Margaret Atwood - MaddAddam

“The Pigoons thought of that too,” says Zeb. “Look beside the swimming pool.”

Sure enough, there’s a heap of fresh fodder. The Pigoons must have gathered it, since there’s no one else around.

“That’s considerate,” says Toby.

“Crap, they’re smart,” says Zeb. “Speaking of which.” He points.

Toby lifts the binoculars. Three medium-sized Pigoons, two spotted ones and a third that’s mostly black, are approaching from the north at a brisk trot. The squad of huge bulldozing Pigoons assiduously levelling the meadow roll themselves upright and lollop out to meet them. There’s some grunting, some nuzzling. All ears are forward, all tails are curled and twirling: they’re not frightened or angry, anyway.

“I wonder what they’re saying?” Toby asks.

“We’ll find out,” says Zeb, “when they’re damn ready to tell us. We’re just the infantry as far as they’re concerned. Dumb as a stump, they must think, though we can work the sprayguns. But they’re the generals. I’d bet they’ve got their strategy all worked out.”

Rebecca must have been ferreting around, discovering odds and ends. For breakfast they have soybits that have been soaked in Mo’Hair milk and sweetened with sugar. On the side, for a treat, a teaspoonful of Avocado Body Butter. The AnooYoo Spa had gone in for cosmetic products that sounded a lot like food: Chocolate Mousse Facial, Lemon Meringue Exfoliating Masque. And the various body butters, so rich in essential lipids.

“There was some of that stuff left?” says Toby. “I was sure I ate it all.”

“It was in the kitchen, hidden in one of the big soup tureens,” says Rebecca. “Maybe you put it there yourself, and forgot. You must’ve been building up an Ararat cache somewhere in this building, all the time you worked here.”

“Yes, but it was in the supply room,” says Toby. “Here and there. I disguised it inside the colon cleanser bulk packaging. I wouldn’t have left any of my own supplies in the kitchen; someone might have found them. It was most likely one of the staff who hid it. They used to try that — make off with a little of the high-end AnooYoo line, sell it on the pleebland grey market. But I did an inventory every two weeks, so usually I caught them.”

Not that she always reported them: the help was not overpaid. Why wreck a life?

Breakfast concluded, they assemble in the main foyer, where once a welcoming pink fruit-based drink, with or without alcohol, was served to the arriving clients. The MaddAddamites are all present, and the former God’s Gardeners. One of the boars is also in attendance, and, staying close to it, little Blackbeard. The rest of the Crakers are still out by the swimming pool munching on their pile of breakfast fodder. So are the rest of the Pigoons, similarly munching.

“So,” says Zeb. “Here’s where we stand. We know the direction the enemy is taking. There are three of them, not two. The pigs — the Pigoons — are sure of that. They haven’t seen these guys clearly — the pig scouts kept well out of sight to avoid being shot — but they’ve tracked them.”

“How far away?” says Rhino.

“Far enough. They’ve got a head start on us. But, in our favour, the Pigoons say they can’t go really fast because one of the three is limping. Dragging a foot. That right?” he says to Blackbeard, who nods.

“A smelly foot,” he says.

“That’s the good news. The bad news is that they’re heading towards the RejoovenEsense Compound. Which most likely means the Paradice dome.”

“Oh fuck,” says Jimmy. “The spraygun cellpacks! They’ll find them!”

“Think they’re going for those?” says Zeb. “Sorry. Stupid question. We have no way of knowing what they intend.”

“If they aren’t just wandering around, we can assume they have a goal,” says Katuro. “The third one — he might be directing them.”

“We need to head them off,” says Rhino. “Keep them out of there. Otherwise they’ll be well armed, and for a long time.”

“And after a short time we won’t be,” says Shackleton. “We’re already running low on the cellpacks.”

“So, only question,” says Zeb. “Who comes with us, who stays here. Some of that’s self-evident. Rhino, Katuro, Shackleton, Crozier, Manatee, Zunzuncito, coming. And Toby, of course. All the pregnant women, staying. Ren, Amanda, Swift Fox. Anyone else with a bun … anyone else declaring?”

“Gender roles suck,” says Swift Fox.

Then you should stop playing them, thinks Toby.

“Granted,” says Zeb, “but that’s reality now. We can’t have anyone doing an unscheduled bleedout in the middle of.… In the middle. Any more than necessary. White Sedge?”

“She’s a pacifist,” says Amanda unexpectedly. “And Lotis Blue has, you know. Cramps.”

“Staying, then. Anyone else have disabilities, or else qualms?”

“I want to come,” says Rebecca. “And I am definitely not pregnant.”

“Can you keep up?” says Zeb. “That’s the next question. Be honest. You may pose a danger to self and others. Veteran Painballers don’t fool around. There’s only three of them, but they’ll be lethal. This picnic is not for the squeamish.”

“Okay, scratch that,” says Rebecca. “Know yourself, out of shape, hand up. Not to mention squeamish. I’ll stay here.”

“Me too,” says Beluga.

“And I,” says Tamaraw.

“And I,” says Ivory Bill. “There comes a time in a man’s life when, no matter how agile the spirit, the earthly carapace develops its limitations. Not to mention the knees. And on the subject of the …”

“Right. And Blackbeard comes with us. We’ll need him: he seems to have a fix on whatever it is the Pigoons want to convey.”

“No,” says Toby. “He should stay here. He’s only a child.” She doesn’t think she could live with herself if little Blackbeard got killed, especially in the ways the Painballers would kill him if they got hold of him. “And he has no fear — or none that’s realistic — when it comes to people. He might go running right out into the open, into crossfire. Or get snatched as a hostage. What would happen then?”

“Yeah, but I don’t see how we can manage without him,” says Zeb. “He’s our only liaison with the pigs, and they’re essential. We’ll have to take the risk.”

Blackbeard himself has been following this exchange. “Do not worry, Oh Toby,” he says. “I need to come, the Pig Ones have said so. Oryx will be helping me, and Fuck. I have already called Fuck, he is flying to here, right now. You will see.” There’s no way Toby can contradict any of this: she herself can’t see Oryx or the helpful Fuck, nor can she understand the Pigoons. In the world of Blackbeard she’s deaf and blind.

“If they point a stick at you,” she says to him, “those men, you must fall flat on the ground. Or get behind a tree. If there is a tree. Or else a wall.”

“Yes, thank you, Oh Toby,” he says politely. This is evidently old news to him.

“Right then,” says Zeb. “Are we clear?”

“I’m coming too,” says Jimmy. Everyone looks at him: they’ve assumed he’d stay behind. He’s still skinny as a twig and pale as a puffball.

“Are you sure?” says Toby. “What about your foot?”

“It’s fine. I can walk. I have to come.”

“Not sure that’s wise,” says Zeb.

“Wise,” says Jimmy. He grins a little. “Never been accused of that. But if we’re heading to the Paradice dome, I really have to go.”

“Because?” says Zeb.

“Because Oryx is there.” An embarrassed silence: this is demented. Jimmy looks around the circle, grinning nervously. “Okay, I’m not crazy, I know she’s dead. But you need me,” he says.