‘Somehow that makes it even more unpleasant.’
‘But my point is, you don’t actually see the actual cut —’
‘I’m not feeling all that well, to be honest. I might need my get my tumour checked.’
‘Imma from the office claims that it never really happened.’
‘What?’
‘The amputation in “The Battle of Bare Hills”. She says that poor man who got run over by the tank has both his legs to this very day. She says she’s seen him, walking around in plain daylight on his own two feet. She says there are people who believe for a fact that none of it’s real. That’s the way she puts it: “there are people”. She’s careful not to suggest that she doesn’t believe it herself.’
‘All that blood and still she doesn’t believe what her own eyes tell her. It’s no wonder she’s so thin.’
‘She’s got a tumour on her hip. It sticks out. Stretches her clothes something awful, she says.’
‘Ew. Why doesn’t she just get it removed?’
‘In fairness, she exercises a lot. Some days, she does weights at the same time that she watches war footage. She swears by the combo.’
‘If the war wasn’t real, none of us would care. That’s basic biology, right? Right? If none of us cared, we’d all be dead. I mean, what on earth is she talking about?’
‘All right, love. I said I agree with you. No need to yell at me about it. Take a deep breath. Take another. And another. Good … Look, well, let’s just say Imma’s got a lot of funny ideas. I like her. She’s the life of the party … not that I can remember the last time we went to a party.’
‘That one we watched today: what was it called again?’
‘“The Battle of Sergeant Sala”. Evocative title, don’t you think? Good of them to name it after that poor, poor girl. It’s only right.’
‘In that one, you can smell the blood. That’s my point. You can literally smell it. There’s no way they can fake that.’
‘Can we watch “The Battle of Bare Hills” for dinner? Skip the live feed?’
‘Well … it’s not my absolute favourite.’
‘I know, love. But the children love eating vintage.’
‘What about I watch the live feed, and then we all watch “Bare Hills” as a family?’
‘Perfect,’ Geraldina said. ‘Now, I’d better get ready for work.’
She patted Flake on the shoulder as she left the dining room. He stayed where he was, waiting to make sure she wasn’t coming back, and then put his wearable close to his mouth.
‘Buy “The Battle of Sergeant Sala”,’ he whispered. ‘And play it again. Private viewing. On mute.’
The image of Sergeant Sala appeared just past the tip of Flake’s nose. Flake’s eyes widened. The safety catch on his mouth snapped and his tongue hung free for a moment before he pulled himself back into line.
‘Go closer,’ he murmured urgently. ‘Come on, closer. Closer. Closer, dammit.’
The image became an extreme close-up of Sala’s face, eventually focusing on a single pore. But the pixels merged; the close-up wouldn’t quite focus.
‘Where are you, dear?’ Geraldina called.
‘Off. Turn off,’ Flake whispered fiercely.
The image disappeared just as Geraldina entered the dining room.
‘There you are. I’m off to work. The kids are in the playroom. Take it easy today, won’t you? You’ve been working too hard. You need some rest.’
Flake nodded, fighting to control his breathing. Geraldina left with a wave.
‘Wrong. Very, very wrong,’ Flake muttered to himself. Whatever disrespect Geraldina’s friend Imma was showing towards the war — towards Walker, towards the feat of survival — Flake knew that his own transgression was far worse. What an awful way to treat a hero. He had no idea what was wrong with him. Perhaps, he hoped, it was just a tumour in his head, leaning on the wrong spot of his brain.
‘Play it again,’ he whispered to his wearable.
***
‘Is she here yet?’ Walker asked Hail. A few days had passed since the premiere of ‘The Battle of Sergeant Sala’. Long enough for the people of Rise to feast. Long enough for the critics to rave. And long enough for Sala to be summonsed from the front line, where for weeks she’d been recuperating from her injuries and then idling while waiting for the premiere of the footage. At last, she’d had the call: a personal meeting with Walker.
‘Yeah, she’s already in the waiting room,’ Hail said. ‘We were due to start fifteen minutes ago.’
‘Okay, let’s do it.’
‘Let her down gently, won’t you?’
‘Don’t I always?’
‘Holland says she’s not happy about it. Not happy at all.’
They left Walker’s private quarters and made their way along a long corridor until they came to the words ‘Reception Room’ painted onto the floor. They stood on the sign, which descended into a room. They stepped off and the sign rose again to the ceiling. Walker positioned himself between two Rise flags.
Hail opened a door. ‘Walker will see you now,’ he said.
‘How many times do I have to remind you?’ Walker whispered. ‘It’s “Walker will meet with you now”: “meet with you”, “meet with you”, “meet with you”.’
Sergeant Sala entered. She marched across the room, stiff-armed, and stood to attention in front of Walker. She met and held his gaze, feeling nervous in his presence and yet sure of herself. She wasn’t happy, but she was ready.
‘Thank you for coming, Sergeant Sala,’ Walker said. ‘It can’t have been easy, these last weeks. The wound. The recovery. Waiting for the footage to debut. It can’t be easy still, adjusting to a new life.’
‘Thank you for inviting me, SIR. But I wasn’t aware that I had much choice but to be here,’ Sala said.
‘Easy there, soldier,’ Hail said.
‘Fair enough,’ Walker said. ‘Congratulations, then, on understanding the reality of your situation. I wanted to thank you personally for your sacrifice. The citizens of Rise owe you so much. I, personally … Is something the matter, Sergeant Sala?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but can I ask you, what’s with the flags?’
In truth, Walker wasn’t a fan of flags. He was old enough to remember the way bigots wielded them like semi-automatics in the last years of the Old Time. And yet, in the earliest days of Rise, something had compelled him to use them for formal occasions. Perhaps, he had to admit, his motives were base: a little whipping up of mild parochialism was a distasteful necessity. But he liked to think that the flag of Rise, featuring a stylised cityscape nestled within its domefield, gentle red rain falling, meant nothing more than ‘it is good that we still exist’.