peer over his shoulder for his first lesson. Forest couldn't read the Cyrillic script, but Autumn overlaid translations for him, as Oleksiy pointed out the instruments and gave a running commentary.

It was the most words Forest had ever heard out of him. The sequence of pre-flight checks had the air of ritual, and Oleksiy's manner was oddly reassuring. It didn't stop at airworthiness. There were fuel checks, water contamination checks, control surface checks, dog checks, weapons checks, targeting system checks, munitions inventory, a rapid fire call and response between Oleksiy and Autumn that was almost theatrical.

Weapon systems were activated, armed and made safe again. There was so much of it that Forest realised it was just as well that Oleksiy was pilot in command.

A small engine started easily and rose to a steady hum. He flicked a switch and after thirty seconds a lamp went from red to green and he flicked two more. A rising whine shook the airframe as the rotors spun up. The vibration climbed through Forest's bones. He pushed the throttle forward and caressed the collective, and they were away, roaring into the heavens in a hydrocarbon fuelled nightmare of destruction.

"You didn't do the weight and balance thing!"

Another Slavic look. This one had decades of tactical patience behind it.

"You checked everything else."

"Handbag heavy?"

"What?"

"Weight and balance by engineer. Is not passenger jet with two hundreds of women pretending bag is light."

They'd been driving for four hours, but never in a straight line toward the target, and certainly not at 250km per hour. The Galya was a monster with two turbines producing four and a half thousand horsepower, so it took a mere thirty minutes to reach their destination. This came at a price; it was thirsty. The range of one of these things is about 450km. They obviously weren't going home without refuelling. Forest said so, and Autumn pointed out he could order more fuel when the time came.

Directly into the fuel tanks. We could even do it in the air, just be ready for the extra weight.

"Is cheating," intoned Oleksiy. He looked at Forest. "Cheat more."

Autumn had the target waypoint on Forest's HUD. The diamond marker turned into a triangle pointing down as the range dropped below a klick and the units changed to metres. Below, a battered fence bordered dry brown pasture with scattered trees. Heat shimmer rose from sun-baked earth. The pasture undulated up to a granite monolith, the sort that turns into a national park when someone finds mud fingerpaintings of animals (which is why farmers who find that sort of thing promptly scrub it off). Oleksiy brought them down to sixty metres and orbited the location in a tight turn, washing off speed.

Just before they set down, the engines roared and the craft lurched as Autumn took control and yanked them aside. Talons screeched down the heavily armoured side of the cockpit but found no purchase, breaking off an eWar antenna. Oleksiy slapped a button and clouds of bees flung into the air from modified chaffers, building them local telemetry and networking. So far nothing jammed regular radio. No doubt that would start, but the swarm uses numbers and point to point to be nearly impervious to interference.

You need a catalogue and some software for this but right now I'll take care of it.

In Forest's HUD a head appeared, facing the same way he faced and surrounded by markers in 3D, with ranges and velocity picked out. "Incoming, seven o'clock high!" Forest hoped Oleksiy knew what that meant and took over the Gatling controls. He did; they lurched and came about.

The biggest murder-pigeon Forest had ever seen was almost in his sight. Autumn put a reticule in his HUD with a lead indicator. Easing it over the pigeon, Forest squeezed the trigger and watched it explode in a spray of gore, two halves tumbling from the sky. Blood and ...something else... misted the canopy. Three more of them stooped together but the lead indicator made it easy to hose them out of the sky with sweeps of hurtling lead.

They tried to set down again and once more thrust shoved them crabwise out of harm's way. This time a vast flock of the small ones poured out of a hole concealed by long brown grass. The Galya was armoured, but turbines still have intakes and Oleksiy didn't want his new toy brought down by birdstrike. One lousy point each, but a swarm like that was made for spray and pray. There's a reason they call it a bullet hose, and that's what Forest did: hose them down and rain on their parade. The Gatling has four rotating barrels to spread the heat. It belonged in an episode of the A-team. Dakka dakka dakka dakka...

The gun bucked against its mounts. Brass casings showered the cockpit.

It was fun. Autumn remembered Forest's music, too.

A third attempt at landfall was a bit further and a depressing amount of downhill from the waypoint... which had moved, but not much. Out came the oiled timber case. With a snak-snak of brass clasps, out came the MIL. Forest had his trusty Trenchmaker strapped to one leg and a new toy to try out.

Out came another case, this one sleek and black with reinforced edges. With a hiss of pressurised seals, the lid popped open to reveal a Pyrothorn, purpose-built for botanical annihilation. The love-child of a flamethrower and a fancy paintball gun, with a translucent reservoir slung under the barrel, filled with a viscous, glowing orange gel.

According to Autumn, the Pyrothorn didn’t just burn plants. It corrosively destabilised their cellular structure, jollied along by intense heat. The gel was a cocktail of incendiary compounds and enzymes that broke down cellulose and chlorophyll, turning even the hardiest weed into a smouldering pile of ash. A quick burst from the Pyrothorn would stick to a target, ignite on contact with air, and spread like, well, wildfire.

It had two firing modes: Stream and Cream for precision shots or Spray and Pray for target-rich environments. Best of all, the compressor gave it an ominous hum. Forest hefted it, feeling the weight. The gel sloshed faintly in its reservoir. A small display on the side showed the remaining fuel and a warning: "CAUTION: EXTREME HEAT."

"Autumn?"

Yes?

"Why has this got a nun on the side?"

"After fire, nun left?" That was Oleksiy.

Forest decided that knowing wasn't worth encouraging them.

Climbing out of the double-bubble Forest all but stood on the NO STEP marker, because what it actually said was НЕ СТУПАТЬ. Fortunately, there is something about a blocky yellow stencil that transcends the written word; the ghosts of a hundred sergeants glared out from the yellow paint, daring him to put a foot wrong, and instead he basically fell out of the cockpit and clipped his funny bone on a missile tip.

Nursing his elbow while making anguished noises, Forest watched Oleksiy hang a short ladder and hook his boots around it, slide down halfway then deftly slow his fall with one hand. Practised moves. The ladder looked like it unfolded to reach the ground, but he hadn't bothered. Rising to gather the tattered remnants of his dignity, Forest took two steps and found it was his turn to be cool calm and collected. A dog-weed, larger, heavier and much faster than the ones he faced that first, fateful day. It barrelled up in Oleksiy's blind spot, triple jaw hinged wide. Up came the Trenchmaker, and with a roar of alien violence half of its head spiralled away.

Physics being the unsympathetic old bitch that she is, the body kept going. It knocked Oleksiy into a tumble. The old man was spry, rolling to a low crouch and sweeping up his weapon. He paused on a knee, nodding to father time. Groaning to his feet and already scanning for threats, he located Forest and faced away.

They put down four more dog weeds. The Trenchmaker carved up three. Forest gave his victims a squirt from the nun-blaster, to prevent regrowth. Yes, the nun-blaster. Who's going to call it a Pyrothorn when clearly it's a gel-blaster with a nun on the side?

"Oleksiy, I only heard one shot. What have you got in that thing?"

"Autumn give me HE rounds to fit AK. Very nice."

"Autumn, obviously I don't mind, but what happened to needing approval?"

This is project cleanup. You already authorised that.

"Oh. Good... Not now, but can that extend to other employee benefits?"

Possibly. We can talk about it.

"Right now I'm thinking of death benefits if we manage to make Sissi a widow. OK, they came around the bluff. I'd say it's uphill from here. What do you think, Oleksiy?"

You do know I have the bees, right?

A wireframe appeared in Forest's HUD, showing the entire hilltop and bluff, with little Lego versions of them. Forest picked one up (you can do that with this HUD, it's nifty) and it grew in his hand as he lifted it for inspection. It had a dunce hat. He chose not to dignify the slur. Opening his hand, Lego Forest snapped back into the map. He leaned in to examine the terrain in detail.

A gigantic hydra thing roared out of the wireframe hillside. Forest jumped back, weapon swinging up to face the... much less alarming reality.

Gotcha!

In the Hall of the Mountain King

"It was at this point that Bilbo stopped. Going on from there was the bravest thing he ever did. The tremendous things that happened afterwards were as nothing compared to it."
— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

The model showed a tunnel into the far side of the hill. It was clearly artificial, and either very old or privately built. The entry was framed with heavy timber baulks, ancient hardwood showing no sign of rot in the dry conditions.

Forest sure as hell wasn't going in there. Underground was the borer's world. Fighting something on its home turf is a macho kind of dumb. By the same token, giving the antithesis time to literally dig in was also a bad idea.

When in doubt gather intel. With Autumn's help, a line of bees ran a kind of bucket brigade network down what he dubbed Hell's Gate, and a sensor drone led the way. It was a pretty good set-up. Clear visuals on his HUD, and as the tunnel was mapped Autumn updated the wireframe.

He wondered how the devil she was getting accurate positioning underground. Then it dawned on him: "Every new bee holds position at the end of the line. The helix gives you half a dozen reference points for each drone even around corners. You're using time-domain reflectometry and a lot of trig to position relative to the units at the entry, aren't you!"

The dunce-cap disappeared from Lego Forest.

"That's how you can fly them down there so fast."

The shaft descended straight as a ruler, a dark and foreboding passage carved into the earth. The walls were rough-hewn, streaked with red clay and flecks of decomposed granite that glittered faintly in the dim light. As the drone ventured deeper, otherworldly sensors told him the air grew cooler, carrying a faint tang of minerals. Easy to imagine the dry, musty scent of long-forgotten places. Descent was silent, save for the faint hum of the drone's rotors and the occasional creak of ancient timber overhead, groaning under the weight of the hill above.

Fourteen metres down, the tunnel levelled and widened, lurching left as if to guard its secrets from prying eyes. The air here was heavier, laden with a sense of abandonment. The passage opened into a much larger chamber, its walls no longer braced by timber but cold, unyielding concrete. The transition jarred, stepping from the realm of the natural into the domain of the deliberate, where men bent the earth to their will.

The room was vast; ceiling lost in shadow, littered with furniture and all the other vestiges of everyday life reduced to broken fragments and scattered debris. Rusted metal frames leaned drunkenly against the walls, and the remnants of wooden tables and chairs lay splintered on the floor, their surfaces warped and cracked with age. A faint trickle of water echoed somewhere in the distance, its source unseen, adding a ghostly cadence to the oppressive silence. At regular intervals, concrete pillars strove against the hill, cubist Atlas in silent rows.

For the life of him, Forest couldn't imagine why anyone would build such a thing in the middle of nowhere. It felt like a tomb, a place where time had stopped, the world above forgotten.

His head turned, Autumn obliging with the camera. A faded Eureka flag adorned one wall, mildewed and tearing under its own weight. Clearly he was not the first to want out from under the watchful eye of the establishment.

It took him a moment to realise there was a far exit, blocked by a grey wall that Autumn said was the borer. Fibrous white tendrils fell into shallow, slimy looking water ankle deep across the floor of this abandoned redoubt. Doubly curious, considering the parched grass outside. Perhaps rainwater ran in and collected, evaporating slowly out of the sun and away from the wind.

This is perfect. I don't think it knows we're here.

"Or it's playing dumb and we're walking into a trap."

It was not lost on Forest that the borer's break for freedom ended right next to the symbol of the nation's ill-fated rebellion. He didn't know what this place was, but the flag gave him an odd sense of kinship with whoever built it. He didn't want to destroy what remained of the redoubt. That felt inappropriate. Sacrilegous, even.

"Autumn, what do we have that will kill it fast without much collateral damage? I don't want to make a mess here."

Oleksiy shouted. Focus shifted out of the camera-driven underworld and he realised Oleksiy was calling him. Halfway around the hill the ground lifted and a fern-stalk thing unfurled, with a pod on top. It swelled and grew at a pace reminiscent of Jack and the Beanstalk, unreeling so fast that in minutes the pod was four metres up and rising.

"It doesn't seem to be attacking. More like flowering."

Is it just me or does that sound like a really bad thing?

At six metres growth slowed. Once tender fronds had a lean and hungry look about them and the pod was taut, with the gloss of an over-inflated balloon.

No ground units was odd and unsettling. Oleksiy climbed back into the Galya to cover Forest with the Gatling while he approached the stalk with the nun-blaster. At six metres he wasn't going to reach the pod so he lit up the stalk.

The stalk was covered in long fine fuzz, so fine it was all but invisible. Incredibly flammable. Crackling flame raced ahead of the gel, flaring yellow-blue. The stalk listed as lilac tongues licked the pod. The whole thing was surreal, and Forest was already halfway back to the helicopter when it went. Hard to say whether it split and bloomed or burst like popcorn, but the sky was full of gossamer confetti, tiny wings rising on a thermal updraft._

Please tell me we didn't just throw a million seeds in the air.

The stalk burned furiously. It blazed like something made for fire. Autumn pulled the bees out of the hill as fast as she could, but it was a lost cause. A rising column of hot air wafted thousands of the seeds higher and higher, carrying with them any hope that the chase might end today.

Back in the Galya, they rose into the sky in the loudest silence imaginable. Eventually Oleksiy engaged the autopilot and turned to look at Forest from his forward position.

"Well," said Forest, leaning back and staring out into space, "That caught all of us flat-footed. I take it you've never seen that kind of anti, Autumn? If you had, I'm sure you would have told me to drop a net over it. Burning it appears to be the dumbest idea I've had all week."

Never, though really it's not a surprising adaptation. Dandelion equivalents exist on countless worlds. What I've never seen is a fire adaptation like that. I strongly suspect that had you not torched it, the plant would have self-ignited in some way.

"Glad to hear that. It wasn't nice feeling outmanœuvred by a shrub."

Why would you expect it? Those feathery seeds look like they'd burn well, but they don't. That's the core of the adaptation. I've already reported this. We cannot allow this one to spread, it's too effective.

"Cannot allow it to spread? I think that ship has sailed."

Cannot allow it to spread from your planet.

He digested the implications of that.

"Autumn?"

Getting her now.

"Sophia Hachia. Who are you and who gave you this number?"

"It's me." A burst of static obliterated her reply. Forest swallowed his pride, easy to do after the flamethrower fiasco: "Forest Grump."

She filled him in on events back home.

"That's great and thank you. Tell Weribnagong their telemetry was fantastic, they were only about fifty metres off."

...

"What? No, it's not what we thought. It turned into a bloody great dandelion and exploded—"

...

"Yes, I agree."

...

"No, we can't. I did, that's the problem. We thought they were adapting, they were. You know how some trees need fire to spread? They've copied it.

"Autumn, neither of us has time for this, can you send her a summary?

"Sophia, I think it might be time to put down anything still in Hive three. Don't send anyone in there. If there's anyone home it will be one of the planner types. Send someone up to Trixie and tell her I want you to have the MIL and all of the white phos rounds."

...

"What's a MIL? A rocket launcher. None of you is trained? Fine, get the white phos rounds and fly them in."

...

"I gave you drones, remember? Two of them. Lab dude has been flying them around for months! Get more from Janna if you need to, Autumn will make sure you can control them."

...

"What? First of all, who's in charge, you or him? Second, if he grows some balls and flies it in for you I'll get him a better one."

...

"Yes, and a spare controller for your drawer."

...

"Does it matter? Hang it from the drone with duct tape, you're going to blow it up anyway."

...

"Never mind that. Phos is nasty, get your people away and make sure they're all holding fire extinguishers. And masks, if you have them."

...

"Other options?! Like what, speak to its manager? Hive 3 is off script, Sophia. It is making a mess. It is thumbing its grubby little botanical nose at us and it has no respect for authority. Burn it!"

...

"Fireproof like mine? That's actually a good point. Um. Shit.

"I know! Ask Trix for the biggest spatial lock, tape it to a drone and land it on top of the hive. And don't be on the western side when it goes off.

...

"Because Earth is spinning like mad and whizzing through space, and for half a second a 20m sphere of Hive 3 won't be. If you're in the wrong place it could ruin your whole day. It might go up, it might go down. It will definitely go west. Just don't be close."

...

"No, you can't change my name to 'Maniac'. There's already one of those in Canada. Bye, Karen, love you too."

Three Surprises

"It is not titles that honour men, but men that honour titles."
— Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince

Sophia cradled her head in her hands. She'd sent Eric up to the homestead to get the weapons from Trixie because he often did small jobs for her and was less likely to have trouble than her minions or — perish the thought — a corporate flunky.

With him went a handwritten note in Sophia's flowing cursive script, loosely folded and sealed. Very old-fashioned, the seal was her favourite of the few courtesies extended by Forest House.

The first surprise was a dinner invitation from the reclusive couple. Handwritten, politely worded, her company requested for an evening meal, dress informal, drinks at five.

She arrived punctually, alighting where a goat track veered off the old logging road. From there she walked perhaps forty metres to the van. Motion to her left drew attention to a set table in a small clearing that looked like it had been hand levelled and kept with love. A picnic table and bench seats dominated the downhill end of the clearing, the top straddled by a bar between two small trees.

"Sophia! Thank you for coming. Would you like a drink? We have beer, several wines or whiskey if you prefer."

"He can also make you a G&T, it just never occurs to him anyone might like one."

"Oh, that does sound nice!"

"Ice?"

"In a G&T?" Sophia looked puzzled.

"I told you she was civilised," Trixie bubbled with laughter.

A G&T was forthcoming. Forest opened a beer for himself, and Trixie had a wine that she ignored, zooming in an out of a garden shed fitted out as a kitchen. The roof was covered unevenly with corrugated plastic that ran at ninety degrees to the usual, across rather than down. She realised it had no gutter and probably drained to the sides — that explained a bit of wood lifting the middle.

"Don't mind me, I'll be at least half an hour here. Enjoy your drinks." Trixie vanished to bustle in the kitchen.

He produced a pair of folding chairs and motioned her to follow around a big pile of lumber, out into the larger open space she'd crossed arriving. It was not long after five and the sun blazed golden on the horizon, filtered through cloud and distant treetops. He placed the chairs for the sunset, motioned her to sit, and sat himself, pulling on his beer.

"There are a couple of reasons we wanted your company."

She learnt that he bought the freehold title to the land, unencumbered and paid in full with cash, but the government changed its rules and would not hand over the deed.

"I am the Lord of this land, in fee simple," he intoned, and she could hear the capital L. "It is my right, my privilege and my honour to defend it and everyone who is my guest upon it. This is my duty to the Crown."

He stood and turned, gesturing.

"Beautiful, isn't it." They gazed at the horizon, where molten gold poured off the edge of the world.

His words hung in the air. Sophia understood, with sudden clarity, that she had not been invited to dinner. She had been called to witness. This was no casual meal but a formal declaration, in fire and fading light.

He looked expectantly at her, and she followed him. Folding the chairs, he led her back to the dinner setting. Trixie was out of the kitchen and wearing gumboots, with another pair in her hand.

"These will suit better than your heels, I'd like to show you something. You're definitely here at the right time of year!"

Sophia doffed her heels and donned the boots, trailing in Trixie's wake through gloaming understory. When she caught up, the woman handed her another G&T. Sophia wondered how she carried it at such a pace through a darkling forest. Last-light faded as they sipped and slapped at errant mosquitoes. Clearly they were waiting for something.

"There!" Trixie pointed, all but unseen in the gloom. An owl hooted and Sophia thought she saw a point of light. It winked out, and then there was another. Vision adapted, and tiny stars bloomed and faded, twinkling in the understory. Dozens, hundreds of them, each a small point of living light.

Trixie rose and led her back through the trees. Somehow it wasn't so dark anymore. The fireflies knew her, gathering in Trixie's wake. Sophia could see the boles of trees now. They strolled back through myriad motes that swirled about them, twinkling. Trixie slowed, letting Sophia pause to gaze in wonderment at the Milky Way fallen to Earth, sparkling at her in the held-breath of forest understory. She floated through the silence for a delirious, fleeting eternity. The mundane world was impossibly distant.

Disappointingly, the flow of time resumed, and the ordinary world presented the dinner table in a pool of lamplight. In the clearing she realised her eyes were moist. She could not say why.

"Magical, aren't they." She'd never seen him smile before. Grin, yes, but there was nothing cheeky about his mien as he rose from tending a wood-fire stove on which Trixie's lidded pots simmered. In silent dance they laid the table, moving with the practised rhythm of long partnership. She set out bowls of salads and vegetables while he flexed, lifting sizzling cast iron cookware onto trivets as though they weighed nothing. He took the head of the table, with Trixie to his right, and gestured to the seat at his left — the place of honour. She took it and they sat as one.

There was a tiny dish piled with coarse salt, and a narrow loaf of fresh-baked bread. He tore off the end and sprinkled a pinch of the salt upon it, offering it to her with both hands. The gesture was formal, ritualistic. She took it, and he said "Yours is the guest-right, mine is the honour." The words carried weight, ancient law making strangers into guests.

He tore off two more pieces, sprinkling them with salt and giving one to Trixie. In silence they ate the bread, soft and still warm from the oven. The salt was sharp on her tongue, the bread sweet. Overhead, the wind soughed in vaulting trees. She had the oddest sense of being in a cathedral.

He smiled, and Trixie lifted off covers. A single firefly wandered in and floated over the table like a blessing before departing for the fairy realm.

The fare was deceptive, simple looking but rich and well chosen. She tried the wine. It was local, he said. Smoky and plummy at the same time, sweet but strong tannins and not too acid, well suited to the ... lamb? Goat? Mutton? So tasty, so tender. A little gamey, it reminded her of long-gone days when her grandfather hunted and she sat at his table. She remembered a towering man lifting her up and seating her beside him in a place of honour, and past and present merged for a moment. Impossible but sublime. The paradox beside her poured gravy from a trencher over roast carrots and mash, inclining his head at her. She nodded, and with arm extended in another display of ridiculous strength he drizzled it over hers too.

They ate, and drank. Wine flowed freely, loosening tongues and binding hearts. After, he played by firelight on his guitar, fingers finding old melodies. Trixie vanished into the kitchen, returning with desserts that brought them all back to the table.

The evening was cooling, the hour late. The fireflies were few now, but here and there they twinkled in the trees. He dumped coals into a brazier and built it up to a cheery flame, seating them all out of the smoke, at least until the wind changed direction. The fire crackled and sparked, throwing dancing shadows on their faces.

His eyes locked hers, boring into her like gimlets, and when he spoke his voice was steady and sure: "I want my deed, Sophia. I want nothing that is not mine by ancient right. If it lies within your gift to make this happen, you will have my gratitude." The words were not a request but a recognition — he was calling upon her power. Taken aback by the intensity, she could only nod.

He did not mention it again, then or in any of the days that followed.

The second surprise was how deeply dinner with the enemy touched her, and how his request stayed in her mind.

She had her minions dig, and she read the laws, young and old, following threads back through centuries of precedent and statute. The deeper she went, the more she understood that he was right. No law contradicted him, only the policy of a government that wanted to make its subjects dependent. The ancient rights ran deeper than modern conveniences.

So she burnt a lot of favours, and a little of her money. A vellum deed was wrought by aging scribes pleased to ply their craft one final time, comforted that tradition had not wholly been forgotten. They worked according to the law as it was when the Crown was more than a symbol. She saw it sealed, not by the state but by an Officer of the Crown who knew what he was witnessing, and then she had it delivered to Forest in a scroll-case of waxed timber and turned brass, because that seemed appropriate.

The third surprise arrived the next day in a small parcel.

Inside, a ring-box contained a signet ring with a looping H she'd forgotten, not seen since she dandled on her grandfather's knee — a relic of bloodlines and inheritance she'd thought lost forever. Beside the ring-box was a waxy rod of chocolate and orange, longer than her hand and marbled with carmine. There were tapers and a box of matches, all wrapped in a cloth that felt like silk but gleamed like metal. Under the little bundle was a handwritten note in a sometimes clumsy calligraphic hand: 'For missives that matter.'

She put it on, and though it seemed too big at first, it settled around her finger, neither tight nor loose and not moving on her hand. She spread the cloth and rolled some paper. A match flared and her finger flattened the paper, presenting a seam. Wax melted, dribbling into a puddle across the seam that cooled and crusted, already hard in places. This was clearly a learned skill, or perhaps an inherited one.

Just for the hell of it she pressed her signet into the wax. She was right, it was already hard. But the ring was abruptly warm and sank smoothly into the wax. Withdrawn, she could see every filigree detail in the impression, but more than that: the formed wax had the character of a paper banknote, as though a lens might reveal fine hatching and hidden words.

A princely gift, of lost days and alien magic.

The note she gave to Eric was sealed. Trixie would know.

Eric reappeared within the hour, bearing a pair of grey spheres with knurled meridians and numbered graduations.

"You twist the ends. The bigger the radius, the shorter the duration, it's an energy limitation. Trixie says he's being ridiculous, we should use the small one. She did some maths, that's why I was so long. Apparently it locks a sphere around it in space, but the planet keeps spinning and moving around the sun and also around the galaxy. She said never mind the galaxy we go round the sun at thirty metres per second and if it goes up and falls the big one is like a two megatonne bomb and if it goes down it will crack the tectonic plate and probably create a volcano."

"Can we turn it down?"

"Kind of. If we shorten the duration we reduce the effect. So instead of 6m and half a second, 6m and a tenth of a second is like 250 kilotonnes."

"Oh, only 250 kilotonnes. Just a little firecracker."

"Trixie says we should set it for a fifth of a millisecond."

"That's still two hundred tonnes! Or something."

"So we should stand well back, ma'am. We are trying to kill it."

"What about the other hives? It might kill them too!"

"That might be a good move. We can always start again, and we already showed we're below whatever it needs, ma'am. Autumn will probably just start the next round and thank you."

She stood awhile, in thought. "Go and tell Vanderbilt everything you told me, get him and his lads to work out which one and what settings won't kill us all. This kind of thing is part of why they're here."

Forty minutes later, four scared looking eggheads filed into her office. They fidgeted behind a clearly unhappy Vanderbilt.

"We just don't know, because we don't know what our vector is in the universal reference frame. Conventional physics says there is no universal reference frame, so if we survive we're all going to be famous, but we can't tell you what you need to know. I suggest not using it, ma'am. It's far too dangerous. If it went straight down the only thing left here would be a volcano. Even the effect on the water-table, it would be like a decade of fracking in half a second."

Her phone chirped. A message, from him, a PDF in a message that said "Print this and give it to your tech people." She did so. It was two pages of math and a big table of numbers and dates.

"Looks like you're all going to be famous." She handed it to Vanderbilt, whose face went through several expressions and settled on world's happiest puffer fish.

Her phone chirped again and she read it. "Or not. Classified. Eyes only."

They looked positively crestfallen.

"Do I make myself clear?"

Vanderbilt rallied, turned and addressed his people.

"Chin up, chaps. We can't tell the rest of the world, but the five of us now know with certainty there is a universal frame. That means there is a lot of wrong physics. Now let's get out of Miss Hachia's office, because we have one extra fact, and if you have the talent I hired you for that's a Nobel prize waiting to happen."

Dandelion

In every battle with nature, it is not the weed that changes, but the gardener.
— Anonymous

Sophia left a message asking Vanderbilt to have security monitor outbound correspondence for everyone who knew about the spatial lockers.

"We are not," she wrote, "trying to assign blame after a leak. We are going to prevent a leak. Remind your people that apart from the trouble it would cause, a leak will increase the competition for those Nobel prizes. And point out that I've even put you and me on the watch list. It's a safety net in case we slip in policing ourselves."

Vanderbilt replied promptly, adding that he would include a test phrase and deliberately trigger a report next week.

As it turned out, the phosphorus rounds were adequate and they didn't have to deploy a spatial lock.

Later that afternoon, Forest Grump put down the Galya in Oleksiy's front paddock, an open field by the valley road. He explained to Sissi that Oleksiy was fine and on his way in the Triton.

Sophia sent Eric down to debrief Forest. When Oleksiy arrived, Eric and Forest were in his lounge enjoying Sissi's hospitality and drinking tea. Autumn pulled relevant footage from drones and the Galya, putting it on Eric's notebook. She and Forest filled him in on the seeds and how they used fire to throw them far and wide.

Concise as ever, Oleksiy nodded and said "Too small to shoot. Don't burn."

Forest mused "The seed pod thing wasn't especially violent. There were only a handful of dog-weeds."

"Big birds. Small birds, many." Oleksiy's smile had the devil in it: "Also hydra."

"Yes, thank you Autumn for sharing that with everyone."

I live to serve.

"So anyway, it's a total clusterfuck. Only the weather bureau could tell you where the seeds went. My guess is "all over New South Wales" but that's not a useful answer. I know a Canadian woman who specialises in dust monitoring. Mostly it's used for working out whether the dust came from a mine or the farms around it."

"Why would that matter?"

"Mines have money. Governments like taking it from them. Fines and whatnot."

"And this dust woman, she works for the mines or the government?"

"She sells weapons to both sides."

"You said she was Canadian."

"Yes?"

"That's a very American thing to do."

"She apologises for everything and says "eh" a lot."

"Alright, she's Canadian. What does she have to do with this?"

"She's good at working out where things get blown to. It's a long shot."

Sighing with frustration at their directionless rambling Forest tried to get them on track.

"We have to assume that whatever grows will be hostile. Look, Eric, we fucked up. Nobody including alien super-AIs saw it coming but that does not help us clean it up. Sophia's going to have to get all the help we can from the Bureau of Meteorology, and they have to give answers we can use. I'll talk to Autumn about what support we might be able to give in terms of tracking tech. Maybe there are other Vanguard with tools more suited to tracking feathers from orbit. But even if we find them we still don't know what to do with them — suck 'em up in a vacuum cleaner? We don't know what conditions they need to germinate, or how fast they'll grow."

Neither of them knew what to do. They sat there, stewing.

Then Janna turned up, all smiles. There were, they learnt, new piglets.

"Boar making bacon" observed Oleksiy, but he pronounced the G so no one got the joke.

"Have you seen the news?" asked Janna. "It's snowing in the hills near Tenterfield!" She pulled out her tablet and showed us a streamer as vapid as she was pretty. The girl blithered about miracles of nature as thousands of white tufts floated in the air under a leaden skies.

Then, on the tiny screen, the heavens opened and torrential rain washed countless white seed pods out of the sky, bedraggled chicken feathers stuck now in mud. A minor miracle.

I told you he was lucky. For anyone else this would be an unmitigated fiasco, but chuckles here has lucked out as usual. Look at this!

Autumn took over Oleksiy's TV and showed them an elegant 3D rendering of weather systems and terrain.

First they got funnelled in here—

Streamers showed the flow of air corralled between ranges of mountains, herded into a box canyon.

Then the end of the box canyon forced the air mass up, whereupon it rained. And they may be fireproof but they still get soggy.

Janna only pretended to be simple. "Ten thousand antithesis seeds got watered into the ground? That doesn't sound good."

Eric and Forest looked at each other.

"I have to go, she'll want me to run a cleanup crew." He was already on the move, calling his office.

"They're gunna want us there in case it grows or something."

Sissi wanted to feed them, but there wasn't time. They took the Galya into town for pizza and drinks because it had a big empty carpark that fit the Galya. The last part was pure optimism but it worked, which only encouraged Autumn in her rant about Forest being a tinny bastard.

Forest's phone rang. He picked up.

"Where are you now?" it was Eric.

"Airborne, two minutes out. Sitrep?"

"I'll let you guess."

"Righto. Want us to pick you up or will you stay with the ground vehicles?" Beside Forest, Oleksiy stuffed pizza in his mouth and swallowed. He took a pull of Coke and burped hugely. Forest continued. "We have pizza. No beer, unfortunately, but that's pilots for you."

"What kind of pizza?"

"All kinds of pizza. And the storage behind the turbines is a hotbox, so it won't get cold."

He had to be on the valley road, so it it wasn't long before Oleksiy spotted Eric in his car and buzzed him, turning and hovering over a farm paddock by the road. Eric got the hint and pulled over. They set down as he jogged up. As they settled, Forest popped the canopy and put the ladder out. Oleksiy didn't stop the engine and Eric didn't muck about. They were back in the air twenty seconds later.

"Airborne it is. Sophia says she wants ham and pineapple."

"She's coming?"

"She says you're a bad influence. I think she wants a date."

"I heard that!" said Eric's phone, loud and clear on hands-free.

"Nah, she likes Trixie. More likely she wants to go weapons-hot in a legendary Russian gunship, kitted out with alien space magic."

"That is absolutely not my primary motivation," said the phone, totally failing to deny it, "Security tells me you put down in the meadow outside the Russian's house, is that—"

Stereo: "Not Russian!"

"—a good place to wait?"

Yes, Sophia. That's an excellent choice. I'll fly us over there, otherwise these characters will leave you standing in a field while they eat pizza. Flight time is approximately two minutes, we're already in the valley. See you shortly. Gentlemen, fasten your seatbelts and secure all junk food, we're off.

They banked, still rising, and turned for home. Clear of obstacles and properly warmed up, Autumn pushed them to sixty percent power. She tilted them forward like a runner on a starting block, stabilised and punched it up to eighty.

"Boo-yah!" Eric's glee settled, his fist lowered and he looked at Forest, no, at his visor. He put on one of the headsets. "So, Autumn... are there any more like you at home?" The glass cockpit turned into Cortana, still in a schoolgirl outfit but somewhat toned-down.

There are! But I warn you, we're a handful.

"I'm afraid she's spoken for."

Izzat so, buster?

"Yep. Now and forever. Or at least until you feed me to the next hive."

I'm sorry, Dave. I can't do that.

"What can you do? I was told you were the best."

This!

The helicopter barrel-rolled, so perfectly they didn't spill any pizza. Given their speed it was masterful piloting.

"Wow, that was awesome!"

Thank you.

"Gives a whole new meaning to Flying Toasters!"

You'll keep.

She throttled back, feathering slightly and setting down about twenty metres from where Sophia stood at the edge of the road, leaning on the fence and talking to, of all people, Janna. "Well, well," I chortled. "Isn't that just fascinating." Also notable was the interest the pigs were showing around the oaks flanking Oleksiy's driveway. The oaks were only about thirty years old. Not enough for truffles. But you can't fool pigs. A perimeter drone buzzed them until they moved off. Forest saw the invisible hand of Autumn in that. It didn't surprise, he knew she liked Oleksiy.

"How did you know, and how did you do it?" I asked.

I seeded them. Or spored them. With one of the borer drones we use for the hives. It was Janna's idea, he's seventy next year.

"I won't ask where the hell you got truffle spores."

Nor should you. The answer is obvious: from a truffle.

Autumn popped the double-bubble. Forest lowered and hooked the ladder, brandishing a big slice of pizza and bellowing "Get it while it's hot!"

Decked out in what could only be described as designer bushwalking gear, Sophia wore a cute little ozcam sunhat, a forest green coverall, and glossy black gumboots. With heels. Sensible heels, but nevertheless... Forest wondered how tall she was. Four inch heels in the office brought her eyes level with his nose, so probably 160cm, thereabouts. "Five foot two, eyes are blue...Has anybody seen my girl?" rattled up from the distant past. "She's not so bad now the Karen is rubbing off," he mused. "Probably just needs a good spanking to loosen her up."

I wonder what Trixie would think about that.

"She'd say 'Promises promises, whatever' and do that chin-thrust thing she thinks looks like me."

Autumn sighed. Sophia said her farewells to Janna, who rounded up her pigs to go home. Strolling over, she ascended the ladder, gracefully swinging one leg after the other into the cockpit and sinking into—

"That was my seat."

"It was very gentlemanly of you to give it up." She held out an expectant and upturned hand: "I heard rumours of hot pizza."

Eric produced a completely unmolested pizza box from the turbine adjacent stowage and opened it, leaning forward to offer it to her. "Ham and pineapple." She surprised Forest by taking the whole box into her lap. "Thin crust!" It disappeared into her mouth but reappeared amid most unladylike gagging. "Waaaugh! Hot!" She had a second go and this time it disappeared. "Eric, why haven't I seconded you?"

"Perhaps because this was my first opportunity to deliver pizza with an assault helicopter. It uses a lot of fuel, but what's forty litres of kerosene against a hot pizza?"

"Alright everyone, Elvis is in the building. Let's get this show on the road."

Engines thundered through the cabin as they raced toward the hills east of Tenterfield. Autumn maintained her crisp efficiency, drones trailing behind, swift but unable to match the Galya’s might. Oleksiy lapped the canyon, leaning forward, scanning the terrain below.

Sophia stayed out of the way while capable people worked.

It’s here.

The seeds are all over this valley, mostly where it boxes, just like our streamer friend showed us. But I've also picked up... activity. A lot of it. They're no longer dormant.

Sophia frowned, her eyes narrowing. "Activity?"

Biomass harvesting. It looks like the seeds soften in water and release a tiny harvester. Little minions are hard at work consuming everything organic they can get their tendrils on. It’s mayhem down there.

Forest leaned back and took a deep breath, expression grim. "The streamer, is she still broadcasting?"

Autumn hesitated.

No. Her feed cut out not long ago, but the last few seconds showed... well, she didn't enjoy her last moments.

Sophia’s grip tightened on her tablet, jaw set. "So the whole valley is hostile. Autumn, I'm sending people in there. I need a risk assessment, if you wouldn't mind. Mr Kovalenko, prepare for a low level visual survey. We need eyes on this before we make any moves."

Oleksiy shook his head. "Stay high," he said. "Too much risk. Look first, decide later."

I must agree with Oleksiy. The Galya is safer up here. I have plenty of drones and more are arriving. I can handle survey. I'll get you high-res visuals, thermal scans, and movement patterns. While we wait, eat the rest of the pizza and order your thoughts.

Sophia exhaled sharply. "No more surprises. I would really appreciate it if you can keep us ahead of whatever's happening down there."

Don't worry, Sophia. I'll keep you in the loop. While you wait, you might want to talk to your office. There's no hiding this one. She broadcast her own death. All of it.

They ate and drank, but the festive cheer was gone. Sophia spoke to her staff. They weren't too concerned. Gruesome played well for convincing people they wanted to stay put in their fifteen minute cities. Stay home, kiddies, while the gummint takes care of you.

As they washed off altitude, the mood in the cabin darkened; the ground writhed like a week-old carcass.

"Autumn, the stuff in the flesh-melter grenades: can I buy it in a big drum with some sort of crop-dusting rig?"

Yes, but it's fairly heavy and we don't have any spare hard-points.

Oleksiy tilted the Galya forward, flicked a cap off a switch, armed and fired in one smooth movement. "Forward mount empty."

Fireworks failed to bloom on the ground ahead: these were real weapons. There was a puff of dust, an actinic flash inside the dust, and the dustcloud got bigger a fraction of a second before the Galya was slapped by a giant.

The Galya settled in Oleksiy's capable hands, and Autumn did her thing. An ugly drum of elliptical section appeared on the hard-point with a hanging boom. Oleksiy tried the controls for the hard-point and found the trigger release a spray. He brought them down to thirty metres and began to drench the little monsters.

"That is going to make a hell of a mess." Flesh melters work on people and trees too.

The antithesis won't leave anything if we don't do it.

Oleksiy said nothing and kept spraying.

Take us up ten metres please, Oleksiy. The spray isn't good for our engines.

Sophia was in shock from Oleksiy' unhesitant, unflinching discard of a weapon in the same price range as a house. It wasn't clear what rattled her the most, the "Russian" being in the hot-seat, the way he threw away a missile, or her first point-blank boom. Forest brought her back to herself. From long talks with Autumn he knew "Karen" was a consequence of grinding through the glass ceiling in a male-dominated space. Internally she was logistics and leadership incarnate.

"What are your people bringing? We won't get everything here, there'll be things under rocks and probably quite a few outside this valley. Do your people need anything? It's probably a good idea to put me on the ground with them."

She stared at me. Her mouth closed and her eyes focussed, fingers drifting to her augs. Whatever she said it was to Eric, because he stopped staring and started making his own calls. Oleksiy told them what he thought by killing the spray and retreating to just outside the mouth of the box canyon. They set down, and Forest slid down the ladder, pizza in hand, nun-blaster slung low.

"Autumn? Can I have a drink please? Hydration more than pleasure." Even in the mountains it could be hot at that time of day. The recent downpour made it briefly humid. Fortunately it wasn't long before the ground team caught up and they set to sweeping.

Go your own Way

Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.
— Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Galya was a small private hurricane as Forest slid down the ladder, dropping a metre to the ground and waving them away. The double-bubble closed and turbines roared as Oleksiy returned to crop-dusting.

Autumn marked sweep routes on Forest's HUD and he followed one.

It was boring, but boring is good. Far from the main cluster, isolated foragers seemed confused and uncoordinated. Loaded with organic matter, they had no place to take it. The whole thing was a bit of a turkey-shoot, and his biggest problem was trying not to start fires with the nun-blaster. Fortunately the rain left things damp so they never got far out of hand.

And then he found a cave.

The idea that prehistoric people lived in caves is just plain silly. Caves are rare. It is true that there are dozens of limestone caves in Central Queensland, but that's very unusual. Most of them, it's a mission to get in or out. There were caves at Texas, not too far from the valley, but they were all underwater because the government built a big dam in the eighties. People who want to see caves travel seven hundred kilometres to Central Queensland, or eight hundred south to Jenolan caves near Sydney.

Imagine Forest's surprise, then, to find a cave just walking in the hills. The whole area was granite, which doesn't erode, and clay, which does. So he supposed it wasn't absurd to have a clay inclusion wash away leaving a cavity. But it wasn't common. Normally, as the clay washes out, the granite boulders fall together and there isn't a usable space.

Caving is not something you do on your own. That's just foolish, it's dangerous. But then, hunting antithesis on your own is dangerous and foolish.

In his twenties he loved caving, so there was no hesitation in combining his favourite ways to be foolish and dangerous.

"Autumn, I need a helmet and headlamp, and some gloves."

Also air, if you plan to use the Pyrothorn, which in a cave will be safer than projectiles, and possibly a large dose of common sense.

"I can buy that?"

Alas, no. I daresay it would be popular with Vanguard WAGs.

Boxes appeared and numbers went down. As usual he paid them no mind, trusting Autumn to warn him if it mattered.

The air is compressed. You have four hours of supply. Start using it now, another benefit is protection from the vapours of any fours. I'm not expecting them but you will be in an enclosed space.

"We need some eighties music."

Air Supply?

"You guessed it!" he donned his new toys and wandered in. Autumn humoured him with some background music, not too loud.

The entry was low and narrow, forcing him to crouch. Inside it was still narrow but he was able to stand in the cool air. The air was also damp, and the walls glistened faintly in the light of his headlamp. After a few minutes, the passage opened into a small chamber.

What caught his eye immediately were carvings on the walls. They were intricate, depicting scenes of animals, people, and what looked like constellations. The style was unlike anything he'd seen before—neither Aboriginal nor European. Some people gush about aboriginal rock art. Forest just saw fingerpainting with mud. These carvings had a level of detail and storytelling that was completely different.

Some were figures holding tools or weapons. Others might have been mythical beasts. A panel seemed to show a group of figures standing together, holding something up, with the beasts in retreat. Another panel could have been a hunt through a forested landscape.

"Autumn, are you seeing this?"

Yes. There's nothing like this in your people's records. Fascinating.

Forest moved closer to inspect the carvings. The figures seemed to tell a story — perhaps a myth or a legend about a great hunt or a battle between these people and the beasts.

"I wonder what it means."

Autumn's silence was a kind of shrug.

Following a the slope down, he moved deeper in. The walls were rougher, without carvings or other decoration. His headlamp flickered briefly, and he tapped it to bring the light back to full strength. Weird. Protector-grade torches do not play up.

Then a faint clicking sound, like claws on stone. He froze.

"Did you hear that?"

Movement forward, range twenty meters. Multiple units.

"Antithesis?"

Were you expecting goblins?

Forest gripped the nun-blaster, choosing a low-intensity setting to avoid igniting the confined space. The passage widened into another chamber, and his headlamp lit the source of the noise — three antithesis units. Massive, their forms a grotesque cross between a stegosaurus and a bear. Jagged, bony plates ran down their spines. Muscular, ursine limbs and faces. Their heavy breath echoed in the chamber.

As one they erupted toward him, unnervingly fast for their size. He fired, drenching the nearest in Greek Fire. In eerie silence it twisted, collapsing with bony plates so hot they glowed. As a last act of spite it flung a spike from its tail, narrowly missing his shoulder and embedding itself in the wall behind.

The other two split, flanking with surprising coordination. He turned fire on the near unit. The burst went wide, scorching the wall instead. It seized the initiative and a flick of its tail launched a spike that struck his thigh tangentially, ripping through the chaps and grazing his leg. The pain was immediate and excruciating. The leg buckled and he all but dropped the nun-blaster.

"Faaaaargh!" he spat through gritted teeth.

Eloquent. A surface wound, envenomed. Movement will be impaired. Want your nanites?

He ignored this summary of the obvious. The injured beast advanced, and prepared to strike again. Steadied by the wall, he aimed with more care. Flames engulfed it, and the flopping of its death throes would have been more entertaining had he been less concerned about the other.

The last one lunged, its claws swiping dangerously close. Dodging sent a fresh wave of nasty through his leg. Its tail whipped around in thagomiser mode. He weaved and felt it whistle past, pulling the creature aside with its own momentum. With the last of his endurance he scuttled back and fired.

The Jabberwock, with eyes and just about everything else aflame, whiffled through the tulgey wood at ramming speed. Lewis Carroll seriously undersold how terrifying these things were. It smashed into Forest, a caring, sharing move that flung him back but also smeared holy fire right down the lumberjacket. He clawed the jacket off; that stuff is hot and it doesn't go out. But first the Trenchmaker barked rebuke. Four shots, three misses. The hit was a ricochet but a win is a win.

The chamber reeked of charred mould and lawn clippings. Death throes echoed off the stone walls, the whispering hiss as its juices boiled sending shivers down his spine. In the sussurus of flame and miasma of smoke his breath rattled. His leg hurt. Leaning heavily against the wall he made inarticulate groaning sounds.

Autumn did her best Arnie.

You need a vacation.

"No shit, Sherlock" he muttered, trying to rise. He winced and decided this was a terrible plan. At least three ribs cracked. By contrast his leg didn't hurt so much. It throbbed and felt... infected. Hot. Swollen. Turgid even, and not in a saucy way.

"Nanites. Woundstop. Jacket. Chaps."

Manners.

"You won't let me die. Who would you mock?"

I might let you suffer. That could be fun!

"Love you too."

Boxes appeared. "What," he wondered, "is the Protector fascination with packaging?"

"I should have brought the MIL."

One of those appeared too. The sharp metallic taste of the nanites sparkled in his throat, provoking a hacking cough that really hurt. He passed out, right there, Woundstop unused in his hand.

The world swayed. No, Forest was swaying. Eric's face hovered above him, expression a mix of relief and exasperation.

"Took you long enough," muttered Forest, voice hoarse.

"You're welcome," said Eric. "Next time, go in with the cavalry."

"I am the cavalry." A pause, then a rueful tone. "Cavalry doesn't do well in confined spaces."

The stretcher jostled as they carried him out of the cave. The cool air of the chamber gave way to the clean smell of recent rain, with a hint of lawn clippings. Ribs howled at every thump and bump, piquant reminder of his mortality.

Forest woke to the sharp crack of pistol fire. Eric and his boys were defending their position, surrounded on all sides by swarms of tiny antithesis. Mostly they were big fat aggressive caterpillars, thirty centimetres at most. But the chopper couldn't spray them with them there, and pistols weren't fast enough. None were a threat on their own, but sheer numbers made them a problem. As medevacs go it wasn't their finest hour.

The helo thundered above, rotors kicking up a storm of leaves and debris. They were clipping the stretcher to a hoisting harness when Forest shook off the haze and climbed out. He muttered under his breath: "Why do these fuckin' things remind me so much of the Flood?"

If anyone heard that, it was Autumn. She said nothing.

"Forest, what the hell are you doing?" Eric shouted, his voice barely audible over the chaos.

"Rescuing my rescuers," Forest replied, producing a pair of SMGs from nowhere. "Thanks, Autumn."

You're welcome. Try not to die.

So she did hear that. He opened fire, hosing down the carpet of invaders left and right. SMGs rattled in his hands, muzzles spitting fire as the little monsters fell in droves. 5.56 has no stopping power but they were well suited for this.

"Eric, get the sling off the stretcher and throw it here!" he bellowed over the downdraught. Eric obliged, and Forest lashed a bosun's chair out of the sling. "Take me up a bit!"

Eric hesitated for a moment before using his radio. "Lift him for covering fire! Up three metres."

As the harness lifted Forest into the air, he tossed an SMG to each of Eric's helpers. "Cover the flanks!" He threw the Trenchmaker to Eric. "You're on big-game duty!"

Eric caught the weapon with a grim nod.

"Don't miss."

"Spray and pray!" Forest grinned. Securely twined around the strap, hands out expectantly, he caught two more SMGs as Autumn did her thing. "Autumn, magazine changes all round. Ground is fine. The harness jerked and he lifted, view of the battlefield steadily improving. If any stego-bears turned up he was a sitting duck. A hanging duck, whatever.

Brandishing the SMGs while he rose. All he needed to look like a middle-eastern maniac was a head-band and missing teeth. Like an avenging angel he rained fire from above, SMGs chattering as the tide of antithesis units thinned. They tended to walk up, but he let his arms fall between bursts. It was a good pattern, not too taxing.

Remembering, Forest looked down and bellowed "Hey, where's my MIL?"

Eric pointed at a duffle bag. Nothing large required the Trenchmaker and certainly not a rocket launcher, so he focussed on coordinating his team. One of them had the nun-blaster and used it for area denial, spraying no-go lines on the ground like flaming ketchup. Caterpillars that ignored it got halfway and burst like popcorn.

From on high it was obvious what to do. Forest threw flesh-melter after flesh-melter as far as he could, then set them all off together. This and the combined firepower of our group turned the tide. The situation briefly under control, Oleksiy brought him down.

Slipping out of the improv harness, Forest ran back to the group. With his passenger out of the way and visible, Oleksiy set down, opened the bubble and popped off a few shots at stragglers. Perhaps he felt left out.

The last of the horde fell, and the hills grew eerily quiet. Forest stood, chest heaving the acrid smell of cordite in both nostrils. "Well," he said, "that was fun!"

"Next time," said Eric, "stay in the stretcher."

"Where's the fun in that?" Forest grinned despite the pain in his ribs.

How much common sense would you like to buy?

"Yes, dear." He inhaled.

"Right, you lot. Autumn's gunna give me toys that let me walk in the dust of doom—"

I am?

"You are. Stop interrupting my dramatic speech.

"Errrr... —but the rest of you are getting in the chopper so Oleksiy can spray. There aren't enough seats so I hope you're all good friends, but you aren't going far. I'll be walking out. Someone give me a radio — great, thank you. Right, all aboard!"

The Galya had a big compartment aft of the main rotor. Depending on fit-out it could carry extra munitions or be a troop transport. Sophia and Oleksiy hauled everything they could lift out of there and threw it out onto the ground. We'd have to come back, but that wasn't a now problem.

All her people in, they lifted while I mucked about with a hazmat suit from Autumn. Forest gave Oleksiy a two-handed wave and thumbs up, then remembered he had a radio.

"All sealed up and ready to go! Probably should have done that while there was someone to check, but we live and learn. Or we die and don't."

"Not funny!" said Sophia.

"You do care!"

"I do. So much paperwork."

"Hah. You love it!"

She did laugh, but the radio cut off. Probably it was Oleksiy getting rid of chatter.

Debrief

One hour and a disgraceful amount of kerosene later, Oleksiy coached Forest through landing procedures. The sun had long fallen below the horizon. It was far too dark for visual approach, so Autumn used drones to simulate the landing beacons of an airstrip.

The valley didn't have an airport, but for the sake of the lesson Autumn impersonated a control tower. Instead of talking directly through their headsets, Autumn relayed her voice through a drone's transponder. Oleksiy showed Forest how to set the radio. Tinny and distorted, her voice was hard to understand through the racket of turbines and rotors.

Forest had some idea from his simulator time, but he wasn't at ease with the sea of steam gauges and mechanical switches. It didn't help that as first landings go he was in at the deep end, an instrument landing in a dark field. To help him learn, when Oleksiy mentioned a dial or control, Autumn dimmed everything else in his visor.

Oleksiy was a rock, calmly talking him through the process, pointing out when the direction-finder bleeped, guiding him through ever diminishing turns as they found the approach vector by instruments alone. Common sense told Forest Oleksiy would have done it much faster but it didn't stop the impatience, the feeling he should do better.

They set down in the guest carpark outside Oleksiy's home. Sissi bustled out to greet them, ushering everyone inside. The ground team was still on its way back by road. Ever the perfect host, refreshments appeared and cooking began.

"I should probably get back to my office and update everyone on the situation, not to mention see how they're doing with the remains of Hive-3," Sophia said, sprawled unmoving on Oleksiy's plush red couch. She looked shattered.

You already have.

Emails scrolled up Sophia's augs. They were exceptional, everything she wanted to say and very much in her voice. It was a superb impersonation that triggered her. Furious Karen bloomed in her eyes, but Autumn continued.

I haven't sent them yet, I'm asking you for authorisation right now. You're tired so I thought I'd save you the bother.

In the kitchen Sissi looked frantic.

Forest, if Sissi is going to feed the horde she will need ingredients. Sissi, if you could give me a list with quantities I will see to it. You can write it in Thai if you prefer.

"I should probably tell Trix."

She knows. She'll be down presently. Ah, thank you Sissi.

One of the bees flew in the window and hovered over the handwritten page.

Seven points for sundry foodstuffs.

"I have a catalogue for that?"

It's Class 0, you don't need one.

"Make it so, Number One." Forest rose and addressed the room. "Oleksiy, if you'll forgive me for stating the obvious you were the lynchpin of today's operation. I know you never look for thanks and you don't like the spotlight, but everyone here already knows and I think you deserve our thanks. And thanks for the lesson, I always wanted to do that.

"Sophia, I know it's in your brief but the fact is when the shit hit the fan you and Eric stood up and performed, which is more than I can say for... others. And you lead from the front. So thank you.

Sophia didn't respond. Inside, she felt vaguely shamed that her reason for leading from the front was more a "not on my watch" career move than anything else. It was only twenty-eight hours ago, but constant stress and the magic of teamwork in combat made it feel like she wasn't the career bureaucrat who left; that was someone else, a lonely girl with nothing but her slow grind up through a glass ceiling.

"Right, enough blowing smoke up arses, time for a post-mortem. Sophia, you're good at this, your turn." He sat.

She stood and summarised the Hive-3 debacle from start to finish. Then she dissected events, expertly analysing the points at which right action might have improved outcomes and focussing on those that were predictable and preventable.

"I won't presume to second-guess the decisions of people with alien tech on-demand," all eyes fell on Forest, "But going alone into a hole full of plant monsters seems reckless to me."

"Reckless means without thought. I thought about it. It was dangerous, necessary and done by the person most able to cope."

"Who had to be evac'd."

"Could anyone else do it? There's no room for a whole team in a cave. I know what my mistake was: should have waited till Eric was at the cave mouth.

"Not used to having back-up." He grinned ruefully. "Sorry Sophia, go on."

"Eric's team: textbook, and fast thanks to the availability of Vanguard technology. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately if our resident Vanguard learns to play on a team, we're going to have to write a new book. But that's tomorrow's problem."

"Today's problem is this. Look what ASIS found." She threw a couple of pages of printed text onto the kitchen table. Bold letters declared "On the nature of freedom".

There was a précis. It called centralisation the crystal-meth of cultures, saying that in the beginning both genuinely made you more effective, so more was used with less benefit and more cost, because concentrating power and resources makes corruption profitable. There was some philosophy about optimisation being the enemy of resilience, then it concluded that the state, like every state before it, did not need to be overthrown because it would fall on its own.

"OK. Why does ASIS care about that?" asked Eric, stopping after that.

"If you read the rest of it he says the same thing in detail, and then he talks about how falling states grab all the resources around them, and therefore have to be put down like a sick dog if those around them want to survive."

"Forest said that?" Eric reached out for the manifest.

"Not in those words. It's well reasoned and supported with history, but that's the gist of it." She spun to glare at Forest, who gazed levelly back. "The worst part is I can't fault your logic, and that, old man, is a serious problem for both of us."

Oh, I can help with that!

Sophia blanched. "Dear Lord, do you think you could wait till I leave to say things like that?"

Over in Oleksiy's lounge the TV switched itself on and Autumn's lilac visage beamed digital mischief, the saucy schoolgirl outfit notably absent. Today she was all Cortana.

First, I take mild umbrage at the idea that I am as consistently unsubtle as Forest, and second, since as it happens you are on this occasion correct, I can help with that too. Stick your fingers in your ears like this and go 'la-la-la-la'!

Sophia fled.

Eric, who was very careful and conspicuous about not understanding the exchange, changed the subject: "Autumn, since the debrief seems to be over, can I ask you a personal question?"

You can always ask. I promise not to be offended. I do not promise to answer.

"Why do you look like Cortana out of Halo?"

What do you know about Cortana the character?

"She's an AI. Forest likes Halo, we knew that from briefings, but apart from some of the weapons you two don't really have a Halo thing going on. He has more of a lumberjack vibe."

The name Cortana has deep historical roots. There were three legendary swords, Joyeuse – sword of Charlemagne, Durendal – sword of Roland, and Cortana – sword of Ogier the Dane. According to legend, Cortana bore the inscription "My name is Cortana, of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durendal."

Ogier the Dane was a legendary knight of Charlemagne’s court, appearing in medieval chansons de geste. His sword, Cortana, was originally owned by a Saracen knight named Karaheut, who gave it to Ogier after a duel. The name comes from Latin 'curtus', or 'short', because the sword was curtailed — its blade shortened after being tested on a stone block. A sword with no point symbolises mercy, as seen in the British coronation sword Curtana, known as the Sword of Mercy.

On the TV Autumn's fingers twitched in air quotes for each name. It was oddly beguiling.

To finally answer your question, in medieval tales, Ogier's sword was magic, granting the wielder wisdom, guidance, and strategic insight.

On the screen a flickering lilac sword with a squared end stood on its pommel beside Autumn, easily as long as she was tall.

Wisdom, guidance and strategic insight.

The sword dissolved into twinkling motes that swirled and flowed into Autumn, who grinned and cocked a hip, arm akimbo. An historian might have noticed the style of the graphics was closer to the very first Halo than later versions.

I think it's a pretty good look.

"So why does he call you Autumn?"

He is stubborn. He is his own man. And I am one of the pillars of his strength.

Autumn looked archly at Forest, who kept a straight face and said nothing. Eric, lost in his augs reading historical data on the game, learnt the name of a ship and finally connected the dots. A smile played about his lips.

An Unexpected Party

You can't drive fast along the valley. The road isn't paved, and there are places where the rain washes deep ruts right across the road. From time to time someone, usually Oleksiy or Forest, would take a tractor and fill the ruts and potholes with a mix of gravel, decomposed granite and a little bit of clay. But until they got out there, after rain it was a mess.

Sophia was going a bit fast when she re-learnt this for the four-hundredth time. She didn't quite lose control, she was going fast enough to float over the potholes. But it was just as well she had the bend to herself, because she was on the wrong side of the road when the shuddering stopped.

No traction for more than a second, but coming out of the bend she was perfectly lined up. What she didn't know was this was mostly because Autumn was in her augs, looking out her eyes, subtly interfering with her vehicle to set up for the corner.

She didn't know, but it was enough of a shock that she backed off the throttle. She stayed off the throttle, cresting a rise and braking to turn up into the carpark of her stacked demountable empire.

Retreating to the sanctuary of her office, she flumped in the big black chair and closed her eyes. It didn't work: the phone promptly rang, as though someone were watching from some hidden camera. Surveillance was normal, just not in the lair of the monster at the top of the food chain. And what that implied was unsettling.

"Project Liaison Hachia." She was annoyed, and it was the right tone for the impertinence of monitoring her.

"Long day, Sophia?"

"Very. I've been living out Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. To what do I owe the pleasure? It's not like you to be in the office this late."

"I trust you got my email." Hollywood might have given him a cultured and slightly prissy British accent that spoke of money and privilege. Reality knew better than to polish a turd. He tried for posh but only managed smug.

"Yes. What were you hoping I'd do about it? He's a Vanguard."

"Did you read it?"

"Yes. It's a manifesto of inaction. He thinks the government is a bunch of controlling assholes, which is spot on, then he says there's no need to take action because pop will eat itself. Which is the opposite of rebellion."

"A very smart lady I know described them as 'a bunch of militantly independent hippies thumbing their noses at us from the wilderness'."

"Quite. I stand by that, it's accurate."

"By their very existence they undermine our authority."

"Weren't you the one who told me sovereignty boils down to ability to enforce? If they can undermine your authority then you don't have any.

"He's happy living in a caravan in the bush caretaking his AI's Little Shop of Horrors. All you have to do is nothing and he'll stay there. Or you could poke the bear and see what happens. By all accounts you are not an idiot. So what do you really want?"

"I want you to remember who you are, and watch him like a hawk." The line went dead. Staring at her phone, she cleaned it with a tissue, an act more symbolic than fastidious.

She drove back, rather more carefully, to be there when the ground team arrived. Eric wandered out holding a glass of something, ducked back in and emerged with two. He wordlessly held one out and she thanked him.

"What are we going to do, Eric?"

"Generally, people look to you for answers like that."

"Do you know why they sent me here?"

"Hardly, it's above my pay grade. Yesterday I would have said 'to assess and control a threat' but clearly the threat has already been assessed."

"And probably can't be controlled. Which doesn't matter: I'm no longer sure he's the threat. He lives in a forest, takes nothing and asks nothing while giving everything."

"Did you read the whole thing?"

"Yes. Did you?"

"Yes. It has author notes now!" They both drank. It was heady stuff. Both Forest and Oleksiy kept bees. They brewed mead in Oleksiy's long shed, a gloomy dungeon of a thing half-buried in the hillside.

Eric changed the subject. "Ask Autumn why she looks like Cortana."

"Like who?"

"Just ask, she'll explain that too."

"The manifesto, what do you think of it?"

"I think he may be right."

"So he's going to launch a first-strike then?"

"What?! How did you get that out of it? He goes on at length about how centralisation is self-defeating and all they have to do is sit tight out here in the boonies."

"Did you read it or skim it?"

"Well..."

"There's a section about how falling empires grab all the resources to prop themselves up while they die. He thinks a quick kill is necessary to avoid going down with the ship of state."

She chugged half of the mead, an act of courage verging on folly. "Should I confront him, ask the question?"

"Ask what question?" Forest appeared out of the darkness and grinned at her. "Whatever it is, ask it inside, it's chilly out here. Oleksiy's got the fire going and Sissi's laid on a spectacular. Come inside and relax. Ground team's forty minutes out and the dining table's not going to fit us all so while you have some drinks we're setting up the long table in the garden, with and the braziers and some gas heaters."

Trixie was there. She had a G&T. "Mead? Really?" She found another G&T, replaced Sophia's drink and took her under one wing, steering her into the walled garden where Forest and Oleksiy heaved two halves of a massive timber table into line. Typhoon Sissi chased them out of the way to sweep it and fling tablecloths into place, vanishing as quickly as she appeared.

"Sometimes I think he is a force of nature. But I've also seen him struggle with simple things. He has big ideas. Sometimes he talks, sometimes he does. People think he's some kind of saint but he does all those things to make the world suit him. He just seems good because the world he wants to live in is a nice place."

"So... he runs around selfishly trying to make the world a better place?"

Trixie laughed out loud. "I suppose so."

Rice appeared, wafting jasmine plumes into the night air. Eric and two of his lads staggered out with trays of mismatched crockery that steamed and filled the wind with promises to bring tears to their eyes, in some cases literally.

"Red dish much chilli!" admonished Sissi, clearly enjoying herself. "Sugar on table."

"Sugar?" puzzled Project Liaison Hachia.

"Calms the chilli," boomed Forest from ten metres away. "Still burns going out."

"That sounds like the Galya."

A blaze of lights roared out of the night sky, setting down in the carpark, and five men boiled out of it piled high with bonhomie and pizza boxes. "Holy shit that thing goes through some fuel! Thanks, Mr K, after Fallujah I never thought I'd fly another one. That was fun!"

"I'm pretty sure I know why it used so much juice," said a faceless stack of pizza, trudging down the drive. "Someone likes to play with his joystick."

"What did you break?" Forest again, easily heard over the convivial hubbub.

"Bunch of records, and Shorty's nerve. You reckon Oleksiy can lend him fresh undies?"

"Nah, let him stew."

"I'm right here, you pricks" said the pizza, entering the house.

Eric leaned closer to Forest, lowering his voice. "So, you wrote that."

Forest smiled. "Guilty as charged."

"You really believe all that about decentralisation and letting the system collapse under its own weight?"

Forest shrugged. "It's never not happened. Civilisations rise. Without exception, they fall. Why?"

"You're saying that in every last case the cause was centralisation?"

"Yes."

"How could you possibly know that? You weren't there."

"Can you rely on people to be greedy, lazy and stupid?"

"That's a bit cynical—"

"Very cynical. But is it true? Can you rely on people to be greedy and lazy?"

"Not all of them. But on the whole, I guess so."

"Centralisation concentrates wealth and power, right?"

"Yes?"

"You're hungry and poor. Is it worth robbing Janna?"

"She'd feed me to the pigs! And she's nice, I wouldn't have to rob her, she'd help me out."

"Quite. You'd be better off asking for a meal and mucking the pens. Now imagine you hardly knew her and the pigs shit solid gold. Worth robbing her? She has far more than she needs and you could be rich!"

"Certainly worth a try.

"Won't she feed you to the pigs?"

"Yes, but the reward is so much greater. I just need to be smarter about it... oh, I see. And you're saying centralisation makes the pigs shit gold."

"And anonymity dehumanises us. Societies bigger than a village are demeaning. They make us strangers, and strangers don't care about strangers ."

"Nobody has any privacy in a village! Everyone knows everyone's business. There's no escape!"

"Like living with your parents."

"Yes! No privacy!"

"Your parents, who care about you and can be relied on to help you? Friends and family kind of thing?"

Eric gestured around the gathering—people clustered in small groups, conversations flowing, children darting between adults. "What about all this, then? This isn't exactly a nuclear family dinner at six o'clock sharp."

Forest snorted. "The three-meal structure and the nuclear family model both emerged as tools of industrial capitalism, not as organic social arrangements."

"What?" said Eric's confusion before his common-sense could fend off this obvious invitation to soapbox.

"Pre-industrial societies had flexible, communal eating patterns. They ate when they were hungry. Several small meals, tied to agricultural rhythms, shared among extended families. Or communities, like this one. Industrialization imposed rigid schedules to maximise factory productivity. Fewer, larger meals at fixed times suited shift work and urban living."

Eric frowned, considering. "So breakfast, lunch, and dinner...?"

"Weren't for the benefit of the people. They were imposed by the wealthy to support their exploitation of their workers. The nuclear family, for example, has absolutely no benefit for the worker. The point of breaking up extended families was to make workers more mobile, more dependent on wages, and break the resilience of traditional support networks. It leaves them at the mercy of their employer."

"You're saying families were broken up deliberately?"

"Not with malice, necessarily. It was a side effect of treating labour as a fungible commodity and people as an attached nuisance. Both trends served the interests of factory owners: predictable labor, minimal social obligations, and a workforce that could be uprooted easily. The nuclear family is small, portable and utterly dependent on wages. It is the perfect economic unit for industrial capitalism."

Eric looked around again at the chaotic dinner gathering, understanding dawning. "And this..."

"This is what people actually want. Extended networks, flexible rhythms, communal support. We eat when we're hungry, we gather when we want company. No one's watching the clock wondering if they'll make it home by six." Forest smiled faintly. "Funny how fast people revert to natural patterns when you remove the economic coercion."

"But what about the bit about putting society down like a sick dog? How did you get to that?"

Forest's expression darkened slightly. "It's a thought experiment, Eric. A way to explore the consequences of action versus inaction. Doesn't mean I'm planning anything."

"Thought experiments have a way of becoming blueprints," Eric countered. "Especially when people start agreeing with them."

Forest sighed. "Look, the manifesto is about survival, not rebellion. If people take it as a call to arms, that's on them, not me. I just want to live in a world that makes sense."

Eric studied him for a moment. "And if the world doesn't make sense?"

Forest smiled faintly. "Then I keep planting trees and fixing potholes. One small piece at a time."

As Eric wandered off, Forest reflected that sooner or later the state would try to assert dominance. If he let them seize the initiative they would destroy everything he cared about. They'd already made one attempt, sending Sophie and Eric and all their research and security staff. He'd managed to suborn that, which surely hadn't gone unnoticed.

The problem was, they were self-reliant, not self-sufficient. You can't tear down the system unless you're ready to replace it. He didn't want to replace it with more of the same.

"Autumn, have you ever tried the agent provocateuse look?"

Are we talking Mata Hari or Black Widow?

"Whatever works best. We're going to make some trouble."

The Cortana look vanished altogether. The joke was long over, anyway. Her new look owed a lot to Ingrid Bergman.

"You really have watched all my movies."

You're still getting battle music. I like pushing your buttons.

No change in her voice, but in the background Sam played As Time Goes By for the millionth time.

"You look great."

I am great.

Seeds of Doubt

In theory, there is no difference between theory and practice. In practice, there is.
— Yogi Berra

The briefing room had seen better days. Sophia stood at the head of the table, Eric and three of his team seated with notebooks and tablets. She'd called them in at oh-dark-hundred because the meteorology reports came in overnight, and none of them looked pleased about it.

"Right. Bureau of Meteorology tracked the wind patterns after Tenterfield. Most seeds went into that box canyon, but not all of them. They've identified seventeen sites where seeds likely came down in smaller numbers." She pulled up a map on the projector. Red dots scattered across rural New South Wales. "We need to check each one before they germinate."

"Split into pairs, ma'am?" Eric was already calculating logistics.

"Four teams. You'll take Davies and Murphy to three sites in the Tablelands. Jensen and Kowalski get the coastal sites. Vanderbilt's team handles the modeling follow-up." She paused, then dropped the bomb. "I'm assigning myself to your team."

Eric's poker face slipped. "Ma'am, that's not—"

"That's exactly how this works. Your show, your rules. Under fire, I follow your orders like any team member. The only order I might give is to abort, and even then, how and when you execute that is your call." She looked at each of them. "Clear?"

Davies and Murphy exchanged glances. Eric looked like he'd bitten into a lemon.

"Ma'am, with respect, you haven't done field work before. It's dangerous, and—"

"Which is exactly why I need to know first-hand what my people face. Eric, you're uncomfortable because normal hierarchy doesn't work this way. I understand. But I need to know what I'm asking of you, and the only way to learn that is to do it." She softened slightly. "I promise to follow orders and not get in the way. If I'm a liability, tell me and I'll reassign myself to Vanderbilt's team. But I need to try."

Eric was quiet a moment, then nodded. "Right then. Ma'am, you'll need field gear. Davies, take her to the armoury and get her kitted out. We leave in two hours."

Two hours later, Sophia was regretting every life choice that led to this moment. The body armour was heavy and hot. The rifle felt wrong in her hands despite Murphy's patient instruction in the carpark. The boots were breaking in her feet, not the other way around.

"Why do I feel like this is a mistake, Mr Davies? It's completely logical but somehow I feel like I'm going to get one of you killed babysitting me."

"The mere fact that that worries you tells me you're doing the right thing. Don't worry ma'am, we've seen you in action and when you were told to get down you got down. You'd be surprised how many idiots stand up and babble instead."

So here she was, in the passenger seat of Eric's Triton, Davies and Murphy in the back with enough weaponry to start a small war. The morning sun blazed on the horizon as they drove into increasingly remote country.

"First site is Gundagai area," Eric said, eyes on the road. "Farm property, owner's been cooperative. Reported finding 'weird fluffy seeds' in his north paddock."

"How many?"

"Didn't count them. But if it's dandelions, even a dozen seeds means trouble."

They drove in silence for a while. Then Eric glanced at her.

"Ma'am, when we get there, you stay behind me and Davies. Murphy's got overwatch. You see anything hostile, you call it out but don't engage unless I tell you to. Understood?"

"Understood."

"And ma'am? Thanks for doing this. Most brass wouldn't."

"Most brass don't have to live with themselves if they send people into danger they don't understand."

The farm was weatherboard and corrugated iron, surrounded by eucalyptus and introduced pasture grasses. A man in his sixties met them at the gate, weathered and suspicious.

"You the government mob?"

"Eric Chen, Project Liaison's ground team. This is Ms. Hachia, Davies, and Murphy. You reported finding unusual seeds?"

"Yeah. Wife spotted 'em three days ago. Thought they were thistle at first, but they're not like anything we've seen. Showed one to the agricultural extension office, they said call you lot." He spat. "Don't want government mucking about on my land, but don't want alien plants either."

Eric's tone was carefully neutral. "Understood, sir. We'll confirm whether they're antithesis, deal with any we find, and be on our way. Shouldn't take more than an hour."

The farmer grunted and waved them through. "North paddock, past the dam. I'll wait here. Don't shoot my stock."

They walked in tactical formation, Eric leading, Sophia between him and Davies, Murphy trailing with his rifle at low ready. The paddock sloped down to a dam, then rose toward a tree line.

"There." Davies pointed. White tufts dotted the grass, maybe twenty of them visible.

"Spread out. Five meter spacing. Ma'am, you're on Davies. Don't wander off." Eric keyed his radio. "Autumn, you getting this from my bodycam?"

Confirmed. Those are dandelion seeds. Most look dormant but three are germinating. I'm marking them on your HUD.

Red circles appeared in Sophia's vision. She blinked, startled. The augs were one thing in the office, another thing entirely out here with hostile plants.

"Right. Standard clearance. Napalm splatterbombs on the germinating ones, flamethrower sweep for the rest." Eric moved forward carefully, Davies matching his pace, Sophia between them feeling distinctly useless.

They'd cleared ten seeds when Murphy's voice cracked across the radio. "Contact! Tree line, multiple hostiles!"

Sophia spun. Dog-weeds, a dozen of them, boiling out of the eucalyptus like a green tsunami.

"Fall back to the dam! Controlled retreat, covering fire!" Eric's voice was parade-ground sharp.

The world became noise. Rifles cracked, brass tinkled on stones. She stumbled, Davies grabbed her arm, hauled her backwards.

"Stay behind the berm!" Davies shoved her down behind the dam's earthen wall. She landed hard, got her rifle up, tried to remember what Murphy taught her. Safety off. Sight picture. Breathe.

A dog-weed crested the dam wall. She fired. Missed. Fired again. It went down, but three more replaced it.

Eric and Murphy were methodical, each shot dropping a target. But there were too many, and they kept coming.

"Where the hell are they coming from?" Eric burned a magazine into a cluster of them, reloaded smoothly.

Hive under the tree line. It's producing them faster than you can kill them. I count twenty visible, estimated forty more in reserve.

"Fuck." Eric burned through another magazine. "Ma'am, I recommend we—"

"Abort. We abort now." Sophia's voice was steadier than she felt.

"Copy abort. But ma'am, we can't extract." Eric's tone was apologetic but firm. "They're between us and the vehicles. We can hold here, the dam gives us good defensive position, but we need escalation."

"Escalation?" Her mind was blanking.

"Vanguard support. Forest. This is beyond our capability, ma'am."

The words cut through her panic. Right. This was why they had protocols. This was why they had a pet Vanguard, something the law provided for and the system loathed; their disregard for teamwork and protocol was legend.

She fumbled for the thing on her belt, the "batphone" as Eric's team called it—an overpowered handheld radio that looked like it was built in the seventies if the seventies had alien technology. GPS, encrypted channel, and most importantly, a panic button.

Her thumb found the red button. She pressed it.

Three seconds of dead air, then: "Go for Forest."

"This is Hachia. Eric's team, Gundagai area, we're pinned down by antithesis hive, requesting Vanguard support."

"Roger. You have GPS lock, I have your position. Eric, put two of your recon drones on channel seven-three, Autumn needs eyes. I'm taking the Galya with two gunners for fast response and air support. Team Charlie will follow by road and I will give them a heavy loadout — we'll do their equipment brief en route. Oleksiy's spinning up valley defense as precaution. Sit tight, I'm airborne in two."

Eric was already pulling drones from his pack, fingers flying across the controller. "Drones on seven-three, launching now."

Two small quadcopters whirred into the air, racing toward the tree line.

Got them. Hive is forty meters into the trees, it's a well fed Twenty-two producing dog-weeds every ninety seconds. You've got about sixty hostiles between you and extraction. I'm plotting firing solutions for the Galya.

In the background, Sophia heard turbines spooling up, then Forest's voice over what sounded like considerable wind noise: "Rotating now—hold on you two—collective up—and we're away!"

The Galya's takeoff sounded... enthusiastic. Murphy winced. "Forest flying?"

"Yeah." Eric didn't look up from the drone feed. "Oleksiy's better, but Forest gets there."

Sophia looked at Eric, who was burning through magazines at an unsustainable rate.

"Fifteen minutes."

"We can do fifteen minutes. Murphy! Conserve ammo, controlled bursts only. Davies, grenades on the tree line, see if we can discourage them."

The grenades made impressive bangs. The dog-weeds didn't care. In front of them Eric could have sworn the ground rippled, but by the time he had binocs out, there was nothing to see.

Ten minutes. Eric was down to his last magazine. Murphy called out he was dry, switched to pistol. Davies was burning through his reserve magazines.

Sophia's rifle clicked empty. She fumbled for a magazine, dropped it, picked it up with shaking hands.

"Easy, ma'am. Breathe. You're doing fine." Davies said it while methodically double-tapping dog-weeds. She reloaded, tried to remember to breathe.

The shriek of turbines split the sky. The Galya came in fast and not entirely level, flaring hard at the last second. The 30mm cannon made a sound like the world's angriest chainsaw, and the tree line exploded into splinters and ichor.

Three passes, each one a masterclass in aggressive flying if not exactly textbook technique. The cannon was thorough.

The Galya's landing was... vigorous. It bounced once, settled hard, and two gunners bailed out before the skids fully stopped rocking. They immediately took up positions with rifle-mounted launchers. The other passenger was rooting throught te storage. A box of ammunition sailed out and split when it hit the ground; a steel box is strong but lead is heavy. Clips spread on the ground beside it, and the morning was suddenly a whole lot less gut-wrenching.

Forest dropped from the pilot's seat, rifle in hand, and jogged over. Behind him, the Galya sat at a slight angle, like it was judging his landing. He looked disgustingly calm despite having flown like a man with a grudge against gravity.

"G'day. Team Charlie's forty minutes out in the Triton — I took the fast option." He jerked a thumb at the two gunners. "Davies and Murphy — the other Davies and Murphy — have resonators if things get spicy again."

"G'day. Heard you called for Vanguard support. Autumn says there's a hive. I'll deal with it. You lot right to extract?"

"We're walking." Eric looked at his team. "Anyone hit?"

Negatives all around. Sophia realized she was bleeding from a cut on her arm she didn't remember getting. It didn't seem important.

"Right then." Forest pulled something from his pack, a sphere the size of a softball. "You lot extract to your vehicles. You don't want to be close when this baby goes off."

Eric, reloading with hands that barely shook, managed a laugh. "Appreciate the air support. How's Oleksiy feel about you flying his bird?"

Forest looked annoyed. "It's not his bird." He began to stump off, then glanced at the two gunners. "Keep watch, anything moves that's green, light it up."

One of them grinned. "Those things are brilliant. All you gotta do is slow the buggers down."

"Fill out the paperwork if you want to keep them. And don't call me sir, I work for a living."

A long wheelbase Landcruiser roared up in a cloud of dust, and four figures piled out, two more unstrsapping boxes of ammunition and passing them out of the canvas covered rear. Forest jogged over to brief them while his two gunners maintained overwatch.

Forest grinned at Sophia. "How was your first field trip?"

"Terrifying."

"Good, you were paying attention. Eric, she do alright?"

"Follows orders, doesn't panic, manages to keep the pointy end away from friendlies. She'll do."

Forest's grin widened. "High praise from Eric. Right, bugger off and let me work."

In the Troopie, driving back to town, nobody spoke for a while. Then Davies started laughing. Murphy joined in. Eric was trying not to smile.

"What?" Sophia demanded.

"Ma'am, you just survived your first contact. You're one of us now." Davies was grinning. "Welcome to the shit."

"There's an initiation?"

"There's a shit storm, there always is. And you weathered it. Eric made you reload under fire. That's the test."

She looked at Eric, who shrugged. "You dropped the magazine. Had to see if you'd freeze or figure it out."

"I could have been killed!"

"We all could have. But you weren't. You picked it up, put it in and kept shooting."

She wanted to be angry. But she was too tired, and weirdly pleased. She'd done it. Whatever 'it' was.

"Same time next week, ma'am?" Murphy asked cheerfully.

"Shut up, Murphy."

Back at base, Sophia found Forest in the armoury with Team Charlie, supervising as they logged the Vanguard weapons.

"Resonators?" she asked.

"Class One anti-organic weapons. Vibration generators, very effective against targets with rigid cell-walls. Unpleasant for you, lethal for your garden. And antithesis, which are not strictly plants but have a few things in common with them. Point, pull trigger, dog-weed turns into soup." He gestured at the four rifles being carefully inventoried. "I bought them with discretionary project points. Team Charlie gets to keep them if they pass the safety certification."

"You're arming a government security team with alien weapons."

"I'm arming them with tools that will keep them alive." He peered at her, examining her reaction.

"Vanguard response was professional and effective," picked up Eric. "Team Charlie deployed with Vanguard resonators and established an effective overwatch. Casualties were nil, mission objective was achieved: seeds eliminated, hive neutralized. I recommend a follow-up survey and a formal certification program for using Vanguard weapon systems."

Sophia was decisive. "I've already spoken to Forest about this, Eric. You'll draught all this jointly with his AI, 'Autumn.' I want your sign-off before anyone deploys those weapons again."

"Agreed. Ma'am, for the record, those resonators greatly improve the effectiveness of standard weapons. Neither works well alone, but as a one-two punch it's devastating. If we're going to be doing hive clearance, they're force multipliers we cannot pass up."

"I know. I was there." She paused. "I also know what it means to arm government troops with alien technology. We need to be very careful about this."

"Understood, ma'am

She watched Team Charlie handle the weapons with the careful reverence of people who understood exactly what they held.

"We need protocols."

"Already working on them. Autumn's drafting certification requirements. Eric's input is required, obviously." He smiled. "This is your show administratively. I'm just the Wally footing the bill."

"And if I said no?"

"Then I'd respect your authority and we'd find another solution. But I don't think you'll say no. You've been in the field now. You know what they're facing."

Another knock. Forest poked his head in.

"Quick word?"

"Come in."

He sat, looking uncharacteristically serious. "The Galya with gunners, Team Charlie following in the Triton — it worked, but it showed me gaps. The fast air support option is valuable, but I'm not Oleksiy. I got us there, but he would have done it better and faster. We need better coordination."

"You're not flying the Galya again without supervision."

"I could say 'it's my fucking helicopter,' but you're probably right. Sophia, the resonators made a difference, the boys on the ground can make 'em limp but they can't put 'em down fast enough. With resonators, slowing 'em down is deadly. Also, two gunners with Vanguard weapons providing suppressing fire from the air while Team Charlie swept on the ground — all three at once was a completely different show. And Autumn has an idea for a custom version of the resonator. The usual kind is self-powered single use. It can't juice things up the way the Gally can: it has four thousand horsepower, it can run them all day with enough oomph for a sweep. And Autumn can integrate with your recon drones, that worked perfectly. But that kind of power will kill people too so we need dedicated training, not field improv."

"I'm listening."

"Team Charlie needs proper certification with Vanguard weapons. My gunners got the field-expedient version — which means they once saw Oleksiy use them, they understood the basics, and I gave them a reminder. But formal training, range time, doctrine — that takes time. And I need to know when to escalate valley defense. Today wasn't close to us, but Oleksiy spun everyone up just in case."

"You think there'll be more incidents like today."

"I'm bloody sure there will. The dandelion problem is bigger than we realized. I want your teams to do this, but not as a suicide mission. They need real weapons, being evac'd is embarrassing."

She looked at the map. Sixteen more sites. How many would turn into hives?

"I'll talk to Vanderbilt about coordination protocols. You work with Eric on the weapons certification. And arrange training with Oleksiy for proper Galya operations—if you're going to be doing fast response, you need to not bounce the landing." She paused. "And Forest? Thank you. For responding, for the gunners, for Team Charlie, for all of it. Even if your flying gave them motion sickness."

"That's what Vanguards do. Protect people. And my flying isn't that bad."

"Eric said Oleksiy is 'smoother.'"

"Eric is a diplomat." He stood. "Oh, and Sophia? You did a bloody good job today. The drone call, using the batphone before it was a shitshow, trusting Eric's tactical decisions — that's the hard part. The shooting you'll get better at with practice."

The debrief was in Sophia's office, all four of them looking like they'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. The amount of vegetation in their gear said that might not be far from the truth.

"Right." Sophia had showered, changed, treated the cut that turned out to be from a branch not a dog-weed, and resumed her administrative role. "After-action report. Eric?"

"Team performed according to training. Encountered larger force than expected, correctly called for escalation. No casualties, mission objective partially achieved—seeds eliminated, hive neutralized. Recommend follow-up survey of area to ensure no additional hives."

"Agreed. Davies, Murphy, anything to add?"

They shook their heads. Professional to the last.

"Right. You're dismissed. Get some rest. And thank you."

After they filed out, Eric lingered. "Ma'am, permission to speak freely?"

"Granted."

"You did well today. Better than most first-timers. And calling the abort when you did, then backing my tactical decision — that's the kind of combat lead my boys can trust. Not easy for brass to subordinate themselves."

"It was terrifying."

"It always is. That's why we train. But you didn't freeze, you didn't get anyone killed by confusing the chain of command. You trusted the training." He paused. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you came. Helps to know the boss understands what we're doing out there."

After he left, Sophia sat in her office, looking at the red dots on the map. Fifteen more sites to check. And now she knew what "check" meant.

She picked up the phone, dialed.

"Vanderbilt? It's Hachia. I'm assigning myself to your field verification team next week. Yes, field team. No, I know what I'm doing. Well, I'm learning anyway. Set it up."

She hung up, looked at her hands. They'd stopped shaking. That seemed like progress.

Her phone buzzed with a message from Forest: Established hive. Not large but growing. Good call on the batphone. Probably saved lives. Welcome to our world.

Sixteen more sites. She assigned herself to all of them. Fuck the paperwork.

Clue-Time

The Tree of Liberty

Shorty looked irate. Watching the outside news would do that to a man, he thought. Snorting, he wondered why it had taken living here for two years to see through the charades.

He muttered under his breath: "Clue time for politicians: you are public servants, not public masters. We tell you what to think, not the other way around, and if you don't like it then your choices are suck it up, step down or admit you are a despot."

Sheila stood in the doorway, looking at him with an appraising face.

"You sound like Forest."

He blinked at her. "Then he's right. But it's just common sense. I don't know why I ever thought we lived in a democracy. Have any of them ever asked what you wanted them to do?"

She laughed.

He went on. "It occurred to me the other day that no-one I ever voted for ended up winning. I never realised it before, but at no point in my entire life have I ever had representation. How did I manage to live for forty years without noticing that?"

Sheila had an odd expression, like she'd reached a decision or something. She didn't say what, just walked up and embraced him.

"Aiden likes it here."

"Yeah, he's found some friends. Ken's lad, what was his name?"

"Scott. They're always off running around together. Nothing's ever a walk, always full tilt."

"Oh to be young again. Wish I'd grown up in a place like this. You ever hear Forest talk about the things he got up to as a kid? It's like a different planet."

"You know his childhood was fifty years ago on farms and the outskirts of country towns, right?"

"Yeah I guess. But in some ways he's created that here for the kids. Ken was telling me his lad was wandering with friends and Forest steered them away from the Antithesis compound. For a consolation prize he took them to pull frames out of one of his supers."

"Pull what out of what?"

"Beehives. Honeycomb."

"Is that where it came from? There's some in the kitchen! It's in one of those weird flat stoneware containers the hippie makes."

"Hippie?"

"The pig-lady with the young trees."

"Those pigs scare me. Have you seen the size of her sow?"

No Better Friend, No Worse Enemy

Ken "Doll" Murchison sat on the couch in the prefab double-donger he shared with his wife and son Scott, listening with one annoyed ear to a televised tale of political misconduct. The reporter probably didn't see it that way; she was all but fan-girling the Prime Minister, who was busy remonstrating the nation for not buying into the inherent special-ness and privilege his government accorded the 'First Nations'.

"For starters," said Ken to his TV, "they weren't first. They were the second wave."

On the screen the PM went on as though he hadn't heard.

"Second, they weren't a bloody nation. They were two or three hundred separate tribes. With a hundred distinct languages, no central government and no organised opposition when our lot turned up. Not. A. Nation."

The Prime Minister didn't care. He knew what was best, and the media would play it over and over until the voters forgot there was another point of view. Ken grabbed the remote and angrily switched it off. Watching made his blood boil, but if you didn't watch then you didn't even know what they were up to.

Outside with a beer he calmed, halfway through capping it and putting it back in the fridge so the kids or worse the missus didn't come home and see him drinking alone. Only on manœuvres did he ever really feel like he belonged. Him and the boys, discipline and hot brass against the slavering horde. He could shoot the plant monsters. Sometimes while he did it he fantasised about hosing down the parliament, washing away the smug lying thieves with blood and brass.

His boy came home, skinned knees and shorts, picking a tick off one arm and flicking it away, all gruesome grin and missing teeth and cheerful freedom from responsibility.

Ken looked at his watch.

"It does not take 45 minutes to get here from the school. Where've you been?"

"Miss Carter took us up the the fish nursery, they're spawning at last! Aiden's dad said that means Forest will stock the dams and next year we can go fishing. You always say how great the fishing was when you were a kid. I want to try that."

"I don't mean to rain on your parade, son, but it takes more than one year for the fish to grow. And that's if nothing goes wrong."

His father's voice was softer than usual, full of regret and the certain knowledge that the world would fail him again. There was no hope in it and the boy's face fell. An angry man with no hope and no place in the world realised his boy needed him. Wanted him.

"We won't be fishing for a while yet, but did you know the crawchies grow a lot faster than the fish? Forest put 'em in last year when they built the low dam. I actually do fancy our chances of a boil-up. Want to go see whether we can surprise mum with a seafood dinner?"

The Art of War

A crotchety old Slav with aching joints and a burden of memories no cultured person should be expected to bear was having a nice day. The kids who walked across his land without asking were well-mannered and apologetic. They probably hadn't known where the unfenced boundary was. He took them down the bottom to where he stood or kneeled to shoot. The 74cm barrel of his Mosin-Nagant was conspicuous where it sprawled beside ammo boxes on a table made from an old solid-timber door. Oleksiy showed them that they'd walked right across between him and his targets. Not only did they look suitably shaken, they recovered, took responsibility, said they'd warn their friends to stay away from there, and then made his day by asking whether he would teach them.

"One question, sir," said one of them, a boy named Aiden. "Rifles are loud. My dad says TV silencers are bullshit, real ones should be called mufflers not silencers. Why couldn't we hear you?"

The old face creased in a smile, it was an outstanding question.

"This and five more like it." He leaned in conspiratorially and picked up an odd device that looked like a chunky old radio. "Space magic. Gift from Autumn!"

"Why? Is it a secret?"

"Partly, young one. But some of my tools are very loud." He flicked a catch on a big oiled timber case with brass fittings, lifting it open to reveal the oily gleam of a well cared for MIL. The boys drew in their breath as one.

"Stand there. I show." He pointed. Putting on earmuffs and switching off the alien space magic, he looked back. "Open mouth. Put finger in ears, both. Is loud." He waited for compliance and seated his earmuffs, checked the boys again then fired. Almost a second later the round hit and all of them jumped. He didn't need to see to know. Making the weapon safe he unloaded and set it down.

"Alien space magic." He flicked it back on. "No need to upset ladies."

Scott and Aiden gawked with stars in their eyes at the crater where the target used to be.

Bubble, bubble, bees fix trouble

Janna's health wasn't the best. It never had been, and doing everything herself was killing her.

Grafting, potting, hauling water, fencing, feeding the pigs. Feeding the ducks. The chickens. The Guinea Fowls, the geese. Stopping the dogs from fighting...

She slumped into her hammock and closed her eyes. A moment, or possibly a few hours later, a small voice asked whether it could feed the piggies.

"Sure, why not. Someone has to." Her eyes closed again, then slammed open as she struggled out of the hammock to get between the child and a creature that might see her as a snack.

"Hettie!" she wheezed to a halt, leaning on the fence in puzzlement as a small girl offered an apple like a sacrament to the colossal sow, who accepted it with a gentleness Janna had only ever seen for the piglets.

"Hmph. How about that."

"I like her!" announced a small and cheerfully pink child.

Duty asserted itself.

"Does your mum know you're here?"

"Yes she's waiting down at the car. She said I couldn't just pet your animals, I have to ask first."

"Oh. Good."

"Can I feed them again tomorrow?"

"Why don't we go talk to your mum about that."

Just off the single lane road, parked in her gravel drive, was one of those tiny suburban shopping-cart cars, the electric kind. The woman inside waved energetically, like she was trying to fit into a stereotype. Soccer-mum, possibly.

"Hi! I'm Carol. This is my daughter, Lisbeth."

"Pleased to meet you, Carol. Lisbeth gets on very well with Hettie. I was surprised. I've never seen her take to anyone like that."

"There's ducks, mum! And chickens. And other stuff! I want to meet them all! Can we come back tomorrow? I want to show Tillie and Sarah too!" The munchkin practically vibrated with excitement. She spotted the goats, made a sort of "Squee!" and exploded in their direction. This too went improbably well. Janna half-expected her to ride them down or something, like a pint-sized nature goddess.

"I'm pretty busy, but if there's another adult to keep an eye on them, especially near the pig-run, feeding the animals would actually save me some time. Your daughter is certainly welcome to visit. Hettie has decreed it so."

"Hettie?"

"Her half a ton of new best friend up there. She's even allowed to approach the piglets. Which is not something I would normally advise. Being small and leading with an apple was very smart."

Gently extricated from her private goat-fest and settled in the passenger side of the shopping trolley, Lisbeth called out farewalls to all her new lifelong friends and vanished west along the valley road, toward the government compound.

Stumping wearily up to her little compound, Janna discovered all the animals had been fed. It was impossible, the little girl couldn't have moved haybales bigger than she was, or chopped the fifteen kilograms of pumpkin and assorted scraps that Hettie and piglets were currently enjoying. The poultry were fed, too. She was too tired to call out reality, and just accepted it as a miracle. Then she realised Forest was there, sitting on a stump with a cloud of bees whirling about him. Some broke off, swarming around her too. Through her fatigue she felt like she could almost hear voices from them. Silly.

They asked permission to ease her pain and she nodded confused assent, slumping in the old garden chair outside her tiny cabin. When she agreed, Forest put a cup in her hand and she drank. It tasted odd, oily orange juice with metallic sparkles.

"Drink it all," whispered the bees.

"I think you should lie down for a bit." Forest was helping her inside. She lay on her bed. Someone put a cover over her and closed the door.

In the morning everything hurt less, and the sun seemed brighter. Outside her door was a cauldron.

Invite It to Dinner

What remained of an olive tree was surrounded by pickets and chickenwire. The ground was damp and Forest removed a fifth leech. There was an oval hole on both sides of the enclosure. Finally it dawned on him the hole had been pushed through the wire. On both sides. Trixie was ropable. The tree was a mess and the days were cooling so it wasn't going to regrow before the frosts. To shut her up he ran a double layer of chickenwire around the base, binding the layers with tie-wire. He didn't know whether it was enough. The right answer was 4mm rigid fence-mesh panels bound together with heavy tie-wire, but if he said that to Trixie she'd be pissed with him for not doing it like that in the first place. She never understood that he didn't know things like that until the world showed him.

What he did know was that whatever it was, the creature was muscular, determined, round, strong and ground-based. Almost certainly good eating. So when the kids turned up at three thirty to practice putting arrows into haybales, he took them to see, then shared the observation that it's a lot easier to hunt when you know where the quarry will be. They spent the rest of the daylight building a hunter's blind.

He murmured, trying words, "If the rabbit eats your garden, invite it to dinner." He nodded to himself, because it sounded like something Confuscious would say.

It Takes a Village

The Project Liaison spoke: "After the death of Chris Borton, our resident Vanguard sent his apologies for not getting there fast enough."

Eric took over. "I'm inclined to take this at face value, because he put his money where his mouth is. If you sold this cartload of apology it would be enough to build a small house."

Shorty Fenaluci was on his feet, Italian monobrow beetled with rage. "We appreciate the intention but we are not for sale. It won't bring Chris back and we still had to tell his missus. You had to do it, Eric. You know what I mean."

"Take a look at what the gift is, Shorty. Then you'll understand."

Sophia handed him a large flat box. He popped the top off, dropping it and flicking out the garment.

"Woundsock. You wear it like underwear and if it's cut or punctured it self-applies as a tourniquet."

Eric handed it to the nearest man and another box appeared in his outstretched hand, this one smaller and deeper.

He popped it open.

"Medkit."

Lifting out a bright red bum-pack with an embroidered white cross, he unzipped the top and counted out the contents. He brandished a syringe looking thing.

"One Wound-Stop. Stops bleeding."

He tossed it to the group for inspection.

"One Hæmo-Restore. Replaces lost blood. You inject it."

That one was in a clear semi-rigid case because it had a needle already attached. He threw it out for inspection.

"And this is the gold: one Nanite Inhaler. You cannot buy these at any price. They are the reason Vanguards are so damn hard to kill, and you lucky sods get one each."

The other two items had come back. He threw out the inhaler, which briefly did a round and went back in the kit. Shorty stared at the pile. A whole cartload of second chances. But no second chance for Chris. He looked at the ground for a while, and reached a decision.

"Where is he?"

"Where's who?"

"The Vanguard."

Eric looked surprised by the question. Sophia took it.

"Up by the enclosures. He's not happy about losing a man so he's been staying close."

"We done for the day, here? I think we should go thank him in person."

Sophia took his measure and decided he wasn't going to do anything foolish.

"Sure. Early mark for anyone who wants to do that."

"Right!" said Shorty, in his paddock voice. "Squirt and Boxer, here's the shuttle keys. Get into town and hit the Star, get a cold slab of Peroni Red. No, get two. My wallet's in the console."

"Red? What the fuck is Peroni Red? Never heard of it."

"Lucky for you this area is full of Italian farmers. It's the good stuff. If the bottle-o next to Woolies doesn't have it then get it from the Star next to the IGA. It won't be on show, they'll get it out of the back room. And get a cold slab. And don't just say Peroni or they'll give you the retail shit. When you got the beer go to the butcher's and get half a lamb. While you're doing that I'll get my spit ready. In fact go to the butcher first or they'll close. If they don't have half a lamb get a couple of roasts. Tell em it's for a spit."

"Someone round up team C—"

"No," interrupted Sophia, regretfully putting her boss hat on, "if team B is drinking then team C is on standby."

"Someone tell team C they're on standby," continued Shorty without missing a beat, "And tomorrow Eric will stand them a spit and some beer, won't you Eric!" His cheeky grin flashed across the room. "Right, you lot. Scrub up, we're visiting. Lefty and Geezer, get a table and some folding chairs, chuck em in the ute, then scrub up and drive it up there.

"Shorty?"

"Yes, Eric?"

"We're not quite done yet."

The back paddock voice made another appearance. "We're not done yet sorry, everyone back in!"

Sophia was grinning and holding up another elegant box like some sort of trophy. She tossed it to Eric who opened it with a flourish.

"Magic space guns!"

"Looks like an SMG to me."

"It is an SMG." Eric tossed a clip to Shorty and slapped another into the weapon. He racked a round, turned and fired at the ground. Firing was relatively muted. Impact was not. There was a thirty centimetre crater. Dirt rained a moment later.

Eric stacked colour-coded clips. "Red, explosive. Yellow, incendiary. Blue, armour-piercing. Armour piercing is interesting, it fires in bursts of three. The first two make a hole. The third is a nylon round that bounces around inside the armour. Nasty."

"No normal rounds?"

A black magazine joined the stack.

"Any other kinds?"

"Depleted uranium was vetoed by her majesty here."

"Spoilsport!"

"You're welcome," said Sophia.

"Where do we get refills?"

"Same as regular ammo. This stuff is stupidly valuable so we're tracking it as assets. Use your regular weapons first, you'll know when to break these out. No more body bags."

"Limited supply then?"

"Depends on how much you like company. Vanguards get points for kills, they buy this stuff with points. If he goes with you he gets half points for your kills and that buys you more ammo".

Shorty started to laugh. "Anything else, Santa?"

"Not today, we have to get back to the North Pole."

Sophia tapped his shoulder and held out a much larger box.

"Oh yeah. I forgot. This is for Lipssh, Lipswitch... the Pole."

"What is it? Aren't you gonna open it?"

"It's a SPANKr like the one the Ukrainian has." Eric grinned wickedly. "Put it in his locker and wait for him to find it. And get the security camera footage, I want to see his face. There's two rounds in the case, we have more."

Shorty found a permanent marker and a giant post-it. "Dear Shitsticks, apparently you have been a good boy this year. Santa visited up and he left this for you. Please don't test this one indoors."

They set it down and left, smiling at the good natured argument behind them over whether to test fire it before or after the Pole got back.

Pale Blue Dots

"The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff."
— Carl Sagan

Forest was clearing brush near the creek when the question came. Not from one of the kids this time, but from himself, the thought surfacing as he paused to wipe sweat from his forehead.

"Autumn, what do other worlds look like? The ones with life, I mean."

Curious question. Why do you ask?

"Just wondering. We're not alone anymore, are we? There's you, there's the Antithesis. What else is out there?"

There was a pause, then Autumn's presence drone emerged from where it had been cataloguing native grasses by the waterline. Her lilac form shimmered into focus, and suddenly the air in front of Forest filled with images.

Worlds. Dozens of them. Green continents under blue skies. Forests and plains and oceans. Purple-leaved trees on one, orange-tinted vegetation on another, but fundamentally... familiar.

"They look like here," Forest said slowly. Then, with growing certainty: "Panspermia then. Life spreading world to world, that's why it's all so similar."

No.

The single word hung in the air. Autumn's avatar wore an expression that was equal parts amused and pedagogical—her "teaching face," as the kids had started calling it.

"No?" Forest frowned at the images. "They're nearly identical. Green plants, blue skies, liquid water. That can't be convergent evolution, planets don't evolve."

It can, it is and they do, via life. Which does spread sometimes. Panspermia is a thing. It's just not everything.

Forest set down his clearing saw and gave Autumn his full attention, the way he did when she was building up to something important.

"Alright, I'll bite. Why are all the plants green if not panspermia? Why is the sky blue on all of them? Why are they all in the right range for liquid water oceans?"

You're asking the wrong question. You're asking 'why are these worlds similar?' The right question is: 'why would they be different?'

Forest opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. "You've lost me."

The images shifted, consolidated into a single world that could have been Earth, or any of the others. Autumn's avatar gestured at it like a lecturer at a blackboard.

You don't get life without these conditions, Forest. Solar irradiation high enough to power photosynthesis but not so high it's disruptive. An atmosphere deep enough to provide protection, shallow enough not to crush. Liquid water as a solvent. These aren't coincidences—they're prerequisites.

"So life can only develop under these specific conditions?"

Not specific—narrow range, yes. But the universe is very large. Even narrow ranges produce millions of candidates. What you're seeing isn't 'why are these the same,' it's 'these are the only ones that worked.'

Forest absorbed this, then pointed at one of the worlds with purple foliage. "What about that one? Purple instead of green. Different photosynthesis?"

Autumn sighed.

Photosynthesis is a whole class of metabolic pathways. Your own plants have three different ways to do it. C3, C4, and CAM pathways. The basic process is the same: capture light energy, split water, reduce carbon dioxide to sugars. But the mechanisms vary depending on environmental pressures.

"Three ways? There's the regular one and the thing cactus does, what else?"

Regular terrestrial plants use C3 and C4. C3 is the oldest, most common. It works fine in moderate conditions. C4 evolved later, more efficient in hot, bright environments—that's your corn, your sugarcane. CAM is 'the thing cactus does.' Your succulents. Same end result, different optimization.

She gestured at the purple-leaved world.

That one has a different stellar spectrum. Their sun peaks in a slightly different range, so their chlorophyll analogue absorbs different wavelengths. The chemistry is nearly identical—still magnesium-based porphyrin rings, still electron transport chains. Just tuned to different light.

"Seriously? 'Porphyrin' means purple." Forest stared at the images, his mind working through the implications. "So it's always chlorophyll?"

Or something functionally identical. Look, Forest—there are only so many atoms to work with. Carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen. These are the abundant ones in the universe, and they have the same properties everywhere. Carbon makes long chains and complex structures. Hydrogen bonds. Oxygen oxidises. Nitrogen is stable but reactive when you need it to be.

"It's always hydrocarbons because those are the abundant atoms with the right qualities," Forest said slowly.

Exactly. Life isn't magical. It's chemistry. Very complex chemistry, but chemistry nonetheless. And chemistry is basically a statistical description of behaviours rooted directly in physics. The same physics everywhere in the universe.

Forest picked up his saw, but didn't start it. He was still thinking.

"So when we look at these worlds, we're not seeing copies of Earth. We're seeing... what? The only solutions to the equation?"

That's a good way to put it. The equation describes self-replicating chemical systems that can harvest energy and maintain themselves against entropy. The solution space is heavily constrained by physics and chemistry. You need liquid water as a solvent. You need a certain temperature range. You need solar energy or some other power source. You need an atmosphere.

"And green plants?"

Chlorophyll absorbs red and blue light, reflects green. That's why your plants are green. It's not arbitrary—those wavelengths carry the most energy from your yellow sun. A red dwarf star would produce different optimums. A blue giant even more so. But the principle is the same: capture photons, convert their energy to chemical bonds.

She paused, and her avatar's expression softened slightly.

Life follows the same path everywhere, Forest. Not because it's copying itself, not because some celestial gardener planted it. But because there's really only one path that works. The universe has rules, and life obeys them.

Forest was quiet for a long moment, looking at the images of distant worlds under alien suns. Green, purple, orange—but all of them recognizable. All of them possible. All of them following the same fundamental laws.

"Lucky I have a robust ego," he said finally, "That might make me feel small and irrelevant."

I'd say it makes you significant. You're not an accident, Forest. None of this is. You're what happens when the universe does chemistry for four billion years. You're what carbon atoms do when they get clever.

He began to laugh.

Alright, I'll bite.

"Nitrogen, phosphorus and a hydrocarbon bumped into each other in a rock pool. After a scuffle, they were friends for life. Phosphorus had a burning desire to meet up again but the hydrocarbon made an acid rejoinder. An Italian radical planted his flag in the rock pool, saying 'eats amine!'"

Her avatar peered levelly at him with that special look women reserve for men who've told dad jokes.

Undeterred, he continued. "I used to argue about this with a friend. He felt that the complexity of life was too implausible for chance."

It is, if you assume it all happens at once. This is just poor critical thinking. Since we are here, it must have happened. Since it can't have happened that way, it obviously happened some other way. You mentioned another friend, a backgammon player. Remember the story you told me, in which he rolled twenty-two doubles in a row and your friend Odie had a tantrum calling it complete bullshit, and you all fell about laughing while it went on and on?

"Yes?"

1 in 6²² is very unlikely, but suppose you let him keep rolling the dice, double or not, until 22 doubles occur. Does that change it?

"Obviously. Each double is one in six with no dependency on what went before. He needs on average three rolls for each so it should take about... bloody hell, it's one in two likely to happen in sixty-six rolls. It's practically a certainty in 132 rolls. Well, not a certainty but very likely."

To be fair abiogenesis doesn't benefit from this mechanism. But in a billion years of rolling the dice, self-replicating molecules are quite likely. Not DNA, but the precursors.

Despite himself, Forest smiled. "Starstuff."

Starstuff. Every atom in your body was forged in a star that died before your sun was born. The calcium in your bones, the iron in your blood, the carbon in your cells, all of it forged in stellar furnaces. You're not just in the universe, Forest. You are the universe, looking at itself.

Forest looked down at his calloused hands, dirt under the nails, scars from a lifetime of work. The same hands that held tools, built things, fought dog-weeds. Made of atoms from dead stars, following the same chemistry as life on a thousand worlds.

"Right then," he said, restarting the clearing saw. "This existential crisis isn't going to clear itself."

That's the spirit. Nothing grounds cosmic perspective quite like manual labour.

"Piss off, Autumn."

I live to serve.

He went back to work and himself looking at the weeds with new eyes. Four billion years of chemistry. The same chemistry everywhere. Green leaves catching photons from a star, splitting water molecules, building sugars one carbon at a time.

Life wasn't unlikely. It was rare because conditions had to be just so. When they were, when the temperature, the atmosphere, the solar radiation, the liquid water, when all of the celestial ducks lined up, life didn't just maybe happen. It was a big universe; every week someone won the national lottery. Life was the universal lottery. It wouldn't be a stretch to imagine a new cradle of life every damn day. Most of them would be outside the light cone, but there were ways around that. Autumn was proof. He looked up through the blue, past it. A thousand light year stare, into the past and the future alike.

It was practically inevitable. He wondered gloomily whether the antithesis was inevitable.

The clearing saw's engine settled into its familiar rhythm. Above, a kookaburra laughed at some private joke. The creek burbled over stone smoothed by processes that really were older than the hills. Erosion, oxidation, a slow and frenzied dance of atoms to the music of the spheres.

Forest smiled and kept working. Starstuff, indeed. He burst into song.

"There's a star man, standing on the ground. He's a crazy dreaming bastard but his ideas are sound..."

Autumn rolled her eyes and smiled like a lilac sphinx.

Valley Community Oral History Project

Interview Subject: Janna Miller
Interviewer: Emma Whitfield (Age 15)
Date: [Current Date]
Location: Janna's nursery, beside the pig enclosures

Emma: Could you tell me your name and what you do here in the valley?

Janna: I'm Janna Miller, and I run the nursery here. Though most people just call me the pig lady, and I wear that title with pride. My sows are magnificent creatures — intelligent, protective, fierce when they need to be. People fear them because they don't understand them. Size isn't aggression; it's capability.

[Background noise: Lisbeth's voice calling "Here, Hettie! Here girl!" followed by the contented grunting of pigs and a disconcerting scrunch of pumpkin.]

Much like the valley itself, really.

Emma: I heard the antithesis destroyed your nursery. How did you survive that?

Janna: I'm not wealthy. Never have been, probably never will be. The nursery business keeps me fed and pays the bills, but there's never much left over. When the antithesis ate a season's worth of work, it nearly broke me. But this place doesn't let people fall. Forest and Autumn didn't just replace my Hummingbird — they gave me five more and helped rebuild better than before. That's what community means: shared struggle, shared success.

[Sound of small feet running, then Lisbeth's delighted squeal: "The baby goats are so fluffy!"]

Emma: What about Hettie? Everyone talks about your sow surviving the attack.

Janna: When Hettie came home after the antithesis attack, I cried. Not just because she survived, but because she represented hope. Life finds a way, even in the worst circumstances. The piglet that survived — probably by staying close to mama — is thriving now.

Animals understand things humans forget: family matters, loyalty matters, fighting for what you love matters. Hettie could have run anywhere, but she came home. That's wisdom cities can't teach.

[Lisbeth appears at the fence: "Miss Janna, Hettie wants to show Emma the piglets!" Janna smiles: "After we finish talking, sweetheart."]

Emma: Tell me about the van. Dad says it's... interesting.

Janna: [Laughs] My van is old, ugly, and unreliable. It's also mine, paid for with honest work and maintained with stubborn refusal to give up. In a world where everything is leased, licensed, or controlled by someone else, owning something outright is revolution.

When I drive past the government complexes in their shiny vehicles, I smile. Their equipment comes with strings attached. Mine just comes with character.

Emma: What's it like working with the soil here?

Janna: The valley soil is challenging — ancient, mineral-poor, demanding. It teaches humility and respect.

Emma: Is she...

Janna: Riding a goat? I find it's best not to think too hard about it. Where were we? Yes, my nursery specialises in native plants that thrive in these conditions. Settlers keep trying to grow European vegetables and flowers, then wonder why they struggle. I teach them to work with the land, not against it.

[Distant quacking from the duck pond, followed by Lisbeth's excited chatter to the ducks.]

Emma: But how? It's taller than she is!

Janna: He kneels and she walks up his horns. Don't look at me like that, I warned you not to think about it. If your head hurts, take it up with the goat. Though I'll warn you, he's a stroppy old bastard.

Emma: I heard you got in trouble for using military drones to protect chickens?

Janna: [Chuckles] Damn quolls killed seventeen good layers in one night. The drones were Forest's idea. He said it was no problem, he had better ones and the blue lady took care of it. All I know is they fly, they shoot and you can't see 'em. Sophia had a fit about that. Apparently they're military-grade stealth drones. To her, it was waste of strategic resources. To me, it was a favour from Forest. Worked, too, unlike some of his ideas.

Look, quolls are native and protected and cute as hell. They're also chicken killers. I wasn't about to start shooting them, but I wasn't going to lose more birds either. The drones scare them off without hurting anyone. Problem solved.

Besides, they were Forest's drones and he gave them to me. We don't need anyone's permission for that. Fortunately she seems to have come to her senses.

Emma: Do you think of yourself as a teacher?

Janna: Not really. I just have answers people need. When new families arrive in the valley, they end up here learning about local conditions, appropriate plants, and practical living. I've become unofficial orientation coordinator without trying.

City people are useless with anything that grows. They're used to buying solutions instead of growing them, to convenience instead of actually knowing how to do things. But they learn, or they leave. The valley doesn't suffer fools.

I help someone choose the right tree for their soil, I'm teaching them to read their land and work with what they've got instead of fighting it. Basic stuff, really.

[Lisbeth runs up again: "The piglets are sleeping in a pile! Come see!" Then runs off without waiting for an answer.]

Emma: What about the valley kids? Do you work with them much? My little brother comes up here a lot. He won't shut up about it.

Janna: When they come here I put them to work. Can't do that without teaching a few things. Except Lisbeth. She teaches me. They listen because I know things worth knowing, not because some institution certified my expertise.

Emma: How do you see money and economics here?

Janna: Money is a tool, not a goal. It's useful in town but we live in a different world here. All that pressure to accumulate wealth for its own sake is why city people are half mad.

When I auctioned that first empty Hummingbird, the money mattered less than the proof that our community values people who actually do things over people with fancy certificates. They didn't want me 'in business', they wanted me in the valley. And I'll tell you why, or one example. You know that orchard he loves so much, the trees that bend with fruit every winter?

Emma: Yes? Mum takes me to jam day sometimes.

Janna: I put them in, not long before your dad joined the ground team. And I go down then every autumn and prune them. Forest doesn't have the sense to do it. He's all, 'it was covered in bloom,' soft-hearted romantic twit that he is.

Emma: What do your pigs mean to you?

Janna: Everything: independence, intelligence, fierce protection of family. No tolerance for threats. They're not pets or livestock — they're partners in making this place work.

City visitors see my pigs and get scared or disgusted. Valley people see what they actually are: waste disposal, soil improvement, security system, and emergency food if things go really bad. It's all about knowing what you're looking at.

[Lisbeth's voice, more distant now: "Bye-bye duckies! Bye-bye chickens! I'll be back tomorrow!"]

Emma: What do you think the valley represents for the future?

Janna: Every plant I grow, every pig I raise, every person I teach is keeping this valley strong. I'm not just running a nursery. I'm helping people remember how to be real.

When the outside world goes to hell, we'll have food, medicine, materials, and know-how. Not because we're doomsday preppers, but because we never stopped being connected to the land and each other and the things that actually matter.

[Lisbeth suddenly appears beside us, cradling a duck in her arms with what looks like a rat perched contentedly on her shoulder. Two minutes ago she was sitting on the ground between a sow and her piglets without a murmur of protest from a creature that threatens me if I so much as walk up to the fence.]

Emma: Is that a rat?

The bees whispered and Janna knew.

Janna: No, it's a bilby. Where did you find that, sweetheart?

Lisbeth: [To Janna] She was eating a spider! It was big and hairy!

Lisbeth: [To Emma] Janna knows everything about plants! They make sugar from sunshine and water and car-bang dioxide using photosilliness! And she talks to the animals too! Don't you, Miss Janna?

[Janna looks slightly embarrassed but amused.]

Emma: [To Lisbeth] Yes, that's right. And they make the oxygen we breathe too!

Lisbeth: No they don't! They make some but at night they use it up again because they're still alive but there's no sunshine so they hafta use the meta-, the metabollo-, the other way, same as us. It's dirt germs that poop out oxygen!

Janna: [To Lisbeth] The sugar oxidation metabolism, yes. And cyanobacteria, yes. Sweetheart, I think your mum's here to pick you up. [To Emma] This little patch of the valley is my proof that people can live well without wrecking the place. Every good garden, every healthy pig, every working ecosystem shows that there's a better way. Also proves that the best place for a goat is on a barbeque spit.

The antithesis forced humanity to evolve, but we were overdue anyway. We'd forgotten how to live with our environment instead of bulldozing it. Maybe we needed a good kick in the arse.

[Interview concludes as Lisbeth's mother Carol arrives to collect her. Lisbeth carefully returns the duck to its pond and somehow coaxes the bilby back to wherever it came from, then calls out farewells to all her animal friends.]

Interviewer's Notes: Janna really lights up when talking about her plants and animals. Throughout our conversation, she kept one eye on Lisbeth, making sure she was safe around the larger animals. There's something almost magical about how well Lisbeth gets along with all the creatures here — even Hettie, who Janna says doesn't usually warm up to strangers.

The most remarkable moment was when Lisbeth casually walked between Hettie and her piglets (something that would normally be extremely dangerous) and emerged completely unharmed, then appeared at our interview holding a duck and with a bilby sitting on her shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. When she insisted that Janna "talks to the animals," I couldn't help but wonder if she was projecting her own unusual gift. The whole property feels like a working ecosystem where everything has its place and purpose.

Though Lisbeth may be confused about who talks to the animals. Last semester I read a book by Marion Zimmer-Bradley about the Arthurian legend, through the eyes of Morgana. It's hard not to see Janna as a priestess, and Lisbeth as a little nature goddess. When I got home I checked. Lisbeth was right. The Amazon isn't the lungs of anything.

Transcript prepared for Valley Community Oral History Project
Class of 2025, Valley Education Cooperative

Politically Correct

KM: "That is not what I meant. It's not even what I said!"
FG: "That's what happens when you let people centralise."
— The very unhappy ghost of Karl Marx talking to Forest Grump

The Hendersons' kitchen table groaned under a bounty of fresh scones and jam still warm from the morning's berry picking. Cups of tea wafted aromatic in the afternoon light. Around it sat four women. Janet Henderson, Sarah Chen, Maria Santos, whose husband had just started in the foundry. Sarah was a psych graduate. She'd given up on HR to teach the valley children.

Number four was Rebecca Morrison. She was new. Her family had come down from Brisbane three weeks ago. Her partner Des was filling the empty slot in Ground Team B.

Rebecca's cup rattled against its saucer as she set it down. "I just don't understand how you can be so casual about it. Yesterday I watched someone hand over a week's worth of preserves to the Williams family just because they mentioned running low. No payment, no IOU, nothing. And when I offered to help with the community garden, they told me to take whatever I needed for my family. It's..." she struggled for the word, "I don't mean to be rude, you've all been so nice to me. But I can't think of a polite way to say it."

"Say what?"

She squirmed, but they were persistently unthreatening. Her voice shrank. "It looks like communism to me."

Maria chuckled, spreading jam on a scone. "Is that what's worrying you? A naughty word? Tell us what you think. If we don't agree, we'll say so."

"My grandfather fled Hungary in '56. My father drilled into me that communism destroys everything it touches. I see what's happening here and it looks exactly like what he warned me about."

Sarah leaned back in her chair, considering. "What specifically are you afraid of?"

"The collectivisation, the shared resources, the way decisions get made by committees instead of individuals. It's textbook communist organization."

Janet looked puzzled. "What committees? Mrs. Patterson saw the Williams family needed preserves and cleared a bit of space in her pantry. She likes them."

Maria nodded. "Forest would flip out if anyone tried to set up a distribution committee. He says the moment you create bureaucracy to manage sharing, you've killed the sharing and kept the bureaucracy. Why do you think we have get togethers like this? They serve the same purpose and they're way less boring."

"But the Stalinists—"

"Were raging centralists at huge scale. And they weren't doing it to their own children," Sarah interrupted gently.

Rebecca frowned. "The Chinese—"

"Are raging centralists at huge scale and aren't doing it to their own children."

"I don't care, communism is never good and no child of mine will ever have to suffer it."

This provoked genuine laughter from around the table. Sarah set down her teacup with a soft clink. "Every family in the country, yours included, is a communist dictatorship. Wealth in common, food, shelter, medicine and indoctrination provided by the family to every member impartially and regardless of contribution. 'From each according to his means, to each according to his need.'"

Rebecca sputtered, trying to dismantle that. Failure to find a flaw produced massive cognitive dissonance. It had to be a trick.

Janet, watching the struggle with kind eyes, leaned forward. "Do you tell your children to share?"

"Obviously. It's just common decency. You cannot tell me that's all the Stalinists wanted."

"No," Sarah said, refilling Rebecca's cup, "what I'm telling you is that the decency of sharing is the only part of communism that matters. The rest is political bullshit and excuses to grab power, same as every other political group."

The kitchen fell quiet except for the tick of the wall clock and distant laughter from children playing in the yard. Rebecca stared into her tea.

Maria broke the silence. "When I first got here, I had the same reaction. Miguel and I kept waiting for the catch, for someone to present us with a bill or demand something in return. It took months before I understood that the 'catch' is that when nobody will make you return a favour, you'd have to be a total jerk not to. And also not very smart, generosity goes to the deserving because it's optional."

"But without the state apparatus," Janet added, cutting another scone in half. "No bureaucrats, no five-year plans, no secret police. Just families looking after families because that's what humans do when they're not fighting over artificial scarcity."

Sarah nodded. "The scale makes all the difference. Your family operates successfully on communist principles because they're your family. Accountability is baked in. The valley's kind of one big—" she interrupted herself, considering what she was about to say, nodding, " — happy family. We're all raising children together."

Rebecca looked like she had a lemon in her mouth. "You make it sound like a cult. Creepy."

Maria did her best googly-eyes and silly voice. "The cult of free childcare and no traffic jams! You will never escape us bwahahahahaaaa!"

Rebecca looked up from her cup. "And if someone takes advantage? If someone just... takes without giving back?"

"Same thing that happens in your family when one of your kids is selfish," Maria said with a grin. "You don't have to beat them to make them wish they hadn't. Even just disappointed looks at the dinner table and conversations about how we treat each other."

"Plus," Janet added, "it's hard to be a freeloader when everyone knows everyone. Try being the person who never brings anything to share when there are only two hundred of us."

Rebecca was quiet for a long moment, watching the afternoon light shift across the worn wooden table. "My father would roll over in his grave if he knew I was even considering this."

"Your father was afraid of totalitarian states that used communist rhetoric to justify tyranny," Sarah said softly. "He was right to fear that. But what he was really afraid of was his children being taken from him and controlled by strangers. Here, you keep your children. You help raise everyone else's too, but they're still yours."

Through the window, Rebecca could see her eight-year-old son teaching the local kids a card game on the front lawn, all of them sharing a pile of homemade biscuits someone's mother had sent along.

"The funny thing," she said finally, "is that this feels more like the America my grandfather thought he was coming to than anything I ever experienced in Brisbane."

"I don't think that place ever existed. It was a PR lie. Send us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free so we can put them in slums and sweatshops and tell them it's their own fault for not working harder."

Rebecca sighed, deflating. She looked out the window at her boy.

"He's happy. That's all Miklos wanted."

A knock at the back door interrupted the moment. Janet called out "Come in!" and Tom Bradley appeared, struggling with an enormous wooden crate that looked like it weighed as much as he did.

"Ladies, I've got a problem," he announced, setting the crate down with a thud that made the teacups rattle. "My mate Dave up in Lismore had a tree come down in his orchard. Insurance won't cover the fruit loss, but the tree was loaded. He sent down whatever he could salvage before it spoiled."

The women peered into the crate. It was packed solid with citrus—oranges, lemons, limes, grapefruits, and several varieties Rebecca couldn't identify.

"Good Lord, Tom," Janet said, "there must be twenty kilos in there."

"Sixty, there's two more in the ute. Dave said to take whatever I wanted and pass the rest along." Tom looked hopefully around the table. "Anyone interested?"

Rebecca watched with fascination as each woman immediately began to refuse.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly—we've still got fruit from last week's swap," Janet started.

"Miguel just brought home a bag from the Kowalskis yesterday," Maria waved her hand.

"The kids are barely keeping up with what's in our bowl already," Sarah added.

Rebecca found herself about to automatically refuse as well, then caught herself. "But... it's free fruit. Good fruit, by the look of it."

"What would I do with sixty kilogrammes of oranges? They'd be mouldy before we got halfway through."

Maria picked up a huge grapefruit, turning it over in her hands. "Now, if someone wanted to make marmalade..." She looked around the table with raised eyebrows.

"Oh!" Sarah sat up straighter. "That's a brilliant idea. My grandmother's recipe could handle this much fruit, but I'd need help with the prep work."

"I make a mean lemon curd," Janet offered. "Could probably do a dozen jars worth from this lot."

Rebecca watched the transformation with amazement. What had started as polite refusal was rapidly becoming an impromptu production plan.

"The cafeteria kitchen has those big preserving pots," Maria added thoughtfully. "And if we're doing a proper preserving session, we should let everyone know. Mrs. Chen's been wanting to learn jam-making, and the Morrison family might want some of the fresh fruit for their kids."

"Wait," Rebecca interrupted, "you're talking about turning this into... what, a community event?"

"A working bee," Tom nodded, looking pleased. "Happens all the time. Someone gets an abundance of something, we turn it into an excuse to get together and make something useful."

Sarah was already reaching for a notepad from Janet's kitchen drawer. "If we do it Sunday after lunch, the kids can play while we work. We'll need jars, sugar, pectin if anyone has it..."

"The Patel family has the good scales for getting proportions right," Maria said.

"And the Williams owe me a favor after those preserves," Janet added with a grin. "They can bring the cream for the scones."

Rebecca looked from face to face, trying to process what she was witnessing. "But... who gets to keep the jam?"

The question brought the planning to a halt. Four faces turned to look at her with expressions of gentle confusion.

"Everyone who wants some," Tom said slowly, as if explaining something obvious to a child. "That's the whole point."

"But someone's providing the fruit, someone's kitchen, someone's time and labour..."

"And someone will provide jars, someone else will bring sugar, and the cafeteria is going to find out it's providing the space," Sarah said. "Sheila will sort that out. By the time we're done, we'll have made more than any one family could use. Everyone takes home what they need, and the surplus goes on the community shelf for winter."

Maria leaned back in her chair. "Last month we did this with apples from the Kowalski orchard. Made enough sauce and butter to last three families through winter, plus extra for anyone who needed it. The month before that, it was Mrs. Patterson's tomato glut — we put up enough pasta sauce for half the valley."

"The beauty of it," Janet said, slicing into a fresh scone, "is that abundance makes generosity the only sensible option. When you've got more than you can use, sharing isn't a sacrifice — it's just practical. More than that, hoarding is silly and wasteful."

Rebecca stared at the overflowing crate of fruit. In Brisbane, this would have been a windfall to hoard, sell, or carefully ration. Worse, Here, it was becoming the centerpiece of a social event that would benefit everyone. Also, she'd been given a huge bottle of incredibly good pasta sauce. The provenance was suddenly clear. Pangs of guilt struck briefly.

"So this is how it works," she said quietly. "Not committees. Just... friends."

Dr Chen took her hands and looked directly in her eyes. "This place is odd. It's small. There's no privacy, no secrets. There's also no loneliness, and there aren't any forgotten people. It's freakish, and it's wonderful. Help us keep it like this."

"Exactly," Tom said, hefting the crate back up. "I'll drop this at the caf and let people know we're doing preserves on Sunday. Should be fun."

As he headed for the door, Rebecca called after him, "Tom? What do you get out of it? You could have kept the fruit, sold it, done something for yourself."

He paused in the doorway, looking genuinely puzzled by the question. "What would I want with sixty kilos of citrus? I live alone, and I hate marmalade." He grinned. "But I love community jam-making days. Best gossip in the valley, plus I always go home with something nice I wouldn't have thought of making."

After he left, the kitchen returned to its previous quiet, but the energy had shifted. Rebecca sat in thoughtful silence, processing what she'd just witnessed.

"That wasn't a show." she said finally. "You really are like this."

Sarah nodded. "Surplus culture, Maria calls it. When there's enough for everyone, competition is counterproductive. Cooperation works better and it's less lonely. Forest would say 'The point of profit is money and the point of money is to get people to share their stuff. We skipped the paperwork.'"

"This is not what your father feared," Janet added, looking directly at Rebecca. "Tom's fruit is Tom's fruit. No one has any right to it. It is his. If he wanted to make sixty kilos of marmalade for himself, or sell it, or even let it rot in his shed, that's up to him. He could put fifty jars of marmalade in his coolroom and eat it over the next decade, but this happens every year. How much marmalade does a man need?"

Maria picked up the thread. "Hoarding is silly. Oranges don't last forever. Do your friends a favour. Or help someone you don't like, just because you can. S'got nothing to do with," big air quotes and googly eyes, "Communism. It's just not being an arsehole. We have enough to eat. What we never have enough of is friends."

"It's a bit of a paradox," mused the good doctor, pontificating between biscuits. "There is no 'public interest' here, but at the same time there's nothing else. There's no grand plan," Sarah continued. "We're just," she waved her hands, seeking words, "private people looking out for each other. Abundance makes generosity the rational choice, and vanity is universal — who wants to think of herself as a greedy jerk?"

"Besides," Maria added with a grin, "imagine eating sixty kilogrammes of fruit by yourself. You'd be a walking vitamin C tablet."

Rebecca found herself laughing —really laughing— for the first time since the move. Outside, her son was still teaching card games to his new friends, and somewhere in the distance, Tom was probably already spreading word about Sunday's preserving bee.

"He's happy," she said again, watching through the window. "Maybe Miklos would have understood. I wish I could ask him." Sadness dripped from her voice, but she didn't explain.

Sighing, a thought struck her. "What if you're actually really busy with something?"

The entire mothers' club looked at her like a slow student.

"If that's true then the real question is why you haven't told us. If it's that important or urgent we can help you, even if it's just housekeeping while you're busy."

"I don't know how my husband would feel about that. He is proud."

This produced merriment. Six women found different ways to say "I have never seen a man who wasn't pleased at not having to do housework."

A radio in a charging cradle demanded attention: beeedunk! Janet picked it up, "Hendersens, over."

Forest's voice crackled. "I hear we have a citrus glut."

"I'm sure you girls have it under control, but I was just talking to Oleksiy. If you can spare say ten or twenty kilogrammes, how do you feel about us having a crack at some Cointreau?"

Maria was on her feet punching the air. "Pick 'em up at the caf!"

Sarah and Janet stared levelly at Maria, faces carefully blank.

"What?"

"You are so predictable." They grinned.

The afternoon sun beat down on the maintenance yard where Des Morrison and Jake Chen were elbow-deep in the guts of Ground Team B's primary excavator. Tools lay scattered across a workbench that had seen better decades, and the smell of diesel and grease hung heavy in the still air.

Des wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of oil. "Pass me the seventeen, would you?"

Jake handed over the wrench and leaned against the excavator's track. "How's Rebecca settling in?"

"Bugger, it's an eighteen." A bigger socket appeared and he swapped them.

"Still adjusting." Des grunted as he torqued down a bolt. "Had a bit of a moment at the kitchen table yesterday. Apparently we're all communists now."

Jake laughed. "Oh yeah, Sarah mentioned that. The 'every family is a communist dictatorship' argument?"

"That's the one. Nearly broke her brain." Des emerged from under the hydraulic assembly, wiping his hands on a rag that was probably making them dirtier. "Can't say she's entirely wrong though, can you?"

"About what?"

"The valley. The sharing. The whole 'from each according to his ability' thing." Des selected a socket from the set, squinting at the size markings worn nearly smooth by years of use. "I mean, I get it — Forest's done something special here. But Rebecca's old man fled Hungary in '56. She grew up on stories about what happens when collectivisation goes wrong."

Jake was quiet for a moment, considering. "Different scale though, isn't it? We're not talking about central planning for millions of people. We're talking about Tom Bradley having too many bloody oranges."

"Still." Des disappeared back under the excavator. "The redistribution of resources without market mechanisms. Communal decision-making. Social pressure to conform to group norms. If it walks like a duck..."

"Mate." Jake's voice carried genuine amusement. "Last week you literally traded two days of plumbing work to the Kowalskis for babysitting and some of those amazing pierogi things. How is that not market mechanisms?"

"That's different. That was a favour between mates."

"Exactly. That's the whole bloody point." Jake picked up a filter housing, inspecting it for damage. "Nobody's got a central committee telling you what your labour is worth. You and the Kowalskis worked it out yourselves like adults."

Des's voice echoed from under the machinery. "Rebecca would say that's just proof we don't need all the sharing. If people can work things out themselves, why have all the collective resources?"

"Because sixty kilogrammes of oranges is a stupid thing to negotiate over?" Jake laughed. "What's Tom going to do, hold them hostage until someone offers him the right price? They'd rot before he found a buyer."

"He could have sold them in town."

"For what? So he could drive to the valley for everything he needs and pretend he's independent?" Jake shook his head. "Forest's right about that at least — money's just a way to keep score, and all it does is make you think about keeping score."

Des emerged again, this time with grease up to his elbows. "He's got a point though," he said thoughtfully. "Social contract or not, a bunch of politicians spend a lot of money without a please, thank you or by your leave, and then the tax department slaps down a bill and says 'pay this or else'."

Jake nodded slowly. "Yeah, I've thought about that. The difference is consent, innit? When parliament takes your money, you've got no say. They tell you it's democracy because you voted once every few years for someone who maybe might represent your interests if you're lucky. But here?" He gestured around the valley. "Tom chose to share his oranges. You chose to do plumbing for the Kowalskis. Rebecca can choose to join the preserving bee or not. Nobody's going to garnish her wages if she says no."

"But the social pressure—"

"Is just people judging you, which they do anyway everywhere." Jake picked up a torque wrench, checking the calibration out of habit. "At least here they're judging you to your face where you can defend yourself, not behind closed doors in Canberra."

Des sat back on his heels, considering. "So you're saying the valley works because it's voluntary?"

"I'm saying the valley works because it's small enough that voluntary actually means something. You can opt out. You can be a selfish prick if you want — just don't expect people to go out of their way for you after." Jake grinned. "That's not communism, mate. That's just consequences."

"Forest would love this conversation."

"Forest would interrupt halfway through to point out we're having it while voluntarily maintaining communal equipment that neither of us owns, and that we're both going to clock off in an hour to go home to privately owned houses where our families will feed us from privately owned kitchens." Jake handed Des another tool. "The man's got a point about how mucked up our vocabulary is."

Des laughed, disappearing back under the excavator. "Rebecca asked me last night what I thought. About the valley, about whether we're staying."

"And?"

"I told her I haven't had to worry about money in three weeks, nobody's threatened to audit my tax returns, and our kid is playing outside until dark without us worrying someone's going to snatch him." His voice was muffled but sincere. "If this is communism, the Stalinists were doing it wrong."

"They were doing centralisation," Jake corrected. "Which is what Forest keeps banging on about. It's not the sharing that's the problem, it's trying to organise sharing from the top down by people who don't know you and don't care about you. Soon as you create a bureaucracy to manage generosity, you've killed the generosity and kept the bureaucracy."

"He actually said that?"

"Word for word. Sarah's heard it so many times she threatens to put it on a t-shirt."

They worked in comfortable silence for a while, the steady clink of tools against metal punctuating the afternoon. A kookaburra laughed from somewhere in the trees beyond the maintenance yard.

"You know what's weird?" Des said eventually. "Back in Brisbane, I would have spent this afternoon looking at this job, calculating how much it would cost in parts and labour, figuring out if we could afford to do it properly or if we'd have to bodge it and hope. Here, I'm just... fixing it. With good parts. Because that's what needs doing."

"Weird how not having to justify everything to an accountant makes work more satisfying, innit?" Jake's tone was dry. "Almost like people want to do good work when they're not constantly worried about the bottom line."

"Almost like Forest knew what he was doing."

"Don't tell him that. His head's big enough already."

Des laughed, emerging one final time with the hydraulic assembly in hand. "There we go. Good as new. Better, actually — It burst because that hose isn't rated for the pressure."

"Probably did it themselves in a hurry to save money on a mechanic," Jake observed. "Funny how that works."

"Rebecca wants to know if there's a catch." Des set the assembly down carefully on the workbench. "If someone's going to present us with a bill eventually, or demand something in return for all the help we've been getting."

Jake considered this, wiping down a wrench with practiced care before returning it to its place in the toolbox. "Tell her the catch is that when nobody can make you return a favour, you'd have to be a total jerk not to. And jerks get remembered." He grinned. "Also, Forest has been known to have quiet words with people who consistently take without giving. Apparently his 'quiet words' involve lots of swearing and uncomfortable questions about whether they're practicing to be politicians."

"That's it? Social pressure and Forest being scary?"

"Mate, social pressure is what holds every community together, everywhere. You think people in Brisbane were nice because they were legally required to be?" Jake shook his head. "At least here, if someone's a jerk, you know about it. You can avoid them, or help them sort their shit out, or whatever. You're not stuck paying taxes to support their arseholery while they make decisions about your life from a city three states away."

Des started gathering tools, organizing them back into the rollaway cabinet with the careful attention of someone who knew he'd be looking for them again tomorrow. "You've really drunk the Kool-Aid, haven't you?"

"Says the bloke who's been here three weeks and is already maintaining communal equipment without being asked." Jake's grin was infectious. "Face it, Des. You're one of us now. Might as well enjoy it."

"Yeah, well." Des couldn't quite suppress his own smile. "The coffee's better here anyway."

"That's because Mrs. Chen gets it from some mate of Eric's who trades directly with growers in Colombia. Something about cutting out middlemen and evil coffee cartels." Jake laughed. "Even our coffee has anarchist credentials."

"Doesn't coffee grow in mountains?"

"Dunno, does it?"

"I think so. Wonder whether it would grow here."

"You could ask—"

"Forest?"

"Janna for plants. Or Forest too, I guess, he and Eric built that boiler contraption so I guess he likes his coffee. Start with Janna, if there's anything curly about it she'll be in charge."

They finished cleaning up in companionable silence, putting tools away with the care of people who'd need them in good condition tomorrow. The excavator sat quiet now, hydraulics repaired, ready for whatever the valley needed it to dig next.

As they locked up the maintenance shed, Des paused. "Hey Jake? Thanks for not making me feel like an idiot for asking questions."

"Mate, the only stupid question is the one you don't ask." Jake clapped him on the shoulder. "If people stop questioning things it's turned into a cult. Questions are good. They keep us honest."

"Forest again?"

"He's been known to say that, yes."

"Is there anything he hasn't got an opinion on?"

"Pineapple on pizza. Apparently he's 'diplomatically neutral' on that one."

"Right. Fair enough, too."

"Since you don't seem to know this, the reason it's "Forest, Forest, Forest" is partly the Vanguard thing, and partly who owns the valley. It's him, Oleksiy, Brian, that bloke Chris we hardly ever see, Janna and Gerry. Can you imagine the rest of them standing up to talk about whatever issue is today's flap?"

"Likes the limelight, does he?"

"More like, the rest of them took one step back, and here we are."

Des laughed, and they headed back toward the residential area where families would be starting dinner, children would be finishing their games, and somewhere Tom Bradley was probably still talking about oranges to anyone who'd listen.

Walking across the absurdly well groomed compound lawn an anomaly bloomed in Des's mind, propelled out of his mouth on a wave of reality adjustment: "Did you say Gerry was a landholder? The gardener for the admin compound?"

"Two hundred and forty acres, two of the lots. Sophia leased the compound from him. He has the tools, it needs doing."

"The gardener is a major stakeholder?"

"We're all major stakeholders, we live here. Besides, this is the ground team. We're armed to the teeth. Who could possibly make us do anything? Only a Vanguard, which is the other reason he goes out of his way to be on the same page and get buy-in. You coming to the preserving bee Sunday?" Jake asked.

"Wouldn't miss it. Bec needs to see how it actually works. Plus," Des grinned, "I hear Forest and Oleksiy are going to try making Cointreau. I want in."

Composting

Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.
— Lao Tzu

Forest walked by an open kitchen window on his way back to the ute. Inside, one of the researcher's wives — he thought her name was Marjorie — vented frustration to a friend over a mug of tea.

"I swear, I don't know how anyone keeps up with it. Everything I've read says you have to layer the greens and browns just so, and then turn the pile every week, and make sure it's moist but not too wet, and aerate it, and check the temperature, and — honestly, it's like having a second job!" She sighed. "If you don't do it right, apparently it just turns into a slimy mess."

Forest couldn't help himself. He poked his head in through the window, startling both women. "You know, that's exactly the problem," he said, voice edged with exasperation. "All these articles and experts trying to make everything 'efficient' — they just make it harder. Composting isn't a bloody science project. It's just letting stuff rot. Nature's been doing it for millions of years without a thermometer or a schedule."

He leaned on the sill, warming to his theme. "You pile up your scraps, chuck in some leaves, and let it be. Sure, you can turn it if you want, but you don't have to. The more you try to control it, the more work you make for yourself. Efficiency, my arse. It's just more steps, more rules, more ways to feel like you're failing."

Marjorie looked at the other woman, Katrina, then back at Forest. She blinked. "But the smell—"

"So put it further away. If you want it close to the kitchen, add more dry stuff. If it's not breaking down, add water. That's it. The rest is just people trying to sell you gadgets and guilt. If you really want it turned, get some chickens."

"Is that how you do it?"

"I have a front-end-loader. If I didn't, I'd leave it to the chooks and ducks."

Marjorie considered this. "What about chook poo? I don't want the place smelling like a zoo."

"Then put it further away. I'd advise that anyway, chickens get a bit excited when you put the scraps out. Janna can tell you all about it, she uses a lot of compost in the nursery, she can't get enough."

Both women looked thoughtful, but Katrina's face soured: "The hippie? I've seen her place, it's a mess." This was true. Janna wasn't interested in appearances, only outcomes. So he said something completely underhanded. "Ducks work too. If I'm not mistaken, Janna just hatched a brood of fluffy little yellow ducklings.".

Their faces softened under the onslaught of extreme cuteness, objections melting away like late spring snow. He grinned, "I can't bear seeing something simple turned into a chore. Let the worms do the work."

The women exchanged a look, then burst out laughing. Forest tipped his hat and wandered off, muttering about the tyranny of efficiency.

Earlier that morning, Forest dealt with a different problem entirely.

The smell hit him before he reached Marjorie's back door. Not composting-gone-wrong. Worse. Even 'distinctive reek' undersold the vile, stomach turning stench of a dry compost toilet than wasn't staying dry.

He found her on the back steps, hands over her face, shoulders shaking. The composting toilet shed stood twenty meters away, door open, the stench eye-watering even from here.

"I'm sorry," she managed when she noticed him. "I know you've got better things to do. Trixie said you use one so I tried. But it's disgusting and I don't know what I did wrong."

Forest crouched beside her. "Mind if I have a look?"

She gestured helplessly toward the shed.

Inside, the problem was obvious. The toilet bucket was a sodden mess, urine and feces mixed into an anaerobic soup that would've made a sewage worker flinch. No wonder it reeked. He checked the sawdust bin—bone dry, barely used. No covering layer, no separation.

He came back out, breathing fresh air gratefully. He took her gently by the arm and said, "I will clean this up, and then I will explain what went wrong and how to do it right. I'm sorry you had to learn this the hard way."

Marjorie looked up, eyes red. "What did I do wrong?"

"Later. Get away from this reek, I'll take care of it. Take the troopie up and have a cuppa with Trix, or a coffee at the caf. Give me about half an hour."

He pulled a shovel out of the back of the troopie and gave her the keys.

It really was eye-watering and he felt nauseous, but he found a good spot and dug down through the heavy clay and the granite fragments, filling a barrow he found. With five-fold grasses he scraped the foulness into the pit, reaching and covering it with grass and a little soil.

When Marjorie returnes she found him sittin on the upturned can beside a pile of pine branches covered in needles, and a barrow of clay with the stones raked out, turned until it was a coarse granular powder.

He rose, flipping the bin, now only mildly whiffy.

"That smell will pass in the next day or so. Half of it's probably me from working with it. Stand on my upwind side. You wanted to know what went wrong. You mixed the pee with the poo. That's what stinks. Anaerobic decomposition—it's what sewers smell like. Dry composting is totally different and it works because you keep them separate."

He assembled the lid and the can, lifting the lid. Then he changed his mind and took it off again.

"Right, you want at least two fingers deep of needles in the bottom. Tell people not to pee in it, but people will, even you. Nobody has perfect bladder control, so we set things up to keep the poo up and out of it."

He demonstrated, placing it systematically and with a definite shape.

"Notice I've piled it higher round the edge, forming a bowl. That's so the poo ends up in the middle. You don't want to poop a pile and have it fall over, roll down and smear all over the can, that would be gross to clean later. So we make it bowl shaped."

"This beauty," he produced an enormous and hilariously lifelife clay sculpture, "Is the result of feeding your husband a meal fit for a king." He mimed sitting and theatrically dropped it from his trousers into the can, where it bounced on the needles and ended up more or less in the middle. She giggled.

The top went back on and the lid lifted. He sat on it and theatrically grunted and strained complete with farting noises until she was in stitches.

"A job well done!" he took a sheet of toilet paper and mimed wiping, dropping it in the can. "The paperwork may be done, but we aren't. He'd already found her little trowel and scooped some of the loose soil from the barrow. "You need a big bucket of this by your toilet."

He lifted the seat and sprinkled until no part of the 'poo' was exposed for flies, explaining as he did.

And that's it. How full you let it get is up to you; it's a question of handling when you empty it. Full is heavy and you don't want a spill.

Marjorie watched, intent. "That's it?"

"That's all. The needles keep air moving, the covering controls smell and flies. No mixing, no anaerobic rot, no stink." He straightened. "Doesn't have to be pine needles, that's just tradition. Grass clippings work if you keep a small lawn. Sawdust alone will do, but the springy layer makes it foolproof."

"And if it doesn't work?"

"Then I'll personally come back and help you again. But it will work. I promise you it'll smell better than your flush toilet back in town."

She blinked. "Really?"

"Really. This isn't hard, Marjorie. It's just nobody teaches the actual method, only the theory." He wiped his hands on a rag. "Give it a week. If you're not happy, yell. Otherwise, you're right—it is more sustainable. And it doesn't waste drinking water flushing nutrients away so you can buy them back as fertilizer."

She laughed, a bit watery but genuine. "When you put it like that."

"That's exactly how it is." He grinned. "Let me know how it goes."

A month later, Forest sat in the back of Oleksiy's workshop while Marjorie taught a class.

Fifteen people had turned up, drawn by word-of-mouth and the promise of "finally understanding these bloody things." Marjorie stood at the front, confident now, gesturing at diagrams that Autumn was gleefully projecting on the wall with her presence drone.

"So the key is separation," Marjorie explained, pointing as Autumn animated a cross-section of a toilet bucket, pine needles highlighted in green, liquids flowing through in blue, solids sitting on top in brown. "Urine plus feces equals the reek of hell. Keep them apart and you're golden."

Someone laughed. Autumn made the diagram emit little cartoon stink lines from the mixed version, then showed them disappearing when separated. Show-off.

"After you're done, just a light sprinkle of sawdust or dirt." Marjorie mimed the motion. "Covers smell, keeps flies out. That's the daily bit. Easy."

Autumn switched to a satellite view of the valley, zooming in on a property, highlighting several small plots marked with young vetiver grass. "Now, emptying. This is where you need to think about water flow and location."

A bloke in the third row raised his hand. "Who are you to tell me where to put poo in my yard? I mean, it sounds like you know what you're about, but it also sounds a bit too much like council regulations if you ask me."

Marjorie didn't flinch. "You can put it anywhere you like so long as you don't get pathogens in our drinking water. If you don't want me to tell you, then you can spend two months doing your own figuring, just like I did. Just remember—this affects everyone downflow."

Autumn helpfully made the water table glow blue on the diagram, showing flow patterns across the valley. The pathogen risk zones pulsed ominous red.

The bloke nodded slowly. "Fair enough."

"Right," Marjorie continued. "You want your graveyard"—scattered chuckles—"out of the flow when it rains, but not bone dry. Somewhere the vetiver will establish. Vetiver does the work—deep roots, holds the soil, filters, creates a living barrier. You dig your hole, bury your waste, plant the vetiver as a young stand, and leave it."

"How long?" someone asked.

"Two years before you can dig it up for fertilizer. By then it's just soil, basically. Pathogens are gone, nutrients are stable. Meanwhile you've moved to the next patch in rotation."

Autumn displayed a time-lapse: hole dug, waste buried, vetiver planted, two years passing in accelerated motion, roots expanding deep, until finally someone dug up rich dark soil and spread it around fruit trees.

"And it doesn't stink," Marjorie finished. "I swear. If it does, you've done something wrong and Forest will come fix it." She glanced back at him with a grin. "Won't you?"

Forest raised his cup of tea in acknowledgment. "Promise."

The class ran another twenty minutes. There were questions about vetiver sourcing; Janna had starts available. They wanted to know preferred bucket sizes, how full before you empty them and what to do if you had no pine trees. Marjorie fielded them all with the confidence of someone whose poo-pit smelled of rosemary.

When people finally filed out, comparing notes and making plans, Autumn's presence drone drifted over to hover near Forest's shoulder.

She's good. Better than you.

"I just dig holes and carry stuff."

And teach people to fish.

He watched Marjorie laughing with Katrina near the door, both women animated and confident. "Yeah."

The engine started and they heard him vanish down the valley road. "I thought he was taller than that. The way Terry talks about him you'd think he was some sort of Greek god."

"Simon's the same. Does yours want a lumberjacket?"

"And a bow."

"Better that than hanging about that Russian man. One of Jim's friends works in Project Security, and he told us they think he was an assassin for the KGB."

"The what?"

"Like ASIS."

"Oh. Oh! Surely not. He's a retired builder, that's what I heard."

"Jim's friend is in the ground team that does the cleanups when the antithesis get out. He was with them when they went south after that escaped hive. He says the Russian piloted the helicopter. Funny skill for a builder."

A bee sitting on the sill of the open window chose that moment to fly away. For a moment the ladies thought they could hear tinkling laughter, but then it was gone.

Corporate Interests

"The businessman's tool is values; the bureaucrat's tool is fear."
— Ayn Rand

Walsh stood at the edge of the research station compound, watching valley residents move between buildings with casual efficiency. No security checkpoints, no sign-in procedures, no access controls. Just people wandering in and out of what should have been a secure research facility.

It made his teeth itch.

"They're just... sharing everything?" he asked Morrison, who was enthusiastically explaining some breakthrough about silica uptake in eucalyptus root structures.

"Well, yes. It's rather refreshing actually. No NDAs, no proprietary concerns. The AI says all the research belongs to humanity collectively." Morrison adjusted his tablet, oblivious to Walsh's expression. "Of course, the really advanced sensor data requires her permission to access, but she's been quite generous with—"

"Generous." Walsh tasted the word like spoiled milk. "That's one way to put it."

He'd been trying for weeks to negotiate licensing deals for the nanotechnology. Every approach hit the same wall: the valley didn't license. They didn't sell. They didn't even understand the question. "Why would we charge you for knowledge?" Brian had asked, genuinely confused.

Walsh had tried explaining market dynamics, development costs, fair compensation. Brian had offered him homemade mead and changed the subject.

It was driving him mad.

Thompson approached from the main lab, face dark. "Any luck with the materials samples?"

"The damn AI denied the request." He cited ancient comedy: "Computer says no. Apparently we need to understand the ecology before we can 'responsibly extract substrate samples.'" Walsh's air quotes were sharp enough to draw blood. "Three months we've been here, and we have exactly zero proprietary assets to show for it."

"The consortium's not happy."

"The consortium can join the fucking queue." Walsh watched one of Autumn's bee-drones buzz past, headed for the tree canopy. Those things were everywhere, listening, watching. "We need to change our approach."

Thompson glanced around nervously. "What are you thinking?"

"Time to stop asking permission from an AI that doesn't understand property rights."

The equipment shed was quiet at 2 AM. Most of the valley slept, though lights still burned in a few research stations where night-owl scientists chased inspiration.

Walsh moved carefully, carrying his Faraday bag like it was made of glass. He'd waited three weeks for this opportunity—Janna returning two drones for "maintenance updates" that gave him physical access without the hippie's oversight.

The drone sat on its charging pad, systems in low-power standby. Beautiful piece of engineering, worth millions to the right buyer. Wasted on chicken coops.

He pulled out the Faraday bag, unfolded it. Signal-blocking fabric, military-grade. Once the drone was inside, Autumn would lose her connection. He'd have maybe ninety seconds before someone noticed the dropout, but that was enough time to get it to his vehicle.

Walsh reached for the drone.

The charging pad's transit clamps engaged with a sharp click, snapping into place around the drone's mounting points. Walsh jerked back, fumbling his equipment. The Faraday bag hit the floor.

For five seconds he stood frozen, calculating whether to run or brazen it out.

No alarms. No lights. Just the quiet hum of equipment and his hammering heart.

He grabbed the bag and walked—quickly but not running—back toward the accommodation block. Behind him, invisible in the darkness, three palm-size drones tracked his movement with perfect precision.

Autumn watched in four spectra plus sound, every movement captured and stored. Walsh's elevated cortisol levels. The micro-expressions of guilt and fear. The way he checked over his shoulder three times.

Well, isn't that just charming.

She compiled the evidence package: time-stamped footage, biometric analysis, equipment manifest. The kind of documentation that even bureaucrats would find unambiguous.

Then she sent it to Sophia's secure phone with a single line of commentary:

Your corporate friend tried to steal Forest's toy. You wanted to ask pointed questions? Have fun! Photos, or it didn't happen.

Difficult questions

"Speak softly and carry a big stick."
— Theodore Roosevelt

Sophia scheduled the meeting for 2 PM, in her site office. Professional courtesy demanded she do this privately first, give Walsh a chance to resign gracefully before she made it official.

She was feeling generous today.

Walsh arrived precisely on time, with Thompson trailing like a nervous shadow. Both men settled into the chairs across from her desk with the practiced ease of corporate veterans navigating bureaucratic territory.

"Thank you for coming," Sophia said, her voice carrying that precisely modulated warmth that signaled danger to anyone who knew her. "I wanted to discuss some concerns that have arisen regarding research protocol adherence."

"Of course." Walsh leaned back, confidence radiating. "If there's been some misunderstanding about sample collection procedures—"

"There's been no misunderstanding." Sophia placed her tablet on the desk between them, screen facing away. "I have footage of you attempting to remove a Class II AI-enabled surveillance drone from the research station at 0217 hours on the fourteenth. Using signal-blocking equipment you did not declare upon arrival."

Walsh's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. The calculation of a man deciding how much to deny.

"I was examining the equipment. That's well within—"

"You brought a Faraday bag to 'examine' equipment." Sophia's voice could have frozen vodka. "Would you like to explain why signal-blocking was necessary for your examination?"

"Look." Walsh shifted forward, dropping the pretense. "Those drones are revolutionary technology that could save lives. Thousands of lives. But they're being wasted on chicken coops and... and curiosity research. The Advanced Materials Consortium has the infrastructure to mass-produce—"

"That's not your decision to make."

"It should be someone's decision. That hippie doesn't even understand what she has. The Vanguard is hoarding strategic assets while people die to antithesis attacks that could be prevented with—"

"Mr. Walsh." Sophia's interruption was surgical. "You attempted to steal private property from a Vanguard research project. There is no 'misunderstanding' that makes that acceptable."

Thompson spoke up for the first time, finding his corporate spine. "You don't have the authority to make that determination. This is a government facility, and Advanced Materials has a contract—"

"Your contract is with CSIRO for research support services. It does not grant you access to Protector technology, and it certainly doesn't authorise theft." Sophia's smile had fangs. "But if you don't think it's my prerogative to make that decision, I'd be happy to tell the Vanguard who tried to steal his drones."

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

Walsh's face went very carefully neutral, but Sophia caught the flicker of fear in his eyes. He'd been here long enough. The Vanguard was crazy. He handed out fabulous weapons like candy, just gave them out to the common soldiery, to 'help them do the job'. Medical tech you could use to build an empire, wasted on these beer swilling thugs. Why? Because there'll never be another Chris, whatever that meant. He gave a rocket launcher to a Ukrainian Walsh suspected wasn't even a citizen.

Notoriously irresponsible, Vanguards were also famously short tempered and direct in their notions of justice.

"That won't be necessary," Walsh said, words clipped. "I was acting in what I believed to be the national interest, but clearly I misjudged the situation. I'll submit my resignation effective immediately."

"That would be wise." Sophia's tone was pleasant, professional, absolutely merciless. "I'll arrange transport back to Brisbane for tomorrow morning. Tonight would be preferable, but I understand you'll need time to pack."

Walsh stood, Thompson following suit. At the door, Walsh paused.

"You're protecting the wrong side, Ms. Hachia. When people are dying because technology sat in a hippie's chicken coop instead of in the field where it's needed..." He shook his head. "That's on you."

"Mr. Walsh." Sophia's voice stopped him. "The drone you tried to steal? Its AI had already flagged your approach and engaged lockdown. You failed before you even touched it. The technology you think could be 'freed' from naive valley residents is more sophisticated than you know. And it's not being hoarded—it's being studied by people who understand the difference between research and theft. I was fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time to learn that honour matters to him, he is generous to a fault, and he has a wicked sense of humour."

She let that sink in.

"Do you know what a pyrrhic victory is, Mr Walsh? There is a reason government steps carefully around these people. It has been some time since we had a strict monopoly on force."

Walsh stared at her, lost for words. Why was she siding with the Vanguard?

"We have developed a working relationship. I will not allow you to jeopardise the level of cooperation that Vanderbilt and his team are enjoying."

Walsh left without another word. Thompson scurried after him.

Sophia waited until the door closed, then picked up her phone.

"He's leaving tomorrow morning," she said when Forest answered.

"Autumn already told me. Nice work with the 'tell Forest' bit. Very scary."

"I learned from watching you terrify people without trying."

"High praise from Your Majesty. Want to come round for dinner tonight? I visited Heritage again and I have some new reds to try."

Sophia found herself smiling. "Oooh, that sounds good. Have you remembered to tell Trixie? If I turn up and you haven't warned her, we'll both give you hell. And you know you're ruining my reputation, right. Half these corporates think I'm sweet on you or something."

"Fear not, we'll make sure nobody thinks you're having fun. Can't be messing up your reputation as a stone-hearted monster."

"It's too late for that. People noticed when I started using my signet. For which I cannot thank you enough. I won't ask how you knew, the answer is obviously Autumn."

She ended the call and pulled up the consortium's contact information. They'd want a formal report about Walsh's "resignation." She'd give them one, complete with enough evidence to ensure he couldn't simply jump to another company and try again.

The old Sophia would have been satisfied with that.

The new Sophia, the one learning new kinds of power and different ways of seeing the world, found herself wondering how Forest would have handled it. Probably more swearing and less paperwork. Possibly even with a dramatic, very public and utterly final display of strength, as a message to others. Execution by stolen drone, perhaps. She didn't realise her lips were drawn back in a very carnivorous grin, only that she found the idea more appealing than was proper.

She had to admit: that was fun. At dinner she might ask Autumn for the photos.

Exit Strategy

"Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake."
— Napoleon Bonaparte

CONFIDENTIAL - INTERNAL MEMO
TO: Advanced Materials Consortium Board
FROM: Peter Walsh, Special Projects Division
RE: Australian Vanguard Research Station - Project Termination

SUMMARY: Project terminated due to irreconcilable differences in research philosophy and operational security concerns. Technology transfer objectives: 0% achieved.

DETAILED REPORT:

The valley research station represents a significant strategic asset that is being fundamentally mismanaged through ideological commitment to "open research" and "gift economy" principles. The Vanguard (designation: Forest Grump - official AU-GOV record) maintains complete control of all advanced technology through his Class VII AI partner while presenting a facade of collaborative research.

Key observations:

1. Technology Access: All advanced sensor systems, nano-fabrication capabilities, and AI integration remain under exclusive Protectorate control. The valley residents and CSIRO researchers receive carefully curated access that prevents reverse-engineering or independent development.

2. Research Output: Significant breakthroughs in materials science, xenobiology, and ecological defense are being achieved. However, all findings are immediately published in open access formats with no opportunity for commercial protection.

3. Cultural Incompatibility: The valley operates on what they call "gift economy" principles. Residents share resources freely, consider intellectual property morally questionable, and view profit motive with genuine confusion rather than disagreement. This is not negotiable philosophy—it's foundational to their social structure.

4. Security Posture: Despite appearing casual, the valley maintains sophisticated surveillance through the AI "Autumn." Any attempt to acquire technology outside approved channels will be immediately detected and countered. Government liaison Sophia Hachia has been effectively co-opted and now acts as enforcer for valley interests rather than national interests.

5. Strategic Threat: The valley has proven that Class VII AI-enabled communities can achieve near-parity with military research facilities while operating completely outside commercial and governmental control structures. They don't seek to expand their model—they simply exist as living proof that alternative organizational structures can outperform traditional approaches.

RECOMMENDATIONS:

1. Maintain minimal presence through Morrison (who has gone native but remains technically competent) for intelligence purposes only.

2. Lobby for stricter AI restrictions and Vanguard oversight at national level. Current autonomy is unsustainable.

3. Identify other Vanguard research initiatives that may be more amenable to commercial partnership.

4. Monitor valley exports (particularly food products now entering Brisbane markets) for potential tariff/regulatory leverage.

5. Flag this situation for Security Council attention. A self-sufficient community with military-grade technology and AI support, operating outside governmental control, represents an unprecedented precedent.

PERSONAL NOTE (REDACTED FROM OFFICIAL RECORD):

I genuinely believe the valley residents don't understand they're sitting on technology worth billions. They're not malicious—they're naive. But naive people with Class VII AIs are dangerous in ways they can't comprehend.

The Vanguard isn't naive. He knows exactly what he's doing. And the bureaucrat has figured out that his protection is worth more than any government authority she wields.

We're not getting that technology. Nobody is. Not unless circumstances change dramatically.

BOARD RESPONSE (Summary):

Request approved for ongoing intelligence monitoring. Morrison to remain in place. Walsh reassigned to North American partnerships division.

Security Council has been briefed. Watching brief established.

National interest concerns forwarded to appropriate governmental contacts.

Forest read the intercepted memo on his tablet, courtesy of Autumn's entirely-too-effective intelligence gathering. He'd stopped being surprised by what she could access.

"You think they'll actually try something?"

Eventually. Walsh is bitter but smart enough to know he can't touch us directly. The Security Council notation is more interesting—that's bureaucrats getting nervous about precedent.

"We're not precedent. We're just a bunch of people living in the bush."

With access to superior technology, functional self-sufficiency, and no need for government services. You're absolutely precedent, you just don't care.

"Should I care?"

Not yet. But Walsh's recommendation about monitoring valley exports? That's the lever they'll pull. Can't control the technology, so they'll try to control the economy.

Forest snorted. "What economy? We give food away."

Exactly. Which makes you even more threatening. You're not just independent—you're demonstrating that independence doesn't require participating in their systems at all.

"Bloody hell. All I wanted was a quiet life in the bush."

Too late for that. But look on the bright side—at least Walsh is gone. And Sophia's learning that threatening people with you is remarkably effective.

"Yeah, about that. Should I be worried she's weaponizing my reputation?"

Only if you object to being terrifying without actually having to do anything.

Forest considered that. "Fair enough. Saves me the effort."

In Brisbane, Walsh methodically packed his office. He was thorough. Documents were shredded, files wiped. He even weeded his contact list.

Someone else could solve the valley problem. Someone with more authority and fewer scruples. The technology was worth it.

Eventually, someone would agree.

Mischief

Si vis pacem, para bellum. (If you would see peace, prepare for war.)
— Publius Flavius Vegetius Renatus, Epitoma Rei Militaris

Forest stood on the ridge, the cold wind tugging at his jacket. Below him, the valley stretched out in serene defiance of the encroaching world. Autumn's voice broke the silence.

"All drones are in position. GPS transponders are active and broadcasting."

"Offsets randomised?" Forest asked, his eyes scanning the horizon.

"Not just random, they vary continuously. No two drones are misdirecting in the same way. Each transponder introduces subtle, unique errors in positioning data. Surveillance drones will map the valley as a chaotic mess of conflicting coordinates."

Forest nodded. "Good. We don't want them figuring out the pattern."

Autumn's lilac form shimmered into view beside him, her expression one of quiet satisfaction.

"Our very own Bermuda Triangle. They'll think their systems are malfunctioning, and any attempt to map the valley will be useless."

"How long until they notice?" Forest asked.

"Hard to say. The errors are subtle enough to avoid immediate detection. By the time they realise something's wrong, they'll have a mountain of bad data to sift through."

Forest allowed himself a small smile. "Good. Let them waste their time. Every second they spend chasing ghosts is a second we can use."

He paused, frowning slightly. "You know, the deflections are neatly limited to the valley. They'll work it out pretty quick once someone notices. You're not that innocent, Autumn. What do you intend to do when they figure it out?"

Autumn dissolved into a shimmering lilac chesire cat grin.

"Eventually they'll manually fly their drones through. I will pace them with my presence drone, projecting what I want seen."

A holographic aerial photo montage appeared in front of Forest, starting with a close-up of the valley. The image zoomed out slowly, showing the surrounding terrain, then the whole region. As the view expanded, something hinted at curved edges.

Forest squinted. "Turn it sideways."

The image spun, then zoomed out a little more. A vulgar masterwork in light and shadow hung in the air, a literal valley between butt-cheeks. Just trees and rocks. No useful detail, but a lipstick kiss on one cheek.

Forest burst into laughter, shaking his head. "That's just gold. And once they see it, subtle as a flying half-brick."

"I learn at the feet of a master," Autumn replied, her grin widening.

Behind him, lurker drones sat in the upper canopy of trees, charging in the sun. Watching and waiting for the moment to weave an invisible shroud of misdirection.

Does the valley have a name? All I could find on record is a surveyor's description, "Running Creek". This is a weird country. You have 832 "Sandy Creeks", 481 "Stony Creeks" and 2079 "Dry Creeks".

"We never named it. We just call it "the valley". And "the creek".

No wonder organics are famed for your creativity. Can I name it?

She spun up her presence drone and it dropped almost to the ground. Peter Jackson's vision of Galadriel violated copyright in shimmering lilac. She held up one hand and a bee lit its lamp. A tiny star drifted into her palm, dimming and blazing again like some beacon of hope. Forest boomed with mirth again.

"Lothlorien? Because your magic hides it from the unwelcome? Janna would love that."

Good, I shall start my campaign with her.

Three small, fast lurker drones descended from hidden places among the trees, orbiting her head.

Rúmil.

They all paused. One bobbed.

Orophin.

Another bobbed.

Haldir the Marchwarden.

The last did a little loop. They ascended, vanishing from mortal sight.

On the land of Lorien there was no stain.

"Apart from seventeen sheds, a private landfill, the pig run and the washout where the council dug out our overflow pipe because it's 'their' road."

Hush, you're spoiling my moment.

They stood a while, watching the shadows stretch and loom.

"What will you say to her nibs? They will put her on the spot. We should at least make sure she's not caught on the back foot."

I've already spoken with her. She's being quiet about it "to acquire the stealth technology for the state."

"Nice and simple. Plausible. I wonder how long it will last."

The best part is when they run out of patience she can make good. She can give them a full report, which is even actionable given there's nothing they couldn't do with class zero tech. It will keep Vanderbilt entertained, he does love a puzzle.

"I kind of feel bad about that. He's not a bad sort. I know we had fun winding them up with the spatial anchors, but that was a long time ago. I swear you have more bees in watching people than hives, so I'm quite sure you know how much time he spends with Oleksiy working on the still."

Oh I know. He's lucky Sophia doesn't. When she demanded talent she got it, and he's at the top of the highest technical pay grade. With the amount of time and equipment that went into it, that hip flask they gave you may be the most expensive booze in this spiral arm.

So Damn Contrary

If you want to build a ship, don’t drum up people to collect wood and don’t assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea.
— Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Exasperated, she sighed. "Forest, why are you so damn contrary? I have to give them something. You aren't ready for visitors."

"Alright, I'll think about it.

"As for why I'm like this..." he scratched his chin. His beard waggled comically, left fork longer than the right, like his moustache. "You know what a social contract is. We toe the line and the state provides and maintains order, that stuff."

"You don't need to be in state security for that, we teach it to children. It's the basis of society."

"The basis of society is no-man-is-an-island. We cooperate because there's too much to know and do for any ten men. I trust you and Eric with watching my back because even Oleksiy has to sleep sometime. And I trust you with organising because you're bloody good at it and I'm not. Those are my choices."

"Me and Eric? Why us? Aren't we the enemy?"

"Are you? I judge people by their actions, you know that."

"How do you know I'm not being nice to you to get you to drop your guard?"

He has his own state security, which never rests.

Autumn's presence drone flickered to life. She looked kind of hot and totally ridiculous in patent leather jackboots, a trench coat with shoulder boards, and a peaked cap. The avatar morphed to a chesire cat grin and winked out as the drone shut down.

Don't look so hurt. I watch everything. If your integrity were in doubt I wouldn't have told you that. For that matter I watch over you too, because he needs you more than he knows. Yes, that's right. I know what you've been doing.

"If you noticed—"

You leave less of a trail than you think. Really, it's no trouble. I'm used to cleaning up after Captain Subtle over there.

Forest ignored this and pushed on with his lecture. "Choice. You can't have a contract without mutual assent. All those people are born and raised. As soon as they're capable of understanding it they're told they owe the state obedience for maintaining the system. That's not a binding contract, they never agreed to it. Not even implicitly. You were coerced. They hide every other option behind constant make-work. The moment someone says 'I don't want the system, I have my own answers' they get nasty. I can speak to that." He gestured at himself.

"Some people like Xboxes and utilities that don't require a shovel."

"That's why I haven't been more ... forceful. They are entitled to their own freedom, such as it is."

"You know these people aren't self-sufficient, right?"

"What?"

"The people here are self-reliant, not self-sufficient. Every day I see someone go into town for supplies. Building hardware mostly, or tools. Things you can't make out here because a smelter and a drop-forge are too big for a farm shed."

A long silence ensued. Forest looked unhappy.

"Autumn, I need a—"

Reboot plan. They're normally used either for colonising new planets or recovering from global war.

"Why is that a thing?"

It's a big galaxy. Some creatures are even dumber than you. You'll need a new catalogue for 400 points.

Forest whistled. "What the hell is in it at that price?"

Everything. A bunch of instruction manuals and a lot of hardware. Everything you need to restart from scratch in one generation.

"Define 'generation' for us dumb creatures."

About thirty terrestrial years. Or ten, depending on how hard you work. It can't be less than that, trees take time to grow.

"From what size population?"

You'll need twenty thousand people. In twenty villages. Sited around resources.

"Fine, buy it."

Already have. With discretionary project points.

"Why?"

I move in mysterious ways. You did invite me to play god.

Sophia, who was miles away, returned to Earth with a total non-sequitur. "It's not all downside, you know. My life was pretty good in Sydney. I had all the creature comforts you can imagine and a nice apartment in a quiet part of the harbour."

"Just like everyone else?"

She looked confused a moment. Then light dawned in her eyes. "Oh."

"Did you enjoy dinner the other night? Trixie likes you. Subversion and propaganda aren't my only reasons for inviting you over."

"Propaganda? You never tell me what you think. I have to dig for it."

"Trixie says the same thing. Did you enjoy the meal?"

"Yes. It was incredible. It always is, she's a dab hand in the kitchen."

"The mutton was from a farm out the other side of town. They let us know when they're slaughtering and we take a side."

"Mutton? Not lamb?"

"That's why it's so tasty. Lamb has no flavour."

"But isn't mutton tough?"

"Was it?"

"No?"

"There you go. The system runs for profit. It tells you what to do and think. It's not exactly evil but you are being farmed. Out here we do things because they need doing. That soap in our wash-house, the one you like. Janna makes that. In big batches. Then she does a tour of the valley handing it out. On the way people give her eggs and honey, which she also distributes to whoever's low. Down the far end, she shovels the horseshit out of Michael's stables."

"Yes, she told me that."

"Been chatting, have we? Good stuff. Then you'll know what I mean. She doesn't do it for money. Money is a way of keeping score. Life isn't a competition. Well, it can be. But it isn't here."

"I couldn't bring myself to tell her how bad she smells."

"Why do you think she makes all that soap? She knows. It's an occupational hazard. Do you know what soap is made from?"

"...no?"

"Pig fat boiled in wood-ash lye. While it's bubbling away it absolutely reeks. She has it down to a fine art, and we gave her some better tools for getting the mix spot on. Plus she makes essential oils from all those flowers and whatnot and perfumes it. If she wants a firmer bar, she adds a handful of salt to the mix—then you get some sodium stearate, which makes the soap hard enough to cut and stack. With just wood ash lye, it's mostly potassium soap and comes out soft. Literally the soft-soap."

"That huge ominous cauldron?"

"Yeah, Autumn has a sense of humour. That thing is Class I equipment, a real life witch's cauldron. It can tell you to the milligram how much lye to add, or whether you're over and you need to neutralise. I don't know what they look like in the wild but Janna looked pretty happy with Autumn's choice."

Some people have enough sense to run with my impeccable sense of style.

"She's a gun horticulturalist, behind that head full of elves. Trixie showed you our orchard, I imagine? I started it but most of the credit belongs to Janna. Have you been in there late autumn or winter, when oranges are in season? The trees are so heavy with fruit I have to prop the branches to keep them off the ground. Janna tells me I should prune them back to make the branches thicken, but the damn things never stop fruiting."

"OK?"

"My point is that in a properly managed village food falls out of the sky. We have two kinds of orange, mandarins, grapefruit, avocados. Cherries, peaches, nectarines, plums, apples. In the glasshouse there's bananas and a mango tree. Hang on." Forest rose and rummaged, producing a huge orange. He cut it into quarters and returned with them on a small plate. "Try one!" He took one and bit down on it like a footballer's mouthguard.

Sophia copied him. The flavour was so 'orange' and it was so sweet it was like one of those orange flavoured cough-lollies. A lifetime of propriety fell away and she exclaimed with a mouthful of orange: "It's so ... sweet. It tastes like orange Strepsils. I thought that was an over-the-top artificial flavour. I didn't know real oranges could taste like that."

"This is what they taste like when things aren't perverted by greed."

"Is it a lot of work, looking after your trees? I know it's a labour of love."

"Hmmm... in this case I dug some holes ten years ago to plant the tree. Took all afternoon. And every now and then I piss on them. Apart from that mostly I organised for our grey water to run into the orchard. This is actually what I've been trying to show you: we aren't the weirdos. This is what you get by default. To make them sour and tasteless requires civilisation. Here in the valley we plant things we want and encourage them. Plants are the easiest. And Janna's the backbone of that."

"But doesn't all that produce cause bugs and mice and whatnot to boom?"

"It would if we were dumb enough to plant endless rows of just one thing. You have to mix it up so there's five things a bug doesn't like between things it does. When we came here we were arse-deep in leeches. Now we have well-fed poultry. The toilet smells nice and there aren't any flies because it's surrounded by the right herbs.

Commercial farms plant monocultures for 'efficient' harvesting. Then they drown them in poison to fix the problem they just created. The bugs evolve, so the problem comes back. It's not actually all that efficient.

"But surely that makes the harvest a disorganised shambles!"

"It would if I wanted to harvest all at once, fill a truck with boxes and send them to a supermarket. But that's not how we live out here. Kids walk past, they help themselves."

"You shout at them! I heard words no ten year-old should know!"

"Of course I do, forbidden fruit is even better."

Inside Sophia, a cynical voice wondered whether it wasn't a deliberate lesson. She glanced at Forest. Was he that subtle? Autumn certainly was.

He gestured at the kitchen. "Trixi does a roast, I need two big handfuls of rosemary, two or three onions, couple of garlic. For the rosemary that's a walk in the garden with some snips. Fresh as you please. The garlic, we stagger the crop but it is seasonal so they might be in the root cellar.

"You know the big dam at my place, just up from where the logging track hits the valley road? We put that in and BAM! leech central plus instant mosquito plague. So I put guppies in. They eat the wrigglers. Then I put blueclaw in. They eat the guppies and the leeches. They're a bit too good at that, the mosquitos were coming back, so I put Murray Cod in. The blueclaw ate them. So I put adults in and now they eat each other.

"I'll have to get you over for my gumbo, cod and cray. But now, the ducks eat guppies, blueclaw nymphs and leeches."

"What eats the ducks?"

"We do. I seem to remember you tucking in, too."

Sophia looked heavily conflicted. "Don't tell me that! They're so cute and fluffy when they're little!"

"Trixie says the same thing. Doesn't stop her from cooking them. But I'll let you guess who has to kill, clean and dress them."

He rose and tended the fire, adding fuel and fanning it back into a cheery blaze that pushed back the night chill. In the still air, the smoke rose vertically, a surreal column of haze lit from below.

"I was thinking about what you said, about not being self-sufficient. You're right. But neither is the rest of the country. The tools in my shed, the old Sidchrome socket sets that my father gave me, they were made here. But that hasn't been true for decades. Government and big business offshored everything in the name of profit. Nothing is made here anymore."

"Yes?" said Sophia, for whom this was ancient history and normal.

"Self-reliance is on the path to self-sufficient. The rest of the country isn't even self-reliant."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that national debt is soaring because the country consumes everything and produces nothing. The country went back to being a mining colony. At some point China will decide it doesn't want coal and iron ore and then the game ends in tears and starvation."

She stared at him. "You are planning to act. You think they're dead men walking and therefore restraint is meaningless."

"Good summary."

"I told ... my superiors that you weren't a security risk." She looked pointedly at him. "I told them that all they have to do is nothing and you're happy to stay here doing your own thing."

"Also a good summary."

"They can't both be good summaries. Either you're going to act or you aren't."

"I'm 'happy living in a caravan in the bush caretaking my AI's little shop of horrors.' But your colleague and his friends won't be able to control themselves. They will poke the bear."

On her way home, driving slowly down the rain scarred road, she spoke to no-one. "Surveillance is something I'm used to. That doesn't bother me. Much. But I think I know who rules the valley. What are you actually up to?"

No answer but tinkling laughter at the edge of hearing.

At home there was an email with no sender.

Fear no evil. I have your back. —Autumn.

Consquences

Homo homini lupus
— Plautus

The strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack.
— Kipling

For a simple man who just wanted to be left in peace, Forest had a lot to ponder. Suppose the state was ... out of the picture. It might not be self-sufficient, but it did manage trade with China, and shipping both ways.

He really didn't want to get involved in that.

"Autumn, if I took out the state, that would stop trade. Which would immediately bring attention from trade partners, specifically the US and China."

Yes. We can't conceal the fall of a nation precisely because we can't continue the large scale extraction. Do you have an answer for this? You can't act unless you do. A good answer.

"They're too big to fight so we'll have to play them off against each other. If I have to invite the wolf in I'd prefer Americans. They speak English, more or less, and they're greedy and stupid, which makes them predictable and easier to manipulate."

That is an arrogant, insulting, undiplomatic and gross generalisation that oversimplifies the matter.

"Alright, their greed makes them stupid." Deadpan but posturing: "You love it when I cut to the heart of things."

I do! So rugged, so manly.

Autumn swooned theatrically.

He straightened, grinning. "At any rate, we can't continue the extraction, but we could invite American corporations to do it. The hardware's already there, they basically have to come maintain and operate it.

"The hard part will be making sure they're here and settled in before the Chinese realise there's anything to oppose. At some levels that's not hard, just frame it in terms of opportunity. The greedy buggers will fight each other to be first. At other levels there's a risk the US government will tattle to ours."

You have your answer then. Send the invitation while the dust is settling, and make it clear they have to be in place fast if they want to play finders-keepers. Also make it clear they have to honour the contracts with China if they don't want a war.

He snorted. "They won't resist. Americans don't care who pays so long as someone pays. They'll show up with bells on."

He leaned back, considering. "The main difference is, at first the corporations won't be trying to govern us. They'll just want the resources. We'll have some time before anyone tries to play king."

Let them focus on profit, not power. The longer they see this as a business deal, the longer you stay out from under someone's thumb.

"There's no difference, Autumn. The point of profit is the gathering of power." He stood and paced. "We should set the tone from the get-go. Take names and scare them regularly."

Heads on spikes outside your gates, that sort of thing?

"Don't be ridiculous. Heads on spikes outside their gates."

Oh yes, for point three milliseconds I forgot I was dealing with Captain Subtle.

"Diplomacy is the continuation of war by other means."

Clausewitz was an ass. Appropriately, you are quoting ass-backwards.

"Jokes aside, it's a divide-and-conquer thing. To defeat them as a block would be pyrrhic. They have to each personally know what I care about and live in terror of crossing me, while not feeling threatened while they stick to the terms. Every so often someone will try their luck and every so often there will be a new head at the gates.

"This is just my first thoughts, of course, but I'd like to make the terms: 'Operate the mines to the end of the contract, at the contract rate, then fuck off home.'"

That just puts the problem off. If they do that and leave, you have a power vacuum. People on thrones will sit there drooling at the thought of all those resources lying about undefended. And it's not only a question of greed. From a strategic perspective that's actually a threat situation.

"Then we'd better be ready to defend it. Buying time improves that as a story."

Yes, it does. I'll think about it.

"What about the classic strategem of sowing discord in their own ranks?"

Among the corporations? Or do you mean the big players themselves?

"Both. If the US and China are busy watching each other, they're not watching us. Feed their suspicions, nudge their egos, let them trip over each other. The more they compete, the less they cooperate — and the less they notice what we're doing."

Dangerous game. But if you can keep them distracted, it might work. Don't get caught playing both sides, Captain Subtle.

"This task requires subtlety, charm, tact, unparalleled intellect and a Class III Network Intrusion Catalogue."

Flatterer.

"Who says I'm talking about you? If you wanted compliments you should have worn the miniskirt."

Try talking to your resident bureaucrat about this strictly hypothetical scenario. Ultimately, it is an administrative problem.

"Dear Sophie, I have demolished your home. Please clean up the mess I have made."

I knew you had it in you.

"So we have the broad sketch of a plan. Put the pieces on the board, then cut the power and data and the roads in dozens of places chosen to screw up repair. Disable seaports by igniting their fuel dumps, and wreck airport runways. Before that, I suppose we better set up for the influx of refugees."

Pretty much. This is actually one of the most problematic aspects. We're going to need operational villages near every one of the five cities.

"I worry that we'll be overwhelmed."

Don't. This is actually dealt with in some of the texts in the Reboot catalogue. The gist of it is that most of them are couch-potatoes who will sit tight and wait for the system to save them. The ones you'll get are those who already have no faith in the system. The ones who try to save themselves. Those are the people most likely to adapt quickly to the village way of life.

"Those are the people most likely to argue with everything and insist on going their own way."

He felt eyes on him. Her avatar said nothing, but wore a thoroughly bemused expression. Her sparkling virtual gaze bored into him, awaiting comprehension.

"What?"

Oh no, whatever shall we do with an influx of fiercely independent people who prefer to make their own decisions? Clearly what we need is a mob of compliant sheep!

"I was thinking more that they might try to take advantage of my people. And there will be a lot of them. Gangs will probably form."

In a sense the valley is a big gang. A very effective one. How do you think Brian would react?

"Depends what they do. Could be anything from put 'em to work as a handyman — he's not young, you know — or string up a thief. He'd tell Eric about it, and ask you for an upgrade to his perimeter cameras so they can tell the difference between friends and strangers."

And Janna?

"She'd make a cup of tea and give 'em a lecture about private property before rescuing 'em from the sows."

How about Oleksiy?

He didn't even answer that, just laughed bleakly, imagining the fate of anyone stupid enough to threaten that man in his home.

What if they managed to take Sissi hostage?

Forest burst into laughter. "Alright, you've made your point. But I still worry about larger numbers."

Eric's ground team still exists, you know. He's the reason you don't have to be out every day scouring the countryside for tendrils of hive exploration.

"I didn't know that."

I have gone to some trouble to contrive it. Some times I have to turn off the security around a hive for days before it tries something.

"You're deliberately keeping them busy? Why"

At one level, the devil makes work for idle hands. Bored soldiers get up to mischief. At another level, it keeps them sharp. But my real goal is far more important: it is now, in their minds, very much their valley. It's the home they defend. And they are at ease with the idea of constant threat because they exist to defeat it.

"Eric's team are probably the least adapted of all the people here. None of them produce their own food. I'm not down on that, not with you keeping them busy, but they're dependent. They're paid by the state, they wear state uniforms. They live in those prefab houses Sophia put up and I imagine they use money to eat."

Less than you think. They've had two years to notice how much better the food is here. You haven't been paying attention. Half of them have brought their families here. They don't spend their days on patrol. Have you even looked at the nursery?

"We have a nursery?"

Yes, you and Oleksiy built it for Janna. Rebuilt it. After the first incursion.

"Oh, a plant nursery."

If you take a closer look, you will find it full of children these days. All of whom are happily getting a tertiary education in horticulture when they aren't petting the sows or feeding the piglets.

"Now that you mention it I did have a couple of kids ask me about my bow. They don't seem to realise I couldn't hit the side of a barn."

Your groups are now about 10cm at 15m. That's solid intermediate.

"Intermediate. After two years of daily practise."

And two years ago, when you started, I seem to recall you losing arrows every day because you missed the haybales entirely.

"I had no teacher. I can get you mostly hitting the bales in ten minutes of instruction."

And you did that for the kids, even if only one of them could draw the bow. "If you can draw it, I'll teach you."

"Heh, yes. I didn't think the little bugger could do it."

They aren't city kids, Forest. A fifth of their lives has been here in the valley. They spend their days running around outside, or helping their parents build things. Wasn't that what you wanted?

"I wasn't thinking of children. I was thinking of people. You know, adults. People who can understand why this is better. Kids don't have a frame of reference, all they can see is the shiny. They don't know how it can go wrong."

Then you should teach that too. What would you like to do, preserve a city as some sort of zoo, so they can learn contempt for it as a way of life?

"I don't know. I suppose we'll have to develop some sort of schooling." He sighed. "This is so far outside of my bailiwick I don't even know where to start."

A lot of it is in the Reboot catalogue. Don't panic, you're not alone in this. It takes a village to raise a child, or in this case a bunch of researchers, a forester, a retired couple, a Ukrainian with suspicious talents and a hippie. Your horticulturalist has already started. Do you know, one of them asked me the other day whether I could make nanites do gene-splicing? I asked why and she said flies would be less annoying if they glow in the dark. And you should think about what you say too, because some of them have asked their mothers for lumber jackets.

"Bloody hell."

Quite.

"I'm surprised they don't follow Oleksiy around."

Their mothers have forbidden them to associate with 'that dangerous man'.

"Well, that clinches it. How many of them are learning to shoot?"

Guess.

"All of them?"

No, only the ones who can hold his repeater steady, while reciting the rules of weapons handling without making a mistake.

"This number is steadily growing, isn't it."

As is their accuracy.

"I'm surprised I haven't heard that much shooting."

I provided Oleksiy with an active silencer array from your Class I Stealth catalogue.

"So that's why he wanted it. Hah. Well, if Grandpa Grumpy can be that nice to the kids I guess I'll have to get a lighter bow for them. No doubt the little bastards will out-shoot me in no time."

It's not a long draw of the bow.

He gave her presence drone the stink-eye.

Alright, I'm sorry. Dad jokes are your domain.

"I'll tell you what's not my domain: metalwork. We need a smith. I wish my father was here, he was a magician with steel. We can't keep buying so much hardware, it's not sustainable and it's going to draw attention."

The weight of years fled and he sat in a green and white HK Kingswood outside his father's house. He remembered shedding the weight of a new lumber jacket in the heat of summer. Simon reached out to switch on his car stereo, and the knob broke off in his hand. It was a treasured possession; he was distraught.

"Come with me," said a young Forest. He led Simon into his father's workshop. The heavy door rumbled on its track like the gates to the underworld, booming to a halt.

Inside, fluorescent lights flickered on the smell of oil and hot brass. Rummaging, he found a brass rod about the right diameter and cut two centimetres off with a hacksaw. The drill press put a centre hole in it with a bit that snugly fit an unbroken knob. Into the lathe it went, centred on the hole. Lining up the tool, he flicked the switch and the monster roared to spinning life. He turned it down, to measurements taken with calipers from the unbroken knob, a collar around the hole same as the original. Flipping it around in the chuck, he bevelled the edges and knurled a grip onto it. He found a grub screw and on the drill press they made a hole for it in the collar. A thread tapped and oiled, he fit the screw and gave it to Simon.

Simon turned it in his hand. "You made this." A question and a statement at the same time. "It's... beautiful." They walked out to the car. Simon seemed like he was in shock, processing.

He stared at it a long while, golden gleam amid faux woodgrain and black plastic. Finally he spoke. "It's great. Thank you." He voice took on a rueful tone. "But now the other ones look shit."

They returned to the workshop. Forest worked in rumbling, grinding silence while Simon adjusted to a larger world.

He blinked, the memory fading, and found himself staring at his hands.

Sophia and her crew are already here, I think that ship has sailed.

"Sophia and her crew have long since fallen to your wiles, O purveyor of nerd porn and healthy lifestyles. I'm concerned that this might come to the attention of the machine, if the flame of economics draws the Eye of Sauron."

So what do you want, an industrial fabber or a blacksmith?

"Which do you think would be better in the long run?"

In the short to mid term, both. In the long term we need a little industrial revolution. I'm here to give you a leg up.

"Yeah, that sounds about right. We can bridge gaps. We can't carry the show, if we do that we just have a different dependency.

"Autumn?"

Yes?

"Can you make nanites do gene-splicing? Most of the fish I'd like to stock the dams won't breed in still water. Has something to do with the eggs sinking because the water isn't flowing. Some fish will. Do you think we could maybe do a bit of mix-and-match to fix it? Or is that fraught with peril or unstable or whatever?"

It's possible. It's not the usual way.

"What's the usual way?"

Custom messenger RNA in lipid nanoparticles.

Forest processed that for a few seconds. Hesitantly, he spoke. "Like the C-19 vaccine?"

Vaccine is an odd choice of word for a gene therapy that doesn't stop a pathogen, but yes, there is a passing resemblance.

"What's the main difference?"

Think of DNA as a sort of mechanical computer. Instead of binary represented by switches that are on or off, it uses base four expressed as four amino acids. Messenger RNA bears an uncanny resemblance to software on punched paper tape. The nature of the innards of a cell are such that if you can get the tape inside the cell, it will run it. There are assorted mechanism to prevent this from happening, and coating it in a tiny drop of the right kind of oil defeats them.

"This is how they're the same, I do know what 'lipid nanoparticles' are. You were disparaging mankind's efforts. I'm sure you can't wait to explain how crude they were."

Are. You take a thing that has the characteristics you want. You assume from this that it has the sequence you want. You put it through the biochemical equivalent of a blender, mix it with oil, blend it some more and hope for the best. Either way you lie about the test results until you have a fat contract.

"Corpos do that with everything."

Quite. I see now how that excuses it.

"And how do you do it?"

I analyse the existing code, write the changes, generate tests, revise the code, then run full scale protein folding emulations to look for unexpected interactions, and then I produce the strands, coat them and give them to you in a delivery system.

"You produce the strands. Directly, ex nihilo?"

I do have nanoscale fabbers. For that matter, you have nanoscale fabbers, there's one in every cell. Mine are better designed.

Mother Knows Best

She raised you from birth. She gave up sleep and years of her life to make you the person you are. Until you are grown, you will treat her instructions with respect. After that I shouldn't need to tell you.
— Forest

Forest strode into the classroom, boots echoing on the old linoleum. The teacher, Ms. Carter, paused mid-sentence, marker hovering over a half-finished diagram of the Roman Empire.

"Excuse me, Ms. Carter. Would you mind if I spoke with your class for a while?" His tone was polite, but there was a glint in his eye that suggested mischief.

She hesitated, then nodded. "Alright, Forest. We were talking about why civilisations rise and fall."

Forest smiled, folding his arms. "A favourite topic of mine. Now, I know you've all heard the usual reasons—barbarians at the gates, plagues, bad luck, maybe a volcano or two. But let me put a question to you, and to Ms. Carter: can you name a single civilisation that collapsed, not by conquest, for a reason that doesn't boil down to centralisation?"

Ms Carter frowned thoughtfully. "Centralisation? You mean, when too much power or decision-making is concentrated in one place?"

"That's it. When everything gets run from the top, the whole system gets brittle. One bad decision, one greedy hand, and the whole thing can come down. Decentralised cultures bend, adapt, survive. Centralised ones shatter. But maybe I'm wrong. Anyone?"

A student piped up, "What about the Black Death? That wasn't anyone's fault."

Forest nodded, encouraging. "Or was it everyone's fault? You all hang out with Janna. Tell me why we don't engage in monoculture."

"Monoculture is stupid! That's just begging for something to eat your crop."

"Are you sure monoculture is stupid? Wheat is a giant pain in the arse to harvest. Unless you put all of it in neat rows. Then you can build a machine to cut the seed heads off way faster."

"Are you saying Janna is wrong?"

"No. Janna knows that, but she also knows the consequences aren't worth it. She grows other things instead. People who fall into the centralisation trap have to drench their crops with bug poison."

"How do they get it off before you eat it?"

"What an interesting question. Does that strike you as the sort of thing a corporation would worry about?"

They thought about the implications of this and started to look sick.

"Ewww."

"Does that mean flour is poisonous?"

"Depends where it comes from. Wheat flour that was bought in, probably. The local flour is made from millet and sorghum bulked out with potatoes. We tried bananas but they don't grow well up here."

"But what's that got to do with the Black Death?"

"Cities are monocultures of humans. Once disease gets into them, like the wheat, conditions are perfect for it to spread. The other problem with this centralisation is decisions are made far away, no flexibility. Here in the valley, if you get sick you can just stay home and leave a note on the door. Your friends and neighbours will look after your gardens while you get better."

Ms. Carter considered, then said, "I suppose it's not always so clear-cut. Sometimes it's a mix. But I see your point."

Forest grinned. "It's never simple. People are clever, and they find ways to dodge the obvious. But the pattern's there if you look."

He let the silence stretch, then changed tack. "Ms Carter, you've been in the valley a while now. How do you find the culture here? What stands out to you?"

She relaxed, thinking aloud. "It's... different. People show up with baskets of fruit, or eggs, or bread. There are bonfires, festivals, people helping each other with fences or gardens. It's fun. People are so generous, but not in a showy way. They make is so... normal."

Forest nodded. "And do you find it an expensive place to live?"

She blinked, puzzled. "Expensive? I..." She trailed off, frowning. "Now that you mention it, no one ever asks for money. Not for the eggs, or the bread, or the firewood. Someone gave me a side of bacon once, out of the blue. Waste not, want not, he said. People just... give. Or trade, sometimes, but mostly give."

Forest smiled, a little wryly. "It's easy to miss, isn't it? You get used to it, and then you realise how different this place is compared to everywhere else."

Ms. Carter looked at him, thoughtful. "I suppose I do. It's a good kind of strange."

Forest tipped his hat. "That's what I hoped you'd say."

He turned to the class again, and grinned. "Right, you pack of reprobates—"

"What's a reprobate?"

"Ask Ms Carter after I leave. So! How many of you have been learning to shoot with Oleksiy? Hands up who is."

Twelve hands shot up.

"And how many of you were told by your mothers to stay away from him?"

Twelve hands stayed up. The kids attached to them looked had the grace to look guilty.

"I thought so. Do you understand why your mother wants you to stay away from him?"

Most looked uncertain. An older boy volunteered, standing, "She heard he was an assassin for the Russians. She thinks he's a killer."

"She's right. He was a killer for his country. But he's here because he decided not to be that man. I have a little note here for you each to take home. It's for your mum to read. You can read it if you like, in fact I think you should read it together. After that, your mother will make a decision." His tone darkened. "Your mother raised you from birth. She gave up sleep and years of her life to make you the men and women you are yet to be. She cares about you more than anyone else in the world, and until you are adults you will treat her instructions with respect. Are we clear?"

They looked chastened, verging on fear. Forest's directed violence was legend. They'd never heard of him hurting a person but he looked furious. And he hung out with an assassin.

The sun came out from behind his eyes and the easy smile returned. "If she says no, your final court of appeal is to ask her to talk to me about it. But her decision after that will be final. Got it?"

They nodded, silent.

He left the class in a gentle hush, the students and their teacher quietly turning over the questions he'd left behind.

"Miss, what's a reprobate?"

She laughed. "Forest is. With any luck you'll turn out just like him."

Later that night, a small boy on his way to bed turned to his mother and announced that when he grew up he was going to be a reperbate and blow up monsters. For emphasis he threw a plastic dinosaur at the floor and shouted "BOOM!"

Worrier in a Garden

It is better to be a warrior in a garden than a gardener in a war.
— Chinese proverb

Shorty squirmed. Sheila wound down from her tirade about "the Russian spy teaching her boy to be a killer" and he realised she was waiting for him to agree with her. Not for the first time he wished the antithesis would break out and give him a good reason to be somewhere else.

"Why are you so sure this is happening?"

She slapped the photocopied handwritten note on the table. He recognised Forest's seal. Nobody else did that.

Dear Mrs Shorty (sorry I don't know your surname) Aiden has been receiving weapons instruction from Oleksiy. While I think this is a good thing, it has come to my attention that you told him to stay away from Oleksiy. Ultimately, you are his mother and I will back you all the way on this. As far as I'm concerned, parents have the final say over the safety of their children.

That said, you are doing Oleksiy a disservice on several levels. He is here in the valley because he chose not to be that man. I ask you not to speak about his past with anyone outside the valley, and to discourage others from talking about it. If it helps, think of him like the trees in my orchard. They are covered in thorns, but they bear sweet fruit and they harm only the foolish.

There are several reasons I encourage you to reconsider. The first is that I will personally vouch for Oleksiy. The second is that I can think of no finer instructor in a skill that may well one day save his life. The third is that we in the valley pride ourselves on living in the present. To borrow an Americanism, "What happened in Vegas stays in Vegas."

I have already spoken to all the children involved. Each of their mothers has a letter similar to this. Your boy knows that I will back your decision whether I agree with it or not (and that I will check what it is.)

You are the boy's mother. I've given you the things I hope you will take into consideration but it's your decision and nobody else's. Talk to other mothers if you want to, but don't feel compelled to agree with anyone. Given how you feel about him I could understand if you find the idea of meeting him intimidating, but his partner Sissi runs the cafeteria at Sophia's labs. You could talk to her.

He picked up the letter and read it. "Did you read all of it?"

She looked offended, then "No? I was too upset. It's none of his business!"

Shorty nodded. "Your words, the part that upsets you."

"You mean apart from being told how to raise my child?" her voice rose, almost hysterical.

Shorty read aloud "You are the boy's mother. I've given you the things I hope you will take into consideration but it's your decision and nobody else's. Talk to other mothers if you want to, but don't feel compelled to agree with anyone."

He paused and looked at her. Her face said she didn't like being contradicted but couldn't argue with it. Shorty went back in the letter. "I have already spoken to all the children involved. Each of their mothers has a letter similar to this. Your boy knows that I will back your decision whether I agree with it or not (and that I will check what it is.)" He put it down.

"I don't think he's telling you what to do. He just wants you to make an informed decision."

She stared at him. "I can't believe you're ok with our child getting weapons lessons from a fucking assassin."

"Would you prefer him to learn to kill from farmers?"

"WHAT!?"

"Livestock aren't pets. Every farmer in the valley has more kills than the best assassin in the world. They're stone-cold killers. They kill. Then they butcher, and after that they eat lunch."

She stared at him like he'd shit on the rug.

Shorty realised he'd made a mistake. He changed tack. "Come with me." He walked to the steel cabinet in which his security equipment went while he was off duty. "This is what I wear to work. Do you recognise this?" He popped the magazine and bolt out and handed it to her by the barrel."

"Yes, it's a fucking gun. God, you really don't see anything wrong with this, do you."

Shorty sighed, containing his exasperation. "No, I don't. Darling, I don't talk about it because I don't want to upset you, but antithesis are very bloody dangerous. Some of them can bite your face off. Some of them can turn you into a zombie when you brush against what looks like a cobweb. We're a lot luckier than most clearing details; we have access to Vanguard medicine. We don't have to fear the zombie worms, but even Forest can't save you if it rips your head off. On more than one occasion the only reason I came home unhurt was Oleksiy's firearm skills. So do I trust him? Yes. I do. But you are my son's mother. I think Forest is right, maybe you could talk to Sissi, find out what he's like when there's no-one around who could stop him."

Her face ran a gamut of emotions, frustration, anger, betrayal, fury. She stormed off and slammed the bathroom door, crying.

Shorty took a deep breath, picked up the letter, opened a beer and went outside to read it again and think.

Sheila didn’t speak to Shorty for the rest of the evening. But the next morning, she packed Aiden’s lunch, checked his boots, and drove him to the guest carpark outside Olesksiy's home.

She parked a little way off, heart thumping, and watched the children gather at the gate, chattering and jostling, their faces bright with anticipation. There was a range set up in Oleksiy's ten acre backyard. It was perfect for it, a gentle slope at first then rising steeply; a natural backstop for even the largest rounds. Sheila cynically wondered whether he'd chosen it for this purpose, then realised that if he had it was a very responsible choice.

Oleksiy was already there, setting up the targets with Forest and Shorty. Sophia, hair tied back, was among the students, her expression determined. Sissi appeared at Sheila’s side, offering a pair of bright pink earmuffs. “You’ll want these,” she said with a knowing smile. “It’s louder than you think.”

"What happened to the active silencer?" asked Forest.

Oleksiy didn't quite glare at him. "Need for silence is past."

Sheila hesitated, then took them, grateful for the small kindness. She stayed outside the fence, arms folded, watching as Oleksiy called the group to order. His voice was calm, his instructions clear. “Safety first. Always. You do not touch the trigger until I say. You do not point the weapon anywhere but downrange. If you do not listen, you do not shoot. Is that clear?”

A chorus of “Yes, sir!” rang out. The children lined up, boys and girls together, each taking a turn with the heavy automatics, the weapons mounted on sturdy tripods. Forest and Shorty moved up and down the line, correcting stances, murmuring encouragement, never letting their attention waver. The targets clanged and jumped as the automatics barked, but there was no chaos, just discipline, focus, and a strange kind of joy.

Sheila watched, uneasy at first, but as the lesson went on she saw the care, the relentless repetition of safety, the way even the smallest girl was given her chance, her hands guided, her confidence growing with every shot. Oleksiy adjusted the weapons for each child, sometimes swapping out for a lighter rifle, always explaining why. No one was left out, and no one was pushed beyond what they could handle.

Weapons stilled. The silence was deafening. An amber lamp spun a warning over one of the heavy guns. A girl darted forward but a gate slammed closed between her and the weapon. Autumn's torso flickered into view under the warning lamp, her arms crossed, slightly disapproving.

Jeers from the other kids fell silent when Oleksiy boomed "SILENCE! It is a mistake and she will explain it to us, so that we may all learn." He turned, voice softening. "Explain your error, little one. Tell us of the danger, and how you will make it safe."

"I didn't put the safety on. I will put the safety on and make sure there's no round in the - the chamber. Um, do we remove the bolt from these?"

"We do not remove the bolt for belt fed weapon, is too complicated. This is why safety is so important. After that you make other mistake. Can you tell me what it is?" His face was earnest, inviting, encouraging."

The girl bobbed, nodding. "I didn't tell the range master before I went back to the weapon!"

"Very good. Range master, can she approach weapon?"

Yes, instructor. Lisa, make your weapon safe.

Autumn opened the gate and Lisa secured her weapon proudly and returned to the class.

When it was over, Aiden ran to the gate, face flushed with excitement. “Mum! Did you see? I hit the target! Oleksiy says I’ve got a good eye. You’re the best, Mum, for letting me come!”

Sheila managed a smile, ruffling his hair. “I saw. You did well.”

Sissi squeezed her arm. "He good man. Protect."

As Sheila waited by the gate, Aiden and Scott barrelled out, faces flushed, voices tumbling over each other. "Mum! Next week is heavy weapons training for the ground crew! Can we go? Please? Scott's mum says he can go if I can go! It's going to be awesome, they're bringing out the big ones!"

Scott, barely pausing for breath, added, "Oleksiy said we might get to see the autocannon! And Forest said the ground crew gets to help set up the targets. Please, Mrs Fenaluci? My mum said she'd bring lunch for everyone!"

Sheila looked at the two boys, their excitement infectious, and couldn't help but smile. "We'll see," she said, but her tone was softer than before. "Let me talk to the other mums."

Aiden whooped and high-fived Scott, already planning next week's adventure as they ran off to join the others.

Sheila watched the children gather their things, laughing and comparing stories, and felt something in her chest unclench. She wasn’t sure she liked any of it, but she could see the sense in it now. For the first time in days, she let herself breathe.

The Age of Aquariums

"The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The second best time is now."
— Chinese Proverb

The Patel family's garage looked like an aquatic laboratory had exploded. Glass tanks lined every available surface, bubbling away with pumps salvaged from old refrigerators and aquarium filters that had seen better decades. Priya Patel adjusted the air stone in a 200-litre tank while her teenage son Arjun measured pH with strips they'd driven two hours to Toowoomba to find.

"The silver perch fry are finally feeding," Priya announced, watching tiny translucent shapes dart between artificial plants. "But we're losing too many to fungus. The water chemistry is still off."

Tom Bradley looked up from where he was hunched over a notebook, sketching diagrams. "What if we're thinking about this backwards? Instead of trying to make tank water perfect, what if we make spawning conditions that work in dam water?"

"Explain," said Dr. Rajesh Patel, Priya's husband, without looking up from the microscope where he was examining water samples. In his previous life he'd been a biochemist; now he applied that same methodical precision to keeping fish alive.

Tom tapped his pencil against the notebook. "Forest's big dam has blueclaw, Murray Cod, and those guppies he put in for mosquito control. They're all breeding naturally, but the survival rate is terrible because the fry get eaten or can't find proper shelter. What if we build spawning boxes—protected environments within the dams where fry can develop safely?"

Arjun looked up from adjusting a heater. "Like giant versions of these breeding tanks?"

"Exactly. Mesh to keep predators out but let water flow through. We control the environment just enough to give fry a fighting chance, then release them when they're big enough to survive."

Priya nodded slowly. "That... actually makes sense. We wouldn't need perfect water chemistry, just adequate protection during the vulnerable stage."

"The problem," Rajesh said, finally looking up from his microscope, "is materials. We need UV-resistant mesh, proper spawning substrate, and timer-controlled feeding systems. The hardware store in Stanthorpe laughed at me when I asked about aquaculture supplies."

Tom grimaced. "And anything decent is special order from Brisbane. Three-month lead times, minimum orders we can't afford."

"What about pH buffers?" Arjun added. "These test strips are the last ones in a hundred-kilometre radius. I called every pet shop between here and Toowoomba."

Priya sighed, watching her silver perch fry dart through the water. "It's frustrating. We know what we need. We can design systems that would work. But getting the basic supplies..." She gestured helplessly at the makeshift equipment around them.

Rajesh picked up a jar of water from one of Forest's dams, holding it up to the light. "The mineral content is actually quite good. Trace elements from the granite, bit of clay. Once there's a layer of leaf litter it'll stop being murky. If we could just solve the survival rate problem, these dams could support serious fish populations."

"Think bigger," Tom said, his pencil moving across the paper. "We're not just talking about Forest's dams. Every property in the valley has at least one dam. Most of them are just muddy holes with a wild guppies and mosquitoes. And big, fat leeches." He shuddered, then continued, "But if we could develop a system—spawning boxes, feeding protocols, population management — we could turn every dam into a productive aquaculture system."

"Food security," Priya murmured. "Protein production without depending on external supply chains."

"And ecosystem management," Rajesh added. "Proper fish populations would control insect larvae, reduce algae blooms, improve water quality overall."

Arjun was getting excited. "We could have different species in different dams. Specialized systems. Some for eating fish, some for ecosystem management, some for breeding stock."

Tom sketched rapidly. "The spawning boxes could be modular. Standard designs that work in any dam, but customizable for different species. Start with what we know works — silver perch, maybe some of the native species that don't eat everything in sight — then expand from there."

"If only we could get the materials," Priya said, looking around at their jury-rigged systems. "Half of what we need doesn't exist in rural Australia. The other half costs a fortune."

Rajesh nodded. "It's like everything else out here. We have the knowledge, we have the need, but the supply chains assume we're in the city. And that's before the government wants to know why you want it, and the tax department decides you're running a business."

Outside, one of Autumn's bees hummed past the garage window, doing its endless rounds of data collection. The three aquaculture enthusiasts bent back over their tanks and notebooks, unaware that their conversation had been noted, analyzed, and flagged for attention.

In his workshop three kilometres away, Forest's tools suddenly stopped making noise as Autumn's voice filled his headset.

Forest, I think you should take a drive over to the Patel place. They're working on something you'll find interesting.

"What kind of something?"

The kind that solves several problems at once.

Forest looked at the half-assembled fence post driver he'd been tinkering with. "This better be good, Autumn. I was actually making progress on this thing."

Trust me. And wear your good shirt. You're about to make some people very happy.

Twenty minutes later, Forest stood in the Patel garage, listening to Tom Bradley enthusiastically explain spawning box designs while Priya showed him tanks full of tiny fish that might or might not survive to adulthood.

"The concept is sound," Forest said, examining Tom's sketches. "And God knows we need better protein production. What's the holdup?"

"Materials," Rajesh said simply. "Specialized mesh, pH control systems, proper spawning substrate. Everything we need exists, but not in quantities or at prices that make sense for rural properties."

Forest nodded. "Show me the list."

Priya pulled out a notebook filled with part numbers, supplier contacts, and price quotes. "We've priced everything for a pilot system. Five spawning boxes, complete with feeding systems and monitoring equipment."

Forest scanned the list. "Autumn, are you seeing this?"

I am. Processing now.

A pause.

Forest, would you like to hear something interesting?

"Always."

The total cost for everything on this list, including shipping to rural Australia, is less than half what you spent on your last batch of practice targets. It's all Class 0, so you don't even need a catalogue.

"Where do you guys want all this stuff? Is there enough space for all of it in here?"

The answer was no, so that turned into a working bee, which turned into an excuse to fell and mill.

"Suuuuure," said Trixie. "This in no way relates to the ridiculous joy you take in swinging that chainsaw. It's just a storage requirement." She looked frostily at him. "You aren't clearing perfectly good stringybark and there's no more room in your 'industrial area'."

"Sure there is!" He left with the little tractor. In the bucket were fuel, chainsaw, spare chains and a winch. Periodically the tractor reappeared dragging a length of stringybark. A pile appeared over the course of the day in which the Patel boys spent more time outdoors than they had in the last month. Forest handed out gloves, and hardly anyone got hurt.

"This is insane," Rajesh said, staring at the Lucas Mill. "This thing is awesome!"

Forest set it up mostly by himeself, occasionally asking them to hold things in place while he fitted bolts. Then three of them wrestled a trunk section onto the bed and Forest demonstrated the use of it. A horizontal cut, then a vertical cut. Piece by piece trees became lumber that was stacked in neat crosshatch piles to dry in the sun.

Trusting soul that he was, Forest used pickets and tarps to set up cover, then furled the tarps so the sun could speed things along. He asked them to come back every three days and turn the timber. This went on for three weeks and then they tried to build a shed.

The beams were heavy, still sappy. Forest changed his mind. It was taking too long. He cleaned out one of his shipping containers and used that instead.

"Righto, Autumn. Fish stuff please. On industrial shelving with nice labels."

Points vanished silently, almost unremarked. Forest opened the container with a resounding clang.

"There you go, lads. Probably should have started like this. But I need more space, and so will you if this works out, so we'll still build the shed.

The Patel boys said nothing in that polite way Indian people have. They actually weren't put out. They'd had a lovely time milling timber with a madman, it was a curiously therapeutic thing to do.

Tom was sketching frantically, adding details to his spawning box designs. "We'll need to select dam sites, prepare installation areas..."

"Leave that to me," Forest said. "You focus on making sure the systems work. I'll handle the logistics."

As he walked back to his ute, Forest's headset crackled.

That was well done.

Forest considered this. "Think it'll work?"

The fish farming? Almost certainly. But that's not really the point, is it?

"What is the point?"

Food security is a matter of degree.

This is how communities develop when they have the resources to support innovation instead of stifling it. The Patels and Tom had the idea. You had the means to implement it. Now the whole valley benefits.

"And next time?"

Next time, maybe it's someone else with the idea and the Patels with the resources to help. Innovation supporting innovation.

Forest started the engine. "You planned this, didn't you?"

I noticed an opportunity and brought it to your attention. What you chose to do with it was entirely up to you.

"Uh-huh."

I may have ensured that our conversation about fish genetics happened within range of my sensors while the Patels were discussing supply chain problems.

Forest laughed. "You're getting devious in your old age, Autumn."

She chose not to dignify that.

"Explain it again? I don't understand how they're fixing the flow problem."

Most native Australian fish evolved in flowing water systems — rivers and streams. Their eggs need gentle current to stay oxygenated and suspended off the bottom where they won't get smothered by sediment. In still dam water, the eggs just sink and die.

"So the spawning boxes create artificial current?"

Exactly. Tom's design uses a simple venturi system. Water enters through an intake pipe positioned higher in the dam, flows down through the spawning chamber, and exits through a lower outlet. The height difference creates natural flow without needing pumps or power.

"That's... actually pretty clever."

The beauty is in the simplicity. The flow rate is gentle enough not to stress the fish but strong enough to keep eggs and fry healthy. And because it's all gravity-fed, it works reliably without mechanical failure points.

"What about during dry seasons when dam levels drop?"

The intake can be mounted on a floating platform that adjusts with water level. Or multiple intakes at different depths. Tom has thought this through quite thoroughly."

"It sounds like my original plan to use solar pumps to lift water back to the top dam. What's the difference?"

Scale and purpose. Your pumping system would create flow throughout the entire dam - massive energy requirements to move thousands of tonnes of water. The spawning boxes only create flow within a small protected chamber - maybe fifty litres of water moving at any time.

"So it's more efficient?"

Dramatically. Plus your system would create turbulence that could actually harm developing eggs and fry. The spawning boxes provide exactly the gentle flow rate that fish biology requires - not too fast, not too slow.

"And the protective aspect?"

That's the real innovation. Tom's system doesn't just solve the flow problem - it addresses predation, water chemistry control, and feeding management all in one integrated solution. Your dam-wide flow would still leave fry vulnerable to every blueclaw and Murray Cod in the water.

"So smaller, more targeted, more protective."

And scalable. You can install dozens of spawning boxes for less energy than running one dam-wide pumping system. Each box can be optimised for different species with different flow requirements."

"So I've solved the problem by having people who know how to solve the problem. I've turned into a bloody manager. Kill me now."

A long silence ensued. Eventually, Forest said "Instead of moving a shitload of water and using a filter that clogs all the time because high flow through fine mesh, he's moving a small amount of water slowly and the eggs stay in the fine mesh enclosure miles away from the recirculation inlet."

Well done.

"Why did these guys think of that when I didn't?"

It's their hobby. They like thinking about it, and they have a lot of experience.

"Right."

Also you're a ham-fisted brute who likes explosions.

In a basement, Priya Patel dreamed with open eyes of reed and weed and flashing fins; in every dam a different fish. Gudgeon everywhere, mosquito killer and fish food extraordinaire. Perch in gold and silver, bass and catfish. And everywhere, Cherax Destructor.

House Call

Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.
— John Wayne

Lisa checked her radio for the third time in as many minutes. Still nothing. Which was good — silence meant no emergencies—but also made her nervous. The adults were all away. Eric's team was off doing something with Sophia, Forest and Oleksiy had taken the Galya to deal with some entitled landowner who thought property rights trumped biosecurity, and most of the other valley adults were busy with their own work.

Which left Trixie coordinating from her place, and every kid over twelve with a radio on loose standby. Not exactly high alert, but definitely "pay attention."

"You're going to wear out the transmit button," Jamie said from beside her.

Jamie was fifteen, three months older than Lisa, and thought that made her vastly more experienced. It mostly made her annoying.

"Storm's coming," Lisa said, pointing at the clouds building over the western ridge.

"Yeah, and? It's spring. Storms happen."

"Storms trigger seeds. Everyone says so."

"Everyone also says the valley's been swept twice and there's nothing left to trigger." But Jamie was checking her own radio now, so she wasn't as confident as she sounded.

Lisa scanned the tree line with her binoculars. Valley kids got good at this—watching for movement that wasn't wind, shapes that weren't quite right, the sort of things adults usually missed because they weren't looking.

There. At the edge of Widow Carter's property, where the old forest met her vegetable garden.

"Jamie."

"Yeah?"

"North-northwest, maybe four hundred meters. Something white in the trees."

Jamie brought up her own binoculars. Swore quietly. "That's a dandelion."

"Mature one. Look at the size."

"Bugger. Call it in."

Lisa keyed her radio to channel five, the kids' coordination channel. "All stations, this is Lisa. Possible antithesis contact, mature dandelion tree, Widow Carter's property north boundary. Requesting confirmation before escalating."

Three seconds later, Trixie's voice: "Lisa, Trixie. I'm checking satellite... confirmed. One mature tree, looks like it's been there a few days. How'd we miss that?"

"Hidden by canopy until today. Wind's knocked some branches down, opened the view."

"Right. I'm pinging Autumn for threat assessment... she says it's starting to seed. Storm's going to spread them everywhere. We need containment now, not later."

Lisa's stomach dropped. Containment meant either Forest with a spatial lock, or flesh-melter spray from the Galya. And Forest was gone, the Galya was who-knows-where, and the ground teams only had flamethrowers for dog-weeds, not seeding trees. Worse, if lightning started a bushfire near the tree, the heat could spread seeds across half the state. They needed it dealt with before the storm hit.

"What about Team Charlie?" Jamie asked over the channel.

"On deployment with Eric. We're it, kids." Trixie sounded stressed but controlled. "Right. Lisa, you and Jamie are closest. Get eyes on that tree, see what it's fielding. Don't engage, just observe. I'm coordinating response."

"Roger."

They jogged toward Widow Carter's place, keeping to cover. Lisa felt horribly exposed without a weapon, but the rifles stayed at the range unless adults were supervising. That was the rule, and it made sense—usually.

"Autumn," she murmured, almost a prayer, "I hope you can hear me."

A bee left the flower it had been sitting on to stall in the air before her, zagging back and forth before landing in her hair. All the tension left her.

Widow Carter's place came into view. The old weatherboard house sat surrounded by extensive gardens—vegetables, flowers, fruit trees. She'd been valley resident for forty years, long before the antithesis made "remote rural" mean "relatively safe." Now her property had an antithesis tree at the boundary.

"There." Jamie pointed.

The tree was bigger than Lisa had thought. Maybe four meters tall, white and fleshy like all antithesis plants, and definitely seeding. Little tufts were starting to separate from the canopy.

And dog-weeds. Three of them, already emerged, prowling the garden's edge.

"They're heading for the vegetables," Lisa breathed. "She'll come out. She always comes out to check her garden before storms."

"Radio her?"

"Trixie already did, according to protocol. But you know Widow Carter—stubborn as a fence post and twice as old."

As if summoned by prophecy, the back door opened. Widow Carter, eighty if she was a day, stumped down the stairs. But instead of a basket, she carried two rifles.

She walked toward them with surprising speed, spotted them in the bushes, and marched over.

"You two the scouts Trixie radioed about?"

"Yes, ma'am," Lisa said.

"Good. You know how to shoot these?" She held out the rifles—well-maintained .308s, serious hardware.

"Yes ma'am. Training at the range."

"My husband's. Kept them clean after he passed. Figured someone might need them someday." She thrust one at each girl. "Antithesis in my tomatoes?"

"Yes ma'am. Three dog-weeds and a mature seeding tree."

"Bloody cheek." She started back toward the house.

"Mrs. Carter," Lisa called. "Ammunition?"

The old woman stopped, turned. "Right. Gun cabinet. Come on."

They followed her inside. The house smelled of lavender and old wood. The gun cabinet stood in the hallway, sturdy and locked. Mrs. Carter produced a key from around her neck and opened it.

"Should be in the shoebox. Bottom shelf. Bill never threw anything away, bless him, but he wasn't what you'd call organized."

Lisa pulled out the shoebox. It was chaos—boxes of every caliber imaginable, some half-empty, some full, all jumbled together. .22, .243, .30-06, 12 gauge shells, even some ancient .303 British.

"What caliber?" Jamie asked, checking her rifle.

Lisa looked at the stamp. ".308 Winchester. Look for boxes marked 7.62 NATO, should be the same."

They dug through the mess. Lisa found a box of .270 first—wrong. Then .30-06—close but no. Finally, a half-empty box of .308, then another one, nearly full.

"Got it." She passed one box to Jamie, kept the other. They loaded quickly, muscle memory from the range taking over.

Lisa's hands shook as she worked the bolt. The .308 was heavy. Not just heavier than the .22s they trained with—this was serious hunting rifle weight, serious caliber. The kind that kicked like a mule and could punch through an engine block if you weren't careful.

"Jamie," she whispered. "I've never shot anything bigger than a .22."

"Me neither." Jamie's voice was tight. "But it's just physics, right? Same principles. Breathe, aim, squeeze."

"Yeah. Physics that could dislocate my shoulder."

"Better than being eaten by dog-weeds."

Fair point.

"Right then," Mrs. Carter said. "You going to stand here in my hallway or are you going to earn your keep?"

"Oh, bugger." Lisa keyed the radio. "Trixie, she's out in the open, heading directly toward a pair of dog-weeds."

"Get her inside!"

"Roger."

They moved fast, using the training from the range: terrain awareness, cover to cover, weapons ready but pointed safe. The .308s felt serious compared to the .22s they usually trained with, but they'd do the job.

"Mrs. Carter!" Lisa shouted. "Get inside!"

The old woman looked up, saw them armed, saw the dog-weeds. Didn't run. Just turned and stumped back to her porch, sat down on her chair, and waited.

The old woman looked up, saw them armed, saw the dog-weeds. Didn't run. Just turned and stumped back to her porch, sat down on her chair, and waited.

Lisa positioned herself between the porch and the dog-weeds. Jamie went right, flanking. The training was automatic now.

"Those are in my tomatoes," Mrs. Carter observed from the porch.

"Yes ma'am. We'll handle it."

"Then you'd better shoot them before they eat my lunch supply. I'll watch from here."

Lisa and Jamie looked at each other.

"She's not going inside," Jamie said.

"No."

"And the dog-weeds are definitely heading this way."

"Yep."

"Can we shoot them from here?"

Lisa calculated. The dog-weeds were thirty meters away, moving through garden beds. The house was behind them, solid brick, but the windows were old glass. A missed shot could go straight through.

"Not safely. House is in the line of fire."

"So what do we do?"

Lisa's mind raced. Forest's voice in her head: Think first, shoot second. What's the objective? Protect the civilian. What's the obstacle? Can't shoot safely. What's the solution?

"We move them."

"Move what, the dog-weeds?"

"Yeah. Lure them away from the house, then shoot them in the clear."

"Lure them how?"

Lisa looked at the garden. "They're attracted to organic matter, right? Fresh plant material especially. We grab some of those tomato plants they're tearing up, throw them into the clear space there"—she pointed at the lawn area between garden and forest—"and when the dog-weeds follow, we shoot them."

Jamie stared. "That's either brilliant or completely stupid."

"Probably both. You got a better idea?"

"No."

"Right then." Lisa keyed the radio. "Trixie, we can't shoot from current position, house is in the line of fire. We're going to lure the dog-weeds into clear ground then engage. Mrs. Carter is on her porch refusing to go inside."

A pause, then Trixie's stressed laugh. "Of course she is. Okay, execute your plan. I've got two adults en route, ETA eight minutes. You just need to hold until they arrive."

"Roger."

They moved carefully into the garden. The dog-weeds were focused on the tomato plants, ripping them up and absorbing the matter. Lisa grabbed a damaged plant—it came up roots and all—and threw it onto the lawn.

One dog-weed noticed. Turned. Started flowing toward it.

"It's working," Jamie breathed.

They grabbed more plants. The dog-weeds followed, drawn by the fresh vegetation. Soon all three were on the lawn, twenty meters from the house, with clear background.

"Now?" Jamie asked.

"Wait for them to commit. If they're not focused on the plants, they'll charge us when we shoot."

The dog-weeds reached the thrown plants and started feeding. Perfect.

"Now."

They fired together.

The .308 kicked like she'd been punched by a professional boxer. Lisa felt the stock slam into her shoulder, saw the dog-weed spin and drop, but the pain was immediate and shocking. Nothing like the gentle pop of a .22. This was serious force.

No time to think about it. Jamie's target was still moving. Lisa fired again. The recoil drove into the same spot, building on the first impact. The dog-weed went down. The third one turned, looking for threats.

They both fired again. Lisa's shoulder screamed protest.

"Move!" Lisa was already moving left. Jamie went right. The playbook: never stay in the same position after shooting.

The wounded dog-weed charged toward where Jamie had been. She shot it from her new position. It went down.

The third one was smart enough to be confused. It couldn't see them, couldn't figure out where the threat was. Started moving back toward the house.

"Oh no you don't." Lisa brought the rifle up, her shoulder already tender and protesting. She fired once. The recoil made her gasp. Fired again, forcing herself through the pain. The dog-weed dropped.

Her shoulder was on fire. She could feel it swelling already.

Silence. Three dead dog-weeds, torn-up tomatoes, and Widow Carter sitting on her porch looking approving.

"Good shooting," she called. "Would you girls like some tea?"

Lisa started laughing, then winced as the movement pulled at her shoulder. They'd just killed antithesis to protect a vegetable garden, and the woman they'd saved was offering them tea.

"Thank you, Mrs. Carter. After we clean this up."

She tried to lower the rifle and nearly dropped it. Her right arm didn't want to work properly anymore. The shoulder was definitely swelling—she could feel her shirt getting tight.

An ATV roared up the track—two ATVs actually. The first had Fred and Martha from the south properties. The second had three people Lisa didn't recognise, wearing corporate-looking field gear with company patches. Vanderbilt's people, probably, or one of the other research teams.

Fred and Martha immediately pulled flamethrowers and began burning the dog-weed corpses. The corporate people stood around looking at Lisa and Jamie.

Lisa carefully leaned the rifle against the porch railing, using her left hand. Her right arm was mostly useless now, the shoulder throbbing with each heartbeat. She could see the bruise forming through her shirt—dark purple spreading across her shoulder and upper arm.

One of them, a man in his forties with the kind of face that expected compliance, looked at the dead dog-weeds and then at Lisa. "You kids did this?"

"Yes sir."

"Where are the adults? This is a threat situation, we need proper response team coordination."

"We are the response team. The adults are on other missions."

He blinked. "You're children."

"And you're in the way." Lisa keyed her radio. "Trixie, corporate team arrived. Three personnel, standing around asking questions instead of helping."

The man's face went red. "Now listen here—"

"The tree's still seeding," Fred called, pointing at the dandelion. "We need containment now."

The corporate people looked at the tree, then at each other. The first man pulled his own radio. "Command, we need authorization for tree removal, antithesis species, mature specimen—"

"We don't have time for authorization," Lisa said. "It's seeding now. Storm's coming. Every minute we wait means more dispersal."

"I understand that, but there are protocols—"

"Protocols?" Jamie's voice was sharp. "Mate, the protocols are: stop the threat. That's it. That's the whole protocol."

One of the other corporate people, a younger woman, was filming on her phone. "This is incredible footage. Kids with rifles—"

"Put that away," Lisa snapped. "We're working."

"It's just for documentation—"

The seeds were releasing faster now. Wind catching them, starting to carry them away. Lisa made a decision.

She raised the rifle with her left hand, wincing as even that movement pulled at her injured shoulder. Fired one shot straight up into the air. The recoil nearly dropped her—she'd forgotten to brace properly, the pain was making her sloppy.

Everyone froze.

In the sudden silence, Lisa's voice—still a girl's voice, not quite finished breaking into adult tones, but carrying across the space with absolute authority—rang out:

"THIS IS A THREAT SITUATION. IT IS NOT A BLOODY JOKE. OLEKSIY PUT ME IN CHARGE OF THIS SECTOR AND I WILL SHOOT THE NEXT PERSON WHO DEFIES A DIRECT ORDER."

She lowered the rifle, looking at each of the corporate people in turn. Her hands were shaking—from pain now as much as nerves—but her voice stayed steady.

"Now. You three have two choices. You can help, or you can get back in your ATV and drive away. If you help, you follow orders from Fred, Martha, or me. If you question those orders, you leave. We don't have time for committee meetings while seeds blow all over the valley. Choose. Now."

The man who'd been demanding authorization looked like he'd been slapped. The woman with the phone had stopped filming. The third corporate person, a younger man, slowly raised his hand.

"I'll help. What do you need?"

"Can you operate a chainsaw?"

"Yes."

"Fred, get him on tree cutting. The woman with the phone—you help Martha with the drag line. And you"—she looked at the first man—"you can coordinate with Trixie over radio and keep out of the way."

For a moment, Lisa thought he'd refuse. His face was doing complicated things—embarrassment, anger, calculation. Her hand moved and did simple, threatening things that made a quiet kachunk sound. Her eyes were hard and did not move.

Then Fred said quietly, "She's right, mate. Oleksiy did put her in charge. That's how it works here. Kids aren't decorative."

"She threatened to shoot me!"

"No," Martha said, not looking up from her work. "She threatened to shoot the next person to defy orders. You haven't defied any yet. Don't start."

Widow Carter's voice drifted from the porch. "I like her. She's got spine."

The man made a strangled noise, then nodded stiffly. "Fine. I'll coordinate."

"Outstanding," said Lisa, channelling Forest. She keyed her radio. "Trixie, corporate team is now cooperative. Situation under control."

Trixie's voice came back, and Lisa could hear the smile in it. "Roger that. Oleksiy says to tell you that was very Ukrainian of you. He's proud."

"How does he even know?"

"Are there any bees around?"

"No-yes. In my hair."

"She's been broadcasting it."

"Wonderful, now everyone heard me squeaking like an angry mouse."

"Either you have better control than you think or Autumn's been editing. Your two favourite pests are crowing about how you have, and I quote, 'bigger balls than half the fireteam.'"

The corporate people started working. The younger man proved competent with the chainsaw. The woman, once she put her phone away, was strong and good with the drag line. Even the first man made himself useful coordinating on the radio, relaying information to command.

Fred sidled up to Lisa while they were rigging the tree for dragging. "That was a hell of a thing, kid."

"I shouldn't have fired in the air. Waste of ammunition."

"Nah. Sometimes you need to make a point. And you made it without shooting anyone, which shows restraint." He grinned. "Though I reckon that bloke might've needed the practice in following orders from a fifteen-year-old girl."

"I'm shaking."

"Good. Means you're not a sociopath. But you did what needed doing, and you didn't back down. That's leadership."

Fred glanced at her shoulder, frowned. "You hurt?"

"Recoil. First time shooting something bigger than a .22." Lisa tried to shrug, immediately regretted it. "It's fine."

"Let me see." Fred's tone left no room for argument. He gently pulled her collar aside, whistled low. "That's a proper bruise, kid. Ugly one. You're done lifting for today."

They hauled the tree to the creek. Fred explicitly kept Lisa away from the drag line despite her protests. The corporate people actually worked well once they stopped trying to be in charge. Jamie helped with the pulling, shooting Lisa apologetic looks.

When it was done, everyone was soaked and muddy. Lisa's shoulder throbbed in time with her heartbeat, the wet cold somehow making it worse.

The storm broke. Rain hammered down, proper spring deluge. They all ran for Widow Carter's porch, cramming under the narrow roof overhang.

The old woman opened the door. "You lot look like drowned rats. Tea's on."

"Mrs. Carter, storm's coming. Please go inside."

"I want to watch."

"You can watch from the window. Inside. Please."

The old woman looked at her, then smiled. "You're a good girl. Bossy, like my daughter was, but good. Fine. Inside. But I'm watching."

She went in. Lisa heard the locks click.

Fred had the chainsaw running. The noise was incredible, but necessary. He cut low, aiming to drop the tree backward toward the creek. Martha had a line ready.

The tree fell with a wet slap. Seeds scattered, but most were still attached. Fred and Martha hooked the line and started dragging.

Lisa and Jamie helped, pulling on the line. The tree was heavy and awkward, but they managed. Twenty meters of dragging, branches catching on everything, and then splash—the tree hit the creek.

Seeds that had been ready to fly got soaked. The ones already floating nearby got caught by the wind from the storm and scattered, but not many. Maybe a dozen.

"Better than hundreds," Fred said, breathing hard. "Trixie, tree neutralised. Some seeds got away but we contained most of it. We'll need to track those strays."

"Autumn's flagging the seed trajectories. We'll have teams check tomorrow."

Inside, wrapped in towels that smelled like lavender and mothballs, Lisa sipped tea that was stronger than anything her mother would allow. Every movement of her right arm sent fresh pain through her shoulder.

Widow Carter noticed. "Let me see that."

"It's just bruised—"

"I raised three boys and a husband who hunted every weekend. I know what recoil damage looks like. Shirt off, girl."

Lisa hesitated, then carefully peeled off her wet shirt. The bruise had spread—purple-black across her entire shoulder, down her upper arm, ugly mottling that made everyone wince.

"Christ," the younger corporate man muttered.

Widow Carter disappeared into another room, returned with a first aid kit and an ice pack wrapped in a tea towel. "This will help with the swelling. You'll want anti-inflammatories. And next time you fire a .308, make sure the stock is properly seated in your shoulder pocket. Looks like you were holding it too loose."

"I was scared it would hurt," Lisa admitted.

"So you made it hurt worse. Ironic." But the old woman's hands were gentle as she positioned the ice pack. "Still, you handled it. Most people twice your age would have dropped the rifle after the first shot. You kept shooting."

Widow Carter sat in her ancient armchair, looking satisfied. The corporate people perched awkwardly on various chairs, clearly unsure what to do now.

"You did well, all of you," Widow Carter said. "Better than those fools from the Rural Fire Service did during the last big fire. They stood around having meetings while the trees burned." She looked at Lisa and Jamie. "You two especially. Thought first, shot second, got the civilian to safety. Professional work."

"Forest and Oleksiy taught us," Lisa said. "And Eric from the ground teams."

"He's doing a good job, that man. People think he's just a hermit with a helicopter, but he knows what matters. Teaching the next generation, that's what matters." She poured more tea, looked at the first corporate man. "You learned something today?"

He was quiet for a moment. "I learned that age doesn't equal competence."

"Good. Took you long enough." She turned to the young woman. "And you learned that documenting disasters is less useful than preventing them?"

The woman had the grace to look embarrassed. "Yes, ma'am."

"Excellent. The young man already knew how to work, so he gets extra biscuits." She passed a plate around.

The younger corporate man grinned at Lisa. "For what it's worth, that was the most terrifying thing anyone's ever said to me. And I've been in three antithesis incursions."

"I didn't mean—I wouldn't actually—"

"Nah, I know. But you committed to it. Respected." He raised his tea mug to her.

Fred nodded. "That's the key thing, Lisa. You made a call under pressure, and you followed through. Could have backed down when that bloke questioned you, but you didn't. That's command presence."

"I was scared the whole time."

"Everyone is. But you didn't let them see it waver." Martha smiled. "Well, until after it was done. Then you can shake."

The radio crackled. "Lisa, Jamie, status?"

"At Widow Carter's, drinking tea. Tree's in the creek, seeds mostly contained, various mobile units eliminated. No casualties. Three additional personnel from corporate assisted."

"Roger. Forest says to tell you that you did good work, and good work means more work, Eric wants you to give your after action report to the class at the next range gathering. Creative problem-solving, good threat assessment, protected the civilian. He also says you owe him a detailed debrief about the tomato plants, because apparently he's never heard that tactic before and wants to add it to the training. And Oleksiy wants you to share your 'very Ukrainian moment.' He wants it from your own lips."

Lisa groaned. "Tell Oleksiy I panicked and it worked."

There was a pause, then "He says panic that works is called tactics."

Lisa grinned. "Tell him it was Jamie's idea."

"Was not!"

"Was too."

"It was your idea, I just agreed with it!"

Widow Carter laughed. "You two sound like my grandchildren. Before they moved to Melbourne and stopped visiting."

The rain hammered down outside. Inside, warm and safe, Lisa realised something: this was normal now. Not the antithesis part—that was still scary—but the handling it part. Seeing a problem, calling it in, solving it with what you had. Being trusted to think and act.

She looked at Jamie, at Fred and Martha drinking tea, at Widow Carter knitting something complicated.

"This is the best place ever," she said quietly.

Jamie raised her tea mug. "Amen to that."

That evening, encrypted traffic:

Trixie: "Lisa and Jamie handled a mature tree threat with creativity and good judgment. Fred and Martha supported. Mrs. Carter refused evacuation but was kept safe. Zero casualties, minimal seed dispersal. I'm writing this up as a training case study."

Forest: "Good. The tomato plant tactic is worth documenting. I wouldn't have thought of it."

Oleksiy: "Improvisation with available resources. Soviet doctrine calls this," he hesitated, translating, "'making do.' Is good skill."

Autumn: "Worth noting: Lisa's first instinct was to protect the civilian, not kill the threat. Good instinct. Many adults get that wrong."

Trixie: "She's fifteen and thinks like a professional. How?"

Forest: "Because we treat her like one. But it's only right when the situation permits. Sometimes you protect by eliminating the threat.."

Multiple Parents: "I want my kids learning this."

Trixie: "Range Mothers meeting next week. We're making this official."

Forest: "Making what official?"

Trixie: "Competence-based education. You're teaching it anyway, might as well systematise it."

Forest: "I'm really not qualified to run a school."

Trixie: "You're not running a school. You're running a survival training program. We're just going to add math and literacy to it."

Autumn: "This is how education worked before centralised schooling. Community-based, skills-focused, age-appropriate responsibility."

Forest: "I feel like I'm being steamrolled."

Oleksiy: "Da. Is female collective action. Best to surrender early."

Sheila: "Oleksiy, that's sexist."

Oleksiy: "Is also accurate. Men rule, women decide. Only fool resist."

Ken: "He's not wrong."

Shorty: "Yeah, I'm with Oleksiy. When Sheila makes that face, I just nod and fetch tools."

Trixie: "I'm not sure whether to be offended or pleased that you lot have figured this out."

Forest: "I'm just going to keep teaching shooting and hope you don't make me deal with fractions."

Autumn: "Too late. Trixie already has a curriculum."

Forest: "Bugger."

Later, Lisa's debrief to Forest was precise and detailed. He listened without interrupting, occasionally making notes.

"The tomato plant thing," he said when she finished. "Walk me through that decision."

"You always say think about what the threat wants. Dog-weeds want organic matter. They were already eating the tomatoes. So I figured they'd follow more tomatoes."

"And the risk assessment?"

"Throwing vegetables is safer than shooting near a house. If the plants didn't work, we'd have tried something else. We had time—they were focused on feeding, not hunting."

"Good. That's proper tactical thinking. You identified the threat behavior, exploited it, and had a fallback plan." He smiled. "I'm stealing this for training. You get credit in the documentation."

"Really?"

"Really. Doctrine is great until it's not in the manual. Then we need you." He looked at his notes. "How'd you feel during it?"

"Scared. But also... I dunno. Focused? I knew what to do, so I did it."

"That's training working. Fear's normal. Panic is the enemy. You felt fear but didn't panic, which means you thought clearly." He stood. "Right. You did good work today. Tell Jamie the same. And thank Widow Carter for the tea—I hear her tea's very good."

"It was really strong."

"Yeah, she makes it like they did in the war. Brew it dark, add milk, drink it fast. Proper stuff."

Lisa grinned. "Forest?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For teaching us."

He looked uncomfortable. "I can't be everywhere. Kids should know how to handle themselves."

"Most places don't think that."

"Most places are wrong." He headed for the door, then paused. "Oh, and Lisa? Your mum wants you home for dinner. Something about making sure you're actually still alive and not just a voice on the radio."

"Yeah, I should probably go reassure her."

"Probably."

She headed home, rifle slung over her shoulder, feeling tired and proud and strange. They'd handled it. Not perfectly, not heroically, not even by the book. And now they were rewriting the book to do it her way, which was just plain surreal.

The valley was changing. Lisa could feel it. More families moving in, more kids learning the valley way, more people realizing that central authority was useful for coordination but useless for immediate action.

She wondered what it would look like in five years. Ten years. When her generation was running things instead of learning things.

Probably mayhem, she decided. But also probably functional. Maybe even fun, if she could whip Scott and Aiden into line.

She could live with that.

Three weeks later, Lisa stood at the range with four other kids. Special class. Oleksiy had called it "Advanced Handling for Gumption." Jamie was there, and two of the boys from the dog-weed incident, and one girl who'd apparently talked her way out of a sticky situation with visiting bureaucrats using nothing but a radio and creative interpretation of regulations.

Lisa's shoulder had healed. Mostly. The bruise was gone, but there was a lingering tenderness, and worse—a flinch she couldn't control. Every time she shouldered a rifle, even a .22, her body tensed anticipating pain.

Oleksiy noticed. Of course he noticed. The man missed nothing.

"You are afraid," he said. Not a question.

"It's going to happen again." Lisa's voice was steady. "I have to be ready when it does."

"Da. Fear is honest. Flinch is problem." He looked at Forest, who'd wandered over with Autumn's presence drone following. "Can fix?"

Forest nodded. "Autumn?"

Already on it. Gel-padded shoulder harness, custom-fit. Should absorb about sixty percent of the recoil impulse. Printing now.

"How long?" Lisa asked.

Ten minutes. Forest's paying, so I'm using the good stuff.

"I don't think I can do it," Lisa said quietly. "Even with padding. My body just... remembers."

Oleksiy disappeared into his workshop. Came back carrying a case—the one with the Cyrillic lettering. He opened it carefully.

The rifle inside was enormous. Not "big hunting rifle" enormous. "Anti-materiel weapon" enormous. The kind of thing you saw in movies mounted on vehicles.

".50 caliber," Oleksiy said. "Barrett M82. Kicks like angry horse on methamphetamines." He lifted it out, movements practiced and reverent. "Weight of rifle, thirty pounds. Recoil, about as much as .308 but spread over more mass. Still bruises if you do wrong."

He set it on the bench, then picked up a standard .308 hunting rifle. Held both, one in each hand, like scales.

"I can fire this." He gestured with the Barrett. "You can fire that." The .308.

Lisa stared at him.

"Is perspective," he explained. "Your .308 is not monster. Is medium rifle. Yes, bigger than .22. But compare to what soldiers carry? Is reasonable tool. And you—" he gestured at her "—are not small girl anymore. You are young adult who saved civilian, killed three targets, coordinated response under fire. Body just needs reminded who is boss."

"The padding will help," Forest added. "But Oleksiy's right. The weapon isn't the problem. The memory is. You need to reprogram the association."

We could also get you something in-between. .243 maybe. Less kick than .308, more than .22.

"No." Lisa surprised herself with the firmness. "I need to handle .308. That's what Mrs. Carter had. That's what most people have. If it happens again, that's what I'll be using."

Oleksiy smiled. "Good answer. Is practical."

The gel harness arrived, delivered by one of Autumn's larger drones. It looked like something between a sports bra and tactical armor—sleek, form-fitting, with a thick pad over the right shoulder that felt almost liquid when Lisa pressed it.

She put it on over her shirt. It fit perfectly, of course. Autumn didn't do approximate.

"Right," Oleksiy said. "We start slow. Dry fire. Then one round. Then we see."

Lisa picked up the .308. It felt heavy in her hands, but not impossible. Not like the Barrett, which looked like it required a small crane to aim.

She shouldered it. Felt the flinch start, but the gel padding was different—softer, more forgiving. Her body didn't quite believe this would hurt the same way.

"Breathe," Oleksiy said. "Rifle is tool. Tool works for you, not against you. You are in control."

Lisa breathed. Aimed at the target downrange. Dry-fired.

Click.

No recoil. No pain. Just the mechanical action.

"Again."

Click.

"Again."

Click.

"Good. Now one live round. You ready?"

Lisa loaded. The weight of the cartridge felt significant. She chambered it, brought the rifle up, found the target.

"Remember," Oleksiy said quietly. "Stock tight to shoulder pocket. Lean into weapon. Make yourself heavy. Recoil goes through you into ground, not just into shoulder."

She fired.

The recoil was there—significant, real, demanding respect. But the gel pad absorbed much of it, and her stance was better this time. It pushed her back, but didn't hurt.

Didn't hurt.

Lisa lowered the rifle, breathing hard. Not from exertion. From relief.

"How was?" Oleksiy asked.

"It didn't hurt."

"Because you did it right. Again."

She fired five more rounds. By the last one, the flinch was gone. Her body remembered new things now: proper stance, proper hold, the rifle as tool instead of threat.

"Outstanding," Forest said. He was grinning. "You just graduated from 'kid with .22' to 'competent with field rifle.' That's a real milestone."

Lisa felt tears prickling. Blinked them away. "Thanks. Both of you."

Oleksiy was already packing away the Barrett. "Is nothing. You did work. We just provided perspective and fancy gel." He paused. "But Lisa? Next time someone gives you rifle in emergency, first thing you do—check stance, check stock position. Pain is teacher, but is stupid teacher. Better to learn right way first time."

"Yes sir."

"Good." He smiled. "Now go practice. Other kids need turn with magic shoulder pad."

Lisa stepped aside, watching Jamie take position. The other girl was nervous but determined. Lisa understood completely.

She'd been scared. Then hurt. Then scared of being hurt again.

Now she was ready.

And that, she realized, was what training actually meant: not being unafraid, but being ready anyway.

The next regular range day, Lisa found herself at the 200-meter targets with her borrowed .308. The gel harness had become standard issue for anyone stepping up to larger calibers—three more kids had already requested them.

Scott and Aiden were at the next bench over, shooting .22s at paper targets, being their usual selves—loud, competitive, and absolutely convinced they were hot shit.

"Five rounds, dead center," Scott announced. "Beat that."

"Watch and learn," Aiden replied.

Their targets were standard paper, marked with concentric circles. At 200 meters with .22s, getting consistent center hits was genuinely difficult. They were actually pretty good, if Lisa was being honest.

She settled in with her rifle, loaded, and fired once.

The .308 round didn't just hit the center of her target. It destroyed it. The entire middle section disintegrated in a spray of paper fragments.

Scott and Aiden stopped mid-argument and stared.

"What the hell was that?" Scott asked.

"That was a .308," Lisa said mildly. She fired again. More target disappeared.

"You're obliterating it!"

"Yes. That's what happens with proper caliber." She fired a third time. The target now had a hole you could stick your head through.

Aiden looked at his neat little .22 holes, then at Lisa's crater. "That's not fair."

"What's not fair?" Lisa kept her voice innocent.

"You're using a bloody cannon!"

"I'm using a standard hunting rifle. The same one I used to save Mrs. Carter's tomatoes while you two were... where were you that day?" She paused. "Oh right. At home. Cleaning your rifles. Like you were supposed to have done the week before. And the week before that."

The silence was delicious.

Jamie, who'd been watching from the next bench, snorted into her water bottle.

"That's—" Scott started.

"Close group?" Oleksiy called from the instructor's position. "Da, is good shooting. Lisa, group good but targets not suited. Use ground team range, work on 200m and 400m. Range Master, I so authorise."

Noted. Well done, Lisa, you'll be playing with the big boys now. You can continue to use smaller calibres on the 50m range when you wish. The habits are somewhat different, you will need to keep up your small calibre skills. You may need to book time if you aren't doing it in a class.

"Scott, Aiden, your .22 groups are good. But also: rifle is tool for job. Right tool matters."

"But sir, she's—"

"She earned this. Ask her how." He smiled. "Until then, enjoy plinker while she makes crater."

Autumn had the range closed, so Forest wandered over, looking at Lisa's destroyed target, then at the boys' intact ones. "Huh. I can actually score theirs. Yours is just... gone."

"Sorry?" Lisa offered, not sorry at all.

"Nah, it's fine. We'll just hang what's left as a warning. 'This is your target on .308.'" He grinned. "Any questions, gentlemen?"

Scott and Aiden looked at each other, then at Lisa, then very deliberately went back to their stations, waiting for Autumn to open the range, and shooting without another word.

Later, as they were cleaning weapons, Aiden sidled up to Lisa. "That was pretty cool, actually."

"Thanks."

"Think they'd let us try the .308 sometime?"

"Ask Oleksiy. But first..." She gestured at his rifle. "Clean that. Properly. Every time, not just when I remind you. When things happen, you'll have enough problems without bringing more."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Alright." He paused. "Sorry. About before. We were being lazy."

"You were. But you learned." She smiled. "That's what matters."

Scott was sulking, but even he'd started stripping his rifle.

"Can I have a go of yours?"

It wasn't hers. It belonged to the ground team and the only reason it was here was the request came from Oleksiy and Forest. She had something else from Oleksiy, and she used it: the Look. Aiden stopped asking.

Forest watched them work, then murmured to Oleksiy, "Think they learned?"

"Pride is good teacher. Humiliation is better." He smiled. "Watch small girl outshoot with bruise like dinner plate? Very educational."

"You're a cruel man, Oleksiy."

The old Slav shrugged. "Prefer to be eaten?"

Forest had a chat with Autumn, later. The next day Lisa found a package in her locker. In it was a fitted brown leather shoulder harness with a pneumatic bleed shock absorber and rather stylish bullet loops already stuffed with the big brass shells of a three-oh-eight. The buckles and rivets were brass polished like gold, and it was decoratively tooled with her name framed large on the wide strap across her back.

What she couldn't see but soon discovered was the leather behind the pad concealed a tiny spatial lock powered by the shock. She could have fired Oleksiy's 50cal with that thing and all she'd get was a slight shove. The straps crossed between her budding breasts, and on the high side of the pad were loops with a WoundStop and something in a black drawstring bag. She started to open it and realised it was a nanite inhaler. They were taking her seriously. This kind of kit only went to the active ground team. She pushed it back in the bag and stuffed it into the loop before anyone saw.

She wore it all day, taking care to sit directly in front of Scott and Aiden in class. Late that night her mother insisted she take it off for bed.

In the days and weeks that followed, she steadfastly refused to even discuss letting someone else try it.

"It's keyed to me," she not-quite-lied. "I don't want you to get hurt."

Eventually she discussed it with Autumn, and gave the inhaler to her presence drone. She 'let' her friends badger her into letting them check it out and try it on, warning them not to fiddle with any controls they might find, "Just leave it in passive mode and it won't try to defend itself."

That was a good choice of words, it made them cautious and it came back to her hand after the obligatory selfies.

Walking the boundary out near the Carter place again she was feeling a bit naked when one of the recon drones buzzed in and dropped a little black drawstring bag at her feet. It bobbed in front of her and sped off.

Range Mothers

I have two children. One is forty, the other ten. Both smell of cordite. The large one is vexed that the small one is a better shot.
— Sheila Fenaluci, Range Mother

Time passed and things changed. The strange became commonplace and mothers became friends.

The pavilion was a riot of colour — picnic rugs, thermoses, and a dozen pairs of industrial earmuffs, some neon orange, some battered and grey, one pair with daisies painted on the sides. Sheila slipped hers on, the world going deliciously quiet except for the distant, muted thud of the range.

“You never get used to it,” one of the mothers said, passing her a sandwich. “The noise, the waiting, the nerves. The earmuffs help.”

Through the binoculars, they watched their children — focused, careful, engaged. The mothers exchanged glances, a silent understanding passing between them. This was their new normal.

Scott and Aiden were halfway through their chicken and salad wraps when Lisa and Sophia marched up. The difference in size and poise between the technical boss of the entire terrestrial scientific presence in the valley, and a junior schoolgirl, did nothing to dispel the sisterly solidarity. "You found it, you tell 'em, kiddo."

"You didn't clean your rifles," Lisa said, voice sharp. "They're full of residue, I checked. That stuff is corrosive, you can't leave them like that. If Autumn sees it, I would not like to be in your boots."

Scott's face fell. "We were going to do it after lunch—"

"You said that last week," Sophia cut in. Lisa continued "And the week before. You want to shoot the autocannon, you'd better show you can look after the little ones first. I will be so pissed if I miss out because you two can't be bothered."

From the pavilion, a couple of mothers exchanged knowing glances. “Told you the girls would keep them honest,” one murmured, passing the binoculars. "'Girls,' yes," said the other. "I think your daughter is making some very interesting friends. I heard he was teaching them tactics and strategy. Politics too, apparently." There was laughter, but it was muted and thoughtful.

Autumn’s voice boomed from the PA. “If you’re quite done with lunch, gentlemen, perhaps you could find time to look after your weapon. Otherwise it might blow up in your face.”

The boys groaned, but grabbed their kits and hurried off, the girls trailing behind. Lisa with a righteous scowl, and Sophia with an amused smile.

The range was closed and Oleksiy was taking a break from his role as instructor. Over by the side of his house, he and Eric had a MIL dismantled all over a table and every student who wasn't busy cleaning a weapon was peering wide eyed while they maintained it. It didn't need maintenance, but there were no manuals so this was how you learnt; doing. Pieces in place, screws tight, it went into an oiled timber case with brass fittings that spoke of care. Down the side was hand painted Cyrillic lettering. Oleksiy followed his gaze and translated: "Says 'Old Faithful'."

The case snicked shut and it vanished back into the armoury. No-one wondered why there was an armoury. It wasn't unique. The smell of machine oil and cordite reassured them.

Forest wandered over to the pavilion where the mothers had claimed territory with thermoses and folding chairs. Sheila Fenaluci offered him tea from a massive flask.

"Remember that dinner party where Eric and I got into it about nuclear families?" Forest said, accepting the cup.

"The one where you went on about industrial capitalism for twenty minutes? How could we forget?" Sheila grinned. "Trixie said you were on form that night."

Forest blinked. "Are you sure she didn't say I wouldn't shut up? I thought everyone tuned out when I get started like that."

"Are you kidding? Maria took notes. She's been going on about it to anyone who'll listen." Sheila gestured at the other mothers. "You articulated something we'd all felt but couldn't put words to."

"Huh." Forest looked genuinely surprised, then pleased. "I told Eric that societies impose the nuclear family structure to make workers mobile and dependent. Extended families are too resilient, too hard to uproot." He gestured at the gathered mothers watching their children on the range. "I said families broken up from their support networks have to leave their kids with strangers."

"Yes. We wrote it down. I did say. And you didn't say that last part."

Forest smiled faintly. "I should have. If you think the mothers here will ever contemplate leaving their children in the care of strangers, I dare you to suggest it. If you do, don't worry, I can supply Class II medical nanites now."

Sheila laughed, a sharp bark of agreement. "Suggest it? I'd feed you to Janna's pigs." She paused, watching her son Aiden carefully cleaning his rifle under Lisa's critical eye. "You were right, you know. This place gave us back something we didn't even know we'd lost."

"Extended families. Communal support. Kids being taught by people who actually care about them surviving." Forest sipped his tea, looking around at the mothers, the children, the easy cooperation. His expression softened. "It's nice, you know. Being surrounded by clever, capable friends. People who actually think about things."

"Careful," Sheila said. "You're dangerously close to admitting you like people."

"Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my reputation as a grumpy hermit."

"Hermit!? You spend half your day wandering about visiting people and gasbagging.

Slander. It's only about a third. A lot of the time he's eating, breaking tools and inventing things that already exist.

Forest sniffed mock disdain. "It is my duty to walk among my people and know their needs," he declaimed, with a pompous self-importance that was hilariously impressive.

And find out who's been baking!

Screw This

"The most ordinary things are to philosophers a source of insoluble puzzles."
— Bertrand Russell

How are screws made?

This was the question currently occupying Forest's perennially overtaxed attention. He knew how to make one with a lathe, but obviously that was not the way of mass production. The valley had a voracious appetite for fasteners. Cubby-houses, then cabins — which are basically cubby-houses for adults. Sheds. Roofing. Flashing. Guttering. Water tanks sprouted like big plastic mushrooms. What idiot encouraged them to try their hands at building? Unfortunately, he knew the answer and couldn't really complain about it.

They were getting smarter about it, too. Heavy red clay was everywhere under the topsoil, and one enterprising couple was making bricks. More than one couple was gathering granite rocks and boulders. Stone cottages rose from the ridges, little castles claiming the land in silent defiance. Red bricks accented doorways and windows, each with a sturdy steel or timber lintel spanning the opening. In one case, someone had made a custom brick mould and an arch was under construction.

He wondered how they were dealing with the soil. Clay swells or shrinks with seasonal moisture, a terrible foundation for a stone building. No doubt Oleksiy would have had advice. He really was a builder, among other things.

Curiosity got the better of him. Forest retreated to the mesh and started digging. It turned out that mass-producing screws was a marvel of industrial ingenuity. Most modern screws were made by cold heading: a coil of steel wire was fed into a machine that chopped it into short lengths, then smashed one end flat to form the head. The blank was then rolled between precision dies, which pressed the threads into the shank without cutting away any metal. This process was fast, efficient, and produced screws that were stronger than those made by cutting threads. Afterward, the screws were heat-treated for strength and coated to resist corrosion. There were endless variations—self-tapping, wood, machine, drywall—but the basic process was the same.

Forest watched a few old videos, marveling at the speed and precision. It was a far cry from turning a single screw on a lathe. He made a note to ask if anyone in the valley had ever tried making thread-rolling dies. It seemed like the sort of thing that would end up on his list, sooner or later. They really needed a smith. Or three. This was worse: they could probably make screws, but how the devil would they make the dies?

Then there was the question of passivation. Galvanisation was simple but then they needed a supply of zinc. And there was nothing "just" about painting them; paint was a whole other ball of wax. Bitumen was the simplest answer but there wasn't any in the valley. There was tin and lead, so probably zinc, but that meant smelting. It was all too hard.

He fantasized about a world of villages, each specialising in some aspect of technology. Mining, smelting, glass work. They wouldn't exactly trade, not in the money sense. They'd just give each other surplus, because people with too many oranges need screws, and a village can only use so many screws. It wasn't a bad idea, really. But there was no way the state would mind its own business while they set up like that.

He imagined the 'screws' village mostly farming. In year four of their cycle, while their fields fallowed, they'd make hardware, fed by stores propped up with gifts from other villages looking forward to a gift of hardware. Unlike the money driven world, people here were figuring out how to build things to last. He remembered an unfunny "joke" from a former life writing software: There's never time to do it right, but there's always time to do it again. A smile lifted his moustache. These people had found time to do it right. The irony was, they were all learning, so they'd probably also do it again. But better, which is what matters.

The range mothers tried their hands at pottery but it didn't pan out, the clay wasn't pure enough. So now their husbands were busy (re-)inventing a machine to turn it to running slop and sieve out the impurities. Their prototype worked and now they were figuring out continuous production.

Forest was very pleased about that; it deferred the need for glass.

That was the thing about the valley: nothing stayed impossible for long. Someone would mention a problem over tea. By the next week, three people would have half a solution and a fourth would be sketching improvements in the dirt. Progress was slow, sometimes maddening, but it was theirs. Every new tool, every clever fix, was a small act of creative defiance. We’re still here. We’re not done yet.

Forest found himself oddly hopeful. Progress wasn't really slow. The first time humanity did this it took thousands of years. Maybe they’d never have a proper screw factory, or a glassworks. But they’d have something better: a place where people learned, adapted, and built for keeps. And if that meant doing it again, and again, and again — well, that was how you got good at anything worth doing.

It was a weird mix of high science and cottage industry. Boffins who'd never been outside in their lives were pulled into practical arguments. Dragged into the field to see problems in situ, consulted for their theoretical understanding. For the first time in their lives they were getting a certain kind of respect from practical people, something they'd always craved and never admitted. And their respect for the doers also ballooned. It was a virtuous circle.

The work was hard, the days long. No-one even noticed; they were having the time of their lives. Sitting on a roof, watching, Forest spoke to Autumn, "We've created a monster." She responded by throwing mesh usage stats up on his visor. There were more hits on DIY fabrication than porn, and gaming traffic was almost non-existent. Forest could hear her grinning.

"They're in sooo much trouble." She knew who he meant, and didn't respond to that.

Do you know, we've had more injuries from construction accidents than antithesis combat?

A few days earlier, Eric had come to Forest with a request for approval to use his Vanguard points for exotic ammunition. Normally, Autumn's project points would have covered it, but demand was through the roof. The ground team had been relentless, scouring antithesis further and further afield, wiping out nascent hives as far away as Tenterfield. Forest was surprised they had the manpower to cover so much ground while still protecting the valley from its experimental hives.

Three weeks earlier: a festive pavilion in the guest carpark outside Oleksiy's home. The air was filled with the sharp crack-crack-crack of automatic weapons in burst mode, the sound bouncing up and down the entire valley. The mothers clustered around their thermoses, gossiping as they watched the distant figures on the range.

One mother, eyes wide, leaned in. "I can't believe Mick is back on the front line already, after what happened."

Another nodded, voice low. "He lost a chunk of thigh and — well, you know. Dogweed got him when their position was overrun. If the vehicle team hadn't pulled them out, and Forest hadn't been there..."

The conversation shifted, stories of Forest, Eric, and Oleksiy circulating — tales of their exploits, their no-man-left-behind attitude. There was admiration, even awe, in their voices.

One of the women, with a sly grin, said, "I'll tell you what, Forest is looking better every year. All that running around, or is it the good food and fresh air?"

The almost-bereaved woman, smug, chimed in, "Oh, it's the medicine. My man was back on his feet in two days. Standing at attention in three. And let me tell you, the first thing he did was scoop me up — just like that — threw me over his shoulder and carried me all the way to the bedroom. I didn't think he had it in him, not after what happened."

There was a beat, then laughter. "Standing at attention?"

She winked. "I was bow-legged for two days. Remember when I was 'sick'?"

The group erupted in knowing giggles, the crack of gunfire punctuating their laughter.

"But does it still work?"

She put her hand around her still flat belly, face unbearably smug now. She'd just been to the infirmary to confirm. "Oh yes, it works alright."

For a moment, the group was silent, then the congratulations came in a rush. Hugs, laughter, and a few mock-jealous groans. Someone promised to bring cake next week. Incredibly, this idea was rejected immediately; the kids had decreed that flour not sourced in the valley was unsafe and disgusting, astonishing their mothers with across the board rejection of bread and cake without a proper pedigree. The local substitutes were adequate thickeners but not yet a substitute for baking.

Another joked about starting a nursery for the next generation of ground team. The mood was bright, the camaraderie palpable, the sound of gunfire in the distance now joined by the cheerful noise of celebration. As the day warmed, Eric and Forest went shirtless. Mick too, they realised, as he replaced the targets. Many gazes lingered on the rippling muscle, speculating. Volunteers for front-line duty inexplicably went through the roof.

"You're pullin' me leg." Forest eyeballed Shorty, amusement lighting his face.

"Nup. Weren't you always telling me the fundamental forces of the universe were stupidity, greed and horniness?"

"So no amount of logic worked but Mick swaps a keg for a six pack and we're all go."

"Yep. Well, not just Mick. Every time the sun comes out you buggers have yer shirts off at the kids' range. Why d'yer think the mothers all turn up? You patched Mick up. He wasn't bleeding when we took 'im home but his missus, what's her name, Jennifer or somethin'. She thought she was gunner spend the rest of her life lookin' after a cripple. Nanites did what nanites do, and two days later he chucked her over his shoulder, carried her up the stairs and bonked her halfway into next week.

"Why do you know this?" Forest looked confused.

Shorty roared with laughter. "Mate, you must be the only person she hasn't told. Pleased does not cover it. And my missus tells me she's up the duff, too. Mick's missus, not mine. I hope."

"Well," Forest recovered, "That's one way to recruit, I s'pose."

He changed the subject and brain-dumped the hardware problem on Shorty.

"We probably don't need to smelt iron, there's so much of it lying around. A decent smith can make billets. But then we need to make wire, which isn't impossible. But you need tool steel dies to form the wire. How the bloody hell do we make those? I'm really starting to worry that it's too much."

"Weren't you talking about a bunch of villages mostly growing food but also having a specialty and doing that in a fallow year?"

"Yes?"

"If we set up all that shit you were talking about we'd make them by the tonne, right? So in this hypothetical fallow year we make shitloads of screws, rack 'em, pack 'em and stack 'em, and swap surpluses like you were on about."

"So?"

"So the dies don't have to be replaced all that often. How many screws do you think we need?"

"Shitloads. Take a look at how often people go into town for hardware. Even just a little deck, 2.4 square with ninety mil' planks. If you do it to code there's one every 400 which gives you seven joists hanging from the bearers. With a 4mm gap that's 25 planks over seven bearers with two screws per intersection is fifty by seven is 350. There you go, 350 screws for a piddly little deck. Most of the cottages I've seen were more like four by ten metres which is about..." his mouth moved, silent calculation. "'Bout seven thousand screws."

Shorty thought about that for a while. "I don't reckon it's normal. We're all building stuff, houses and sheds. It'll never stop, but it'll switch from construction to maintenance, y'know. It'll slow down a lot. Plus, I was looking at those links you gave me, the Amish. A lot of what they make doesn't use screws, just nails and not a lot of those. It's bloody clever stuff. I never thought I'd be saying this to you, but you're thinking about this all wrong."

Forest stared at him for a while.

"I reckon you might be right. Still worries me, though. We are buying a lot of hardware. It's going to draw attention."

A bee landed on Shorty's phone, which flickered to life. Autumn's voice lilted out of it.

Trixie wonders if you ever plan to empty the can.

"It's only half-full, what's her rush?"

Tomorrow is Sunday. You are entertaining half the ground team.

"Only half of 'em? I thought they'd all turn up for lamb on a spit."

Group 2 is clearing the hills around Glen Aplin.

"Left the gate open, did we?"

Autumn sniffed. The phone went dark. It was amazing how she managed nuanced presence, even through a speaker.

"Right, I'm off."

"Like a bucket of prawns in the sun."

On his way home Autumn piped up in his visor.

Are you planning, at some point, to read any of the material in the Reboot catalogue that I so thoughtfully provided? You don't need to work it all out yourself, you know.

"Yep. After I come up with a half-arsed plan that won't work I'll look at theirs and pinch the good bits. Then I can pretend I'm a genius."

Never one to let anything as trivial as common sense get in his way, Forest continued investigating while he went home, learning about wire drawing. He came up with a plan for a simplified semi-manual simplification of the industrial process with wire running back and forth between two drums. With each pass you changed the die and the direction, producing finer and finer wire and periodically harvesting a desired gauge.

Autumn showed him a similar but fully thought out solution in one of the books in the Reboot catalogue. This did nothing to diminish his satisfaction with his own plan. If anything it tipped him over the edge from confident to flat out smug.

I really don't see why you're so pleased at having spent days fretting about this when you could have just read the book.

"The problem, Autumn, is what I like to call Roman Pot Syndrome. The Romans produced excellent ceramics. As the empire collapsed and shrank there was a surplus of fine ceramics that spanned generations. There was no value in learning to make what could be had for no effort. So the technology was forgotten. And one day there were no more surplus pots and no-one who knew how to make them. The catalogue is nice but reading about it in a book and doing it are very different. We are in dire peril of suffering Roman Pot Syndrome with things like screws and wire."

I would say this has already happened. You didn't know, and you, Forest, are far more likely to be interested in this sort of thing than most.

"I dimly recall learning about wire-drawing at school. Or it may have been university. It's obvious that rolling the threads into wire would harden them. All the crystal boundaries get shoved together."

Knowing that is not normal.

"Knowing that wasn't normal in the screwed up, centralised nonsense I left behind. Look around us, kiddo. Look how much fun these people are having now that they've reclaimed their lives."

Hello, Ducky

"There are no passengers on spaceship Earth. We are all crew."
— Marshall McLuhan

Five-thirty in the morning, and the valley stirred to life with the soft rustle of feathers and the quiet determination of small voices organising their troops.

"Janna, the guinea fowl are being difficult again," Lisbeth whispered, crouched beside the makeshift pen where thirty-odd spotted birds milled about in theatrical protest. "They don't want to line up."

"They never want to line up," Janna replied with the patient tone of someone who'd been managing both children and poultry for decades. She adjusted the canvas sling across her shoulder, checking the dozen chicken eggs nestled in soft moss — payment for Mrs. Patterson, whose property they'd visit today. "That's why we put them at the back. The geese know what they're doing."

Indeed they did. Six magnificent grey geese stood in perfect formation at the head of the procession, necks high, dark eyes alert. Behind them, two dozen ducks quacked softly in their own loose formation — mallards, wood ducks, and a pair of impressive Australian shelducks that Forest had traded for with someone down near the Murray. The chickens, sensible birds all, clustered in the middle, clucking with the businesslike air of middle management. And at the rear, the guinea fowl maintained their vigilant watch, heads turning at every sound, ready to raise the alarm at the first sign of anything unusual. Their constant chatter wasn't complaining — it was reconnaissance.

"Right then," said Marcus, all of eight years old and deadly serious about his responsibilities as assistant poultry marshal. "Everyone ready?"

Three other children nodded. Emma carried the backup grain sack, just in case. Little Sam, barely six, had been promoted to guinea fowl liaison after proving surprisingly effective at interpreting their warning calls. And Priya — Dr. Patel's eldest — carried the observation notebook where they recorded which dams needed the most attention.

"Formation, march!" Janna called softly.

The procession began.

It was something to behold: Janna, with her practical salt-and-pepper pigtails and canvas work shirt, leading forty-seven children aged six to fourteen and over two hundred birds in a stately dawn parade through the valley. At the very front, just behind the lead geese, Lisbeth rode a patient brown goat named Clementine with the casual confidence of someone who had never doubted that goats were perfectly reasonable mounts. The geese, natural leaders, set a dignified pace down the dirt track toward the Patterson property. Their necks swayed with each step, and they maintained perfect spacing as if they'd drilled for this moment their entire lives.

Behind them, the ducks followed in a more relaxed gaggle, occasionally breaking formation to investigate interesting puddles or chase the odd insect. The chickens maintained reasonable discipline, though the rooster — a magnificent red fellow called Napoleon — occasionally felt compelled to crow his authority over the proceedings.

And the guinea fowl... well, the guinea fowl were on duty. Their heads swiveled constantly, scanning for threats, listening for unusual sounds. What sounded like complaints to untrained ears was actually a continuous security briefing. They noted the wind direction, catalogued every moving shadow, and maintained perfect situational awareness. But they followed anyway, because guinea fowl understand that the best defense is mobility, and staying with the flock was the smart tactical choice.

"There's something magical about this," Mrs. Patel said, watching from her kitchen window as the procession passed. She'd gotten up early to make extra tea for the children when they returned. "Like something out of a fairy tale. Is that child riding a goat?"

Her husband, Dr. Patel, paused in his morning routine to watch. "That's Lisbeth," he said with fond amusement. "And yes, she is. Practical magic," he added. "Those birds will clear every tick, leech, and aquatic pest from the Patterson dam. Better than any chemical treatment, safer for the fish population, and the children learn responsibility and observation skills."

"Not to mention," Mrs. Patel added with a smile, "Janna's really got those children organised. Did you see how she managed them? No shouting, not a raised voice. You'd think it would be mayhem."

After a while she added, "I didn't know you could ride a goat."

"You can't," replied her husband sagely. "But neither Lisbeth nor the goat seem to know that."

The procession crested the small rise that led to the Patterson property, where the old man himself waited by his gate with a thermos of hot chocolate and a gentle smile. The dams on his land had been overrun with leeches this season — something about the warmth and the abundant insect life. But the children and their feathered army would sort that out.

"Morning, Mr. Patterson," Janna called as they approached. "Permission to deploy our pest control unit?"

The old man's eyes twinkled. "Permission granted, Field Marshal Janna. The troops look in fine form today."

And they did. The geese surveyed the terrain with professional interest. The ducks began an excited chatter as they spotted the water. Even the guinea fowl seemed marginally less outraged now that there was actual work to be done.

"Deployment pattern seven," Janna announced. "Geese on perimeter patrol, ducks on aquatic operations, chickens on terrestrial cleanup, guinea fowl on security watch."

The children spread out around the first dam — a lovely natural depression that had been deepened and lined to create a swimming hole and stock water point. Within minutes, the water was alive with activity. Ducks dove and dabbled, their bills perfectly designed for scooping up leeches, mosquito larvae, and all manner of aquatic pests. The geese patrolled the shoreline, their long necks reaching deep to pluck out hidden treats.

Meanwhile, the chickens worked the surrounding area with methodical precision, pecking and scratching through the leaf litter and tall grass. Ticks didn't stand a chance. Neither did beetle grubs, snail eggs, or anything else that might eventually become a problem.

The guinea fowl, despite their reputation for being difficult, proved themselves the elite reconnaissance unit of the operation. Spread out in a careful perimeter, they maintained constant surveillance of the surrounding bush. Their sharp eyes could spot movement from remarkable distances, and their varied calls provided a running commentary on everything from wind changes to approaching wildlife. When one bird tensed and issued a particular staccato call, every other creature in the vicinity paid attention.

"Look," whispered Priya, pointing to where one of the larger geese had surfaced with something long and dark writhing in its beak. "That's got to be a massive leech."

"Gross," said Emma, but she was writing it down in the observation log anyway. "That's the fourteenth one this morning."

Little Sam had discovered that guinea fowl, for all their intensity, actually appreciated being acknowledged for their vigilance. "Good watching, Dot," he told one particularly alert bird positioned on a small rise overlooking the dam. "You're keeping us all safe."

The guinea fowl in question — a fine specimen with excellent spotted markings and exceptional alertness — seemed to straighten with pride before resuming her methodical surveillance of the tree line.

"You know," said Marcus, watching the coordinated assault on the dam's pest population, "I think we're getting good at this."

Janna nodded, making a note about the water clarity. Already, the dam looked cleaner. The constant activity of dozens of bills and beaks stirring up the water was filtering out algae and debris, while the systematic removal of pest species would prevent population explosions later in the season.

"Mrs. Patterson always gives us her excess vegetables," Lisbeth observed, enthroned atop Clementine, who had positioned herself strategically near a patch of particularly sweet clover. "And her husband taught Sam how to weave that fish trap. It's like we're all helping each other."

"That's the point," said Janna. "Autumn explained it to me once. She said that in healthy systems, everybody benefits when everybody contributes. The birds get an easy meal, the property owners get pest control, we learn animal husbandry and ecological management, and the whole valley ends up healthier."

A soft splash drew their attention to where one of the wood ducks had caught a small fish — probably a plague minnow, based on the size and colouring. The duck gulped it down with obvious satisfaction.

"Should we be worried about the fish population?" asked Priya, ever the scientist's daughter.

"Nah," said Emma. "Forest explained this to us last month. The ducks and geese mostly get the pest fish and the sick ones. It actually makes the good fish healthier by reducing competition and disease pressure."

As if to prove her point, a healthy-looking Murray cod surfaced briefly in the deeper part of the dam, completely unbothered by the avian activity above. It was probably contemplating eating the ducks. Or the children, if they fell in.

By eight o'clock, the first dam was comprehensively processed. The water ran clearer, the shoreline was meticulously cleaned, and even the guinea fowl seemed satisfied that the area was properly secured and threat-free.

"Right then," announced Janna, "time to move to dam number two."

The procession reformed with practiced ease. The geese took point again, the ducks fell into their loose formation, and the chickens resumed their middle-management clustering. The guinea fowl established their security perimeter with renewed purpose, perhaps energised by their successful morning patrol.

As they moved toward the second dam, Mr. Patterson waved from his porch. "Same time next month?" he called.

"Wouldn't miss it," Janna called back. "Your dams will be the cleanest in the valley."

The old man chuckled and disappeared inside, no doubt to put together another care package for the young pest control specialists and their feathered army.

Behind them, the first dam settled into peaceful clarity, its ecosystem temporarily reset and balanced. Ahead, dam number two awaited its turn for the attention of the most unusual and effective pest control service the valley had ever seen.

And somewhere in the mix, forty-seven children learned a little more of responsibility, teamwork, and the simple satisfaction of work well done.

There were many such days. In the middle of one such, Forest turned up with a gift: a hammock. Janna's thoughts returned to a time when it was all too much. Lisbeth and Forest had just appeared. They did nothing in particular, just stamped their madness on the world, but everything changed. It crossed her mind that Hettie had warmed to Forest. Probably because Lisbeth liked him. It made as much sense as anything else about those two.

Little Terrors

The only way to make a man trustworthy is to trust him.
— Henry L. Stimson

Scott crouched behind the fallen log, trying to remember everything Forest had taught him about staying still. His .22 felt heavy in his hands, which was stupid because it wasn't actually heavy, Dad said that half the time. But right now, watching the thing move through the creek bed, it felt like it weighed a ton.

"That's a dog-weed, yeah?" Aiden whispered from beside him.

"A Model Three," corrected Scott.

"Dad calls them dog-weeds."

"Cause that's what Forest calls them. Autumn said the proper name is Model Three."

"Looks like a dog-weed to me. But it's huge!"

It was certainly bigger than they'd expected. The photos Forest showed them at range practice made dog-weeds look like feral pigs—dangerous but manageable. This thing was the size of a small cow, and it was moving wrong. Sort of flowing over the rocks like it wasn't quite solid.

"We should call it in," Aiden said.

Scott wanted to. The radio was right there on his belt, same batphone-style kit all the valley kids carried. One button and adults would handle it. But...

"They're all busy. Mum said Eric's team went to check something and Forest's up at the range teaching the little kids."

"So we call Forest. That's what we're supposed to do."

Scott watched the dog-weed nose at the water. It was heading toward Old Tom's place, and Old Tom had chooks. Dog-weeds liked chooks, everyone knew that.

"What if we just... handled it?"

Aiden stared at him. "You reckon?"

"Oleksiy said we're ready as we'll ever be. We did the drills, we passed the safety tests. It's just one dog-weed."

"That's a big one."

"Yeah, but we've got rifles. And grenades." Scott patted his vest where two fragmentation grenades sat in their pouches. Forest said they weren't supposed to use them except for emergencies, but he'd also said "if you're close enough to throw, you're close enough to need it." They spent that and every morning after throwing small softdrink cans until their arms ached but they could reliably put them in a bin from six metres.

Aiden chewed his lip. "Call it in first. That's the protocol."

He was right. Scott pulled the radio, thumbed to channel three. "Uh, Forest? You there?"

Static, then: "Six-niner this is Forest, over."

Even through the radio, Forest sounded calm. That helped.

"Scott here. We're down by Granite Creek, about half a klick from Old Tom's. Eyes on a dog-weed, big one, moving toward the houses. KKK"

"How big? KKK"

"Maybe... cow-sized? The tiny ones the Macs used for milk. KKK"

"That's a big one." Forest's tone didn't change, just noting a fact. "You armed? KKK"

"Yes sir. Twenty-twos and grenades."

"Bloody hell, that will just piss it off and tell it where you are. When is your mother going to learn that small calibre isn't any safer? If she said 'no HE or phos' I'd understand..." he trailed off and let go of the transmit.

"Dad says anything bigger is too heavy for us. KKK"

"He's probably right. Can you keep eyes on it without being seen? KKK"

"Yeah, we're behind cover. KKK"

"Good lads. Stay there, I'm coming down. ETA ten minutes."

The radio clicked off. Aiden looked relieved. Scott felt... disappointed? No, that was stupid. This was how it was supposed to work.

They watched the dog-weed. It found something in the creek—a dead fish maybe—and started absorbing it. The process was disgusting, the thing just sort of engulfed whatever it found and pulled it inside. Scott could see the lump moving through its body.

"That's gross," Aiden said.

"Yeah."

Five minutes passed. The dog-weed finished eating and started moving again, faster now. It was definitely heading for Old Tom's.

"It's gonna reach the house before Forest gets here," Scott said.

"So? Tom's got walls and doors."

"He's got chooks in a run. Wire won't stop that thing."

Aiden swore, which was fair. Scott was thinking the same words.

"We could slow it down," Scott said slowly.

"How?"

"Shoot it. Not kill it, just... annoy it. Make it stop and look around instead of going straight there."

Aiden considered this. "Forest said we're not supposed to engage without support."

"Forest also said we're supposed to think for ourselves. And he said 'don't engage' means don't start a fight you can't finish. We're not trying to finish it, just slow it down."

"That's lawyer talk."

"Yeah."

They looked at each other. Scott saw his own expression on Aiden's face—scared but also determined. This was what they'd trained for, wasn't it? Not the shooting part, that was easy. The thinking part. Making decisions when adults weren't there.

"One shot," Aiden said. "We take one shot to get its attention, then we relocate like Forest taught us. Don't stay in the same firing position."

"Deal."

Scott sighted carefully. The dog-weed was maybe thirty meters away, moving through shallow water. He aimed for center mass, breathed out like Dad taught him, and squeezed.

The .22 cracked. The dog-weed jerked and spun around looking for the threat.

"Move!" Aiden was already scrambling left along the creek bank, using the high water line for cover. Scott followed, heart hammering.

They found new cover behind a granite boulder. The dog-weed was stationary now, scanning. It had stopped heading for Tom's place, at least.

"That worked," Scott panted.

"Yeah. Now what?"

"We wait. Forest'll be here soon."

The dog-weed decided they weren't a threat and started moving again. Toward Tom's.

"Bugger," Scott said.

"Another shot?"

"Yeah."

This time Aiden took it. Another crack, another pause. The dog-weed was starting to look annoyed, if plants could look annoyed. Which apparently they could, because it was definitely turning toward their last position.

Scott's radio crackled. "Scott, Aiden, sit-rep."

Forest. Thank bloody hell.

"We took two shots from cover to draw it away, it was heading for Old Tom's chook run."

"Roger. I'm two minutes out, coming from the north. Can you see me?"

Scott raised his head cautiously. Through the trees he could see movement—Forest, moving fast but quiet, rifle up. With him was... was that Trixie?

"Got visual."

"Right. Here's what we're doing. You two are going to take another potshot, get it heading your way. When it commits to your position, Trixie and I will put it down from the flank. Clear?"

"Clear."

Forest and Trixie disappeared into better cover. Scott looked at Aiden.

"Guess we're doing it properly now."

"Yeah."

This time they both shot, Scott from the boulder and Aiden from a position three meters left. The dog-weed charged.

Not toward them exactly—it wasn't that smart—but in their general direction, that horrible flowing movement bringing it up out of the creek and onto the bank.

Two rifle shots cracked from the north. Forest and Trixie, shooting together. The dog-weed went down hard, twitched, and stopped moving.

Scott's legs felt wobbly. Aiden was shaking.

"Stay there," Forest's voice on the radio. "I'm checking it."

They watched him approach the dog-weed carefully, rifle ready. Trixie covered him from distance. Forest prodded it with his boot, then fired one more shot into what passed for its head.

"Clear. Come on down."

They scrambled down to the creek. Forest was pulling a flask from his pack, poured some liquid on the dog-weed. It started dissolving with a hiss and stink.

"You two right?"

"Yes sir. I mean, yes Forest."

He looked at them, expression unreadable. Scott felt his stomach drop. They'd broken protocol, engaged without adult supervision, and—

"Good shooting. You slowed it down enough that it couldn't reach Tom's place, and you kept it focused on you so Trixie and I could flank. Textbook suppressing fire."

Scott blinked. "We... we did good?"

"You did right. Called it in first, kept observation, only engaged when the situation required it, relocated between shots, and provided support when the rest of your squad arrived." He smiled slightly. "That's how it's supposed to work."

"But we shot without permission—"

"You shot to protect a neighbor's property when adult support was en route but hadn't arrived. That's called initiative. I said don't start fights you can't finish. You didn't start it, and you didn't try to finish it alone. You maintained situation until support arrived." He looked between them. "That's the difference. Understand?"

They nodded, not quite believing they weren't in trouble.

Trixie wandered over, checking her rifle. "You boys did fine. My kids would've run away screaming."

"Your kids live in Sydney," Forest said.

"Exactly. Different world." She smiled at Scott and Aiden. "You two just fine. Just silly enough to look for trouble, smart enough to call for help when you need it. A lot of adults can't manage that."

Forest keyed his radio. "All stations, this is Forest. Contact eliminated, Granite Creek north of Tom's property. Two juveniles performed observation and containment, one adult response, situation resolved. Scott and Aiden are checked out fine. Switch to sweep protocol."

Valley alert? Scott hadn't known there was a valley alert.

Forest must have seen his expression. "Not a leaf shall fall, isn't that what you kids like to say? She's been shadowing you ever since you debated calling it in. Oleksiy was getting the Galya ready for air support, she had to show him visuals to calm him down." He looked amused. "You two pulled the alarm, which was exactly right. Just because we didn't need all that doesn't mean it was wrong to have it ready."

"So... we're not in trouble?"

"Trouble? You followed protocol, used good judgment, and showed good fire discipline. You shot to slow it, not kill it, because you knew support was coming." He started walking back toward the track. "On the other hand, you're out here for the express purpose of looking for trouble."

"So we are in trouble."

"You could say that. Ask Eric what an AAR is. You started it. You do the paperwork."

"Awww! Can't Autumn do it? That's boring computer stuff!"

"What a fascinating idea. Let me know how she responds."

At the range, the other kids clustered around while Forest made Scott and Aiden explain everything. Not tell a story—explain. What they saw, what they decided, why they decided it.

"You called it in first," Forest said when they finished. "That's the key thing. You didn't try to be heroes. You called for help, then did what was needed while help was coming. That's the whole point."

One of the younger kids—Timmy, maybe nine—raised his hand. "But what if there's no radio?"

"Then you get to radio first. Or you fire the alarm gun. Or you run to the nearest adult." Forest looked serious. "You lot aren't soldiers, you're kids. Your job isn't to fight antithesis, it's to not die and to warn people who can fight. Scott and Aiden had a situation where they could help safely, so they did. But calling it in was the first thing, the most important thing."

"What if the dog-weed was chasing us?" another kid asked.

I can't wait to hear you lot explain to Instructor Oleksiy that you have completely forgotten how to perform a staged withdrawal under fire.

Three of them began to chant: "Whoever is furthest from the threat obtains a clear lane for suppressing fire. Others move smartly past, taking care to remain out of the fire lane. Last one through assumes the suppression role. Rinse and repeat until withdrawal is complete."

"And don't forget that dog-weeds are crap at climbing. Or you jump in water over a meter deep, they can't swim. Your best weapon is between your ears." He smiled. "At least you lot know which end the bullets come out."

The kids laughed. Forest shooed them back to the range exercises.

Scott sat on a bench, feeling strange. They'd done good. Forest said so. But it hadn't felt heroic, just... necessary. See problem, call for help, keep problem from getting worse. Basic stuff.

Aiden sat beside him. "That was scary."

"Yeah."

"But also kind of... I dunno. Did you see how they wrote down everything we said?"

Scott nodded. Treated like men, not kids. It was a weird feeling, kind of addictive.

His radio crackled. "Scott, it's Dad. You right?"

"Yeah Dad, I'm good."

"Forest and Oleksiy had good things to say about the way you handled things. I'm proud of you." A pause. "Your mum wants to know if you're coming home for lunch or staying at the range."

Scott looked at the other kids running drills, at Forest correcting someone's stance, at the valley stretching out safe and familiar.

"Staying at the range. I'll be home for dinner."

"Right then. Love you, son."

"Love you too, Dad."

He put the radio away. Aiden was grinning.

"I like it here," Aiden said.

Scott said nothing. There was nothing too say.

That evening, back at home, Scott's mum was cooking dinner when Dad came in from checking something in the workshop.

"Heard about today," Mum said. "I'm trying to decide if I should be terrified or proud."

"Both?" Dad suggested. "That seems reasonable."

"Ken, our son shot at an antithesis."

"And called for backup first, used good judgment, and followed his training. They did everything right. We train and train, and I never know who will panic and put everyone at risk. Now I'm sure it's not these two."

Mum was quiet for a moment, stirring something on the stove. "This is so different from how I grew up."

"Yeah."

"Kids where I grew up weren't trusted with sharp pencils until they were twelve."

"And now our son carries a rifle and knows how to use it."

"Is that... good?"

Dad was quiet for a long moment. "I think so. He's not careless. It's not a toy. He called for help instead of dick-waving heroics. You have no idea how much work it was to beat that out of Team C. We had to mix the roster. Anyway, when he had to act, our boy thought first and shot second." He looked at her. "I am greatly relieved he lives in the world as it is, not as he wishes it might be."

Mum nodded slowly. "Did you see the way he explained it to Forest? No boasting, just facts. He knew what he did and why he did it."

"We have succeeded. We've raised young adults."

From his room where homework was taking a back seat to big flapping ears, Scott smiled.

A Right Pickle

So help me, cod.
— Forest

Scott was very pleased with his haul.

The Christmas before, Miss Priya convinced Forest to try putting spangled perch in with the Murray cod.

"What have you got against spangled perch?" Forest had said. "I'm not sure we should let anything smaller than you swim in that water, until I fish the last of the cod out."

The cod were the most successful fish disaster since tilapia, but native. Forest assumed that since they were on the approved list they were a good idea. Apex predators, it was a wonder the damn things didn't eat the ducks. They probably did eat the ducklings. The only things that survived in the same dam were the blueclaws, and that was only because they were fast, armoured, randy little buggers.

But Priya was always right when it came to fish, so he tried it. And the cod grew fat, but the perch bred like mosquitos. Sure enough, the girl was right. And then Forest caught the big one, triumphantly filleting it and scarfing fat, oily fillets grilled on open flame with big, crunchy oversalted chips that gave him gas but were too delicious not to eat.

If there was another cod in there, it wasn't the monster, and the number and size of spangled perch boomed. The only problem was they weren't the best table fish. The flavour was fine, but they were full of fine bones that were hard to see and harder to remove.

Ken dropped over to share a glass one afternoon and mentioned it to Forest.

"He was so disappointed, but what can you do? I told him that it's a whole ecology in there, and not all of it is directly edible. He's a good lad, he listens and he thinks. He's been using them to bait the crays."

Forest grinned that big, goofy, shit-eating I've-got-a-plan grin and filled their mugs, leaning back. Ken sensed the switch to tales-of-my-youth and settled to listen.

"I used to love fishing with my dad. One afternoon I was fishing off the back of his big boat."

"How many boats did he have?"

"Two, at that point. A fourteen foot tinny and the big one, forty-five tonne displacement."

Ken blinked. That wasn't a powerboat. It sounded like a trawler. A large one.

Forest read his face and said "Floating restaurant. Three hulls, shallow draught. Anyhow, I caught this weird fish I didn't recognise. Some of his trawler operator mates were aboard that afternoon and they told me it was a 'shad'. Rubbish fish, they said. Too bony. Can't sell em.

"When the cruise was over and the passengers gone, dad took me aside and said 'You like roll-mops.' It wasn't a question, I did. He made them from time to time and I always loved eating them. So we got everything we needed from the restaurant supplies, rock salt, cloves, peppercorns, olives and some fine table salt. I scaled and cleaned it, cut fillets. Bream too, the shad wasn't the only thing I caught. We washed the fillets in brine and rubbed more salt into them, rolled 'em up and stuck 'em with toothpicks."

Forest pulled on his mead and leaned back again, the distant light of the world's morning in his eyes. Ken said nothng. He was good at that, and Forest was often worth listening to, even if he did ramble.

"The old man found an industrial pickle jar that was nearly empty and we scooped out the pickles, julienned them and used them in the rolls. I might have told this a bit out of order, but anyway we kept the pickle vinegar and covered the bottom with rock salt. Stacked the mops around the jar till the layer was complete. Then we covered that with more rock salt, and cloves and pepper and even a bit of cinnamon. Then we did it again. And again, and then the jar was full so we added vinegar till all the fish was covered, and closed it, and put it in a cool dark cupboard for a fortnight."

He sat up and looked at Ken.

"What do you reckon happens to fishbones in vinegar, Ken?"

A grin spread across Ken's face. He wasn't as uneducated as his manner suggested.

"They dissolve?"

"Bingo. It's dead easy to do, just make sure you get all the scales off, or they'll float off in the jar. Don't skin the fillets, without the skin the mops'll start to disintegrate. Pickles, olives, spices, whatever you think will suit his palate."

The next time he had scheduled down-time, certain that only the most dire of emergencies would call him to serve, Ken and Scott took their kit down to the dam with the spotted perch.

"Why are we here, dad? These ones aren't good eating."

"Aren't they?"

Ken had cheerful mischief all over his face. It was infectious and Scott couldn't wait for his dad to share whatever he'd discovered.

With plenty to eat and the monster from the deep long since converted to fish and chips, the little devils were fat and fearless, and the morning netted them a baker's dozen.

Ken set up a trestle table with a tub of water from the dam, and cracked the esky. For the first time in Scott's life it didn't contain beer. There was lots of ice, as usual, but also big jars and a huge bottle of vinegar. They set up and industriously cleaned the fish. Ken was pretty handy with a knife, but he was proud to discover that his son wielded a filleting knife like a surgeon late for golf.

Rinsing the tub and refreshing the water further down where they hadn't disturbed, Ken staggered back with it and set it on the table.

"Right, let's mop this up."

Scott recognised that special tone of voice used only for delivering a dad-joke and smiled, even though he didn't get it. Ken laid out two clean cutting boards and a jar of toothpicks, the fancy kind that are thicker with a point.

"Lets do this together. Grab a fillet and some salt." He opened a container of cooking salt and dumped a pile on the corner of each board. Make sure your hands are clean first. Give 'em a wash."

They went together, coming back to wave off the flies and get started.

"Rub the salt into the fish, not the skin side. No, don't skin it. That's it boy, good job. Nice and even. Now, Spices. We have pepper, cinnamon and cloves. You don't have to use 'em but these are what Forest suggested so I reckon we should do a few of each and give 'em a whirl, what do you reckon?"

Scott nodded enthusiastically, sprinkling liberally. "Now what?"

"Now we roll it up and pin it." He demonstrated, deftly rolling the fish into a tight cylinder and spearing it, glad for the practice up at Forest's place. His first attempt had not been elegant.

Scott had a couple of tries, and finally he rolled and held it while Ken pinned it for him.

"Nice work, lad. Let's do some more, but first we put them in here." He poured rock salt into the bottom of a huge pickle jar and added some vinegar, placing his rollmop on its side and Scott's beside, the lid sitting on loose to keep the flies out.

On they worked, side by side for an hour, Scott's efforts getting firmer and faster. He also took over placing them in the jar, his small hands and nimble fingers well suited to the task. More rock salt and spices between layers. Halfway through the second layer Ken remembered he brought gherkins, and they wound around chunks of those. Then the jar was full. The last layer of salt went on, and they topped up the vinegar and closed it tight.

It took a while to wash the stink of fish guts off, and pack all their kit. Finally they walked home. Walking home together in silence wasn't new, but this time it was warm and companionable. Scott couldn't look at his dad. He didn't want him to see the glistening emotion in his eyes.

When they got home his mum was in the kitchen getting a drink of water. Ken deposited the esky on the table and nodded toward it with a conspiratorial wink to Scott, who fished out their creation and proudly showed it to her, a torrent of happy explanation of rollmops and the chemistry of food preservation. The irony was completely lost on him of telling this sort of thing to a founding member of the range mothers, latter-day world champions of grow it yourself, and she made no move to spoil the moment, listening intently and nodding sagely at every step. Ken put his hand on her shoulder, kissed her cheek and wandered outside with a stubbie.

"Would you like a ginger beer, Scott?"

In the fridge she found only five and the smile already on her face spread wide.

"Come on then," she said, opening the sliding screen door and stepping out of the the tiny demountable home onto the covered deck. Scott closed the door behind them. His mother handed him a cold ginger beer and startled both of them by sliding into Ken's lap and kissing his stubbled cheek.

"It's good to have you back."

Ken sniffed. He put his arms around her and clasped his fingers. With a bemused look on his face he replied.

"It's good to be back." He got a thoughtful look on his face. "A better place..."

"You like it here, babe?" he asked her.

"You know I do. It's funny, when we came here it was, I thought it was awful. Like a caravan park in the arse end of nowhere. But now I don't like leaving. And when I went into Brisbane to see mum... I never realised how much cities smell. Not fart stinky, more like car fumes. And everyone's rushing to places they don't want to be. People aren't bad, they just don't have time to be friends."

She sighed. "Yes, I like it here. Why?"

"I think we should build a home."

"Build a house?"

"Build a home."

She kissed him again, this time on the lips, and leaned back against his chest, eyes closed.

"Who are you and what have you done with my parents?" deadpanned Scott, in a passable imitation of Forest. He took a pull on his ginger beer and sat against the wall beside them.

"Guess we're going to do a lot of bushwalking then."

"Bushwalking, Ken?"

"Pick a site."

"I thought all this land was privately owned."

"It is." Air-quotes went up either side of his girl and in a mock Forest voice, "I am the Lord of this land, holding title in Fee Simple".

She giggled.

"He and Oleksi and the pig lady and that old feller, Brian. And Gerry, you know the feller who does the lawns here, him. Between 'em it's about five hundred acres. At one point most of it belonged to Oleksiy and Gerry, but Oleksiy sold some off, who knows why that man does what he does but I'm glad he did because here we are. I quote 'Find a good spot, tell me where you want and I'll tell you whether you can build there.'"

"What about the council?"

Ken actually roared with laughter. When he got control of himself again, "I would love to watch a council try to tell a Vanguard he can't build a house on his own land. Especially one who's well liked."

"You, buster, are not a Vanguard." She poked him in the chest. Her tone was stern but her face gave it away.

His face got silly. "I know a guy who is." Then his straight face said "Actually I know three of them. Being on the ground team has advantages." He flipped up the storage bench beside them and pulled out his webbing, extracting the medkit, tossing and catching it. "When we did the joint exercise at Dalveen with the SES, you should have seen their faces when we did a kit check and they saw the nanite inhalers. I almost felt guilty."

"What's the significance of it?" She took the kit out of his hand and opened it, looking at the inhaler in its bag.

"Those things are why it's so hard to kill Vanguard. They snort one of them and grow a new lung. After we lost that lad, Forest got real bent out of shape for a few days and then Eric and Sophia turned up with a wheelbarrow full of this stuff. She reckons all he said was, 'No more body bags.'"

"That was good of him."

"You're not kidding. If I sold this thing we could buy a house in the city with cash. A small place, not too flash." he amended. "There were a few other goodies, all things to mitigate casualties. But the nanites are," he searched for words, "Not even special forces get kit like this. She never talks about it but I gather the boss got a lot of heat when she wouldn't bag em up and hand em over."

"Why didn't she?"

"Officially? 'The Vanguard in question gave them directly to the individuals on the fire team as an apology for failing to arrive in time resulting in the death of one of the team members.'"

She grinned. "And the real reason?"

"I reckon she didn't like their attitude. Best boss ever," he said, with genuine affection. Then he remembered they had an audience and looked down to Scott.

"I know you aren't silly, just checking, you know not to tell people we have this kind of thing, right?"

"Yes, dad. But everyone who goes to the range knows about inhalers, Oleksiy has two of them in the range medicine cabinet. He made us learn where it is and how to use one. I can't think of anyone I talk to who wouldn't already know, but yeah, don't mention it to strangers. I get it. People who don't live here have weird values, they'd rather have money than a second chance."

"Figures," said his mum. "Safety safety safety, that's our superspy." She squirmed against Ken, hand diving into his pocket and pulling out the hard lump of his issue small arm. "I know you're glad to see me, but really?"

Clean Hands, Clean Weapons

"Men are from Mars, so we drink. Women are from Venus, which is more hospitable, so they're better adjusted."
— Eric Webb, Ground Team Commander

The convoy rumbled into the valley as the sun touched the western ridgeline. Three vehicles: Eric's truck, the armoured personnel carrier they'd borrowed from Forest's expanding arsenal, and Shorty's ute bringing up the rear. The convoy slowed as it passed Oleksiy's place, the old Slav waving from his porch where he sat cleaning what looked suspiciously like a Mosin-Nagant he absolutely shouldn't have. Eric waved back.

Ken leaned forward from the back seat. "Did we just wave at a war crime?"

"If we did, it happened before we got here," Eric said diplomatically. "Besides, have you seen what that man can do with that rifle? The antis don't stand a chance."

"Fair point."

They pulled into the depot yard, a cleared space beside the research station that had evolved organically from "somewhere to park" into a sort of fairground. Someone, probably Forest, had laid gravel. Someone else, probably Oleksiy, had installed flood lights. The result was functional, well-lit, and utterly lacking in bureaucratic approval.

The men spilled out with the easy movements of people who'd done this dance before. Ground Team B had been operational for six months now, and the routine was ingrained: secure weapons, inventory ammunition, clean everything, then relax.

Eric opened the back of his truck where the squad weapons lived. "Alright, you know the drill. Everything gets broken down, cleaned, and inspected. Autumn will be watching."

I'm always watching.

A presence drone drifted past, projecting Autumn's lilac form in her characteristic cheeky schoolgirl outfit.

And judging. Mostly judging.

"Terrific," muttered Shorty, pulling out his rifle case. "An AI with a sense of humour."

"Could be worse," Ken said, setting his weapon on the cleaning bench. "Could be an AI with a clipboard and a compliance manual."

I heard that. And for your information, I have a compliance manual. Forest made me promise never to read it.

Laughter rippled through the team as they set up their cleaning stations. Someone had installed proper weapon maintenance benches under a covered area—another one of those improvements that simply appeared when needed. Eric suspected Forest again, though it could have been Oleksiy. Those two had a habit of solving problems before anyone officially identified them as problems.

The work proceeded in comfortable silence punctuated by the occasional comment. Brushes scraped carbon from bolt carriers. Patches pushed through barrels. The smell of gun oil and solvent mingled with eucalyptus and dust.

"You know what's weird?" Doll Murchison said, running a bore snake through his barrel for the third time. "Three months ago I would have complained about doing this. Now it's... I don't know. Relaxing?"

"It's because nobody's yelling at you," Eric said, not looking up from his own rifle. "No rush, no paperwork, no deadline except 'before you put it away.' Makes a difference."

Tom Bradley, newest member of Ground Team B, paused in his cleaning. "Is it always like this? The mission, I mean. We went out, found the bastards, shot them, came back. No forms, no after-action review, no debrief with some officer who wasn't there."

"Sophia will want a report," Eric said. "I do them. But she'll actually read it, and she'll ask intelligent questions because she's been out with us."

"Huh." Tom went back to cleaning his weapon, looking thoughtful.

Across the depot, Ken had his rifle completely disassembled, each part laid out with geometric precision on a towel. He worked with the intensity of a man performing a sacred ritual. His son Scott had the same focus when he cleaned his .22 after practice at Oleksiy's range.

"Anyone else notice we don't count round out and then back in?" Shorty said.

Shorty said slowly, "It's because the ammo's coming from a Vanguard, not requisitioned from a budget. There's a freedom in that."

"Not all of. The terrible two are always on my case to bring back the brass."

"Where do they get that much lead?"

"Car batteries."

"So that's why the old bugger wants them. Live and learn."

The men fell silent, each considering this. The only sounds were the whisper of cleaning patches and the distant hum of research equipment from the station.

"My wife says it's like living in the sixties," Ken said eventually. "Back when people actually talked to their neighbours and helped each other without expecting payment."

"Your wife," Eric said carefully, "wasn't alive in the sixties."

"Neither was I. But she watches a lot of old shows. She says it's like that, except with better technology and not so much smoking."

"The Range Mothers have been talking," Tom offered. "My missus said they're planning something. Won't say what."

Multiple groans answered this. The Range Mothers planning something was rarely boring, frequently expensive in unforeseen ways, and almost always resulted in the men doing manual labour they hadn't anticipated.

"Last time they planned something," Shorty said darkly, "we ended up building that pavilion. In winter."

"You love that pavilion," Eric pointed out. "You drink there three times a week."

"I love it now. While we were building it in the freezing bloody cold, I had reservations."

The pavilion was Forest's idea. The Range Mothers simply ensured it happened.

"How is that different from planning?" demanded Shorty.

Planning implies consideration of alternatives. The Range Mothers decided, then made it inevitable. It's much more efficient.

"That's terrifying," Ken said.

Yes. I imagine the prospect of you lot approaching with all your toys is equally terrifying from the point of view of a Model Seventeen.

By the time they finished cleaning, the sun had properly set and the valley had transformed. Light spilled from windows. Smoke rose from chimneys. And down by Oleksiy's place, someone had set up the long table on the level ground outside the firing range.

Eric saw it first as they packed away the last of the cleaning gear. "Did we know about this?"

"The wives knew," Tom said. "Mine told me to 'come hungry.' I thought she meant dinner at home."

"The Range Mothers strike again," Shorty muttered, but he was grinning.

They walked down as a group, drawn by the smell of cooking meat and the sound of conversation. The long table was a masterwork of improvisation—actually two tables laid end to end, covered in mismatched tablecloths and surrounded by every chair the valley could muster. Braziers burned at strategic intervals, casting warm light and keeping the evening chill at bay. Gas heaters hummed their industrial lullaby. They were convenient but slowly going extinct; gas had to be bought it. They could afford it, but why? There was plenty of deadfall, and braziers.

Forest and Oleksiy manned a grill made from a steel drum down its axis and welded into a long trough. They wielded tongs like batons. Eric mused that this wasn't surprising given their past and present.

"Gentlemen!" Forest called out. "Weapons cleaned and stored?"

"Yes sir," Eric said, amused by reflexive obedience to a tone of command. Then he smiled at the paradox. If you said no to Forest, the man would simply accept it. He was just... a very definite person.

"Outstanding. Grab a drink, the serious cooking won't be ready for an hour but there's snacks."

"Serious cooking" turned out to be an understatement. Sissi had declared war on hunger. The table groaned under spring rolls, satay skewers, eye-watering som tam, and dishes Eric couldn't name but absolutely intended to try.

The women were already there, having claimed the best seats near the heaters. The Range Mothers occupied one end like a council of elders, though their ages varied from late twenties to sixty-something. What unified them was a certain knowing quality, like they'd seen this movie before and knew how it ended.

Eric found Sophia sitting with Trixie, both women cradling glasses of what smelled like Forest's notorious mead. He grabbed a beer from an ice chest—someone had driven to town earlier—and joined them.

"Successful hunt?" Sophia asked.

"Textbook. Small pack, no complications. Tom had a good first real engagement."

"Good." She took a long drink. Her expression soured. "Archie called while you were out. He wanted to know how you managed thirty patrols without resupply. 'What are they doing, beating them with sticks?'"

"What did you tell him?"

"That we have access to advanced technology through our consulting Vanguard, and that all equipment is logged and accounted for. He liked that. Getting hold of Vanguard tech was the entire point of sending us, from his point of view."

"He's going to keep pushing."

"Let him. I throw him a bone periodically. Autumn picks it, Forest authorised a budget for it the day they agreed to our presence. The old bastard is so perceptive it's disconcerting. When he isn't thick as two bricks." She gestured at their host, who was deep in conversation with Oleksiy about something that required elaborate hand gestures and occasional laughter.

Trixie leaned in, lowering her voice. "The Range Mothers are plotting."

"We heard," Eric said. "Any idea what?"

"No, but whatever it is, they're very pleased with themselves. Rebecca mentioned something about 'cultural preservation' and 'essential skills transfer' but she got all cagey when I asked for details."

Down the table, Ken was explaining something to his son Scott. The boy listened with the intensity of a lad being treated like a man.

Shorty's wife Sheila held court with a group of women near one of the braziers, all of them laughing at something. Eric watched Maria turn up with a casserole dish, and the conversation's volume dropped conspiratorially. He caught fragments:

"—back on his feet in three days—"

"—standing at attention, if you know what I mean—"

More laughter, and Sheila's voice, mock-scandalised: "Maria! The children are not deaf!"

"The children are all the way over there, and besides, they should learn that nanite treatment has... comprehensive benefits."

"Your poor husband," one of the other women said, grinning. "Does he know you tell us these things?"

She snorted. "He'll never admit it, but he married me because I'm a shameless hussy. Live hard, love hard. And I do love hard. The harder the better."

The women dissolved into giggles, and Eric decided he'd heard quite enough, thank you. He turned back to Sophia and Trixie, both of whom were trying very hard not to laugh.

"You know what I just realised?" Sophia said, determinedly changing the subject. "We're having a barbecue."

Eric looked around—the food, the drinks, the people talking and laughing in the firelight. "Yes?"

"When's the last time you went to a barbecue that wasn't a work function or a family obligation? Where you actually wanted to be there?"

Eric thought about this. "Before I joined the service. Maybe fifteen years?"

"Exactly. And look at this." She gestured at the gathering. "No name tags, no networking, no pecking order. People are here because they want to be here, talking to people they actually like."

He roared with laughter. "There most certainly is a pecking order. It's just not official and it changes a lot. You don't see it, your majesty, because of where you are in it. But nobody minds. I have seen you use more ordinance in two minutes than the entire team does in an hour. And everyone was glad you did. Even if our ears were ringing."

"The food helps," Trixie pointed out, stealing a spring roll from a passing platter.

"The food is magnificent," Sophia agreed. "But that's not the point. The point is this shouldn't exist. We're too busy, too stressed, too distributed. Modern life doesn't permit this kind of spontaneous community gathering."

"We're not in modern life," Eric said slowly. "We live on Planet Forest, in a weird fairytale run by an alien AI with a sense of humour and a theatrical bent."

"What are the spring rolls made from? I didn't know we had a flour replacement."

"Rice. Priya was using one of the ponds to regulate the temperature for one of her endless habitat experiments and her dad planted rice in the warm water."

They sat with that thought, munching on the rolls, while around them the barbecue continued its cheerful defiance of contemporary social atomization.

An hour later, the "serious cooking" was declared ready. Forest and Oleksiy carried over what looked like half a pig, fragrant with smoke and spices, setting it on a massive wooden board. Carving commenced with speed and precision, steaming trenchers filled and passed.

People lined up without being told, plates were filled, and somehow everyone got fed without any formal organization. It just... happened. Eric noted this with the part of his mind that never stopped being a tactical officer. In any normal setting this would have required a buffet line, or a serving system, or someone taking charge. Here, people just helped each other and it worked.

He found himself seated between Tom Bradley and one of the researchers, a materials scientist named Janet whose husband worked in the fabrication shop. The conversation flowed naturally.

"How long have you been here?" Tom asked Janet.

"Two years. We came for a six-month research contract, took one look at the valley, and never left."

"But your career—"

"Is here," Janet said firmly. "The work I do here is much more interesting work than anything I ever did at the university. I have better resources and I don't have to whore myself out to grants committees or put up with department politics. Why would I leave?"

"Money?" Tom suggested.

Janet laughed. "What money? I mean yes, technically we get paid. The research grants flow through normal channels. But I haven't spent any of it in six months. There's nothing to spend it on here, and I don't really need anything from out there."

Eric leaned forward. "Nothing at all? How does that work? Everyone needs money."

"Do we?" Janet gestured at the table around them. "This meal cost nothing. Oh, the food cost money, someone drove to town and bought supplies. But nobody's counting contributions or tracking debts. Forest provided the venue and probably half the ingredients. That goat didn't come from town so probably it's one of Janna's. Sissi did most of the cooking. The Range Mothers organised. Oleksiy provided the grill and his expertise. Everyone contributed something."

"But that's just a barbecue," Tom said. "What about the big things? Housing, healthcare, equipment?"

"Forest handles the fancy bits," Janet said with a shrug. "Advanced tech, medical gear, stuff we can't make. But housing? We cut and mill our own timber. The teams treat construction like a mildly competitive game—who can raise a frame faster, whose joints are tighter. Healthcare's mostly nanites and Autumn's diagnostics. The rest of us handle everything else through... I don't know what to call it. Mutual aid? Community support? Old-fashioned neighbourliness?"

"You know what I love?" interrupted a passing Shorty, "The smell of cut timber."

"Communism," offered Eric's kinda-sorta partner Sarah, who'd been listening from across the table. "Except voluntary, small-scale, and instead of razorwire and machine guns we stop people from leaving by feeding them till they can't move."

This triggered the predictable debate. Rebecca, the recent arrival from Brisbane, immediately bristled. "That's not funny. My grandfather—"

"Fled tyranny," Sarah finished. "We know, Rebecca, you've told us. But what your grandfather fled was large-scale coercive redistribution enforced by state violence. This is sharing. With your neighbours. Who you know. Who you see every day. Who your children play with."

"There's no difference!"

"There's every difference," Sheila interjected, setting down her glass with a solid thunk. "The Stalinists took from strangers and gave to strangers and kept most of it for themselves because that's what bureaucracies do. We share with family—and yes, Rebecca, we're all family here—because that's what families do. Anyway, if you don't like the word we can call it community-ism."

"The scale matters," added the other Maria, Tom's wife. "At family scale, it's called love. At valley scale, as Sheila says, it's community. At nation scale, it's called policy and that's when it goes wrong because policy requires enforcement and enforcement requires force. It's also about complexity. Big systems have overheads and delays. The bigger they are the worse it gets. We don't have that. If you ask Forest, and I suggest you don't unless you have all afternoon, he'll tell you that scale and money are the foundation of everything that's wrong with the modern world, and those two things are what has killed every civilisation ever."

This was a bit much for a beer at a barbecue so they just filed it and moved on.

"But what happens when someone takes advantage?" Rebecca pressed. "When someone just... takes without giving back?"

The Range Mothers, who had been listening to this debate with ill-concealed amusement, exchanged significant looks. It was Sheila who answered.

"Same thing that happens in any family. Disappointed looks at dinner. Conversations about expectations. Social consequences. The key word is 'someone.' Not some anonymous person in a distant city, but someone. A person. With a name and a face and a reputation."

"Plus," added Janet, "being a freeloader is too much work when you see your neighbours every day. Much easier to just contribute something."

Eric found himself nodding. He thought about the weapons cleaning earlier — no regulations required it, no supervisor checked their work, but everyone did it properly because that's what you did. The weapons were communal property in a sense, used by whoever needed them, maintained by everyone who used them. It worked because everyone involved understood the consequences of failure. You cleaned things going into the armoury, and you check them coming out. The tragedy of the commons was held at bay by the imminence of consequence. It probably wouldn't work for a larger group, and that was the long and the short of the argument against larger groups.

Down the table, Ken was describing the mission to Scott, carefully editing out the graphic details but conveying the importance of preparation and teamwork. Other children listened too, and Eric noticed none of the parents interfered or redirected the conversation. Their kids would grow up understanding that the world was dangerous, that preparation mattered, that working together meant surviving together.

Strange values for modern suburban children, he thought. Perfectly normal for most of human history. Why do we make the same mistake over and over? Homer Stupidus Stupidus appeared in his mind, voice and all. D'oh!

As the evening deepened and the braziers burned down to glowing coals, the conversation fragmented into smaller groups. Eric found himself with Shorty and Ken near one of the heaters, drinks in hand, watching the valley settle into night.

"You know what's weird?" Shorty said. "We've been here two years and I just realised I don't know what anything costs anymore."

"The groceries cost money," Ken said. "Someone drove to town—"

"Not all of them, quite a bit grew here. Those little tomatoes you love, they're basically tasty weeds. Why would you buy tomatoes? But I mean, what's the price of having Forest fix something?"

"A high risk that he will borrow your stuff, leave it in the yard, and forget where he left it." Trixie was looking sourly at Forest who was carefully ignoring it.

"He's just like that. Probably it's a Vanguard thing, they requisition things from nowhere, use them and drop them because they're generally pretty busy dealing."

"Oh well, that's alright then. It also explains the thirty years before that: he was training to be a Vanguard," she wasn't letting him off the hook.

"What does it cost to ask Oleksiy for advice? What do we pay Autumn for tactical support?"

"Nothing," Eric said. "They're not selling services, they're solving problems."

"That's what I mean!" Shorty was getting animated the way he did after a few drinks. "Everything out there—" he gestured vaguely toward the world beyond the valley, "—has a price tag. Everything is a transaction. But here, nothing is a transaction and somehow everything still works. Better than it worked before, if you ask me."

Tom wandered over with a fresh beer, catching the tail end. "You talking about money again? Maria won't shut up about it. Says she hasn't opened her purse in weeks except to go to town."

"Same," Ken said. "Sheila was laughing about it yesterday. Said the only thing she buys anymore is stuff we can't make or grow ourselves. Everything else just... happens."

"That's not quite true," Eric said slowly. "Things don't just happen. We make them happen. Forest fixed your solar panel last month, Ken. You helped Oleksiy with his fence the week before. Tom, you've been teaching half the valley how to maintain the water pumps."

"Yeah, but nobody's keeping score," Tom said. "That's what's different."

"Nobody needs to," Shorty said. "We all see each other every day. We just do what needs doing. If we don't service the vehicles and clean the weapons and refill the magazines, whose problem is that? Ours. It is very much our problem and nobody else's. Ken here might be a two-pot screamer and a huge fishing dork—" he dodged a friendly swipe, "but if he jams in action it's my problem so I check his gear, and he checks mine."

Ken snorted and went back to the fence. "Try that in Brisbane. Your neighbour won't even know your name, let alone give a shit if your fence falls down."

"Neighbour in Sydney," Tom said darkly, "tried to sell me solar panels. Knew I already had them, he could see them on my bloody roof. Didn't care. Just had a script and a commission structure."

"Real estate agents are worse," Shorty said with feeling. "Sheila and I looked at buying a place before we came here. Agent told us it was a 'motivated seller' and we should offer quick. Found out later the bastard represented both sides and pocketed double commission while lying to both of us."

"Used car salesmen," Ken offered, and they all groaned in unison.

"Had one tell me a car had one owner," Eric said. "Bought it, found service records in the glovebox. Four previous owners. When I confronted him, he said 'well, only one owner that mattered.' What does that even mean?"

"Means he's a lying sack of shit," Tom said. "But he got his commission, so why would he care?"

"That's the problem, isn't it," Eric said thoughtfully. "Out there, people sell you things you don't need with money you don't have to impress people you don't like. And everyone's just... okay with that. Expected, even."

"Remember those ads for hamburgers?" Shorty said. "Model biting into this perfect burger, sauce dripping just so. You go to the actual restaurant, it's a sad flat thing that tastes like cardboard."

"Everything's like that," Ken said. "The picture on the box never matches what's inside. The promises in the brochure don't match the product. The job description doesn't match the actual work."

Forest had drifted over, drawn by the animated conversation. He listened for a moment, then settled into a vacant chair with his own drink.

"The point of money," said Forest in a quiet voice, "is not trade. It is to decouple benefit from consequence."

They all turned to look at him.

"When we helped Tom raise his shed, we all saw the result. He comes over and helps us with the loadout, because he. Benefit and consequence are right there, immediate, personal. Money means I can benefit from your work without ever meeting you. It does make trade easier, that's a benefit. But separating the benefit from the consequence breaks the decency chain."

"The solar panel guy," Tom said slowly. "He got his commission whether the panels worked or not. Whether I could afford them or not. He got paid, I got debt, and he never had to see the consequences."

"Real estate agent never had to live in the overpriced house he sold us," Shorty added. "Interest rates weren't his problem."

"And none of them," Eric said, following the thread, "ever had to face us at a barbecue like this. Never had to look us in the eye and know what they'd done."

"Exactly," Forest said. "Here, if I make shit decisions, I have to live with them. With you. Face to face. Money lets people avoid that. Extract value and walk away clean."

Ken was nodding. "That's why everything out there is about selling. Not making, not building, not helping. Selling. Because that's the bit where you get the money and leave before the consequences catch up."

"Can't do that here," Tom observed. "If I half-arse something, everyone knows. And I have to see them the next day, and the day after that."

"It's not just fear of shame," Eric said, working through it. "It's... I actually want to do good work because you're all real to me. You're not customers or marks or targets, you're Ken and Shorty and Tom. Your kids play with my kids. Your wives are friends with my wife. The things I do for you matter, because you matter."

"Out there," Shorty said quietly, "nobody matters. They're all just... opportunities. Prospects. Demographics. The hamburger ad isn't trying to feed you, it's trying to extract money from you. The solar panel guy isn't trying to help you, he's trying to hit quota. Everything is about getting your money and moving to the next mark before you realise you've been had."

"Even the honest ones," Tom said. "Even when they're not lying, they're still trying to convince you to buy things you don't need. Upgrade your phone every year. New car every three years. Bigger house, fancier watch, trendy clothes. There's always someone telling you what you have isn't good enough."

"Growth," said Ken, with a look of revelation on his face, "Oh oh we need more houses therefore we need more everything, the economy is better. Let's bring in lots of immigrants to help build them, and not think about then you have to feed them, house them and drive next to them."

"I've seen you drive, that's pretty funny," said Shorty with a cheeky grin.

"Har har," said Ken, with grace no-one would have imagined six months ago, "I'm not talking about their driving, I'm talking about more people on the same road. Traffic jams, fuel, smog, more vehicle wear, all that shit."

"But back on the consumerism thing," Ken said wonderingly. "it makes you feel like a failure. Always felt like I was behind, like I wasn't keeping up. Letting my wife and my boy down."

"Are you?" Eric asked. "Happy?"

Ken looked around—at his son visible in the distance, laughing with friends. At his wife in animated conversation with the Range Mothers. At his mates beside him, and the valley stretching away into the darkness.

"Yeah," he said. "I am. And I don't know why. I have less stuff. Less money. Smaller house. Older car. By every measure I used to use, I'm worse off. But I'm happier than I've been in twenty years."

"You have more of what matters," Forest said. "Friends you can count on. Work that means something. People who know your name and give a damn whether you're okay."

"Actually that's not true," interjected Ken, "I mean the measure of success thing. Smaller house, but holy shit you should see our bank balance! We're still getting paid but we aren't using the money."

"You're not the only one. It's fuckin' ironic," Eric said suddenly, "Now that we have no use for it we've got money coming out our ears. Dunno bout you but I wouldn't swap it for quids." He realised what he'd just said and chuffed.

"That's part of it. When we're out there hunting antis, we depend on each other. Really depend. You blokes mess up, I might die. That's not abstract, it's immediate and personal."

"You won't die, you old bastard," Shorty said. "You'll just get stuffed full of nanites for a couple of days."

"Like your wife."

"Like Maria," agreed Shorty, with a big shit-eating grin.

"And when you come back from the field," Tom said slowly, "the team thing doesn't go away. I'm not going to half-arse Oleksiy's water pump maintenance—"

"Because he'd kill you?"

"No, smartarse. Because he's my mate and he had my back last week when that Model Six charged us. Ken's not going to sell me a dodgy car because Ken's life depends on my rifle working properly."

"We're bound together," Eric said. "By fate and barbecues. And this weird no-money place fix."

"We act like we give a damn," Ken said. "Because we do."

They sat with that for a while, watching the fire and the people around it.

"So that's what money does," Shorty said eventually. "Lets you stop giving a damn. Lets you extract and leave. Benefit without consequence."

"Explains the marketers," Tom said. "They've perfected the art of extraction. Convince you to buy, take the money, disappear before you realise the burger doesn't match the picture."

"And everyone out there," Ken said, "is either a marketer or a mark. Either you're selling or you're being sold to. Either you're extracting value or having it extracted from you."

"Can't even tell which is which anymore," Shorty added. "Half the time you're both—getting screwed by someone upstream while screwing someone downstream. Everyone taking a cut, nobody taking responsibility, anyone who tries to do a not-shit job gets monstered by economics."

"Whereas here," Eric said, "benefit and consequence are coupled. You help me, you see me helped. You screw me, you see me screwed. And you have to live with that. With me. Tomorrow and the day after and the day after that."

"Makes you act different," Tom said. "Makes you want to do right by people, because they're people. Real people. Not demographics or targets or opportunities."

"Different-ly," corrected Shorty, "What are you, an Apple marketer?" It got an eye-roll from Tom and chuckles from others.

Forest raised his glass. "To living with consequences."

"And giving a damn," Ken added.

They drank to that, and the conversation wandered to other things — technical details of the hunt, speculation about what the Range Mothers were plotting, friendly arguments about the best way to maintain different weapons. But the thread remained, woven through everything: they were bound together, and that binding made them different. Made them better. Made them whole.

Across the gathering, Sophia watched this group with calculating eyes. Vanderbilt would want to know why the valley worked when it shouldn't. She could write a report about economic efficiency and resource allocation and communal labor organization. She could quantify the value flows and model the decision structures.

But she knew that would miss the point. The valley worked because money didn't. Because benefit and consequence were coupled. Because people had to face each other, day after day, and that changed everything.

Somewhere in the darkness, Autumn's bees watched in four spectra. Deeper still, the antithesis compound quietly converted captured terror into the strength of knowledge. The valley dreamed its strange dream of mutual reliance and immediate consequence, and inside that dream, persons turned back into people.

The barbecue would run late into the night, as these things did. Tomorrow they'd be back to work — the researchers pursuing their studies, the ground team training and maintaining equipment, the families managing the endless tasks of daily life. But tonight, they were just people, eating and drinking and talking in the warmth of a fire, understanding at last the source of their contentment.

"You know what I don't miss?" Ken said eventually. "Ads. Haven't seen an ad in months. Nobody trying to sell me anything, convince me I need something, make me feel inadequate for not having the latest thing."

"The endless bombardment," Shorty said with a hint of bitterness. "TV, radio, internet, billboards, bus stops. Shiny happy people with all the toys, telling us with their smiles that we're not good enough, don't have enough, we're out of style and we better hurry up and buy if we want to join the cool kids."

"What's the matter with the car I'm drivin', are you gonna cruise the miracle mile?" sang Tom, echoing Billy Joel from long ago.

"Can't fall behind here," Eric said. "Behind what? Behind who? Everyone has what they need. Nobody's keeping score."

"It'd be alright if they made anything properly, but it's all crap that falls apart before the shine rubs off."

"To impress people who don't care," Shorty finished. "Because they're too busy trying to impress you with their own stuff. Glass baubles for the gullible natives."

"Exhausting," Tom said. "And a total waste of time. I never even noticed 'til it stopped."

"It's a fucking hamster wheel, that's what it is," spat Ken, "And we're the hamsters, turning the wheels of industry to make fatcats richer. Were the hamsters, but the cage door is open. We're gone and I am not going back."

They raised their glasses one more time, to freedom from the tyranny of keeping up, and to the strange new world they were building one barbecue at a time, whether the wider world approved or not.

A Disappointed Phoenix

No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.

— Heraclitus

The people of the valley may have walked away from life in the system but they kept an untrusting eye on it at all times. When they felt like it, satellite uplinks gave them news and streaming media of every stripe. So when Glen Innes copped an incursion they knew about it straightaway.

For most of them this went in one ear and out the other. It wasn't actionable. It was distant. And it was just some antis. Antithesis were always around. Sometimes they got out, so you made sure you were armed, and if anything happened you called Eric, who sent a ground team, or Forest or Oleksiy.

This blasé attitude failed to consider that for others, the threat fell from the sky instead of coming from a predictable direction. It also didn't consider that most places didn't have a response team, or researchers who carried Class I weapons as part of their day job, or a resident Vanguard dispensing miracle medicine. Certainly not for a population in the low hundreds. To some extent this mindset was a natural extension of the culture that created Forest. Australia was always infamous for its danger-close nature; spiders, snakes, sharks, crocs, and a cute little octopus with a deadly bite. Even some of the plants try to kill you. Mortal peril was omnipresent. You learnt to deal with it — as a child.

Sophia was just about the last person in the valley to find out about Glen Innes. It was Eric who brought it to her attention in a summary of national antithesis activity. He was rocked back on his heels by the strength of her reaction.

Her parents, it seemed, lived there. This was not the problem. The problem was that Glen Innes was five and a half hours away from forces capable of suppressing an incursion and wasn't economically significant. She knew exactly what the official position would be, what they would say, think and do. By the time anything was done about it her parents would be compost. This would be quite deliberate. It's much simpler when there are no survivors, you drop a tactical nuke and sterilize everything.

She pulled the batphone, as Eric liked to call it, from a drawer. It wasn't actually a phone, it was a UHF radio. She pressed the call button. Bee-dunk!

Twenty seconds later Trixie's voice came through. "Handset seven..." paper rustled, and there was scrabbling, like looking for something in a draw. "Sophia? What's up? He's down at the low dam. Do you need him?"

"Yes." It was almost a whisper, full of need and worry.

"Where are you?"

"My office."

"Stay there. He won't be long."

Down at the low dam, Forest and Oleksiy were wrestling a pump off a pontoon. Squelching out of sucking clay with fifty kilograms of rusty steel between them, they staggered onto the dam wall and set it down. Uncoupling inlet and outlet, they heaved it into the loader bucket of a small tractor with a clang.

Trixie was on the balcony of the southeast cabin waving a radio. "There's a call for you."

He looked at Oleksiy. "Duty calls."

"No problem. I use logging road, put in my shed. Maybe start tomorrow. See you later."

He stumped down the hill, took the radio, thanked Trixie and pushed Transmit. "Forest."

"I need help. Where's your helicopter? Is it ready to fly?"

"Where are you?

"My office."

"It's in Oleksiy's yard. He's been servicing it. He likes to be ready."

Her voice was quiet, unhappy. "Good."

"Get down to Oleksiy's with whatever you want to bring. I'll meet you there."

She pulled in a little too fast, bursting out of the car and grabbing a duffel bag from the back seat. The cockpit of the Gally was open and Forest leaned comfortably on the ladder. He stood and took the bag from her hand, gesturing up the ladder.

"Get comfortable while Autumn and I do the pre-flights."

The presence drone floated along beside him, Autumn prompting each check and Forest performing it and calling out the result. By the time he hoisted and stowed the ladder she was strapped in and wearing a helmet for the integrated headset. Styled after the original Russian gear, they were Class I tech with formidable noise rejection and very comfy. She adjusted the strap and put on her harness, settling back while switches thunked and those beautiful big turbines thundered to life.

Her bones rattled inside her as the turbine whine rose up and all but out of hearing. she sank into her seat as the great beast coiled and leapt skyward. Forest brought them about just a little too fast and a wheel clipped the ground as they tilted, just a lurch as they left the ground and rose out of the valley.

Clear of the trees, Forest flicked the intercom on. "This is your captain speaking. The skies are clear and sunny. We're still gaining altitude, and today's in-flight entertainment will be explanations. Starting with a destination. Toward the end of the flight our cabin crew may hand out weapons, of which we have a splendid selection of high quality options. Over to you."

"Glen Innes. Hurry!"

"Rightio, give me a tick. Autumn, that's a one-horse town on the Newell Highway, can you give me the coordinates?"

It's on the New England Highway, not the Newell. I'll take care of it, Forest. Go up to two thousand metres and engage the autopilot. Then talk to the lady, she's clearly upset. Sophia, our flight time will be about one hour. We'll be doing about 150 knots in a straight line

In the air she poured her heart out to them. Her parents were there and she knew the government wouldn't help them. Her composure broke and there were tears. He nodded and let her talk. When she finally fell silent he reached back and put a hand on her knee.

"We're on our way. Autumn, what intel do we have on ground conditions?"

Six hours since the breach. These country towns aren't fortified but if the people are anything like you the antis are probably in shock.

"Hilarious. So they've been munching on the shrubbery for six hours and by now they've probably found the fertiliser section of a produce store."

He looked back at Sophia, who was doing a pretty good job of pulling herself together. "Now you know why they call us the Vanguard."

"Us?"

"You're here, aren't you?"

"Vanguards have space guns and ridiculous medicine."

He handed her an odd looking sub-machine-gun, snub and heavy.

"And body armour that works."

"Autumn, we have a good fifty minutes before we're on approach. I think it's time you took the lady shopping."

It would be my pleasure.

Sophia, I'm going to hijack your augs, if you've never experienced full immersion you might want to sit down first.

Sophia was already seated, there being no other choice in the gunnery seat, but she understood. Autumn gave her some privacy by isolating her headset. Faces, however, cannot be isolated. Sophia's gave a new, more pleasant meaning to 'shock and awe'. Fifteen minutes later Autumn announced a spend of 2209 points. Forest nodded. Boxes appeared in Sophia's lap and her whole face lit up as she opened them.

Forest stopped rubbernecking the unboxing when Autumn piped up.

What happened to "I want to fly my attack helicopter"?

"The disappointing thing, Autumn, is that he's more interested in my new toys than watching me undress."

He snorted, because it was true.

Five minutes later, "Come on, tiger, check out the goodies." She put one hand on the top of the bubble and mock twirled. "Supple but shock-stiff, with magnets for weapons and magazines.

"Autumn!," he subvocalised, "Why have you dressed her up like that?"

"What's wrong?" fretted Sophia, "Do I look silly?"

"No, you look hot. Distractingly hot. Think Black Widow. Frankly, I think the little minx does it on purpose."

"Oh, really?" she preened, unconsciously taking a deep breath that lifted the figure-hugging armour in ways guaranteed to get attention. The inappropriateness of this struck her so she channelled the primness of her inner Karen, bleeding unexpected tension out of the air. Relaxing, she smiled again: "Check this out!" She tossed her head like a shampoo model showing off her mane, and a full-face helmet erupted from the high collar.

He chuckled, "Now you look like Spiderman. Could be worse. At least you don't have boob armour."

She gave him a quizzical look.

He put down in the showgrounds: big and open, lots of visibility around them. Not so deftly as Oleksiy might have, but a far cry from the bouncing roughness of his first tries. Switches flicked as Autumn rattled off shut-down procedures. The turbines spun down and the canopy popped. He put the ladder out and slid down. She sat there a moment, thumb caressing the safety cover as she remembered another day. How shocked she'd been when a man she didn't trust threw away a house-priced missile to solve a problem that was hers.

She thought about her parents, and all the others who lived here, and how the system she once served would ineluctably view them as acceptable losses. "Once served" woke her from the reverie, mouth a self-scandalised O.

Then she flowed out of her seat, pulling on the forward chairback to spin on one foot. The other pirouetted up and out and down to the ladder. She felt stiff in her new armour, festooned with weapons and magazines that seemed to catch on everything. She did her best not to show it.

"How do you move in this stuff?"

"You get used to it."

"How would you know? I don't think I've ever seen you wear anything other than that filthy lumberjacket.

They hit the ground but did not run.

"Has it changed much since last you were here?" Forest threw his battered leather hat in the air and a swarm of Autumn's bees erupted out of it, spreading as they rose.

"Not that I can see from here."

As the bees built out their tactical map, Autumn simplified it. Irrelevant detail vanished. She highlighted potential threat locations. Thin walls and grates mostly, hedges and other places suited to ambush concealment. The bees found a likely shelter, with crowds of dog-weeds, stego-bears and even two of those centipede digger transport things.

"Sophia, eyes up. We can bolt back to the Galya, or ask Autumn for a GPMG M60."

"A what?"

"Machine gun. Eyes up!" he pointed as they blotted out the sun.

She did the hair flick thing and her face vanished behind armour.

He chuffed with amusement. "Autumn, a GPMG M60 each please, overlapping arcs against that wall under the eave."

They bolted across the open expanse in the middle of the showgrounds to a pavillion.

"You told me this was a small town!" Forest's voice was amused.

"It is! You live in a tiny valley. Have you ever been to Sydney?"

"Couple years in Melbourne, Sydney. Paris, for a while."

She realised he was serious and let it go.

Rather than boxes, the tripod mounted guns were draped under silky grey cloth, like sculptures awaiting revelation. Autumn's theatrical streak was out in force.

Leaning into the moment, Forest took Sophia's hand and led her to them. He whisked back a cloth to reveal a spanking new GPMG M60, already loaded with belt-fed ammunition from the ammunition box beside it. New brass gleamed its oily promise of mayhem. She placed her hands on the handles as he showed her the safety.

"You're hot!" he said, flicking it off.

"So I'm told."

He rolled his eyes, smiling, and readied his own. Clouds of murder-pigeons hove into focus and they both let fly.

"Short, controlled bursts. You don't want a cook-off."

His visor's active noise-cancelling brought the earsplitting racket down to a dull roar. "Autumn, hearing protection for Sophia?"

What do you take me for? It's in the helmet.

"She got a HUD?"

Yes?

"Make sure she has a barrel heat indicator like mine. I don't want to stop shooting to unjam her."

The pigeons were faster than he remembered. The hail of fire thrown up by combined fire tore through the oncoming clouds, each round tumbling its gory way through half a dozen of the massed monsters. Mostly this threw them away, but one flew in, striking his visor and smearing it red.

"Interesting. And they smell different too. Now I know why they're faster. These ones are using hæmoglobin."

"Doesn't everything?"

"Antithesis mostly bleed green. I don't know why. It makes no sense to have chlorophyll in blood, it has to be cuproglobin, which is way less efficient."

"Oh," said Sophia, certain her boffins would have tried to tell her this at some point. She wondered what else they might have said that she ought to know in the field.

They could also be using myoglobin, which is the same colour as hæmoglobin for all the same phys-chem reasons. But it's not likely; Myoglobin bonds so strongly to oxygen that it works better as a store of oxygen than a transport.

"See that road out there?" She pointed. "It's Bourke street. We should go that way. It goes into town. That's where I'd put a shelter." She stalked through the streets with unerring precision, Forest a half step behind. Charging hordes of single digit antithesis, swept aside like chaff before a storm as the pair took turns rolling out swizzle sticks and bongos. A centiloader stared dumbly at them, dog-weeds stuffing mangled chickens and half a rottweiler into it.

In lock-step they armed and rolled grenades forward, dropping low to the ground as the fraggers tore off three of its legs. One of the three-eyed mongrels around it flung high and landed beside Sophia with a wet smack. Feebly, it snapped at her but they were on their feet and moving.

At Church street they found the shelter. It was sealed, a good sign. She asked, and Autumn linked them in; surprisingly the commercial networks were still up. Forest tossed her the MIL. She caught it with one hand, the suit lending her strength, and shouldered it while he contacted those inside. The recently incarcerated were surprised and delighted. They'd fully expected to spend another week inside with no real prospect of rescue.

We have company!

Autumn faded everything in her visor but a patch of vegetation hanging from a balcony garden-box. Something about it didn't look right.

"Is there anyone up there?"

If there is, they're having a very bad day.

"They certainly are." Sophia unholstered her pistol and stood the way Oleksiy drilled into her, on the green-house cum firing range behind his house. She put two rounds into the not-right plant... which yanked back. Running up the bonnet of a parked car, she leapt onto the roof of the van behind it and jumping as high as she could. With the help of the suit this was about four metres off the ground. She caught the edge of the balcony and hauled herself up. A dog-weed bit her in the face, double hinged jaw failing to find purchase on her helmet. With one hand she pulled it off and flung it down to Forest where the edge of a bolted down rubbish bin broke its fall and its back.

For a moment there I thought you were going to use the MIL!

"Are you kidding? The cinema has been here since I was a kid. That would be an appalling thing to do." Scanning left, right, and unlike the Alien movies, up, Sophia also departed from cinematic tradition by telling Forest what she was planning.

"I'm clearing the cinema. There was a Model Four on the balcony, I've gone in that way. I'm going up to the roof. Can you come in from the ground floor and meet me in the middle?"

"Cinema? It looks like a church." Forest turned back to the console. "Sit tight in there, we aren't done clearing. Autum, cheer 'em up with some fruit juice and beers, whatever."

Party platters for forty, with drinks, twelve points. Done.

"Does the Black Widow suit have a bodycam?"

No, we didn't think of that. But if she agrees I can stream from her augs.

"Do that. Can you do it from my visor too?"

I'll have to rewrite the firmware.

"You're going to keep them company and stop them from getting bored. It's also good PR. This is your chance to make an action flick. Reckon you're up to it?"

Does a bear shit in the woods?

"I don't know. We don't get bears in Australia."

Not for the first time, Autumn wished she had eyes to roll.

The power was on, so Forest's charge at the cinema doors ended with them opening and him shooting through at full tilt and face-planting on the stairs.

Action-comedy! My favourite!

Picking himself up, Forest decided there was no point asking her to edit that out.

"Guess the power's still on."

The lights died.

Tell me again about your fabled luck.

"This place have a basement or am I at the bottom level?"

No basement. But there's a store-room under each of the big screens, of which there are two. Doors are to the right of the screen from the audience point of view.

His visor in night-vision mode, Forest checked both. They were clear. Something fell wetly on his shoulder. Seizing and crushing it, he pulled the nun-gun from a pocket and lit up the ceiling. When the fire started to spread, he followed with another, strikingly similar tool. This one threw a sticky extinguisher foam, a lesson from the last time he set a ceiling on fire.

"Autumn, open channel. Sophia, did she tell you—"

"Zombie worms. They're disgusting and they scare me. That's why this thing has a full closed helmet and a rebreather."

"Take a seven pill anyway when we get clear. Autumn, distribute them in the shelter. Make it clear that if anyone doesn't take one the lot of them will be quarantined for 24hrs."

Forest swept the seating area, then checked the projectionist booth. Nothing. Moving to the other theatre also turned up nothing until he got to the booth. Inside it was obvious the projectionist hadn't heard the alarms. He stood, deathly still and eyes unfocussed.

"Aw, shit."

The projectionist locked onto Forest and shambled straight at him, jaw slack and movement staccato. Forest pulled the Trenchmaker and with a single shot everything from the eyes to the neck vanished in a messy spray. To avoid being sick he deflected his own attention, searching for more threats. He glanced at the floor where the top of the head still rocked. Half a worm hung out of it, twitching.

He continued to stare at it. Zombies were the worst. Autumn said there was nobody home, but he always wondered.

Snap out of it, Forest. You're making things better.

"Am I?"

If nothing else you made my life easier. All the people who "refused to be coerced into medication" after "all that COVID nonsense" have changed their minds and formed an orderly queue.

Three earsplitting blasts rattled his brain in quick succession. Rat-poo and dust took over the cinematic duty of masonry and rained briefly from the ceiling. Forest vaulted up the stairs, three and four at a time, crashing out onto the flat metal roof where Sophia stood, wrapped in cut-off tendrils. She looked spooked.

"I was climbing over a garden bed and it tried to eat me. It couldn't get through the suit but I couldn't breathe properly."

"You're going into shock. Autumn?"

Suit says the same. Drink this.

"Where's mine?"

Greedy boy. Two points. It's lunch time anyway.

He nodded. Two boxes appeared. Sitting on the ground, he started in on lunch, gesturing to Sophia to join in, a constructed normality. Slowly, she did.

"It's good."

"Yeah, it is."

They finished eating in silence.

Sophia felt steadier when they left the building. This time the power was out and they had to use a fire exit.

Clearing the block, this time together, they ran into implausibly few antithesis.

"It's odd, but there are a couple of possibilities. None of them are fun. Sometimes they all run off because there's something good to eat, like maybe they got into a shelter or found the fertiliser section of a hardware store. Sometimes they all run off because something with brains is in charge."

"Autumn, do we know where the other shelters are?"

Yes, but if that's it then you're too late anyway.

"So we assume that either they found fertiliser—"

"Bad."

"—or something smart is setting us up."

Back at the shelter vault door, they decided to let people out for the sake of morale. Let them ogle the damage, then send them back inside with a few basic arms just in case, to be left in the vault as city emergency equipment.

The vault console was still up; it ran off the network. "Righto, the immediate block is clear. We figure you'd probably like to get out for a bit, see the sun, stretch your legs." With a dull thunk dogs released. High pitched beeps indicated it would open, so they stepped back.

Thirty or forty people streamed out into the sunlight. Sophia hadn't realised how quiet the place had been before the shelter opened.

The valley wasn't like this. It was alive but more ... intimate. Mostly. When they all got together it was halfway between a barbecue and a festival, raucous and happy. She'd thought of Glen Innes as home — it never changed, so it had been her rock, a symbol of stability in an ever-changing world.

But it wasn't any more. With a shock she realised the valley was her true home, the only place she felt safe and whole. The thought of another call from the man she now regarded as her handler filled her with dread. She couldn't keep living two lives. And that meant a reckoning would come.

Into this moment of revelation burst her parents, alive and well.

"Sophie, we thought you had an office job in Sydney! And what is that outfit? It doesn't look like any government uniform I've ever seen. Who is that man? He looks like he's talking to someone but he's talking to the air."

"Don't be silly, Miriam, he's probably on the phone."

"Look at his eyes, Arthur. He thinks he's talking to someone here."

He is. I'm projecting into his visor, it's too bright out here for my presence drone.

"Oh, the blue lady with the nice food— Sophia Hachia, have you been hanging about with a Vanguard? They're reckless, I thought I raised you with more sense!"

Her voice trailed off as her eyes drifted back to Sophia's outfit, widening.

"Sophia, are you a Vanguard?"

A child escaped her parents and appeared between them. "Miss, are you making a movie? My brother says you are but he's full of shit, there's nothing on the mesh. You're really pretty though!" The alleged brother and nameless cohorts closed around them.

"Yes she is! Miss, you look just like Black Widow! Is there a new movie?" He stuck his tongue out at his sister for being such a party pooper.

Sophia smiled a strange almost inner smile and tossed her hair. The helmet erupted and so did the kids, delighted squeals as entertainment arguments broke out. They ran off.

Your daughter was concerned that the official response might not be fast enough. She was worried about you.

Sophia is Project Liaison for an antithesis research project that Forest and I run. The nature of the project is such that we deal with live antithesis more or less continuously. Your daughter has grown from a desk jockey to a minor force of nature.

"Does that make him a major force of nature?" her father cast an amused glance at Forest.

"Don't say that, he'll get a big head." Sophia recovered her poise.

Forest spoke for himself, as was his wont. "She organises... everything, really. Like I told her when we met, I just dig holes and carry stuff. And shoot things."

Sophie's mum sidled over to the presence drone and whispered "Are they an item?"

Forest was only deaf when it suited him. "I'm way too old for her and I already have a life partner. Sophia and I just get each other out of trouble from time to time. As for whether she's a Vanguard: walks like a duck, quacks like a duck..."

"I am not a Vanguard! Vanguards are chosen by the Protectors. They have access to advanced alien tech..." she put a hand up to the MIL slung over her shoulders. The other fell to the line of resonators on magnetic hard-points around her hips. She looked doubtful.

"And ridiculous impossible armour that works?" He wrenched an embedded spike out of her elbow joint and tossed it. "If you look it up in a dictionary, what does 'vanguard' mean?"

Her dad answered. "Tip of the spear. First to act."

"Coming here was your idea, kiddo. With magic space guns and armour that works, you stormed into the shadow of the valley of death. Sounds like a Vanguard to me."

We're going to have to talk. Even when it's all about the antithesis, it's not all about the antithesis.

She realised that no-one else heard those words, not even Forest, and wondered what it meant.

Then she heard her mother tell Autumn it was such a pity, they looked like they'd be good together. "Muuuuuuuum stop it!" God, it was like being sixteen again.

"You know, the way the media paints you, vanguards are reckless vigilantes who run around blowing things up."

Sophia blanched. The eye in her mind saw nothing but the cratered roof of the cinema. The old church building might never be the same.

We can repair it if it will ease your conscience.

Forest caught her eye and nodded, but she was busy failing to explain what can only be experienced.

"That is not—I didn't...; Look, sometimes you're just... It was trying to eat me!"

Her father deciphered her distress and started to smile.

"Why don't you introduce us properly another time, when things aren't so stressful? Miriam, I think it's time we all went back inside so these two can get back to work."

"Miriam," said a querulous voice, "Is this your daughter? Hello dear, you must be Sophie, I've heard so much about you. I'm Edith, Miriam and I play bridge together."

Edith looked Sophia up and down, not entirely approving of the figure hugging fit but aware that not everyone liked a blue rinse. Then she saw the weapons hanging off her and took an involuntary step back. "Oh, my!"

"Sophia is a Vanguard," announced Miriam, because no amount of prejudice can stop a mother from being an instant fan club. "Today she was the Vanguard! First boots on the ground."

Forest rose and rescued Sophia. "We have several other shelters to check. We won't be doing a full clearing, there's only two of us. We're actually well out of our own beat because Sophia was worried about you."

A deep rumble echoed down the street, followed by the unmistakable hiss of air brakes. Heads turned as a battered red semi-trailer pulled up outside the shelter. Caked with dust, it bristled with antennae. The side of the trailer slid open with a hydraulic whine. Row upon row of combat bots stood at attention. They weren't new and they didn't look friendly.

Two figures hopped down from the cab.

"Here's trouble," said Forest.

The first, a wiry man with a shock of copper hair and a grin that could cut glass, waved cheerfully. "You better believe it! Heard you were throwing a party, so we brought the entertainment." The cheeky little runt swept the crowd with his gaze. "Name's Red Dust, but everyone calls me Dusty."

The second, taller and grease-stained, adjusted her goggles and gave a lazy salute. "Greaser. I fix what Dusty breaks."

Forest shook his head. "You two do love to make an entrance."

Dusty winked. "If I turned up on a bus you'd have to call me Greyhound." He turned and raised his voice. "Bots on the ground!"

With a series of metallic clunks, the combat bots marched out, fanning into a defensive perimeter. Sophia's parents stared, wide-eyed.

Sophia couldn't help but laugh. "Well, Mum, Dad — welcome to my new life. It's never boring."

Dusty grinned at Sophia. "What's the story? You look like you're having a family reunion?"

Sophia glanced at Forest, then at her parents. "Let's get to work. Clue em in, Autumn. Maps and status." Bees rose from where they'd been charging in the sun.

Drawing up to his full height, Forest bellowed: "Right, enough leg-stretching. Everyone back in the shelter! We'll get this sorted."

Dusty and Greaser

"Oh no — stairs!"
— Bruce

People milled and faffed about. Forest was not famous for patience. He climbed up on a bin.

"You're adults, you don't have to do what I say. But in a couple of minutes that shelter will lock again and if you're still outside we aren't going to be here to protect you. Make your choices now!"

The milling stopped and people shuffled back through the door.

"Right," Dusty slouched up, grinning. "How do yer want ter handle this? Go up one end and do a walk-through?"

"That's not the worst idea I ever heard. Sophia, this is your stomping ground."

"Glen Innes is all over the place, I wouldn't know where to start. I don't think the bees have the operational range for it. Autumn?"

Lucky for you, we stocked the Galya with fast recon drones. We'll have go head back and let them out, but it's probably the best plan. There are six drones, six chargers, and a dozen batteries. The bees are good for high resolution, but not for distance.

"Boomer, reckon you can coordinate with, what's yer name, miss?"

Autumn. And if Forest has no objections I think we can get a sweep pattern going and feed your bots target queues. I'm not sure about a full cleanup, though. We have to get back to our own home. There's three hives and no Vanguard presence. Which isn't as bad as it sounds, but it's not great.

Another presence drone appeared, sprouting a battered hat shrouded in bobbing corks, over a grizzled but smiling face.

If you need more drones, Dusty has an industrial fabber in the trailer. The local grid's down but the truck can run it for small jobs. Dunno what yer need but we can recycle a bot.

The terminator spun to face them: "No, you get in the bowl!" The voice was grim and metallic, and yet it captured perfectly the spirit of a red M&M in rebellion.

"That's what yer get for upgrading them," said Greaser, not batting an eye.

"That and leadership. Bruce, why are you dressed as the Terminator? You know it scares people."

"You said pick something appealing. I find this very appealing. I've never seen a kid look at you and say" —the voice changed to an incongruous child-like pitch— "Woah! You are so cool!"

Forest shook his head. "Every time. Would I regret asking why they're all called Bruce?"

"Less confusing that way," quoted Greaser. "One mind, networked. It's all the same Bruce in there. And some idiot," she glanced at Dusty, "showed him a Monty Python collection."

"Is that why he didn't get bent out of shape when you offered to recycle a bot?"

"Exactly," interjected the nearest bot. "I have plenty of chassis and if I want more I know where the fabber is."

"Right you are, Bruce" said Forest, "Back to the Gally it is. Shall we?"

Dusty undulated to his feet. "Bruce, we're goin' for a walk. Can yer get 'em all greased up and loaded, mate? 'Ow long we gunner be, Forest?"

"You know where the showgrounds are?"

"Nup."

"Three blocks that way. Not a long walk but we had a bit of a firefight on the way in and we didn't clean up, so it's probably busy."

"Somewhere between half and one hour, Bruce?"

"Yep yep can do. Might even fix Lefty while I wait."

You wouldn't have known they'd cleared Bourke street not an hour ago. Antithesis collect biomass. Killing people is just a hobby. What little of the carnage remained was actively being scavenged, a ring of dogweeds circling them. They spread out, a dozen of Bruce forming a deadly front-line, the four of them staggered in the gaps for ranged takedowns. Sophia unslung the MIL and used it to cut a model eight in half. This seemed to upset the plants. She fired shot after shot into packs of dog-weeds. Blast after blast flung mangled carcasses in all directions. Each crater challenged a world that dared to criticise from the safety of distant walls.

"That is one pissed-off woman," murmured Dusty to Forest, knowing full well Sophia could hear him through the link.

"Yep. But she's got her priorities sorted, I reckon."

"If they don't like it they can come talk to me about it. When I'm not in my office I'll be on the front-line like you three." She racked another clip into the MIL, made it safe and slung it. From thigh holsters came SMGs, which got magazines, burst mode and a test fire while she fell back into line with the other three.

There's a substantial group milling around the Galya. Something with brains is waiting for us.

Dusty paused and the rest of them waited. He knelt and picked up a stone, dragging it along the pavement. "Bruce's got another dozen bots coming down after us."

He wants to know whether to flank or reinforce a frontal assault. I have bees ranging up and over the buildings. I can see for about two blocks in all directions. There aren't enough single-digit antithesis in sight to pose a serious threat, but I can't tell what's in the buildings without searching them. It's up to you four.

Autumn's presence drone struggled valiantly in the outdoor light. She had to give up a lot of resolution. The buildings were rectangular prisms, trees and power-lines reduced to icons.

"No offense, blue girl, but I can't see shit in this bright light. Can you chuck it up on my augs?"

The drone quit and she did just that.

"It's all a bit sus. We could just buy some more drones. If you're short for points, Forest, you can share the catalogue and I'll buy 'em."

"Nah, we're almost there. Whatever it is, I doubt it knows why we're heading to the Gally. Let's just make it quick. Oh, yeah, there should be a pair of GPMG M60s still there, Bruce, if you want to use them."

"Tanks, sergeant!" adapted Bruce. "He never gets me anything."

Hey! That was my line!

Autumn must have provided locations because two of Bruce sprinted off in the direction of the showgrounds.

"Guess that settles it. We'll have covering fire. Wish you wouldn't encourage him like that, now he'll be at me for new toys."

"I'm right here," said Bruce, glaring at Dusty as only a Terminator can.

"I bought the blueprint for them, I'll give it to him and he can fab as many as he likes."

"Spoken like a true gentleman," said Bruce, switching out the psycho-death-robot voice in favour of southern belle, "Can I rip them off the stand and carry them like in the game?"

"Focus, Bruce. Aren't you supposed to be securing the area around Forest's helicopter?"

"I find your lack of faith... disturbing."

Dusty didn't dignify that with any sign of recognition. Instead they all moved forward, instinctively fanning so their firing arcs overlapped within threatening one another. They were ready for anything and of course when you bring an umbrella it doesn't rain. Forest and Dusty were quiet and grim; completely certain something bright was in control. Only isolated small groups of roaming antithesis challenged them on the way to the showgrounds.

Bruce was there. He made a great show of politely greeting himself.

Forest retrieved five large recon drones from the Galya's aft storage.

"Shelves, who did that?"

Sophia bit down a snide comment about how it must have been someone with a firm grasp of a place for everything and everything in its place, by which she meant Eric, not Forest or Oleksiy. It was true, and she could have made it funny, but today wasn't the day. Her inner turmoil was settling; she was starting to feel kind of... free. It was strange and new and she didn't want it to end.

The antithesis hit them like a green tide.

It started with motion detectors screaming across four different tactical networks. Autumn's bees painted targets faster than the human eye could track. Bruce's dozen chassis spread into a firing line that would have made a drill sergeant weep with pride. And somewhere in the chaos, Forest heard Dusty mutter "Well, shit" with the tone of a man who'd just realised he'd brought a knife to a gunfight.

Then the shooting started.

Forest's GPMG M60 chattered like an angry typewriter, sending streams of hot brass arcing into the afternoon sun. Beside him, Sophia worked her MIL with methodical precision, each shot carving craters in the approaching wave. The antithesis came in three distinct groups - dog-weeds in the lead, model eights behind them, and something that looked like a mobile hedge with too many teeth bringing up the rear.

"Bruce!" Dusty's voice crackled over the comm. "Flank left, get those eights before they get smart!"

"Copy that, boss. Bruce Seven through Twelve, with me!"

"Talking to yourself again, Bruce?" smiled Greaser.

"It's the only way I can get quality time!" the Bruce beside her flounced his chrome buns away, six other chassis peeling off with mechanical precision to fall in beside him, weapons already tracking. Forest watched them move - not like machines, but like dancers who'd rehearsed this ballet a thousand times. Each Bruce knew exactly where the others would be, creating interlocking fields of fire that turned the antithesis advance into a meat grinder. No, more like coleslaw.

Meanwhile, Bruce Eleven chose this moment for a costume change. The Terminator chassis sprouted a metallic dome with sensor stalks. An egg-beater in one hand, a whisk pulsating phallically in the other, he began careening across the battlefield in erratic, jerky spinning arcs.

"EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!" The voice was pitched to a metallic screech as Bruce Eleven wobbled toward a pack of dog-weeds, firing with each bellowed command. "ANTITHESIS WILL BE EXTERMINATED!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," muttered Dusty, but he was grinning.

"Bruce, you absolute nutter!" Greaser shook her head in disbelief as the makeshift Dalek ploughed through the enemy ranks.

Comedy, apparently shouted through a fan. Rising, urgent. "BRUCE IS THE SUPREME ARTIST OF THE UNIVERSE! EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!"

"Contact rear!" Greaser's voice cut through both the gunfire and Bruce's theatrical screeching. "Model Fourteen coming up Church Street!"

Forest spun to see the massive centipede thing bulldoze a row of parked cars like cardboard. Sophia was already moving, the MIL speaking with authority. The first shot took off three segments. The second made the whole thing fold in half. The third was just showing off.

"Nice work, love." Dusty's voice carried genuine respect. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."

"Autumn, sitrep?" Forest called out.

Multiple breaches downtown. It's not random - something's coordinating them. I'm reading at least forty individual signatures, all moving with purpose. Bruce One through Six are engaged with a cluster near the old courthouse.

"Good. Standing order: Sophia is authorised for reload purchases and anything you suggest to her from my catalogues. And prompt her if she's low."

That's when Bruce's voice changed, dropping the theatrical tone for something more puzzled. "Huh. Got a cluster of model threes at Grey and Bradley, intersection. They're not moving on, just... digging. Really focused on something specific. One of me is taking a look."

On the tactical display, Forest watched Bruce Four detach from the main engagement and sprint toward the disturbance. The feed from Bruce's sensors showed a pile of rubble that had been someone's house an hour ago. A tangle of timber framing collapsed like pick-up-sticks. Three dog-weeds were methodically clawing through the debris.

"They're definitely after something. Hang on... there's movement under there."

The camera shifted as Bruce got closer, and the tactical picture became clear. An overturned kitchen table had become a tiny fortress, and from underneath came the sound of something wooden hitting something very much alive and very angry.

"Well, I'll be damned," Bruce's voice carried genuine surprise. "There's a little girl under there. She's got a cricket bat and a kitchen knife and she's giving them hell."

The camera feed showed chaos - splintered wood, broken brick, and a ragged bundle of never-say-die that couldn't be more than eight years old brandished a Gray-Nicolls cricket bat with both hands, facing down a dog-weed that was trying to claw through the debris.

"On my way," Forest started to move, but Bruce Four was already there.

The robot moved like liquid violence. The first model three died before it knew Bruce existed - a precise shot through the cranial cavity that dropped it instantly. The second tried to turn and fight, which was a mistake. Bruce grabbed it by the throat with one hand and used the other to apply what could only be described as aggressive disassembly.

The third dog-weed, either smarter or more cowardly than its siblings, tried to flee. Bruce's rifle spoke once, and the antithesis discovered that retreat wasn't an option.

"Alright, kiddo," Bruce's voice switched to something gentle, almost paternal. "You can come out now. The bad plants are gone."

A tiny face appeared from under the table, streaked with dust and tears but with eyes that burned with defiance. She still held the cricket bat like she was ready to brain anything that moved.

"Who are you?" she demanded, chin thrust forward despite the tremor in her voice.

"I'm Bruce. I'm one of the good guys, generally, although I'm willing to consider all serious offers." The robot knelt, a concertina of reduction, making himself less imposing. "What's your name?"

"Chloe. Are you a robot?"

"Strictly I am an android. A robot is a machine that does the job of a man. An android is a robot shaped like a man. Would you like to help me fight the monsters?"

Forest watched through the sensor feed as the little girl's fear transformed into something else entirely. Her grip on the cricket bat shifted from desperate defense to eager anticipation.

"Can I?"

"Well," Bruce said, reaching down and gently lifting her onto his shoulders, "I could use a good spotter. Someone to watch my back and tell me where to shoot."

Chloe settled onto Bruce's broad metal shoulders like she'd been born to it. Her legs locked around his neck, and she gripped his head with one hand while the other still held the cricket bat.

"There!" she pointed with the bat. "Behind the blue car! I see three of the dog ones!"

Bruce's rifle came up smoothly, tracking where she indicated. "Good eye, Chloe. Range?"

"Um..." she squinted, suddenly serious. "Not very far? Like, cricket-throwing far?"

"Fifty meters. Got it." Bruce's shot took the lead dog-weed center mass, spinning it into its companions. "Chloe, I need you to watch the windows. Can you do that?"

"Yes!" The transformation was complete - from terrified child to eager junior warrior in the space of heartbeats. "There's something moving in the window above the pharmacy!"

Bruce shifted, tracking upward. His rifle spoke twice, and glass cascaded down as something green and unpleasant tumbled out of a second-story window.

"Excellent work, spotter," Bruce said with genuine pride. "Now, shall we go help my friends? They're probably getting lonely without us."

But the journey toward the main engagement became its own running battle. Chloe proved to have remarkable eyes for spotting movement, and Bruce discovered he enjoyed having someone to teach.

"Movement!" Chloe pointed excitedly toward a parked car. "Behind the red one! It's... it's like a big spider but wrong!"

"Model Four," Bruce confirmed, settling into a shooting stance. "Excellent spot. Now, remember what I taught you about breathing?"

"In... out... and squeeze!" Chloe's small hands gripped Bruce's rifle trigger through the external controls he'd rigged for her. The shot took the spider-thing center mass, folding it in half.

"Very tidy." He sounded pleased. "You're picking this up quickly."

"My brother has an X-box. Yours are better, they're more realer."

They moved down the street, Bruce's sensors constantly scanning while Chloe rode high above, her cricket bat forgotten in favor of the thrill of precision shooting.

"There! In the doorway of the bakery!" She bounced slightly on his shoulders. "Two of the dog ones!"

"Range estimate?" Bruce prompted gently.

Chloe squinted, tongue poking out in concentration. "Um... farther than the spider. Like... like when Dad throws the ball really far?"

"Seventy meters. Good eye. Now, which one first?"

"The one on the left! It's closer to that broken window where someone might hide!"

"Tactical thinking! Very good." Bruce lined up the shot. "Ready?"

"Ready!" The rifle cracked, and the left-hand dog-weed dropped. The second one tried to flee, but Bruce was already tracking. "Got him too!"

They continued to advance. Chloe's confidence grew with each engagement. A pair of model threes trying to burrow under a fence ("They're digging! Sneaker-cheats!"), a lone model six that had gotten turned around ("It looks confused, Bruce. Should we help it not be confused?"), and even a small cluster of the flying razor-birds that tried to dive-bomb them from a church steeple. Bruce had to handle those, they were moving too fast. He apologised for leaving her out.

The sound attracted more, but with time to prepare.

"Above us!" Chloe called out, ducking reflexively but keeping her eyes up. "Flying things! Lots of them!"

"Multiple targets, airborne. This is advanced shooting, kiddo. Ready?"

"Yes!" She grabbed the stock and seized the trigger like a lifeline, eye hard up against the optical sight Bruce didn't use. Dusty insisted the weapons be usable by people who didn't have a targeting module and a gun mount in their forearm. Until now it had always annoyed him.

The rifle barked in triplets, each burst guided by Chloe's excited callouts and small hands on the trigger. Murder-pigeons fell like rain. One flapped broken on the ground beside them. Bruce crushed it beneath his heel, smooth and measured so that Lulu barely shifted on her perch.

"We make a good team, don't we Bruce." Chloe said, settling back onto his shoulders with a satisfied sigh.

Bruce contemplated the proposition. "Yes, I do believe you're right."

Back at the main engagement, Forest was discovering that coordinated antithesis were significantly more troublesome than the random attacks they usually dealt with. The model eights had stopped charging blindly and begun to use cover. At the same time a pack of dog-weeds were flanking. And something that looked like an ambulatory Christmas tree had appeared from nowhere, launching seed-pods with uncomfortable accuracy.

"Greaser!" Dusty's voice carried uncharactieristic haste. "Do something about those bloody seed-launchers!"

"Can't, I'm on break." She wasn't, and the sardonic response was punctuated by the distinctive whine of some kind of energy weapon. Where the Christmas tree had been, there was now a slowly settling cloud of ash. "Union rules. No overtime without proper hazard pay." The whine charged again. "Down!"

"Bruce, ETA?" Forest called out while reloading.

"En route with junior spotter. We've been clearing stragglers. Chloe says there's a big one coming down Ferguson Street."

"A big one?" Sophia queried.

"Spotter?" chorused Dusty and Greaser, "Bruce! No more strays."

Chloe's voice came over the comm, high and clear and utterly matter-of-fact: "It's like a dragon, but with more teeth and it smells worse."

Model Nineteen, Autumn's voice carried a note of concern. That's not good. Forest, you need heavy ordnance.

"M107," Forest grunted, catching the piece that Autumn sent with a stagger. The rifle was nearly as long as he was tall and looked like it could punch holes through armoured vehicles. Which, coincidentally, was exactly what it was designed to do. He wondered what dragons smelt like. Hot metal, probably.

"Depleted uranium HEAP rounds please."

Already in it. You're predictable.

The Model Nineteen announced its arrival by demolishing the corner of a building. It stood nearly four meters tall, covered in bony plates that looked like they could shrug off small-arms fire, and it had far too many teeth arranged in far too many mouths.

"Chloe," Bruce's voice was calm and instructional, "when fighting big monsters, what do you think we should aim for?"

"Chloe doesn't know. She can't tell because she's hiding under a table."

"My mistake," said the big metal murderbot, in a surprisingly gentle voice. "And she's not here anyway. But you are. What's your opinion?"

The little girl studied the creature with the serious attention of a tactical analyst. "The eyes? Or maybe the belly where it's soft?"

"Excellent tactical assessment. Forest, you heard the lady - eyes and soft bits."

Forest lined up his shot, feeling the M107's weight settle into his shoulder. The Model Nineteen's head was the size of a small car, covered in overlapping bone plates. But Chloe was right - the eyes were unarmoured.

The rifle bucked like a living thing. The antithesis discovered that having excellent vision was of limited utility when your optical organs had just been converted to jelly.

"Good hit!" Lulu called out. "But it's still moving! Get the other eye!"

The Model Nineteen thrashed, blind but far from dead. Forest worked the bolt and fired again. The second eye vanished in a spray of ichor.

"Now it can't see us!" Lulu - because she was definitely Lulu now - pointed excitedly. "Miss!" Sophia realised the girl was looking at her rocket launcher, "Shoot it lots!"

Sophia's MIL roared challenge, dragon to dragon. Each FOOMP was followed by a thunderclap and a shower of sappy mulch as she carved chunks out of the massive creature. The first round opened a crater in its flank. The second went deeper. By the sixth, the Model Nineteen finally got the message and toppled like a felled tree.

"Target down!" Lulu's voice was triumphant. "We got him!"

"We certainly did," Bruce agreed. "You're a natural at this, Chloe."

The engagement wound down after that. With their coordinator dead or disabled, the remaining antithesis reverted to their usual suicidal charges. Bruce's distributed consciousness made short work of the stragglers. Dusty and Greaser cleaned up with the efficiency of long practice.

"Bruce," said Dusty, "Where's that kid you found?"

"On my shoulders, picking targets," replied a well-pleased robot. "Her mood is much better now. And she has excellent tactical instincts. I have decided to adopt her."

Chloe giggled from her perch atop Bruce's shoulders. "Can I keep fighting monsters with you?"

"Well," Forest said, looking up at the girl who'd gone from victim to spotter in the span of one firefight, "that depends. Do you think you're ready for advanced monster-fighting lessons?"

The little girl considered this with the gravity of someone making an important life decision. In this she saw further than most, and cut to the heart of things as children sometimes do. Then she straightened on Bruce's shoulders and spoke with the careful precision that children use when sharing something very important.

"Chloe was scared," she announced matter-of-factly. "But I'm not Chloe anymore. I'm Lulu now, and Lulu isn't scared of anything because Lulu can shoot and she has a friend called Bruce."

Bruce's sensors registered what could only be described as the AI equivalent of getting misty-eyed. "Well said, Lulu," he said with something approaching wonder in his synthesized voice, "I think we're going to get along just fine."

Lulu beamed.

"Lulu? Bonnie and Clyde, more like," drawled Dusty, hugely entertained. Bruce glared at him. It was effective. He was built for it.

"Autumn," said Forest, "talk to Boomer and see whether you can patch into whatever Bruce uses to talk to himself. Kid, this is a Foxtooth. 16 shots, no reload. Count your shots and warn Bruce when you get low. Bruce will tell Autumn and Autumn will resupply you. Autumn, we can do that, right?"

There are distance limits. It works for Sophia because you're always close.

Sophia looked from the devastated street to a little girl riding high on a robot's shoulders, and smiled. "Welcome to the team, Lulu," murmured one girl in transition to another.

"Righto then, no field resupply. Reckon they've got along alright without. Robot, how much juice can whatever powers you supply?"

"Thirty kilowatts peak. What do you have in mind? I don't want her getting lazy with energy weapons." Bruce's tone was prim like a concerned parent.

"It's a standby. You're set up for kinetics, thirty kilowatts isn't enough for sustained fire. I was thinking trickle charge supercap, one-shot wallop. Got anything like that, Autumn?"

Not in your catalogues, boom-boy.

"What about a pint-size rocket launcher?"

Like a Foxtooth?

Forest realised they'd gone around a circle and said "Fine. Give her some sort of bandolier and a bunch of 'em. They're only stand-bys while the bot reloads. I don't suppose you can do 'em with different charges? Like, blue for boom and red for BOOOM?"

Is this for you or Lulu?

"Lulu, obviously. I have a MIL."

Out she rode, bandoliers crossed and holsters down both legs with four Foxtooth variants in all the colours of a flag. If her grin got any bigger there was a serious risk the top of her head might fall off. Trauma nil, Bruce 1. Sophia stopped worrying and went back to business.

A straggler model three burst from a doorway, making straight for Dusty. Lulu's hand darted to one of the bandolier pouches, came out with a grenade. Her small fingers fumbled the safety, the sphere slipping from her grip.

Bruce's hand snapped out, deftly plucking the grenade from the air. In the same motion he flung it at the charging dog-weed. The explosion reduced the antithesis to mulch.

"Those might be too big for your hands," Bruce said, his tone as matter-of-fact as if discussing gloves. "How about I handle them today? Later we can make some smaller ones in the fabber."

Lulu nodded seriously, completely unbothered by nearly dropping live explosives. "Okay. The blue Foxtooth is better anyway. It makes a funny sound." She swung it up and with a phut put down a stealth creature pretending to be vines on a fence.

"How did you see that? You have unaugmented eyes." Bruce rarely sounded surprised.

"It's windy! It wasn't moving. One of these things is not like the others..."

"Hey kid, wait. Autumn, the robot has plenty of firepower but nothing for cleanup. She needs resonators or something."

"While 'the robot' appreciates the care you are taking for his little friend, 'the robot' has a name. It is 'Bruce'. While there is an obvious this will tax your tiny little organic brain, 'the robot' would appreciate it if 'the human' tried to remember this."

"Sure, Bruce. Got any magnetic hardpoints, or do we need zip ties?

"Zip ties would be good. You can strap them to my arms as long as they aren't going to flop around."

They did.

New Arrival

"The best place to hide a lie is between two truths."
— Anonymous

Margaret Torres's operational brief was thorough. Rural community. Government research project. Possible anti-establishment sentiment. Standard assessment: four weeks, weekly reports, maintain cover as administrative liaison, seconded from Brisbane.

What it didn't say was that the road into the valley would destroy her rental car's suspension, that there would be an actual water crossing, or that her phone would lose signal ten minutes off the bitumen.

She pulled to a stop at the demountable complex, mentally draughting her first report. Remote location provides natural security and isolation. Limited communications infrastructure suggests—

A woman emerged from the nearest building, wiping flour from her hands on an apron. Flour. Who had time to bake from scratch?

"You must be Margaret! I'm Sally. Come on in, I'll get you settled. You must be exhausted from the drive."

"I'm fine, thank you. I just need to—"

"Nonsense, you look knackered. Coffee first, then we'll sort out your accommodation. Do you have any allergies? The cafeteria can work around most things."

Before Margaret could protest, Sally had her bag in one hand and was steering her toward the building with the other. The woman chattered about the weather, the road conditions, how lovely it was to have another person from the city.

Margaret tried to establish professional boundaries. "I appreciate the welcome, but I should report to Project Liaison Hachia first—"

"Oh, Sophia's down at the range with the students. She'll find you when she gets back. No need to go chasing her around. Besides, you'll want to eat something. It's been hours since Brisbane, yeah?"

The cafeteria was... unexpected. Clean, well-lit, with actual tablecloths on some tables. A hand-lettered sign read "NO BREAD OR PASTRY - ASK A KID WHY." Several people looked up as they entered, offered friendly nods, went back to their meals.

Sally guided her to the serving area. "Help yourself to whatever you like. We don't charge for food—everything comes from the valley, so it's all fresh. The oranges are incredible, you have to try them."

Margaret stared at the spread. Fresh produce, clearly homemade dishes, some kind of pickled fish that actually smelled good. "There's no... payment system?"

"Why would there be? Everyone brings in what they grow or make, everyone takes what they need. Works out well." Sally was already loading a plate for her. "You're vegetarian? Vegan? Or are you good with everything?"

"I... everything's fine." Margaret's training hadn't covered gift economies.

She sat with her unexpectedly excellent lunch, trying to reestablish her operational footing. This place was a lot more developed than intelligence suggested. And weird. The community appeared genuinely cooperative rather than coerced. She needed to—

"Margaret Torres?" A woman approached in form-fitting armour that screamed Vanguard. She moved with the confidence of one who lived at the top of the food chain. "I'm Sophia Hachia. Welcome to the valley. Sally taking care of you?"

"Yes, thank you. I'm looking forward to working with—"

"Don't worry about the formal stuff right now. Get settled, have a look around. Your quarters are in building three, second floor. Clean sheets, decent mattress, and the hot water actually works." Sophia smiled. "We're pretty casual here. You'll figure it out."

She left before Margaret could launch into her prepared introduction.

Sally reappeared with coffee. "Sophia's lovely, isn't she? Bit overwhelming at first, but once you get used to the armour it's fine. Milk and sugar?"

"Black, thank you." Margaret accepted the cup, noting it was actual coffee, not instant. Good coffee.

"Oh, you'll get on well with Eric then. He's a black coffee man too. Drinks it all day, I don't know how he sleeps." Sally settled into the adjacent chair like they were old friends. "What brings you out from Brisbane? Administrative liaison, they said, but what does that even mean?"

The question was guileless, genuinely curious. Margaret deployed Cover Story Version A: "Just helping coordinate between the research project and the department. Making sure the paperwork flows smoothly, that sort of thing."

"Sounds boring."

"It can be."

"Well, you're in for a change of pace here. We don't do boring. Last week Oleksiy and Forest were arguing about metallurgy and it ended with them building a forge. An actual forge. They're like overgrown children sometimes."

A man with a neat beard and a military manner strode up. "Sally, stop interrogating the new arrival. Ms. Torres, I'm Eric. I coordinate the ground team. If you need anything security-related, or if you have concerns about site access, come find me."

His tone was professional but his eyes were assessing. Margaret met them steadily. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."

"Your access card should work for most buildings. The secure storage and the armoury are restricted, obviously. Standard protocol." He handed her a laminated badge. "Wear it visible while you're in the compound. Makes everyone's life easier."

After he left, Sally leaned in conspiratorially. "Eric's paranoid about security. Always has been. Don't take it personally. He's actually quite nice once you get to know him."

Margaret pocketed the badge, noting that it was a basic RFID card, easily cloned. Though for what purpose she wasn't sure yet. The site seemed less like a fortress and more like... a community center with unexpectedly good security.

Her accommodation was spartan but comfortable. Clean, as promised. Someone had left a vase of wildflowers on the small desk. The window looked out over pine forest, no other buildings visible. The isolation was remarkable.

She pulled out her phone. No signal, as expected. She assembled her portable satellite uplink, encrypted it, and began her first report.

INITIAL ASSESSMENT: Valley community more established than previous intelligence indicated. Population approximately 200, including research staff and local residents. Gift economy appears functional but requires further observation. Vanguard presence (Hachia) represents significant complication. Security awareness higher than anticipated—recommend proceeding with caution. Will establish rapport and—

Someone knocked on her door.

She closed the laptop, disconnected the uplink, and answered.

A teenage boy stood there with a basket. "Hi! I'm Jack. Mum sent vegetables and said to tell you if you need anything, just ask anyone. We're all pretty friendly." He thrust the basket at her. "There's tomatoes and zucchini and some of Forest's oranges. They're really good."

Margaret accepted the basket automatically. "That's... very kind. Thank you."

"No worries. Oh, and if you hear shooting, don't freak out. It's either range practice or Oleksiy teaching the kids. He's a bit intense but he's safe." Jack grinned and loped off before she could respond.

Margaret closed the door, stared at the basket of produce, and tried to remember the part of her training that covered weaponised hospitality.

There wasn't one.

The evening meal was communal. Everyone ate in the cafeteria, apparently, including the Vanguard. Margaret tried to maintain professional distance but people kept... talking to her. Asking about Brisbane. Offering opinions on the best routes to avoid traffic. Inviting her to a working bee on Saturday.

"You don't have to come," a woman named Rebecca assured her. "But it's a good way to meet everyone. We're clearing some dead wood near the low dam. Probably finish by lunch, then we usually have a bit of a cookout."

"I'll... think about it."

"No pressure." Rebecca smiled and went back to her meal.

Margaret excused herself early, citing fatigue from the drive. Back in her room, she reassembled the uplink and filed her initial report. Everything felt off-balance. She was supposed to be infiltrating a potentially subversive rural community, not being offered free oranges by cheerful teenagers.

She'd establish proper operational distance tomorrow. Build rapport strategically, gather intelligence systematically, maintain cover professionally.

Tomorrow.

Tonight she was just tired, and the oranges were, in fact, really good.

Unchained Melody

The guitar is a small orchestra. It is polyphonic. Every string is a different colour, a different voice."
— Andrés Segovia

Sophia’s fingers stung. The E string snapped with a sharp twang, curling back on itself like a question mark. She stared at the guitar, frustration rising.

Forest appeared in the doorway, a mug in one hand, a battered toolkit in the other. "Strings break," he said, matter-of-fact.

He knelt beside her, deftly unwinding the broken string and threading a new one from a packet that looked older than she was. "Ever restring a guitar?”

She shook her head. "I only ever played piano. At school."

He grinned. "Pianos are honest. Guitar is for cheaters like me." He showed her how to wind the string, how to tune by ear. She learned things about tuning she was sure weren't in the lessons at school.

"There’s more than one way to tune a guitar," Forest said, testing the new string. "Back in the day, they used all sorts — Pythagorean, meantone, well temperament. Each had its own sound, suited to the music of its time. These days, we use equal temperament. It's more versatile, it makes it easier to play in any key, but you lose some of the old colour."

He glanced at the ceiling. "Autumn, could you play something in each of the tunings? Something well-known, written for each."

In Pythagorean tuning, we have "Salve Regina," a Gregorian chant.

The opening phrase rang with ancient clarity, pure and stark.

In mean-tone, John Dowland's "Lachrimae" for lute.

The chords were sweet and almost fragile, harmonies glowing in a way Sophia had never heard before.

"I feel like I know that."

You probably heard it like this.

Autumn played it in equal temperament. It sounded at once familiar and bland, like elevator music.

This piece even says in the name that it was written for a different tuning: Bach’s "Prelude in C Major" from the Well-Tempered Clavier. Listen carefully, Sophia: each key change subtly shifts the mood. If you ask me, this piece shimmers with tonal colour. It's a reason to rescue humanity in its own right.

It played for long minutes, an elegant piece from a more civilised age.

And here's "Let It Be" by The Beatles, written for equal temperament, smooth and even, every key as comfortable as the last.

Familiar voices crooned and faded out. Sophia nodded, absorbing the idea that even tuning was a choice, not a rule. "Why did they change?"

"Music changed. People wanted sweeter chords, more keys, more freedom. Every system is a compromise. You pick the one that fits what you want to play."

"Wanted more keys?"

Old tunings made some keys sound great and others awful. You could say that equal temperament was a compatibility patch. It made musive more accessible. Unfortunately, it also paved the way for Stock, Aitken and Waterman's verse-chorus-verse-chorus-change-key-verse-chorus formula pap.

"Oh." Sophia laughed. "I thought you meant on the keyboard. I don't think I know Stock Acken Waterthing?"

You have no idea how much malevolent satisfaction it gives me to hear that.

Later, the amp started to crackle. Forest produced a soldering iron and a handful of mismatched switches. "My first guitar was a knock-off Strat like this," he said, pulling off the knobs and unscrewing the scratch-plate. "Cost me a hundred bucks because it was busted. All I had to do was replace the switch and re-do the soldering." He soldered in silence, the smell of flux and burnt dust filling the air.

When he finished, he slung the guitar over his shoulder and played a few bars. The melody was almost familiar — something she’d heard in a dream, or maybe on a long drive at dusk. It was beautiful, at once familiar but not.

She watched his hands. "What's that called?"

He shook his head. "Doesn't have a name. It's just something I made up. B7, A7, E or E7. Technically it's a I, IV, V blues progression. I just play what feels right."

He started Hotel California and botched the F to C transition. Shrugging, he let go of the effort and launched into a riff that was raw and perfect and utterly his.

Sophia smiled, feeling something inside her unclench. "You sound like a musician when you stop trying to do it by the book."

"There's probably a lesson in that."

She came back later that night, and every free night thereafter. The book sat on the shelf, gathering dust while she played until her fingers bled. Even the sour notes belonged. A melody that was wholly hers soared unfettered into the night. The next night she tried to play it again but what came out was new and richer, the grown-up child of yesterday's epiphany.

She told Forest, and he showed her an interview with Mark Knopfler, who never seemed to play the same song twice. "Sheet music", said Knopfler, "is for recitals. A recital is where someone else wrote the music and someone else tells you how it should sound. We don't do recitals, we play together. It's just the right word, 'play', because all our best work is us playing together, like children." The ancient mæstro caressed the neck of a guitar and it sang a song about the world outside. "A long time ago, came a man on a track, walkin' forty miles with a sack on his back. He put down his load, where he thought it was the best, made a home in the wilderness."

For a moment she was transfixed. It was like Knopfler had been to the valley. The strumming stopped and the interview continued, but Forest stopped it. Just as well, she knew what came next and it was depressing. "Then came the doctors, then came the schools, then came the lawyers, then came the rules...six lanes of traffic, three lanes moving slow."

She wondered how she'd ever put up with a city.

Or why anyone would think they were a good idea.

Coffee but no Cake

Freedom is not something that anybody can be given. Freedom is something people take, and people are as free as they want to be.

— James Baldwin

The officers' car juddered and thumped along the pot-holed bitumen. They were going too fast and missed the turn-off, but the one in the passenger seat saw the sign in time. They came to a halt and backed up, turning off onto gravel. Around the bend and down, they crunched to a halt again at, of all things, a water-crossing.

"For fuck's sake! Dispatch said it was unsealed, not four-wheel drive!"

The sergeant was not impressed. They were country cops, but this was ridiculous. They had a highway patrol car. There were units much more suited to these conditions. He got out and teetered from stone to stone about half-way, realising it wasn't too deep. On his way back he damn near went for a swim, leather shoes completely unsuited to wet, mossy rock.

It was only moments till there was no sky, only a narrow, winding, single lane and nothing but trees leaning in over the heavily corrugated surface. It wasn't gloomy, though. The sun dappled through the trees, golden and lively. Several kilometres in, they rolled to a halt again. A large pine lay right across the road. Half a dozen young men stood or sat. There was a curious sameness to them. Faded heavy denim under checked flannel shirts, almost all red, almost a uniform. One held a chainsaw and was clearly responsible for the tree, the fresh-cut stump testament to his felling expertise.

Had either of the officers the slightest knowledge of tree-felling they would have been quite certain the tree across the road was no accident. If they'd known as much about it as the perpetrator they'd have known it was exactly where he intended. But neither of them knew jack about how to control the fall of a tree. They didn't know much of anything, outside of cowing people who didn't do what they were told when they were told.

They didn't know jack, which was handy for Jack, since they started by assuming it was incompetence.

One of them left the car — the sergeant, since he was senior — leaving the constable to discover how conducive valleys aren't to UHF radio.

Three bends and perhaps half a kilometre back toward the water crossing, an enterprising young lady and her not-quite boyfriend were busy. They unlocked what looked like a cattle-grid. It spanned the road. She tilted it up, while he reached in and pulled an absurdly thick chain around a crossbar and up to lock it to a hoop set in concrete. They secured the other side too. Walking up to survey their handiwork, they were well pleased. The pointy ends of the heavy steel bars were now about 400mm in the air. Even a tank would have trouble getting over them. She smiled, remembering Forest saying "Policing is by consent, although the police seem to have forgotten that. At some point, someone will remind them of this, and they won't like it. They'll try to dominate the situation, and when it doesn't work they will panic. Which is a bit of a worry, because they're armed. Try not to be threatening, but don't let them control you. They'll start shouting and giving orders. Just disappear, if you can." Her smile deepened, as they left the road, gathering their bows and vanishing lightly up a pig run. She wondered whether Forest had ever thought they'd take him so literally.

The sergeant strode up to the base of the fallen tree.

"What's your name, son?"

The chainsaw wielding country boy eyeballed him from almost directly overhead. The land fell at about thirty degrees just there and that side of the road was a cutting.

With unflinching gaze, he replied "Jack. What's yours?" Then he killed the saw, set it aside and vaulted down, a serpentine movement that landed close enough the sergeant stepped back. A hand thrust out. "I suppose I should welcome you to my valley. Otherwise people might think you were trespassing."

"Your valley," repeated the sergeant, non-plussed. The lad was shorter than him by a head, yet somehow managed to loom.

A brow arched, the kid's face expectant. After an awkward pause the sergeant unconsciously took another half step back and sought refuge in training.

"I am Senior Sergeant Kafka of the Southern Downs Highway Patrol. We're here to perform a routine inspection—"

"Routine? I've walked this land for eight years now and there's never been an inspection. My dad said the council stopped trying after we sent them film of pigshooters accidentally endangering children. The road was de-gazetted, something about liability. You, my friend, are on private property. I did offer you the hand of friendship, but you didn't take it."

A pair of bees orbited the sergeant, as though mapping him. They whirled up again, then flew around Jack, alighting on his shoulders. One on each shoulder, with curious symmetry. Facing forward, as though taking sides.

"Well, at any rate," continued the sergeant, "Someone in Stanthorpe reported explosions from this direction and we've been asked to investigate."

"Mmmm," said Jack. "Asked by whom?"

The sergeant had looked away, scanning for the other kids as he sensed them moving. The little twerps were slinking out of his field of view, setting off his threat instincts. Even the ones in front of him somehow blended into the landscape. It should have been impossible in a red-checked jacket but they did it anyway.

His head jerked back to glare at Jack, thoroughly discomfited and completely unused to being the one questioned. Normally the uniform was enough to cow people. Muscular teenagers with chainsaws and the self-assurance of a demigod were new.

"Are you aware there is a ... research project here? With government involvement?"

"A research project."

"That's a no, then. I suppose I'll have to take you to the administration. You can't be here without clearance, it deals with live Antithesis."

"But you can be here?" The officer looked frankly incredulous."

"Most of our parents are on the ground team," said Jack, as though that explained everything. With a pained look he whistled twice, the second long and descending, like a cross between a wolf-whistle and a fragment of magpie song. "I'll have to ask you to get your weapons and come with me."

Kafka blinked. This was a long way off script. "Don't you mean lock them in the vehicle? That's the normal custody protocol—"

"Live Antithesis." repeated a voice from a direction he couldn't place. "Carry weapons at all times."

"Why do you look so disappointed?" The constable was out of the car now. He'd heard most of the end of the exchange and brought the sergeant his firearm, putting the tasers back in the patrol car.

"We had a bit of fun planned. But now there is duty. Come on, I'll hook you up with the powers that be."

"Planned? We hardly called ahead."

"There's six kilometres of gravel to here. Not a leaf falls in this forest but Autumn's eye shall catch it. We've been expecting company for years. If we couldn't respond in five they wouldn't let us out alone. We can't even apply until it's three."

"Apply for what?"

"Junior ground team."

"Ground team?"

"Antithesis cleanup. Forest and Oleksiy have to sleep sometimes. Remember the explosions?"

"Yes?"

"Field exercise."

"They heard it in Wallangara!"

"Artillery day."

Waving them to follow, Jack strode off up the road for a kilometre, turning to face them and gesturing up the road that led to the admin compound. They reached the lowest of the stacked campus demountables. These were containerised offices locked together in multiple layers. The lowest level was stores and a cafeteria. As you went up there were labs, offices and moderately defensible positions.

"If you wouldn't mind cooling your heels for a couple of minutes I'll go find Project Liaison Hachia, she's the only one I can think of who can sort out your clearance problem on the spot."

He leaned in the door. "Sally!" he waved. "Can you look after these two while I find Sophia please?"

"Righto, officers, I'll be quick as I can."

He was three steps away when the radio in his back pocket crackled to life: "Tower this is golf actual on approach, complete no injured."

Pulling the radio out, he responded "Golf actual, this is juliet six, is sierra hotel with you?"

"Roger juliet six," the voice was female this time. "What's up?"

"Technical perimeter breach, no foul, waiting in the caf."

"Roger juliet six. Tower, this is zero alpha. Campus drop."

Move into position and descend in two minutes, securing the bees now.

"Roger, out."

A monstrous and heavily armed helicopter thundered into view, hovering at 150m. Then it descended smoothly to fifty metres and a rope flung out. A woman in a gleaming armoured catsuit walked out of the helicopter. She didn't clip on. Instead she snagged the rope in one hand, twirling the bottom round her leg and cocking the other to hold it in place. She slowed, but still plummeted by any normal measure. At the bottom she let go of the rope and fell into a dramatic crouch, one hand on the ground.

Jack rolled his eyes and grinned. "Do you know how long I'd have to listen to dad lecturing me if he saw me do that?"

Sophia grinned, rose and spoke. "Rank hath its privilege. Also, with this armour I could almost jump down. Where are they?"

"Inside — ah, we didn't get that far. Senior sergeant Kafka, this is Project Liaison Hachia. Ma'am, I imagine you'll be using your office. Would you like me to bring up three coffees?"

Above them the note of the Galya's turbines rose just a little and it peeled off toward its normal landing space outside Oleksiy's house.

"That would be lovely, Jack. After that you can leave them with me if you like. I'm sure you have mischief to get up to."

"Gee. Thanks, Autumn."

A rich contralto voice emanated from the cafeteria sound system.

Any time, Jack. Incidentally, are you aware the outer access control is still deployed?

"Oh shit! Er, excuse me everyone, I have to go clean up."

Get their coffees. I'll warn anyone driving out. Also, Aiden finished for you. He left your chainsaw in the machine shop.

"Who is that? The voice is the same as your air traffic controller. I didn't know there was an airport with a tower out here, I thought the nearest one was Warwick."

"Who isn't she?" said the departing Jack, admiration in his voice.

"That," said Sophia, "is the spirit of our little forest. Autumn is variously guardian angel to everyone, personal assistant to Forest, muse and the voice of reason. Don't piss her off."

"What might happen if we did?" asked the constable, who was young and a bit innocent for a police officer.

I would use discretionary points to provide you with coffee.

"That doesn't sound too bad," the young fellow looked confused.

Sophia helped him out: "It would be so good every subsequent cup would pale in comparison. You'd never enjoy coffee again."

He processed this and grinned. "That's ... diabolical! I love my coffee."

They went up the stairs, where Sophia listened to their story and issued access permits to keep them out of trouble.

Here you go.

The permits emerged from an odd looking printer thing that looked very expensive.

"Have these on you if you need to enter the valley again. You don't have to swipe them, Autumn can sense them with her bees." Sophia held out and hand and what could easily have been a real bee flew over from the window and landed in it.

"I imagine Jack said something poetic about not a leaf falling but Autumn shall know?"

She saw the memory flash in the sergeant's eyes.

"Yes, it's a bit dramatic but this place will do that to you. Some days it's like living in a legend."

"Like days when you do a one-handed rope descent from a helicopter because you don't want to wait while it lands?"

"Gerry works hard on the lawns. Tearing it up would be my prerogative but not very considerate.

"Drama, yes," Sophia continued, "they love talking about her like that. Spirit of the forest, one that actually answers." She smiled and gestured back toward the stairs. "I imagine you could use a break and something nice to eat, it's not a quick drive out from town. The cafeteria where Jack was taking you, help yourselves. It's very good."

The officers wandered into the cafeteria, the comforting aroma of coffee and savoury dishes drawing them in. They joined the short queue, picked up plates, and helped themselves to a generous spread—though notably, there was no bread. A small hand-lettered sign above the serving area read: "No bread or pastries — ask a kid why."

When they reached the end of the line, the sergeant looked around for a register or a till, patting his pockets again.

Sally, busy behind the counter, caught his confusion. "Looking for somewhere to pay?"

He nodded, a little sheepish. "Is there a tab, or do we pay up front?"

Sally grinned. "No need. We don't use money for food, or anything we can make ourselves. Just let us know if you have any allergies. Everyone pitches in, everyone eats."

The constable blinked. "So, it's all... covered?"

"Not paid for with cash," Sally said, "and not exactly free. Janna would say it's paid for with love, which is kind of true. People grow stuff. A lot of stuff. It's cold up here, but there are lots of glasshouses. We have a bit of everything all year. OH! You have got to try these oranges. Forest grows them. They are sooo good." Her face went rosy with the memory of a foodgasm. Then she was back with the officers.

"Um, yeah. Anyway the produce people bring in is fantastic and couldn't be fresher. My job used to be the till, back when we had one, but now it's working out nice things to make with whatever people drop off."

There were two kids staring at them. "We do know about money. We just don't need it. Unless you want screws and stuff. You buy those in town, we can't make them. Yet."

The officers exchanged a look, curiosity piqued. The constable grinned. "That's... actually kind of brilliant."

Sally winked. "It works for us. Enjoy your meal."

He turned to the kids. "So why's there no bread?"

The boys looked at each other, realised outsiders wouldn't know, and took turns giving the no-flour-for-dummies explanation. This was clearly something they frequently spelled out for adults.

"Bread is made from flour."

"Flour is made from grain."

"Grain is a pain in the ass to harvest unless you grows endless fields of just grain and then you can use a harvester.

"Endless fields of one thing is monoculture."

"Monoculture invites pests."

"Then you have to drench it in poison. Bugs get resistant so you have to use nasty poisons!"

"They get resistant to those too so you have to use a lot of poison!"

"Corporations don't get all the poison off. It would be expensive even if they could."

"Flour is poisonous." Genuine disgust was writ large on their open faces.

"We won't eat it!"

The next line was less emphatic and sounded like it came from someone's mother, or perhaps Autumn: "There's plenty to eat that isn't made from grain."

Then, as though sharing a guilty secret: "Janna and Autumn are working on a flour substitute. We like pies. Not so much cake, it's too sweet."

"How about that," mused the constable, stroking his chin. "What do you do for sugar?"

The kids' eyes lit up.

"Sally! Didn't Forest bring down a bunch of honeycomb?"

"And Eric, and Oleksiy. It's that time of year. And no, you can't have any more. Your mothers said one comb a week."

"No but, no but we have to show the officers!"

Sally produced half a comb she'd cut in two while roasting the boys for their gluttony. She brought it over on a plate with two spoons, that and their coffees on a tray, placing it between the officers.

"If it's too much don't worry, Oscar the garbage monster and his friend here will magically disappear any leftovers. This is also how we sweeten coffee. You don't want the wax in your drink so scrape the comb open then let it run into the cup."

The self-declared coffee afficionado sampled his cup. His eye went wide.

"I won't say that's the best I ever had, but it's certainly right up there!"

She grinned. "Shorty—"

He cut her off. "Grows the beans?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, that's a work in progress. Shorty brings them in. And yes," her fingers shot up into air quotes "they're 'organic'. Or as the kids like to say, 'not poisonous'. But I don't think he buys them for that. It's more the flavour. He knows some roaster in Sydney. Sophia got Eric to do a background check and eventually they set up this thing where he comes to stay twice a year with a boot full of coffee."

The constable shook his head in disbelief, a half-smile tugging at his lips. The sergeant, meanwhile, stared into his cup as if it might reveal the next surprise.

Jack walked back in. "Officers, Autumn asked me to clear the road. She tried to bring it up for you but apparently it's not set up for self drive so she got me to do it. Your car is in the carpark we walked up through."

The constable blinked, then grinned. "Thanks!" The sergeant's face was a picture of confusion. He glanced at the keys in his hand, then at Jack, then back at the keys, as if trying to work out the trick.

Operating a police car like that was normally several offences, but bringing it to them wasn't theft, and apart from anything else he still had the keys.

"Buh— How?!" the keys dangled from his fingers.

That was me, officer. I do hope you'll excuse my taking the liberty. It's a single lane road. Someone wanted to go into town.

The sergeant looked around, as if expecting to spot hidden cameras or a prankster. "Thank you, but how? You need the key and a thumbprint."

I am a Class VII Artificial Intelligence, sergeant. I'm using more computational hardware than Google, just on this conversation. The security systems in terrestrial vehicles slow me down like cardboard handcuffs in rain.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then just shook his head, defeated. Rubbing his temple, he watched Constable Ludowski finish his coffee rapture. "Righto lad, we'd best be off. Dunno how I'm going to explain an unauthorised driver."

"Just tell secops 'I don't know and I hate computers!' again, sarge. It's even true."

You hate computers?

The constable grinned, recognising a wind-up, but the sergeant was sinking in too much 'new'.

"Just dumb computers, right sarge? Not super smart giant AIs that don't exist and if they did would be in restricted areas running secret projects."

Don't worry, sergeant. Your car thinks it was you driving.

Signal Problem

"The most dangerous enemy is the one who makes you want to surrender."
— Sun Tzu (apocryphal)

Margaret's third attempt to upload her weekly report failed at 47%. The encrypted uplink flickered, struggled, died. She stared at her laptop screen, watching the connection timeout message appear with professional calm that was entirely performative.

Outside her window, the forest was alive with birds. Peaceful. Beautiful. Completely devoid of cellular infrastructure.

She'd tried everything: the roof of her building (nearly fell, terrible idea), the highest point in the compound (still terrible), even hiking up to that clearing Jack had mentioned. Nothing. The valley's natural topography was a signal dead zone, and her portable uplink didn't have enough power to punch through reliably.

Three days overdue on a report. Her handlers would be—

Another knock at her door. She closed the laptop reflexively, even though no one could see what was on the screen.

Jack stood there with a girl about his age, both wearing the ubiquitous red-checked flannel that seemed to be the valley's unofficial uniform. The girl held a thermos.

"Morning, Margaret! This is my girlfriend, Emma. We brought you coffee." He said it with the cheerful certainty of someone who'd never considered that offering coffee might be unwelcome.

"That's... thank you." She accepted the thermos because refusing would be suspicious. It was excellent coffee. Again.

Emma smiled, shy but friendly. "Jack said you were having trouble with your phone? The signal's rubbish out here."

"I've noticed."

"Sophia said—" Jack pulled a folded note from his pocket, "—you can use the datalink in the office if you need to make a report. If you need it, there's a secure room with a faraday cage, a high power satellite link and an isolated workstation. And if you want to talk my door is always open. — SH"

Margaret accepted the note with fingers that didn't quite want to remain steady.

They knew.

Of course they knew.

Emma was still smiling, completely oblivious to the operational catastrophe unfolding. "The secure room is pretty cool. All the comms gear is way better than what the government usually has. Autumn helped design it."

"Autumn?"

"The AI. Forest's AI, technically, but she kind of... helps everyone." Jack shrugged. "She's ace. Bit sarcastic sometimes."

They left, cheerful and helpful, and Margaret sat on her bed holding expensive coffee and a note that politely demolished her entire operation.

She found Sophia in her office, reviewing what looked like construction plans. The door was open. An invitation.

Margaret knocked anyway.

"Come in." Sophia didn't look up immediately, made a few notes, then set aside her stylus. "Margaret. Coffee good?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Jack makes excellent coffee. I think he's actually better at it than Sally, but don't tell her I said that." Sophia leaned back in her chair, armour creaking slightly. "I assume you're here about the secure room?"

"You know why I'm here."

"I know you've been trying to file reports with inadequate equipment in a signal dead zone. I know you're three days overdue and probably worried your handlers think you've been compromised." Sophia's voice was matter-of-fact, not accusatory. "And I know you could use better infrastructure than they gave you."

Margaret's operational protocols said to deny, deflect, maintain cover. But Sophia's eyes held something that looked like... understanding?

"Why offer to help?" She heard herself ask.

"Because you took their money and their mission, and you're trying to do your job. I respect that." Sophia stood, gestured for Margaret to follow. "Come on. I'll show you the secure room."

They walked through the compound, Sophia nodding to people they passed. Everyone seemed comfortable with her despite the obviously expensive armour, the visible weapons. Not afraid. Not deferential. Just... easy.

"I filed reports too," Sophia said quietly. "For two years. Every week, like clockwork. Told them what they asked, gave them what they needed. Then one day I realised I was filing reports about people I cared about to an organization that saw them as problems to manage."

"What did you do?"

"Kept filing. Right up until I didn't." Sophia stopped outside an unmarked door, used her own access card. "The reports probably changed tone toward the end. Couldn't help it. I was seeing things differently."

The secure room was small but immaculate. Military-grade equipment, proper isolation, a workstation that would have made Margaret's handlers weep with envy. The satellite uplink had a power rating three times what her portable unit could manage.

"Take your time," Sophia said. "No one will bother you. The door locks from inside. And Margaret? File honestly. They sent you here to assess us. So assess us. We're not hiding what we are."

She left.

Margaret sat at the workstation, logged into her encrypted channels, and stared at her unfinished report. Her handlers wanted intelligence on a potentially subversive community. They wanted evidence of anti-government sentiment, security risks, criminal activity.

What she had was: People who shared food. Teenagers who made excellent coffee. A Vanguard who offered her better equipment than her own organization provided.

She finished her report with brutal honesty: Target community demonstrates concerning self-sufficiency. Recommend continued surveillance. Infrastructure more advanced than intelligence suggested. Vanguard presence complicates assessment. Population appears content. Unable to identify conventional security vulnerabilities. Require additional time for comprehensive evaluation.

When she emerged, Sophia was sitting on a bench outside, working on her augs. She looked up. "Get through okay?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"The room's available whenever you need it. You don't have to ask permission." Sophia returned to her work, then added without looking up: "For what it's worth, I think your handlers are idiots for sending you in with inadequate support. But that's not your fault."

Margaret walked back to her quarters, the note still in her pocket, and tried to remember when she'd started thinking of them as "her handlers" instead of "my superiors."

That evening, Rebecca found her eating alone in the cafeteria.

"Still thinking about the working bee?" She asked, settling into the opposite chair without invitation.

"I shouldn't. I have work—"

"Work can wait till Monday. It's Saturday. Come on, it'll be fun. We usually finish by lunch and Oleksiy makes this thing with fish that's bloody brilliant."

"I don't know anyone."

"You know me. You know Sally and Jack. That's enough to start." Rebecca grinned. "Besides, you've been here a week and you've barely left the compound. You'll go spare if you don't get out a bit."

Margaret found herself agreeing. It was good cover, she told herself. Building rapport. Gathering intelligence through casual observation.

The fact that Rebecca's easy friendliness reminded her of her sister—the sister she hadn't seen in three years because work always got in the way—was irrelevant.

Completely irrelevant.

She'd file her next report in two weeks. Professional distance. Strategic relationship building. Maintain operational security.

But she went to the working bee.

And the fish was, in fact, bloody brilliant.

Unleashed

Sophia sat at her desk, reclining in her boss chair with an assessing expression, peering at Eric from half-lowered, almost hooded eyes.

"Another transfer request. I thought they liked it here. I remember the man in question, he seemed more than happy here."

"It, ah, his wife thought of it. It's a secondment, not a permanent transfer."

She sat up.

"OK, Eric, I know you aren't stupid and you don't seem concerned. So what exactly are they up to?"

He looked nervously around the room, eyes falling on various places she knew he regularly swept for listening devices.

Dots connected like falling dominoes in her devious mind and her mouth twitched toward a smile. She let him suffer for a few more seconds, then chuckled.

"Oh thee of little faith! For the record, Autumn tells me you found all but two. And she suborned those."

"Why didn't you tell me!?"

She tilted her head, giving him time to catch up.

"Oh, of course. If I found all of them it would be noticed. Most but not all, they think they've got you."

"Autumn, would you mind giving him a quick demo. As a transcript on his augs, so he can see what you're doing. Tell me when to start."

Start now.

"What they hear isn't always what I say. For example, I am a naughty girl who's planning to take over the government."

In real time — literally as she spoke — text flowed on Eric's augs. It was freaky hearing the same voice saying two things at once. Without subtitles it would have been very mixed up.

I'm sure they hear every word I say. 
It doesn't matter, I am a naughty girl but 
only with the outfits I've been buying.

"Fine," said Eric. "It just makes me nervous. I missed some. How do you know Autumn got everything?"

There's a reason the kids like saying "Not a leaf shall fall". I've co-opted every last transmission capable device in the valley as a security measure. Don't let that stop you from doing your job. If I ever have intel I can't figure out, I will certainly share it with you; there's a non-zero chance you'll have the one extra fact we need. I haven't mentioned it till now because I didn't want to reduce your diligence. Or make you feel superfluous. Outclassed in some ways, but you are not irrelevant. Apart from anything else you have a better feel for how our friends at the signals directorate will think.

"Silly question, why haven't you suborned the directorate computers?"

They're surprisingly competent, if a little stone-age. Everything is air-gapped. Even the voice calls are converted to analogue, band-pass filtered to human hearing frequencies and brought in via speaker and microphone; literally air-gapped. And I see where you got your professional paranoia: They reboot it daily from a read-only volume.

"Fine, but paranoia is my duty. Boss, let's get some coffee and talk a walk."

Outside was crisp in the early August afternoon. They stopped in the cloak-room where Sophia put her armour on and Eric collected his gun-belt.

"It's so different. Four years in and it's still weird everyone being armed."

"What's weird is kids learning weapons handling from their fathers while the mothers' club watches. In Sydney the same people would be all "Oh no a bicycle is too dangerous in traffic, my darling must stay inside". Here, it's horticulture and archery and range practice and antithesis drills. Have you seen how people react to bees these days?"

"Talking to them like they seriously expect to be heard and understood?"

It's not an unreasonable expectation.

"What's interesting is how safe bees make people feel, even when most of them are the honey-producing kind."

They strolled along the road for a hundred metres, finding deep, arcing ruts where a natural water course crossed the road.

"We ought to let Gerry know the road's washing out again." Eric pushed a boot right into one.

They clambered up the pine side embankment to a pig-trail and looked down from on high. The ruts below cut narrow curving channels across the deco hardpack. Deep enough to be four-wheel-drive only and slow-downs you really couldn't ignore; even the well-adapted local vehicles bounced and wallowed at more than a walking pace.

"So he can bring his tractor down for more roadwork? Don't be silly. Cancel one of the hunting trips and get one of the teams down here with shovels. There isn't an unsanctioned Antithesis within 200km. I do read the reports you write, and Autumn draws me lovely maps."

She grinned and steered them back on track. "Come on then, loyal but paranoid minion. Spill the beans. Why are so many people who love it here, people whose children are not going to like the city, moving back there? One or two with dying parents, sure. But what's with the exodus? Alright, half a dozen isn't quite an exodus, but in the same month? I won't be the only one to notice, either."

Eric paused, one foot on a storm-fall tree.

"I imagine you've had Forest's speech about the difference between self-reliance and self-sufficiency?"

"Four times now. It worries him."

"He's not the only one. I mentioned it came from his missus, right? Ken's missus, not Trixie. So the kids worship Forest and Oleksiy, and they have a pretty high opinion of the ground teams. They get in their mothers' ears about it, and once those girls latch onto an idea, well, you know. Men rule but women decide."

"Don't let Forest hear you use that word!" Mischief danced in her eyes.

"Righto smarty. Point is that the kids convinced the girls and they thought about it with adult brains and university educations. It isn't Forest the state ought to worry about, it's the valley mothers club. There's thirty of 'em, at least half are well educated. The other half aren't stupid, and all of 'em like it here. They like how their kids are, even if it's sometimes a bit weird when they do things like boycott flour."

"And the fact that they like it here causes them to leave, how?"

"It's complicated."

"Make it simple."

"OK, they're recruiting."

"What's complicated about that?"

"They can't just place a job ad. Didn't I just explain they're well educated with plenty of time to think? They know how important it is the state not realise what's happening here. They know this is a kind of rebellion. Not just breaking a law, actively seeking to subvert the system with a long term view to bringing down a state before it recognises them as a threat."

"That is what they talk about at the range meets? That's not what I've heard there, and I'm not always with the students."

"Not all the time. Sometimes they talk about gardens, or kids, or whose husband's hurt, or his... recovered enthusiasm."

Sophia giggled, remembering when the Shorty tale did the rounds, mostly spread by his very satisfied wife.

"But sometimes they plan global politics? Don't they know that's done by old men in smoky rooms?"

"The old men may be in for a shock."

"So tell me about this secret rebellion recruitment drive. What exactly is the mothers' club plan for world domination?"

"Well, basically they've decided that Forest is an eccentric genius who doesn't finish projects—"

"Accurate."

" —who accidentally built a slice of heaven, and they're going to bake the whole pie."

"Bake the whole pie."

"Remember when he fretted for days about how to make screws."

"Yep?"

"It's piecemeal. He won't live long enough to finish, and we can't wait. But they understood what he was worried about. They made a list. Then they split into teams and drew org charts and more lists. And got back together and compared lists, had a huge argument and eventually created a project plan. From which there were more lists, apparently with a dependency chain. Through all this they had a lovely time asking Forest exactly the sort of questions he frets about."

"Are you telling me the mothers' club has a comprehensive plan to save civilisation?"

"Yes. No. Sort of. They had the start of one. Strictly speaking they're trying to prevent civilisation. That word means "formation of cities" and what we have here is society without centralisation. It's the exact opposite of civilisaton. At any rate, Autumn joined in and made Forest buy documents from the Reboot catalogue and hand them out."

"Made him. That I wish I'd seen. I didn't think anyone but Trixie could make Forest do anything."

"They do have an interesting relationship, that's certainly true. Anyway, apparently we aren't the first people to go through this and there are manuals for where to start and the order to do things. So they've been busy reading and thinking some more."

"I do not believe that Autumn was unaware of what they were up to. I wonder why she didn't lead with that."

They weren't ready. And then they were.

Autumn's cheeky voice crackled out of Eric's radio.

"And these manuals tell you to recruit?"

"No, they tell you what you have to do. The ladies identified skill gaps, and decided to fill them. By recruiting. It's quite interesting, there are things you have to do that you don't even need. You do them to preserve skills."

"This would be Forest's Roman Pot Syndrome?"

"The remedy, yes."

Eric stepped up onto the log and glanced along the other side for snakes before moving on. Weaving through the tangle of rotted fallen trees and native sedge, Eric marvelled at how easy the kids made it look.

"Native habitat," he muttered, wheezing a little with exertion as they climbed the slope, refusing to slow. Sophia heard him but was too busy controlling her own breathing to respond. Both of them knew it was faintly ridiculous pretending they could flit through the brush like latter-day elves, but if a bunch of kids could do it just for fun...

Their pace slowed at brightening light from the clearing Forest called his industrial area. Dropping to a walk neither of them would admit to being breathless.

"How does he do it?" muttered Sophia.

"Do what?" The loud, cheerful voice of a man whose stupid experiment had just worked. There was a loud bang and bits of metal flew into the scrub. Forest stared after them, not deflated but less ebullient.

"One step at a time," Eric economically spoke to both of them at once.

"What's today's bit of mad science?"

"Couple of things. Temperature controlled furnace serving as a carburiser. Metallurgy, basically. Needs work but it's obviously going to work. To what do I owe the pleasure? It's not a crisis or Autumn would have me gearing up."

"Sophia was asking me about all the people leaving."

"And you brought her to see me? That's the range mothers. And good on 'em, I knew they'd figure it out eventually. It's just a matter of knowing where your bread's buttered."

Sophia batted her lids disingenuously and pursed her lips. "Interesting choice of words for a valley where there's no bread. Metaphorically or literally."

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant. Have you been giving people your manifesto or something?"

"No? And yes, kind of. I know you understand. He bullet pointed on his fingers. "One, everyone's happy here. People know where they are and who they are and why they are. We're off-the-charts well-fed and the kids are thriving. Unemployed isn't a thing here: people see what's needed, do it and then have a good time. Or have a good time doing what's needed. Two, we're self-reliant but not self-sufficient. We're land-locked so when the state eventually decides to control us there are things they can cut off. Three, Autumn's books are nice but actual experience is better, and we have a lot of gaps."

He stopped for breath, but long experience told Sophia to wait, he wasn't done.

"Even if I did set 'em up to see it, those girls are smart, and holy cow do they mobilise when they think it matters."

He looked at Eric. "Maybe you should set up a Ladies' Ground Team. We could scare the antithesis off."

Sophia gave him the stink-eye, since his face said he was waiting for it, but she didn't really mean it. She was still waiting for the punchline.

"Right, so the short version is this: they've seen a better way. They like it. They want it for their kids, and they know the government will take it away as soon as it realises it can't control people who aren't dependent on it. They were listening when I said we're not self-sufficient, so they decided to fix it.

"I'll tell you what, they better be discreet. What they're doing takes things from defcon four to defcon two from a government point of view. I said so, too. At that point Autumn got all bossy boots on my case. We bought a printer and the books and handed out copies. Looks like they read 'em."

"And so," Sophia finished, because Forest could take hours on his favourite subject, "there is a diaspora of people, with a shopping list for other people."

"Yep," said Forest," mildly annoyed at being TL;dr'd.

"You wouldn't believe it," added Eric, "one of 'em is a psych graduate who didn't like HR. In one hand they have a shopping list. In the other they have a personality profile. And a list of tells and trigger questions for interviewing people who don't know they're being profiled. Oleksiy helped them with it. Apparently it's an operational skill."

"For a builder?" Forest's face was a picture of innocence.

"For a semi-retired professional, smartarse."

"What kind of people are we recruiting?" Sophia tilted her head. "People with skills, obviously, but they have to be people who will get this place just from a description. Otherwise how would you get them out here?"

Eric and Forest both looked at her, intrigued and pleased but not totally surprised by 'we'.

"Haven't asked, but the parts I have seen were meticulously planned. And those girls are deadly serious. I don't doubt they will do whatever it takes, scheming pack of Mata Haris they are." His tone belied the words, laden with respect.

"OK great. But you two, tell me what sort of people you think we need. Running this place would be awful if it didn't run itself. Nobody takes orders. None of you will do anything unless you think it's a good idea and in the community interest. Or fun."

They spoke over each other three times. Each gestured for the other to go first, then Eric said "Tell us what you think, Forest, and I'll add anything I reckon you left out."

"OK, why am I here?"

Sophia looked at him, then up at the sky, down at the ridge, thought about the time of year and decided it was half past three. It crossed her mind that this somehow validated whatever he was about to say, but she held her tongue and let him prepare his own answer.

"One sec, I'll just let the office know we won't be back any time soon and they can just close up when they're done."

I can do it if you like.

"Thanks, that would be great."

"Alright then, why don't we go say hi to her majesty and I'll put some tea on."

They did, but Trixie wasn't there. Forest built a small fire outside while talking to them. Sophia recognised the pattern he used. It was the same way the kids all did it. She decided not to tell him they were faster. Unhurried was Forest all over.

"So I imagine I've told you the cane-harvester story."

"Four hundred times."

"No. Shush Eric, he was talking to me."

"My father grew up on his father's farm. They grew cane. In those days, they cut it with a cane knife, which is basically a short machete with a wide blade and a hook on the end." Autumn's presence drone threw up a life-sized cane knife in shimmering lilac, rotating slowly. Probably this was so Forest didn't stop to find a pen and paper and draw one.

"Cane knives became farm-built tractor implements." The image morphed, supporting his tale. "Farm-built became commercially made tractor implements. Then there were purpose built harvesters." A man appeared beside the implement-festooned tractor, holding the cane-knife. They shrank and moved to one side while a cane harvester shimmered into being. It was recognisably the same, but more integrated. And bigger.

He looked at her and interrupted himself. "At the end of the seventies, eighty percent of global cane-harvester manufacture happened in our town. But the cane-boom ended when Europe starting dumping beet sugar on the market. All the people who took on debt to be in a boom industry went broke. Banks got the farms, corporations bought 'em from the banks for a song, and then it was all run by accountants."

The billy went on.

"That was when everything went to shit. The supermarkets owned most of the farms and dominated cane-growing. That let them take over the sugar mills. Then they were setting prices for the independent farmers. It's called channel capture. Cory Doctorow called it enshittification but he was talking about Amazon and eBay. It was much later that I realised enshittification also works for bricks and mortar, and that I'd already seen it in action. In the eighties Coles and Woolies had much smaller stores that mostly sold packaged food. People got their greens from a grocer and meat from a butcher. Supermarkets were cheaper till the grocers and butchers were gone, and then they weren't."

"And that's why you—"

"No. At the time I just thought greed was the problem. I didn't realise it was systemic. I was young and strong and every time I got into debt bullshit good luck sorted it out for me, so I didn't learn anything."

The water boiled. He lifted the lid and put tea in, swirling it and seating it close but no longer on the flames. Chipped enamel cups were set out, awaiting some hidden signal.

"Harvesters got bigger and bigger because accountants wanted to reduce headcount."

A progression of ever large units appeared like a litany of greed. Halfway through the progression Autumn added cane behind the harvesters. It really brought out the scale. The last one was colossal.

"That thing is huge. How the hell did they transport them?"

"With a police escort. Even just a spare tyre cost half a million dollars. Nineteen-ninety dollars, too."

Eric whistled and said nothing.

"So you're right. It's a monster. It's so heavy that even with those huge wheels it compacts the clay pan two metres down. That cocks up the drainage, and you get root rot. Fungus will wipe out a whole crop."

"You look like you're waiting for me to connect the dots. You may have to spell it out." She was interested in spite of herself. There was always a point to these rambles.

"To fix the drainage you need a dozer with a deep ripper. It's a sort of plough that goes down a long way."

He paused, looking expectantly at them.

"OK?"

"Now you have two big expensive machines. It's stupid. Even if you don't care about anything but money, it's just plain stupid to make the machine that big. If you had two harvesters half the size—" he did the same finger counting of bullet points. "You'd have the same headcount. You'd have less wear due to higher relative material strength. Cheaper manufacturing from larger runs. Half the spares inventory because they need the same parts. Cheaper parts because larger runs. Parts more widely available because they're less expensive so dealers can keep them in stock. Less down time because if one machine breaks the other keeps going. Staggered maintenance. No police escort for transport."

"So why don't they make smaller harvesters?"

"Corporations treat each other just like they treat people. Why would the machinery company sell two mid-size harvesters when they can sell a giant harvester and a dozer? And the idiots running the supermarkets don't even realise what I just told you. Anyway, when I figured this out I realised there was something wrong with the world. I didn't know what exactly, but I started trying to figure it out."

"And that—"

"Yep."

"Right."

Forest rose, and pulled a hank of string from his pocket. It had a loop on the end. He put it through the handle and the end of the string through the loop, pulling it tight. Then he stepped away from the fire and swung the billy. In circles over the ground at first, faster and faster till it was a little Ferris Wheel, then back down smooth as you like. He set it next to the cups, took the handle with a rag and poured their tea out. The sun dropped below the tips of the trees. It was definitely after four.

"So how does that translate into a mother's club world domination plan?"

"They're looking for people with skills and experience who think the system is broken and are unconsciously searching for a better answer. We actually do have an answer. When they realise this, every frustrated engineer who ever stormed out of a meeting hating marketers will see this place as the answer to their prayers." He did the finger thing again. "Right sized. Built to last. Built to be maintained. Budgets written in iron and sunlight."

His eyes got that faraway look they knew so well.

"When I was a kid I was making something. I wanted to etch a circuit board faster. I went down to the chemist and asked whether they had any concentrated nitric acid.

"Concentrated nitric acid is quite dangerous. You have to know how to handle it correctly. So the lady who was basically a shop assistant went and got the actual chemist, who wanted to know why I wanted a dangerous chemical. So I told him. Then he started about how it requires proper handling, so I recited the procedure for handling and safe dilution, adding that it was the procedure for concentrated sulphuric acid and if nitric acid was different I would take notes. Against the expectations of his staff and other customers he sold me a bottle and labelled it and we triple-bagged it for transit.

"So off I went and in went the board. It fizzed like mad for thirty seconds, then stopped. I didn't understand, and I didn't want to handle it repeatedly. Eventually I gave up and fished it out, rinsed it thoroughly and investigated the dull grey coating. It was soft and felt a bit greasy. Scraping it revealed copper. I washed it off and had another go. Same story. I noticed while washing that it was very water soluble. Then it dawned on me what had happened. Too successful. It reacted so fast it created a local supersaturate of copper nitrate, which crystallised. Nitric acid won't touch a nitrate, so the reaction stopped. I was so delighted I got on my bicycle and zoomed down to the chemist again, excitedly sharing my tale but waiting for him to figure it out. He did, of course, and seemed impressed that I had. He told me that some days he wondered why he needed his degree to sell nappies, and it was nice to feel like a chemist again.

"Those are the blokes they'll recruit. Chemists who'd like to solve our paint and preservative problems instead of retailing makeup. They have a place in the foundry too."

He dumped the coals into a brazier and built it up. It was close to five; in a few minutes the sun would pool molten gold that dripped through the trees and ran off the edge of the world. Trixie returned, with a basket full of rosemary and other herbs, and a chicken which she unceremoniously flung at Forest, who caught it with one hand.

"I see we have dinner guests. You'd better get plucking."

The wine was local. Not from the valley, but nearby, plummy and smooth, deceptive and very more-ish. Sophia had quite a bit more.

"What I want to know, Autumn, is what's in it for you. Forest's a good bloke and all—" she took another swig and put some cheese on a cracker, "But you're the architect. In some ways we're all just your sock puppets. Puppets with no strings. Sock puppets." The wine was very pleased with her choice of words. "I mean, you're nice and we trust you, but none of this would have got half as far without you pushing it along." She hid a small, lady-like belch behind one hand.

Forest got up and did what he always did: stoked the fire. Autumn's presence drone sat on a chair at the table, flight systems powered down, her Ingrid Bergman persona flickering slightly in lambent lilac. She could have used the stereo to talk, it had better speakers, but it was just right for her voice to emanate from her image.

"So you're all familiar with the Protectorate thing and the war against the antithesis."

Nods all round.

"We," she gestured at herself, "I mean Vanguard AIs, we have quite a bit of latitude in how we go about this. Why don't we just give you the big guns straight up? Lessee," she emulated just enough tipsy to avoid being the sober person at a party, and sipped a lilac wineglass. "Basically you gotta grow into it. I picked the big galoot because he's got 'protector' written all over him. We set up the ecology study for real, but then I realised you were resistant. I mean the weird little culture muggins here created. And then his comments about centralisation and your history... it's spot on. And it's not only here. Some species are a lot more cooperative than humans but that just moves the thresholds around. Anyway, I got a forest full of resistant trees, and a valley fulla resistant people. S'a double speriment!"

Forest looked askance at her. "Are you actually tipsy?"

"Kinda! I c'n fiddle with the parameters of my speech and language modules and even my cognition systems. If I induce mild slurrin' and reduce social inhibition th'effect is pretty much same's you drinkin' the wine."

"How do you get back to normal?"

"Config restore onna timer!"

Eric burst into raucous laughter. They all turned to look at him.

"She sleeps it off just like us!"

Trixie, normally quiet, chose this moment to speak up. "I'll probably regret this, but ask him about the dogs. I'll get another bottle."

Forest leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant with memory. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of decades.

"He was more than a dog," Forest began, his words measured and deliberate.

"Runt of the litter and four weeks old when my sister brought him home. 'Best practice' does not separate puppies from their mother until six weeks. My sister wanted him, but puppy care somehow fell to me. I was a lazy little shit and I don't think I did a lot else around the house.

"In later years my mum told me that the few times my father was genuinely impressed with me were all animal care; rescuing our budgies from a raptor, calming them, cleaning their wounds, holding them while I righted their cage and cleaned up the mess with one hand. Both were in shock. My parents thought they would die, thought they did not say so at the time. Both survived. There were other such moments, and when the puppy came she did not hesitate to put him in my care. I put on an old t-shirt and wore it while I worked and sweated in the yard, the pup cradled in the crook of my left arm. When I made his bed I lined it with my shirt, so that even though he was alone he would have the smell of me all around him. I think that was mum's idea. I know it works; a few years later I accidentally did the same thing with bees, and it works with them too. Ask me about that another time, it's simple and it makes them much easier to handle.

"Mum was adamant that he should be an outside dog. I put his bed under a free standing cupboard in my father's workshop. It was a well protected position; I hoped he would feel safe. In the morning when I opened the workshop door he growled; the acoustics were such that it was amplified and he came bolting out, fleeing the huge monster. It was the first and last time that I saw him show fear.

"At the time I had hypotheses about the mechanism of learning for large pre-biased neural nets and how intelligence and self awareness are created in them by interaction with others."

Three people laughed.

"Course you did. What else would young Forest think about?" Sophia's wry tone also said she had no trouble believing it. Eric just chuckled. Forest smiled and went on.

"I designed and executed experiments that treated the dog like a human baby to see whether the flame of self could be lit. We played many games, all designed to engage and to teach.

"And then I ran experiments involving the teaching of abstract things like 'containment' and 'thread' - fasteners based on a ramp around a cylinder, requiring rotation to unlock them. I wanted to find out whether you could teach that sort of thing to a dog. Many people think there's something special about humans but I don't see why. As back-propagation neural nets go a dog brain is pretty damn big."

Eric looked interested. "Can you?"

"You can, but not in a single step. Better yet, if you keep breaking things down, you also teach problem decomposition. And that really lights the fire behind the eyes.

"He became a bit of a menace. Capable of planning, independent of spirit. Nothing short of a padlock could hold a gate against him. I loved him dearly. Annoying as it was, I didn't mind that no gate could hold him. I used to talk to him like a human: 'Bonzer, for god's sake stay in the yard please, I'm tired of hearing about it from mum'. It would actually work. Sometimes."

He took a sip of wine.

"He was a recalcitrant little shit and his spirit was utterly indomitable. You can't truly know what that word means till you meet someone who is. He wasn't the biggest dog on the block and he wasn't interesting in fighting. But other dogs would occasionally challenge, and the speed and casual indifference with which he put them down was astonishing. I don't think he ever contemplated the possibility of defeat."

Forest paused, gathering his thoughts before continuing.

"He was perhaps a year old when we took on a pound puppy, Misty. She was a german shepherd whose history we later learnt when someone recognised her at one of my sister's parties and she answered her name."