Trent Jamieson - Managing death

Then I check on Oscar. He's doing OK, but Brooker doesn't expect him to be out of bed for another week. I talk to Oscar about Lissa, and he listens, but offers no comment. I tell him I think I'm ready to look after myself, and he smiles. 'Yeah, I think you are, too.'

I receive one call from the Caterers, everything is prepared, that the bridge is waiting.

I walk over to Tim's office, knock on the door.

He opens it, and smiles at me nervously. 'Ready?'

'Yeah.'

He comes over to me, straightens my tie. 'You are now. How'd you go with that PowerPoint presentation. Hope you didn't put in too many fancy transitions.'

'Of course not.'

I grasp his hand and we shift onto the Kurilpa Bridge.

And here it is. Everything has been set up for this moment. This Moot. The bridge is just wide enough for our marquees. It certainly wouldn't be in the mortal realm, not if you needed to accommodate all the pedestrian traffic as well. The marquees are worth the rather large amount of money we paid for them. As is the lighting, and the aircon, which is keeping the space to a comfortable twenty-five degrees.

The Orcus sits around the table, each in their throne. Li An smiles at me. Kiri nods. Anna Kranski gives me a little salute. Devesh Singh is mumbling into his coffee. Charlie Top, now Middle and South Africa's RM, is tweeting like mad on his phone. Suzanne is sitting at the other end of the long table, a coffee by her side.

Here we talk as equals. And we're all looking a bit ridiculous. I've bought them all Akubras to wear – it seems the thing at these international conferences. I want to laugh but the Hungry Death bubbles beneath my skin, whispering to its eleven selves, calling them, and they call back. Its presence has never manifested itself so strongly before. I find it quite terrifying, and a relief that it's not just focussed in one person.

How could you handle all that hunger and not go insane?

En masse there is a density and a gravity about the RMs that is impressive. I can't quite believe that I share it. Neill's absence is a void that can't be ignored, though no one is talking about it. That will come later, I guess.

I begin my speech welcoming them all here. They laugh in the right places, though I can't say my delivery is that good. Lissa helped me come up with most of the jokes. I'm still not sure what happened. How could I break her heart so easily? Maybe I thought I'd earnt it.

The Moot progresses. The first topic on the agenda is something small, a matter of profits in the last quarter. Suzanne brings that one to the table. I'm actually surprised that she uses a PowerPoint presentation; I was kind of expecting something with animated dust or lightning. The topic is dry, but people seem interested. Maybe it's a break from all the events of the last week. The morning session moves surprisingly swiftly, though I don't hear too much of it.

I'm thinking about my core presentation this afternoon. I have so much to discuss, and, even with Tim's rewrites, I'm not sure that I can pull it off.

Lunch is called at around twelve-thirty.

With all of us together the air is charged with the sort of electricity you'd expect just before a massive storm. In fact, there's one forming in the western suburbs. Thick, rain-heavy cloud is growing darker and darker, and it's heading our way. I'm outside, taking a breather from all the food and the talk. Li An has joined me on the bridge. I don't know why, though. He hasn't said anything yet, and we've been out here for ten minutes.

From the bridge we can see both the Underworld and the living one. On one side is the cultural precinct starting with the sharp lines and angles of the Gallery of Modern Art, and on the other rise the skyscrapers that make up the CBD. The storm is building on Mount Coot-tha. I watch as the Caterers run from line to line on the marquees, double-checking that everything is as it should be, and will stand up to the tempest.

Li An nods at the Caterers and finally speaks. 'Happens all the time, these storms,' he says. 'You get used to it.' He spits out an olive pit and frowns. 'Never get used to the miserable catering, though. After ten thousand years you'd think they'd know how to use a bain-marie.'

My face burns. He doesn't stop eating the nibblies, nor swigging down on a glass of white, though, all of which cost me more money than I want to think about right now.

He pats my shoulder gently. 'Of course, you won't need to worry about that, soon.' He sighs. 'Got any of those little sandwiches? I do like those little sandwiches.'

What the hell is he talking about? I open my mouth to thank him for the vote of support when the air is split with a tremendous thunderclap.

Two black flags, marked with the brace symbol, snap in the wind above the Ankous' marquee. The RMs call it the whinge tent. As far as I can see it's justified, the title and the whingeing. We make them work hard and then some. Tim knows he doesn't have to put up with my shit, but the rest of them don't have the advantage of a family connection. This must be their only chance to vent.

Tim stands by their marquee with the other Ankous, apparently holding court. He looks far more comfortable than me, though I've noticed that he's drawing on a cigarette faster than I thought was humanly possible.

He nods at me. Yeah, something's going on there, and he's not happy. He gestures at his phone; I yank mine out of my pocket a moment before it signals that I've received a text.

Be careful, Tim's written. They're up to something.

A few more specifics would be helpful.

A hand, a big hand, slaps down on my shoulder and I somehow manage not to yelp.

'Good spot, this,' Kiri Baker says. He's about as broad across as I am tall. He smiles a wide, bright smile. 'Nice.'

I nod my head. 'Yeah.'

'So, you still seeing Mr D for advice?'

'Yeah.'

'He still doing that face thing?'

I nod, and Kiri shivers. 'Fuck, that used to scare the bejesus out of me. Dramatic bloke, isn't he? Gotta have a hobby, I suppose.' He slaps me on the shoulder again and squeezes. 'We southerners have to stick together, eh?'

Hm, that didn't count for much when we had a Schism a couple of months ago.

Kiri sighs. 'It's a shame we'll never have a chance to know what may have come of that.' I turn sharply and look at him. He's grinning. 'Desperate times. Now, I've got to get some of those little sandwiches.' He walks back into the marquee.

What do these people know that I don't?

It's my turn at the podium again. I pull out my PowerPoint; relate all that I know about the Stirrer god. The things that Cerbo has told me, my own experiences. I even mention the visit from the Stirrer that inhabited Lissa, suggesting that Stirrers may not be as unified as we once thought.

I cannot feel any heartbeats, which is a blessed relief. Must be the storm. I look at the eleven RMs before me. They may be my people now, but I can't show any weakness. My only strength, Mr D reckons, is that none of them is likely to remember what it was like to be new to the job. They expect a higher level of knowledge than I have.

Huff and bluff, I think to myself. If there's anything I'm good at it's bullshit.

'We have to do something,' I say.

'But what?' Charlie Top asks. 'My resources are stretched as they are, particularly now that I'm shackled to South Africa, too. Do you not know how many wars my poor Pomps are working? Will you give me more crew to work them?' He looks over at Suzanne. 'Not that it matters,' he says under his breath, and makes a show of looking at his watch.

'I don't have any to give,' I say. Everyone laughs at that, and I fail to see the joke.

'Exactly,' Charlie says. 'You developed world RMs never have anything to give. We're all part of Mortmax and yet what do you all do? Cut back our supplies or provide them with so many conditions that -'