The Girl from Oceania: The Girl from Oceania series, #1

Chapter 1

Amsterdam

2073

Amsterdam seemed different that day.

The sun beat down on me as I left Oma’s apartment for the last time. I squinted against the bright light reflecting off the footpath. My ribs panged and I rubbed at the ugly purple bruise where it lay under my dress.

Up ahead, a crowd of people stood in front of a brick wall. Some of them had turned away in disgust, while others nodded at it. A man in tattered clothes stood off to one side, watching them intently. He had paint all over his hands.

A Politie car pulled up and I stepped back, a surge of anxiety hitting me. I didn’t want them to find out what I’d been involved in. I’d be in jail by morning if they did.

I touched my injured ribs again. Underneath my dress, my already bronze-coloured skin had turned a deeper shade of brown from being out in the sun for days.

I turned toward the wall and the mural painted across it. It depicted a group of Dutch people drinking from cartons of milk, standing amongst tufts of bright green grass. The artist had tampered with the Oceanic Milk logo. He’d painted black cows on the milk cartons as per the usual brand, but there were white crosses in place of their eyes. Cows stood idly in the background, their udders sinking down. Beside them were shadowy, thin farmers.

The Dutch held the cartons up to their lips, their eyes blank. They had red milk moustaches, dripping down their faces. They weren’t drinking milk; no, they were drinking blood.

Back at home my people, the inhabitants of Oceania, were forced to work on government-owned land, supplying the Dutch and the Partner States with their milk and food. We eked out an existence living off scraps. With a pang, I thought of my family, so far away, and how much I wanted to help them.

I’d been very young when I discovered the truth: Oceania had once belonged to us. I was back there again in that moment, just four years old, holding an ancient colour photograph in my chubby hands. That’s your great-grandmother, Anahera Esmond. She held onto our land for as long as she could, Dad had said. An image of a woman with white hair and prominent cheekbones stared up at me.

She refused to part with it, even when they served us the notice of sale. That’s why we still farm here. I blame her stubborn Māori and Scottish ways. She was a remarkable woman. She lived until she was 105 years old, even with everything she went through during the War. He’d patted the top of my head with a calloused hand. But I bet you’ll live much, much longer than that. Perhaps you’ll reach 150.

What was the point of living to 150, if you had to live a life of servitude?

Then the artist opened his mouth and his words changed everything.

Chapter 2

Oceania

2072

My body clung to sleep like it was a drug, but my dreams tried to drag me to the surface of the living. I fought to be taken back down again. I needed sleep, I depended on it. It was far better than the reality of being awake.

In my dream, Jeremy, Vanessa and I sat in a tight cluster on the school field. Clouds scudded across the grey, steely sky, like a sped-up movie. My friends uncrossed their legs and stood up from the grass. With barely a look at me, they sauntered off.

I reached out to them, opened a voiceless mouth to call Come back!

I was alone on the field, with only the smell of freshly-mown grass and the gun-metal grey sky for company. A droplet of rain fell, hitting the leg of my pants. The pitter-patter noise got louder as the water spread, marking a deep stain. As I pressed my hand to it, trying to soak up the water, the sound became ringing bells. They grew louder and louder, building to a pitch so high and fervent, I covered my ears.

The sky filled with sound so piercing, so much like a ring-tone, I couldn't stand it any longer.

I opened my eyes.

My smooth, cold sheets were wrapped tightly around me. I glanced at the time. 4.05am.

Usually, only the cows and dogs broke the silence of the night with bursts of mooing and yapping. I strained to hear them. Not a peep.

I flicked on a light with the touch of my hand on the bedside table. My room glowed like the inside of a cave, walls white and bare. My single bed sat snug against one wall, and on the other side was a desk for homework, and a shelf for ornaments. Most of the things on there were gifts my grandparents had brought back from their trips abroad, when I was much younger, when they were still in our lives. A glass pyramid, wooden clogs that fitted one set into another, becoming so tiny you could barely see the smallest pair.

The mountain and rainforest videos which usually woke me lay dormant, ready to light up at 6am. But in the corner of the wall a dimly visible tile, Mum’s phone, pulsed. All of our calls were connected through the house, in case one person couldn't answer. My parents were trusting like that.

I considered the tile through half-open eyes. Who would want to wake up Mum at this hour? Only someone who hadn't seen her don’t-mess-with-me morning stare.

I shuffled into my slippers. A chill filled the air and a breeze nipped through the house. It had been built 70 odd years ago in the early 2000s and needed major work.

From the opposite end of the house, there came a low moan. It started out soft and turned into a shriek: an unburdening of grief and disbelief onto the world.

I walked down the hallway through the kitchen, bare floorboards rattling under my feet. Mum stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the lounge, her hair sticking up in disarray. I signalled for the lamp to come on and the kitchen filled with light. What is it? Who was calling?

Your grandmother. Your Oma. Her voice was flat and dream-like.

Something’s wrong with Oma? My heart thudded. The last time we’d heard from her or Opa, I’d been six. They both worked for the Government, and because of our place in society, we had little contact.

Sit down.

I stayed standing, arms crossed in front of me to ward off the cold.

Mum struggled for control, her lips trembling. A gust of wind whipped around the house and the cows shuffled in their paddock.

Your Opa hasn’t been very well. He’s been in hospital.

My stomach dropped. Why didn’t you tell me? How long's he been in there?

About a week. She looked at the floor. He was lucky to get the operation. You know what the health system's like, even for a Dutch national. There are only a few drugs available.

What happened, Mum?

He caught an infection. The antibiotics didn’t work. There was a time, decades ago, when they would have. But not now.

I sank into a chair, and Mum did too.

He died an hour ago.

We sat facing each other. She took my hand and a hot tear spilled onto it. My chin trembled. I tried to remember Opa—the lines of his face, the crook of his nose.

Opa had told us stories about Amsterdam, its glittering canals, its pancakes as big as dinner plates. He had smiled as he spoke, and it made the Netherlands sound like a magical place. The centre of the world, even.

But beyond that I knew little about him. I was sad for the man I'd barely known. We sat for a long time, Mum's eyes glazed with memory.

The sun crept over the horizon and an orange-peel coloured sky unfurled after it.

We sat until the cows lifted their heads and stomped their legs, impatient to be milked. My gaze shifted to the calendar blinking on the kitchen wall. 2 June 2072.

Mum didn’t move, didn’t go to fetch my sister. We sat until Dad shuffled in, wiping sleep from his eyes. He put one hand on each of our shoulders.

Time to go, he said to Mum, handing her a hat and her gloves. The milking robots had broken down a long time ago and despite their efforts to fix them, my parents had gone back to an old-fashioned milking machine with vacuum-suctioned cups.

I stared out the window, imagining Opa’s spirit walking along the ridgeline, getting smaller and smaller until he reached the top and disappeared.

As Dad moved along the hallway, he muttered something about Oma coming to visit.

Mum turned towards me, eyes puffy. You don’t have to attend your lessons today. You can go back to bed. She pulled her fingers through her knotted curls. I’ll tell your sister when we get back. Try to get some sleep.

I burrowed into my bed, trying to forget the events of the last two hours so sleep could come.

The road to Cloverton was carved with ruts and scattered with loose stones. Our car rattled along, shuddering over bumps. I gazed out the window at the passing trees. I'd been out on the farm all morning, and my back ached. Sitting helped, even though the car seats were scuffed and ripped. All four seats faced each other, around a small table. I liked to imagine we were in a bubble beneath the dome-shaped roof, impervious to the goings-on outside.

I pulled Nia's sunglasses onto her face. She frowned, not looking up from her game. She was a moody 11-year-old, her narrow hips sprouting outwards, bumps forming on her chest, her long blonde hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. The change in her had been quick. One day she’d been playing outside on the tyre swing, the next she’d asked me if I had any old bras she could have.

We shot past a road sign that announced our crossing into Cloverton. The local council had accepted the graffiti scrawled across it, rather than trying to replace the sign again and again.

Train station, Dad said to the car. He stretched his arms above his head and yawned. I hope she's brought some appropriate clothing this time.

Mum managed a smile and rolled her eyes. She's European, she can't be seen in anything unfashionable.

Last time Oma had visited I'd been six, before the towns were closed off from each other and when travel wasn't policed. She wore long-sleeved shirts made from expensive fabric; later I’d learned it was silk. I'd touched the cloth, feeling it slip between my fingers, a relic from another era.

We headed towards Main Street. Alongside us ran familiar cracked footpaths, hopeless, surly-mouthed young people sauntering along them. Nia stared at her phone, engrossed in her plan for world domination, as cartoon pigs fought a war against apes. I grabbed the phone off her. Hey!

Come on, we're nearly there. Take a look around, the world's an interesting place.

She stared at the town around us, the river snaking through it. It'd burst its banks so many times in the last few decades, my parents had lost count.

In the 2050s, the decade I was born, bullet trains had been built to carry milk and crops from the satellite towns into the city. As demand for Cloverton’s products grew, so did the infrastructure supporting the town. But that didn’t mean we were any better off­­––90% of our product was sent back to the Partner States, and we never saw the profits. Oceanic farmers struggled to meet the strict production targets. It always felt like the Dutch had one foot on our backs, grinding us into the earth, urging us to do more.

I made out several dark shapes hunched under the archways of the train station. A man flicked ash off the end of his cigarette and stared into open space, eyes unfocussed. I wondered if he could see me or if he was looking right through me.

Everybody out. Mum ushered us out of the car as soon as it had parked itself alongside the curb. Her energy had come back, as though she'd summoned it especially for Oma's visit.

Nia dragged herself out of her seat, sliding her phone into her pocket. Mum and Dad strode ahead of us, while we dawdled behind, through the entrance and along the platform. Several people waited, hands in pockets.

An automated whistle trilled and a signal flashed. Train approaching.

The train rounded the bend and slowed from close to 1000 kilometres an hour to a rolling crawl. The nose of the train stopped alongside me, and I put my hand out to touch the cool metal.

She'll be up the front, Mum said.

I looked into the windows, searching for Oma's face. I caught sight of a woman, shallow wrinkles covered by makeup, hair blow-dried and sprayed so it wouldn't move a millimetre out of place. There she was.

She moved rapidly down the stairs and onto the platform. She had a large bag over one arm, her long fingernails clasping the strap, and an expensive-looking handbag over her other shoulder.

As she approached us, she gave us a sad smile. We stood in a line, and she held out her arms to enclose Mum, Nia and I in a hug.

Quick journey? Dad asked in Dutch. Mum had asked us to speak in Dutch around Oma, and reserve English for when she wasn’t there.

Oma shook his hand. It was good, she replied. It’s much faster than travelling by car, it only took 45 minutes. Do you remember the old days—a two-hour drive?! She put her arm through Mum's. How is everyone? She looked directly at me.

I'm OK. School is... fine. It seemed trivial to tell her about the trouble with my 20th century history classes. She didn't even know what my favourite subjects were.

Good, and you Nia? How's school?

Nia blinked at Oma, who she’d only ever seen on a few video calls. It's the same as always. Nothing new. Oh, our class got a pet rabbit. It smells kinda weird... she trailed off as Oma raised her eyebrows.

The retina scanner blinked red once, twice, then three more times, as we passed back through to the other side of the station. The smell of urine burned in my nostrils, and my eyes skimmed over the graffiti scrawled across the wall. The man with the cigarette crushed it beneath his shoe and watched us with interest.

Dad shoved Oma's bag into the cramped boot of the car, fitting it around a tool set and a bucket of vitamins for the cows. He pushed the boot shut.

Nia was already pulling out her game, and Oma looked on with a wry expression.

Is there anything more you want to do before we head back? Oma asked. Veronica, you mentioned you don't come here—

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man underneath the archway move. I opened my mouth to yell, but only squeaked. My vision shrank into a line and the edges of the world blurred. I lunged forward, pulling Oma backwards as the man tried to snatch her handbag.

Dad ran forward and took hold of the man's arm, twisting it back in a single fluid motion. The man yelled, spit flying, grabbing at air. Let go of me, you bastard!

Dad clenched his hand around the man's forearm.

A dark brown sheath poked out of the man’s pocket as he bent forwards. Knife! In his pocket... I shrieked.

Dad kept his eyes focused on the man's face.

Don't come near us again, Mum said, her voice even.

She stared at the man, as though committing his face to memory. She lifted her phone and snapped a picture of him. Get the hell away from my family.

A panting sound, wheezing. The man slid out of Dad's grip and bolted down the street. Dad spat on the ground and shook his hand, clenching and unclenching it. He breathed quickly. An addict. Could barely hold onto him, he was sweating so much.

Oma opened her eyes and looked right at me, with a piercing blue stare. He just wants more of the stuff. He's harmless, really.

I stared back at her. How could she stay so calm?

There are officers down the street! Mum hissed. A group of them had congregated near the old dairy factory. I could just make out their dark blue uniforms and glossy boots. It was never worth getting into a conversation with them, even if a man had just tried to steal from us.

You don’t want to report him? Oma asked, surprised.

No, Mum said firmly, a slight tone of panic to her voice. Let’s go.

We got in the car, colliding with each other, desperate to sit down and regain normal positions. Mum took Nia's hand and told the car to lock itself three times over. Doors locked. I repeat, doors locked, the car said.

Shoulders stiff, I scanned the footpaths for danger.

Pop music played, as the car sensed our mood and attempted to lighten it. I sat opposite Oma. Though she looked calm, her hands were shaking.

You'll have to move some of your things out of your room, Mum said, as Dad forced Oma's suitcase through the door, leaning back to take its weight.

Why?

You'll be in the lounge.

I gave her a disgusted look.

Come on Millie, she's had a hard month, and we need to look after her.

Not that we've seen her in years.

Right. I loaded my arms with my earthy brown and green clothes; heavy sweaters and snug-fitting pants that Dad had bartered for us at the market. They'd protect me from the draft that crept in under the mossy window frames in the lounge.

Oma squeezed through the doorway at the same time I tried to leave.

Tea? Mum called out. She banged plates around, settling them on our little kitchen table. I fetched an old foot stool from the lounge and sat on it, slightly hunched, legs outstretched.

Mum had made cake with floury, soft apples from the orchard, the crops we were having trouble selling. I sipped my tea and eyed the cake. We only had it on special occasions.

Oma, Nia and Dad took their places at the table, while Mum hovered.

Dad stretched out his arms and put them behind his head, smiling broadly. It's great to have everyone together again. Our little family.

Mum looked like she wanted to kick him at the mention of the word everyone, but Dad didn't waver. Tell us about the city. Are you still commuting? Has the traffic improved or is it still a shit show?

Oma took a small spoonful of her cake. It's alright. I don't drive anymore—I'm living closer to work, right in the central city. The trains are jam-packed with people, but I know the right ones to take. A lot of people are cycling along the tunnel, under the harbour. It's good to see people on bicycles, reminds me of home... She gazed off into the distance, wistful for a moment. But yes, none of these commuting worries for you.

Our commute is a few kilometres drive to the end of the farm, Dad said. It's the weather that makes it a good or a bad one. And you know how temperamental it can get.

He glanced out the window as fat rain drops plonked onto the glass, each one hitting the pane faster than the other.

Work is still the same though, and well, you know I can't really talk about it. Oma stared into her cup. I've been doing long hours since Alfred died. It helps me to focus on work, instead of what happened to him.

Mum nodded in understanding. Still, you should take some time for yourself.

Oma widened her arms, gesturing around at us. Here I am. Taking some time for myself. She laughed bitterly. We're lucky my department gave me a travel pass, because of my bereavement.

I closed my eyes, savouring the perfect meld of hand-churned butter and sugar, syrupy apples, and tart yoghurt. The conversation drifted quietly away.

Nia bumped my foot with hers and I opened one eye.

Everyone had turned to look at me.

Sorry?

Can you go and check the cameras please Millie? The rain's heavy and your father wants to know if the cows are OK.

I made my way to the workshop outside. As I passed my bedroom, I glanced in to see Oma's belongings stacked neatly on my bed in colour coordinated piles.

The air in the workshop was damp and cold. I shivered and flicked on a light.

Most of the farm paddocks had security cameras installed on fence posts, paid for by a long-forgotten government subsidy. By some miracle they still worked. I glanced over the screens, they crackled with grainy images. There were the cows in the paddock with the stream running through it, chewing their cud. A few paddocks over, the bulls with shiny coats strutted around. I zoomed in on the stream and its low water. There were the crops, one paddock over, pointing to the sky and the rains that quenched them, row upon row of identical plants.

Nothing to report.

I caught sight of an old robot on a shelf next to the cameras. Placid little creatures, once so sure of their central place in our lives, the robots were now resigned to the scrap heap. Dad had a habit of keeping everything, certain we'd find a use for it. He was thrifty like that.

A dog-shaped robot Mum had named Kransky the Second, had his mouth wide open in a soundless bark. He had a stubby tail and flat paws, perfect for chasing cows. Kransky was from the days when the cows could be herded from the comfort of the house, overlooking the farm in the valley below. Everything was left to Kransky and the milk maids. More stern and formal-looking than Kransky, they glided along the pit ensuring the milking cups were placed on the cows correctly. One milk maid had a dent where a cow had executed a well-timed kick.

But they were all out of action now, as our money had dwindled year on year. First, we couldn't fix them, and we'd made do with bartering for older models. They'd broken down too. The world was running out of food and we had to carry on meeting production targets, by whatever means, even without robots.

I shivered, turning away from their blank eyes and vacant minds.

A movement on one of the screens, the slightest flicker, caught my eye.

There was a person on the fence line, moving along it with a stealth that rivalled wild cats stalking mice. I zoomed in on the screen. What was he doing? Trespassing, obviously. But what was he up to?

The cows in the paddock didn’t stir.

Now he seemed to be sizing them up, looking them over and checking the condition of their coats. Reaching for their ear tags.

Oh shit! A rustler.

I bolted out of the shed, leaving Kransky and the milk maids to the cobwebs and inky blackness.

Mum! I bellowed, almost falling through the front door.

What? She ran into the hallway.

On the camera. A rustler. Paddock five.

She swore under her breath and pulled on her gumboots and jacket, hanging ready in the hall alcove. Hurry up! she called to Dad. The bastards will take off with half our herd at this rate.

She swept her hair off her face and cast a harried look at me. You coming?!

I pulled on a rain jacket, Dad’s oilskin. He must’ve last worn it hunting, it smelt like wild pigs and I felt the cool metal of a knife in the large front pocket.

Outside, the rain hammered down. I jumped on the spare farm bike and turned the throttle, shooting off down the hill after Mum and Dad. Mum drove, Dad had a fierce grip on her waist.

I dodged the potholes that would send me flying. They were filling steadily with rain. I drove so fast through the water pooling at the foot of the hill that it splashed outwards, soaking the bottom of my trousers.

The dark clouds had brought evening with them. Up ahead, Mum switched on her light. A yellow halo pricked the growing darkness. I squinted ahead. I had better eyesight than Mum and rode on without a light.

The paddock where I’d seen the rustler lay just a couple of hundred metres away. Mum ploughed down the small hill and hit the brakes, sliding to a stop by the gate at the bottom. I hung back, at the top of the hill. I switched the motor off.

Dad swung a torch around the paddock, its light shooting a tunnel through the air. The cows’ eyes were huge and alien-like, caught in its path.

Two thirds of the paddock were flat, but the small hill took up the last third. At the bottom of it was the stream, which cut through the paddock from one fence to the opposite side. The cows all stood on the flat, gathered away from the stream, cold air steaming out of their nostrils.

After a minute, Mum turned back toward me, throwing her arms up in a gesture of I dunno.

Could the rustler have escaped already?

Mum swung the gate open wide. She and Dad ran through. They left the bikes outside, on the track. Maybe they thought they’d be able to find him on foot.

I waited, still unwilling to move. I had a good vantage point. Maybe I’d see him and be able to yell out to them.

A movement off to my left made me leap up out of the bike seat in a panic. A man was running up the rise on the other side of the fence, panting, clutching something. As he grew closer, I could see he held something long, and streamlined. A rifle.

I hesitated. He couldn’t see me. It would be easy for me to slip through a gap in the fence, reach out my gumbooted foot, send him flying. But would his rifle be loaded? Would he see me?

I only had a couple of seconds left to act.

I ducked between two wires on the fence, praying I wouldn’t hit my back on the live-wire. The man kept up his steady slog, huffing. He was only two metres away.

I threw myself in front of him, hunched on all fours. His boot connected with my stomach. He yelped and collapsed forward over my back, letting go of his gun. It landed on the grass in front of me. I grabbed for it.

He let out a yell of surprise. Cold fingers closed over my wrist. I grunted, straining forward.

Over here! I bellowed, hoping, hoping, my voice would carry down the hill to Mum and Dad.

The man threw his elbow up, catching me under my chin. My teeth slammed together. I groaned from the pain.

The man had a decent hold on his rifle again, and he turned it towards me. My breath caught in my throat. He was going to shoot me.

And then, like an omen, I felt the dig of something hard against my leg.

I reached into the pocket of Dad’s jacket and pulled the knife out of its sheath, in one smooth motion.

I’d barely got a look at the man in front of me. But I knew he’d shoot me. I knew it, without a doubt.

He cocked his rifle. I launched forward, keeping low, lashing out with the knife.

I hit his leg, the fleshy meat of his thigh, and drove it in.

The man screamed, his voice high and strange. He fell flat on his back onto the ground, swearing. It took a moment to register he wasn’t swearing in English.

A torch light flashed behind me, the light bounding up and down wildly, highlighting black spots of grass.

Millie? Mum panted.

The jerking motion of the torch stopped, and she swept it up to find the man’s face. He shut his eyes, blinded. He was pale, sweat forming on his forehead.

Mum shone the light lower. Something, a badge, shone on the man’s neatly-pressed uniform.