Havoc (31 page)

‘And peace talks?'

He smiled again. ‘There will be peace talks. At last. We haven't talked yet, but
we're setting up the conditions for talking. It's slow going, but it is going.'

‘Better than shooting.'

‘In every way, better than shooting.'

The medic on duty said, ‘Five minutes, no more.'

I tiptoed in. Lanya's eyes were closed; her face was still. Her braids had been unplaited
and her hair lay spread out on the pillow. The disease had done visible damage: her
face was scarred, there were pale streaks on each cheek and across her forehead,
and she was waif thin, even by Moldam standards. She opened her eyes, drowsy and
heavy lidded.

‘Hello,' I said.

‘Nik,' she murmured. ‘Hi.'

‘How are you doing?'

She gave a small smile. ‘Didn't die.'

‘Nearly did.'

‘Only nearly. You?'

‘Didn't even get sick.'

Her smile widened. ‘Cheat,' she said softly, and held out her hand for me to take.

About a month later we hitched a ride on the back of a truck trundling up the hill
to the ruins of the HQ. The site was busy with workers deconstructing what was left
of the big main building; thousands and thousands of bricks were piled high across
the hilltop. The guys at work there stopped and said hello to us, but they looked
at Lanya with nervous glances. Her beaded braids were back and so was her dancer's
long-limbed, straight-backed stance, but the scars on her face made people look twice.
They made me think of the warpaint a warrior puts on to go into battle
or the bodypaint
that shamans wear to make themselves safe when they go into their trances. They would
fade, but never completely.

The day was still and grey with not even a breeze off the river—one of those days
when the city and river and sky blend one into another and you see the whole landscape
together in all its shades of silver. The crashing and banging of the demolition
retreated as we walked down to the graveyard.

Levkova's grave was six weeks old and there was no riverstone to mark it yet. Lanya
knelt beside the mound of earth and was silent for minutes on end. At last she wiped
her face on her sleeve, blew out a breath and scooped up a handful of soil. She whispered
a prayer, then sprinkled it across the grave and chanted a Pathmaker's farewell,
wishing Levkova a safe journey.

We walked back to the graveyard entrance, pausing by the old house to dip our fingers
into the rainwater in the stone vases by the steps and shake our hands dry, the way
we had on the night of the rocket attack when Lanya told me that's what you do when
you're moving from the place of the dead back to be with the living.

We climbed up to the perspex map of the Cityside skyline and sat on the bench looking
out over the river and the cityscape.

‘Dammit,' said Lanya. ‘I'll miss her.'

‘Get in line,' I said.

‘Do you think she'd want revenge?'

‘Levkova?'

‘Wasn't that your plan? That's what you told me, down by the river the night all
this started.'

She gestured towards the demolition crews. ‘Revenge for Sol, you said.'

I thought of Jono throwing her into the basement of the Marsh because he was convinced
I'd taken Fyffe away from him.

I shook my head. ‘I've seen revenge.'

She nodded. ‘What's your plan, then?'

‘Plan? Well, CommSec is in pieces over there and Levkova's gone, so I don't have
a workplace or a boss.'

‘You know what I think?' she said.

‘Hardly ever.'

She laughed, then got serious again. ‘All those weeks I had lying in bed, I made
a plan. And I was thinking… you could come with me, if you want.' Her face was solemn
but her eyes sparked.

My heart lifted and a smile burst out of me.

‘Where are you going?' I asked.

She opened her arms wide. ‘Moldam, Southside, the city. To rebuild!'

I looked across at the piles of bricks and rubble and down to the half-burned shantytown
and the ruins of the bridge. ‘That's big,' I said.

‘Yes. I'll need help.'

‘Count me in.'

She held out her hand. ‘I will. I have.' Then she leaned over and kissed me—a gentle,
warm, amazing kiss.

‘We'll need other help though,' she said as we set off down the hill. ‘Who else?
Your father, obviously.'

‘And Fyffe,' I said.

‘Dash.'

‘Commander Vega,' I said. ‘When he's recovered.'

‘Jeitan, too,' she said.

‘Nomu,' I said. ‘And Raff.'

‘Do you think they'll stay around for a while?'

‘I do.'

‘Mr Corman?'

‘Of course.'

‘What about Sandor?' She was smiling.

‘Good luck with that,' I said. ‘But maybe. My father's friends, Anna and Samuel,
in Bethun, definitely.'

‘And Fyffe's parents—what about them?' she asked.

‘Maybe.'

‘Macey?'

‘Or his daughters.'

‘I have forty-six cousins,' she said. ‘Let's count all of them in.'

‘Then there's the twenty thousand people who walked the vaccine to Moldam with us,'
I said.

‘We don't know their names.'

‘Yet.'

‘The One City hackers.'

‘The minister at St John's.'

We were still naming names as we reached the bottom of the hill and turned into the
road west past the shanty towards Levkova's house. We stopped at our old spot on
the riverwall and stood looking across the water.

Lanya leaned close. ‘Are you humming?'

‘You don't want to hear me sing.'

She laughed. ‘What are you humming?'

‘It's this old song about two people on the bank of a river they can't cross.'

‘How does it go?'

‘The water is wide, I cannot get over. And neither have I wings to fly…That's all
I know.'

‘Oh,' she said. ‘What do you think happens to them?'

‘I think they find a way.'

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am indebted to everyone who helped this story take shape. I am especially grateful
to my editor at Text, Jane Pearson, whose comments throughout have been clear-sighted
and immensely helpful. Heartfelt thanks to Joanna Orwin, Kath Rushton, Barbara and
Graeme Nicholas, members of the Hawkey D'Aeth and Campbell families, and to Niall
Campbell, in particular, for his bright idea at just the right moment. Thanks, always,
to Paul, who listened to many drafts and with whom plot conversations are a delight.
This book is dedicated to my parents, with love and gratitude.