Page 78 of Retrograde

“What will happen to Attila?” I ask to change the subject.

The dresser creaks when Aron pulls out a drawer to grab a fresh black T-shirt.

“Exile. I’ll have him shipped off to one of the neutral Mediterranean islands.”

And he says that like it’s nothing!

There’s no easy way out of the Continuum. For “state security reasons”, there have been no commercial flights chartered ever since Rift Day. The Rift to the west cannot be traversed on land, and to the east, borders are closed due to vague reports of hostilities. Having photographed a few completely staged conflicts in that area, I suspect these are all fake.

All coastal areas—all the way to the Rift—are controlled by the Continuum. Officially, a few simple permits are all that’s needed for sea travel. Unofficially, these never materialise. The heavily monitored social media is full of pictures of vacationers and yacht owners, and whilst that seems to satisfy most ordinary people, those in higher political circles openly joke that all these are fake.

I’ve heard of smugglers operating from the Rifterland coast. Everyone has. But it’s hard to find someone who’s the real deal. The majority are undercover police, there to catch people trying to emigrate.

“That sounds very risky,” I point out.

“I know a reliable guy. An old mate from the army. Already shipped a few people away through him.”

I stare at him open-mouthed as he tugs the shirt over his head. It’s only when he returns my glare that the weight of his words registers.

“You could have gotten out. You could have gotten your men out.”

The bed mattress sinks under his weight as he sits down.

“I have gotten some of my men out,” he says. “All those who wanted out. That’s why Retrograde does better than any other group. No man is here because he has no other choice.”

I exhale sharply, robbed of my words, a soaring sensation in my chest that I promptly recognise as respect.

No man is here because he has no other choice.

One sentence is all I needed for the Retrogrades to go from barbarian fanatics to heroes in my mind, my newfound admiration overwhelming. They’re all here because freedom matters more to them than survival. I’m here because I never stopped to think which meant more to me. What would I have chosen if I had?

Aron pats the space next to him on the bed. I try to ignore the flutter low in my belly as I sit, close enough to feel his body’s heat.

“Do you know where you are in your cycle?” he asks, and I blink in surprise.

“No idea. Why?”

“I came inside you,” he replies simply, his tone mild but serious. “The second time. I wasn’t planning to, but ... fuck, Riley, it felt so fucking good I just couldn’t stop myself.”

Not only does he give me a guilty look, but a faint blush spreads through his cheeks. Seeing that I’m still lost, he elaborates. “What I want to know is how high the chances are of you getting pregnant ...”

“Oh! Right. Zero,” I assure him. “I was two hours out on Rift Day. Downwind. Shooting the aftermath of some random raid. I may have seen a flash of light at some point and later heard a strange boom. I just thought a storm was coming. I had no clue what had happened until hours later.” I push away memories of the strange smell in the air, so faint I might have just made it up in retrospect. “Not enough radiation to do me any immediate harm, but enough to raise concerns about the quality of my eggs.”

He inhales heavily through the nose, straightening up. “Mandatory tubal ligation?”

“Yup.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and the compassion that bleeds into his voice catches me completely off guard.

“Don’t be. It saved me the trouble of getting approved for the voluntary one.”

He only raises his eyebrows with an unvoiced question.

“I live for what I do. Reporting. Showing people the reality they wouldn’t get to see otherwise. Showing them the reality they’re forbidden from seeing whenever I get the chance.” I pause, expecting a retort from him.

When it doesn’t come, I continue, bothering the pocket zipper on my trousers. “I’ve seen too much of the world to bring a child into it. I could see myself adopting one, though, one day. If the circumstances are right.”

I chance a look at him, but his face is unreadable. Just when I think he won’t respond at all, he drawls slowly, “A thing like that to say. And it fucking came out of you.”