Blackheath
***
Blackheath was up at dawn, walking around the property, training himself to move without dragging his leg, building up his endurance. The wind blew dust in circles around the house, the paddocks dry and cracking in the heat. In contrast to the stale, mummified smells of the paddocks, a strong scent of orange blossom hung heavy in the air, seeping out from a patch of dark green leaves half hidden behind a rock wall.
"You look like you've got somewhere to go, but you know you're actually just walking in circles?"
Yanni had been watching him again. Blackheath tried not to feel under surveillance; the old man had no one else to bother.
"I've got to get it right by the time the truck comes back."
"Heading into Soul territory?"
Blackheath scowled automatically at the word.
"Heading back into Soul territory by the sounds," Yanni mused, watching his face for confirmation. His eyes pierced him like pins holding down an insect.
"What happened to your leg?"
"Giulia."
"Before that."
"I was shot."
"Hopefully not by Giulia."
He smiled, amused.
"No, she'd do the job properly I reckon."
"And not by Seekers."
Blackheath froze with hatred at the word. Everybody did.
"No, they would have done the job properly too, at least in terms of medical attention. You'd have pretty silver eyes by now, my boy."
"I'd rather die," he growled.
"Obviously, to come have all the way out here for Giulia's excellent medical attention."
Blackheath paused, leaning on a fencepost, trying to clearing his mind momentarily of the hatred in his heart and the ache in his leg.
"You can smell those oranges in Griffith," he said, indicating the little orchard with a glance.
"Not these ones," Yanni replied, "Used to be orchards all around here. Most of them died after the invasion when the irrigation scheme shut down. Now we got a trickle of water back, things are starting to grow again. You gotta give the Souls that, they do what's best for the long term."
Blackheath grimaced and rubbed his leg distractedly.
"You're acquainted with them?" Yanni said, watching him carefully.
"Personally." Blackheath muttered, feeling the thin scar on the back of his neck burn as if it were alien tissue.
"Ah. I see."
"Come and tell me what you think of our oranges," Yanni said, leading the way back to the house. After a moment, Blackheath followed.
***
The kitchen table was as old as the house. Blackheath's fingers traced lives in the chips and scratches carving through the grain. In the morning light, the edges of the kitchen were still wrapped in night, the house refusing to succumb to the dictates of the outside world.
Yanni poured him a glass of the orange juice he had just squeezed.
"It's good, no? But don't tell me you came out here just for our oranges. They tell me they have oranges in Soul cities too."
Blackheath looked away, trying to keep the hatred from showing too plainly on his face.
Yanni sawed at a damper loaf and set the slices over the hearth fire to toast.
"You're in a Soul-free zone now. No one hides their hatred of the Souls."
Blackheath was too used to dissembling to speak freely. But what held him back more was that he felt no reflection of this hatred from Yanni.
"I'm rather sick of polite meaningless words. But I have the feeling you'll spare me those."
"Why do you live here?" Blackheath stalled, searching for some substance behind Yanni's indifferent words.
Yanni shrugged.
"I've always lived here. It's peaceful. It's where my daughter was born. Not everyone has been transported here, and sees it through vengeful eyes."
"Would you live here still if it was Soul territory?"
Yanni watched him shrewdly for a moment. "It will shock you, I think, but I would."
Blackheath held his face still, but could not keep his eyes from smouldering.
"You are my host," he said tightly, looking away, "You have treated me well. I don't want to argue with you."
"Please. It will do us both good I think. Perhaps Giulia sent you here to treat me."
"You would live amongst them? Willingly?" Blackheath leaned towards him, his gaze fiercely intent.
"I'm too old to be implanted. They would not hurt me, I think."
"And that's it? You'd be quite happy for them to take over, parasitizing other people, so long as they leave you alone?"
"They are parasites, it is true. And what dog ever praised his fleas?"
Blackheath's anger was so intense his muscles held themselves taut and he had to stand to ease the cramp of pain from his thigh. He rested his fists on the table as he tried to relax his leg.
"I see you have a fierce hatred of our visitors," Yanni observed, turning the bread over to toast the other side.
"They are barbaric," Blackheath spat.
"Montaigne would agree with you. Because they kill others to survive?"
"Because they kill us!"
"They are predators, pure and simple. The same as us. Any prey fears its predator."
"No. Not the same as us. They take over our bodies, our family's bodies, live our lives. When we kill, our victim is dead, and left to rest in peace."
"Or stuffed and hung on the mantelpiece. Or worn down a red carpet. What does it matter what happens to the bodies?"
"I was one of those bodies! I was still there!"
To this Yanni had no response, but his eyes remained kind and sad. Blackheath felt the old man had a story he was not telling, and tried unsuccessfully to reign in his anger.
"You're saying if they came to take Giulia, you could just stand by and let them?" Blackheath knew no father could do that.
"No. No, I expect I couldn't. But that doesn't mean they have no right to-"
"That's exactly what it means!"
"A cow will mourn her calf when it is taken to slaughter, but we still retain the right to do it. It is necessary for each species to think it is wrong to kill its own. That is critical for the survival of the species. But it does not make it wrong for another to kill them to further his own. It makes it sad, perhaps, very sad, often, but not wrong."
Blackheath was tormented by images of Flame, drowning as he watched, standing at the end of his gun. Was it wrong to kill her? If he thought it wrong to kill her, he would be recognizing her as more than alien, as a part of his world, his life, his family. If he thought it wrong to kill her, then he was wrong to have tried. And would he not be wrong for killing so many others too? Where would the line be drawn? He could not accept this.
"You are talking about humans as if they are animals."
"We are. And so are they."
"You talk as if there is no right and wrong!"
"No, I'm sure there are. It just depends on how you define them."
Blackheath had to smile at that. Yanni took the toasts from the heat of the flames and buttered them thickly.
"Everything is relative," Blackheath murmured. In prison, it had not been considered at all relative; it had been quite simple: the powerful were right and the others wrong. Blackheath could not help but disagree, and this opened him to Yanni's argument. He hesitated, but took the proffered toast.
"Exactly. Shades of grey, not blacks and whites. Most people prefer absolutes, the brain is trained to look for edges, contrasts. Us and them. It is necessary to have others so you can recognize yourself. It is also a prerequisite for enabling violence. You cannot fight part of yourself. You must make what you fight the other."
And there, for Blackheath, the line was drawn. As he loved Dorsey, and Dorsey loved Flame, Flame was undeniably part of "us". The others were not. The line could be drawn between them. It was an artificially constructed line, and its premises were messy in his head, which bothered him. But he knew life was messy. This was the line of best fit for pre existing variables.
"And who is 'the other' for you?" Blackheath asked.
"Aye, there's the rub. My problem is, I have too much empathy. 'The view from everywhere', eh? I have been 'the other' too many times to fit anyone easily into that box. Perhaps I see too much of myself in others. 'What are strangers but friends we have not met'?"
Not everyone you meet is a friend, Blackheath thought, but held his tongue, unwilling to antagonise his host any further. "It must make it difficult to recognize yourself then."
"Perhaps. But perhaps it is preferable to lose sight of yourself than to block out the sight of others? It is not the way of the world, I know, and in another time I daresay I would be locked up for it. But what can we be, if not to our own self true?"
Blackheath felt the man was slightly mad, but at the same time, he appreciated his gentle, incisive madness.
"I am glad Giulia sent to you to me," Yanni said, leaning back and settling comfortably in his chair, "No one has bothered to argue with me for years."