It wasn’t that Australia wasn’t England: I’d been expecting that. It was that Australia prided itself so aggressively on being Australian, but there wasn’t a book of rules or a checklist that would tell me exactly what that meant. Did it mean allowing women with potentially severe vision problems to pilot aircraft? Did it mean open-air picnics and penalizing people for shooting infected wildlife? Because if those things signified “Australian,” then I was having a very Australian day.
The sky above me was black, peppered with unfamiliar stars. I was out of my home hemisphere, and I was increasingly coming to feel like I was out of my depth—and we hadn’t even managed to reach the fence yet. Who knew how bad things were going to get once we actually made it to our destination?
In the distance behind me, Juliet was swearing loudly and enthusiastically at the fuel pump she had connected to our plane. I smiled a little and picked up the pace. Maybe the trouble was that I was looking too hard for definitions. After all, certain danger, stupid risks, and window dressing were very familiar to me, back in my native habitat: the news. As long as I remembered that, maybe I’d be fine.
Jack and Olivia were inside the brightly lit building, swiping their credit cards through vending machines and filling their pockets with crisps and sandwiches. Olivia looked over and grinned when the door opened.
“Hey,” she said. “We got you a tea and a packet of dreadful-looking crisps that said they were authentic London-style, and you’ll have to tell us whether that means anything beyond ‘they’ve put an echidna on the package.’ It’s on the counter there.”
“Thank you,” I said, and walked over to the indicated counter. “That’s not an echidna. It’s a hedgehog.”
“Ah. They sound more British already.” Olivia turned back to the vending machine that she’d been looting one candy bar at a time. “Drink up and hit the head if you need it. We’ll only be on the ground for about twenty minutes, and then it’s off to our final destination.”
“Ready to see the fence?” asked Jack.
“Honestly, I’m just hoping that I’ll be able to stay awake when we get to the fence.” My tea was hot, strong, and cheap, which was an acceptable set of modifiers. I dumped in a packet of powdered creamer, stirred it twice with the swizzle stick, and took a gulp before saying, “This may seem like a foolish question, but honestly, I’ve reached the point of assuming nothing. Are we staying in a hotel, or with some local friends of yours, when we get to the fence?”
“Fuck, no,” said Jack. “We’re camping.”
There was a momentary silence in the building, broken only by the low buzz of the vending machines. Then, as if they had synchronized their watches before the conversation started, Jack and Olivia burst out laughing.
“Oh, man,” said Jack. “I wish you could have seen your face. That was fantastic. Olive, did you get that on camera? Please tell me you got that on camera.”
“I got that on camera,” said Olivia serenely, as she reached up to peel what I’d taken for a round plastic sticker off the front of the vending machine. She tucked it into her pocket as she turned back to me, an almost feral smile on her lips. “Nothing like photographic proof of the terror that is Australia to really spice up a report, eh?”
“I hate you both and hope that you are devoured by whatever nasty form of native wildlife is endemic to this area,” I said without rancor, taking another sip of my tea. Working with journalists for as long as I have has left me rather inured to pranks. You can’t get too upset when they pull this sort of thing; it only encourages them. Some people will take any degree of encouragement as justification for launching an all-out war, which is why I simply stood there and drank my tea like a grown-up, rather than throwing my crisps at them.
Jack looked disappointed. “You could at least pretend to play along,” he said in a chastising tone.
“Not to belittle your fabulous pranking skills—good incorporation of my expectations and your regional knowledge, by the way; if you were being graded, I’d give you extra marks for that—but I used to get pranked by Dave Novakowski and Buffy Meissonier. You’d need to work on my weak spots literally for years before you could break through the mental scar tissue they left behind them.” Buffy had been an original member of After the End Times, and Dave had come on not long after the site launched. I missed them both desperately, and spending time with Jack and Olivia was actually making me miss them more. They weren’t the same people, of course—not even close—but there were similarities.
“I’ll get you somehow,” said Jack. “Just you wait and see.”
“I look forward to that,” I said, and finished off my tea before tucking the crisps into my pocket and moving to make my own examination of the vending machines. My little spat with Olivia seemed to have been forgotten, or at least forgiven; she smiled at me and stepped to the side, allowing me to study the assortment of candy bars and crisps, all of them local brands. I didn’t recognize any of them, although the components were familiar—I suppose chocolate and caramel are the same all over the world. I swiped my credit card and selected five numbers at random from the menu. Whatever I got, it would be interesting if nothing else.
We were stuffing our pockets with our heavily preserved goodies when the clack of boot heels on the linoleum caused us to straighten and turn. Juliet was standing just inside the door, sunglasses firmly in place, disapproving frown turned in our direction.
“We’re fueled and ready to fly,” she said. “Take care of your business and be back in the plane in five minutes, or we leave without you.” This said, she turned, pushed the door open and went striding across the tarmac.
“Oh, yeah,” drawled Olivia broadly. “She’s totally forgiven you for the divorce, Jacky-Jack. That is a woman with no issues whatsoever.”
Jack snorted.
4.
A little prying while we used the bathroom and hustled back to the plane revealed the rest of the story, or at least the bones of it: Jack and Juliet had been married for five years, long enough for her to become an Australian citizen and no longer need to worry about deportation. She felt that one of them having a suicidally dangerous job was sufficient and wanted him to retire from blogging, preferably before something ate him. He had married her in part because he liked having a wife who was as much of a thrill seeker as he was. They parted amicably, but with some resentment, mostly on her side.
“And we’re riding about the country in a plane that she’s flying because…?” I asked, as we approached the Cessna. Juliet was like a ghost flitting through the dark around the plane, verifying that everything was in the proper position for our impending takeoff.
“No one better in the sky,” said Jack, with an almost wistful grin. He put on a burst of speed, moving himself out of conversational range.
“I’ll never understand monogamous people,” said Olivia cheerfully. “It’s so much easier to settle a debate when you have someone to mediate.”
“I yield to your superior experience,” I said.
We had reached the Cessna. Juliet shot me a disapproving look—not really a surprise, as that seemed to be her default facial expression—and moved to climb into the pilot’s seat, leaving the rest of us with no real choice but to follow. This time, Jack took the copilot’s seat, leaving Olivia in the back with me. I wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not. I didn’t have the chance to ask; the engine roared to life, and any chance of a normal discussion died in the ensuing din. We all clapped our headphones on to save our hearing, dulling the sound of the engines to a bearable roar. In a matter of minutes, we were thundering down the runway like we were making a bet with God: takeoff or death.
This time, the laws of physics voted in our favor, and we rose, only jerking slightly, into the waiting nighttime sky.
The noise in the plane didn’t go down by much just because we were in the air. I glanced to Olivia and saw that she had produced a pair of noise-canceling headphones substantially more sophisticated than the plane’s default equipment, clamping them over her ears to block out the sound of the engines.
Conversation was out. There wasn’t much to do, beyond going back to sleep or finishing my reading, and so I voted for the option that came with less unconsciousness.
The fence allowed a détente between the people who would happily have slaughtered every living thing in Australia for the sake of saving human lives and the people who were responsible for the “shoot a koala, go to jail” legislation that had so puzzled me earlier. Locking the infected animals behind the fence allowed them to live without becoming a danger to humanity. My documentation included several pages listing the circumstances under which it was acceptable to shoot or tranquilize an infected animal contained by the fence; these included things like “there were too many of them and they posed a structural danger,” “we needed to cull the big males from the mob,” and “breeding.”
That last one stopped me for a moment. I ran a search on the document, finally finding a half page of text that detailed the ongoing efforts to maintain the kangaroo population through controlled breeding. Infected males were likely to kill females, rather than breeding with them, and joeys were constantly in danger from infected individuals of both sexes—although female kangaroos had proven surprisingly unwilling to eat joeys who were still in the pouch, possibly because their mental acuity had dwindled to the point where they could no longer tell their infants apart from their own bodies. Even the infected did not indulge in auto-cannibalism. So instead of trusting everything to nature, the Australian Wildlife Department would sometimes go to the fence, tranquilize male kangaroos, and take sperm samples for later use.
“This continent,” I said, shaking my head, and continued to read.
The fence was paid for on both a national and local level: Taxes handled most of the maintenance, while the towns that remained along its length took care of any unexpected expenses. Surprisingly, no one seemed to begrudge the cost, or at least no one had openly complained; the official records listed the entire project as having a 97% approval rate, and the 3% who disapproved did so only because they felt that the fence needed to be larger in some way, either height, length, or both. No one said, “Stop taking our money.” A small but measurable percentage said, “Take more of it.”