Propaganda Wars

By Sarah Neofield

The most powerful messages are the ones you don't see.
After decades of knowing nothing of the Souwest other than her collection of McKing's wrappers that occasionally blew over the wall, Noreastern Ministry propagandist Adria crosses the border on a professional exchange to one of the Souwest's top advertising companies.
And that means her ad-exec cousin, Wesley, is coming to the Noreast - not to spread freedom, but french fries and fizzy cola.
It's only for a week, but will Adria finally taste the freedom she long dreamed of just beyond the wall?
And why does Wesley feel freer than he did back in the land of the free?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah Neofield
• Release date: Aug 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781922362049

Sarah Neofield

Sarah Neofield grew up in regional South Australia before living in Japan for a year. Always fascinated by language, she completed a PhD in applied linguistics in 2010. She has written extensively on the topics of intercultural communication, how we communicate online, and language learning.At the age of 30, Sarah resigned from her position as a university lecturer to travel, and since has visited over 60 countries. She blogs about the connection between language, money, and social justice at enrichmentality.com, and about reading, writing, and creativity at sarahneofield.comSarah’s debut novel, Number Eight Crispy Chicken, follows the misadventures of an immigration minister stranded in a foreign airport. Her most recent release, Propaganda Wars, is the tale of two cousins - a propagandist and an advertiser - who swap lives.You can find Sarah Neofield on Pinterest, or on Instagram @SarahNeofield

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Propaganda Wars

SUNDAY

Chapter 1

Adria

Adria waited for a train headed in the opposite direction to every train she’d ever taken.

Over the border.

The platform on which she stood shivering, only in part from the cold, had for years stood empty, visited only by school groups, and pigeons who left the occasional dropping.

While Platform One had its fill of regular passenger trains, Platform Two’s speakers were forever silent, its screens blank. Its waiting room, filled with row upon row of plastic seating, stood empty. An enormous, showy testament to hope over practicality.

Until now.

‘Train now arriving, all clear.’

Adria’s grip tightened around the handle of her suitcase. She remembered her own class excursion to the station, all those years back. Her teacher describing the promise of reunification the rail line represented. Of course, reunification was little more than a distant dream then. The recent normalisation of relations between the Noreast and Souwest, to the extent that she would be chosen to work over the border, was something Adria had never even dared to imagine.

When Adria’s posters were selected for the very first showcase of Noreastern art and technology to be held in the Souwest, she’d fantasised about her trip. Of course, only the highest-ranking officials and especially attractive presenters were actually selected to attend. But obviously, someone in the Souwest had seen something in her work and made the necessary enquiries.

Like the few other passengers waiting—all government officials—Adria picked up the rest of her luggage as the train pulled into the station. Two baskets her mother, Ester, had loaded with white grapes and tightly wrapped sausages.

‘Make sure to give these to your Aunt Sully as soon as you arrive.’ Her mother’s words echoed in Adria’s head. Ester still felt a strong connection to her twin sister even though they hadn’t communicated in decades. But the idea of calling someone she’d never met ‘Aunt’ was as absurd to Adria as the idea of purple grapes.

For the longest time, Adria didn’t believe purple grapes existed. The notion of grapes any colour than the yellowish white she was used to was as crazy as a blue banana, or a turquoise orange.

Surely it was just another of her mother’s tall tales about the world before the separation.

Like her stories about chasing after GIs from the South when they handed out chewing gum from their tanks.

Back when the Noreast and Souwest had been united against a common enemy.

Wesley

Six point seven kilometres away (or just over four miles, as he preferred to think of it) Wesley waited for a train headed in the opposite direction to every train he’d ever taken.

Actually, Wesley couldn’t remember ever taking a train. He wasn’t really a public transport kind of guy. In fact, he avoided the side of town the station was located in.

The only reason Wesley knew the train was running in the opposite direction to usual was because it was headed over the border.

Wesley did, however dimly, recall the construction of the station. Panlectrix had some grand plan to build a new factory over the border, to capitalise on the cheap labour. ‘Extending the arm of friendship,’ they’d called it. Wesley chuckled. Like everything to do with the Noreast, the deal had fallen through. Not that he should be casting any stones. Wesley’s own latest deal, the CloudTech account, had failed spectacularly. All because he wanted to create sleek copy. Beautiful images. Not the shoddy garbage with shaky photography and even shakier grammar, masquerading as the ‘grassroots’ media Neero was currently obsessed with.

Neero. Wesley couldn’t even think of his boss’ stupid name without feeling sick. His real name, Wesley knew from some paperwork he probably shouldn’t have seen, was Neil. But he insisted everyone call him Nero. And as if it wasn’t already unusual enough, a couple of years back, he’d added an extra ‘e’ so that it looked more ‘creative’. Neero was obsessed with the illusion of creativity and authenticity. With manufacturing messages and even conjuring entire people to parrot those messages with what appeared to be genuine enthusiasm. Targeting consumers with surgical precision through online crumbs.

That’s why Wesley was here. Why JD had been given the number one fast food giant in the country, and the insufferable TJ had been set to work on the biggest political campaign in history, while he had been sent to a second-rate country to promote Astor, the world’s number two cola.

He could just imagine what his mother-in-law must think.

The speaker on the platform crackled, as if clearing its throat after years of silence.

‘Train now arriving, all clear.’

Wesley struggled with his luggage. Three suitcases, cosseted in the fancy covers Marka had purchased, their handles still wrapped in plastic, the tags from the store still dangling from the largest.

He’d bought the cases as part of a fifteen-piece set, but only ever used the smallest one. The idea of long-distance travel had never appealed to Wesley, and aside from a week at the Cheesy AdventureLandz resort an hour’s drive away each year—for which all he needed to pack was a few pairs of shorts and a bathing suit—and his occasional business travel, he had hardly any need for luggage. But the set had been a good deal—25% off, with a free credit card protector thingy to go in his wallet.

Wesley’s shoulder twinged as he pulled his bags towards the train. The collar of his new shirt felt even more restrictive than he was used to. He wished he’d never listened to that stupid ‘cultural advisor’ at work, the one Neero had brought in to give him a little slideshow presentation and a government-issued map of the Noreast.

In fact, he wished he wasn’t here at all.

But it wasn’t like he had a choice in the matter.

Wesley was about to lose his job. Of that, he was certain. He’d seen what happened to the last guy who defied Neero. No agency in the country would touch him. And this trip, Wesley was sure, was just a final way for Neero to torture him. And even if Neero somehow forgave him, which didn’t seem likely, the whole CloudTech fiasco meant the entire company might collapse.

And if Wesley lost his job, he would certainly lose his house. He was already three payments behind. He’d been counting on the CloudTech bonus to make ends meet.

This wasn’t how it was meant to be. Wesley lived in the greatest country in the world. The land of opportunities, he thought bitterly, as he lugged all three of his suitcases onto the train. The last—the one with his bottled water and microwavable meals—was especially heavy. But he supposed there would be no shortage of beggars at the other end, willing to carry his bags for a few coins.

Thank heavens he’d been born in the Souwest.

Adria

Adria had no difficulty depositing her small green cardboard suitcase in the overhead rack. She set the baskets on the seat next to her, the harsh fibres of the upholstery catching her clothes.

The train had that peculiar smell of things which have been empty for a long time. Nothing like the carriages Adria usually rode to work, full of people. Still, the air fizzled with the static of possibility as Adria leaned against the speckled window and watched the platform disappear.

The man opposite—someone else on government business—twiddled the knob on his watch. Adria did the same, setting it to Souwestern time. Of course, there was no real need for a change in time zone. It wasn’t as if she was travelling far, but decades prior, in a move designed solely to differentiate the newly formed Noreast from its equally new estranged sibling, the Noreastern government had declared a new time zone. Fifteen minutes ahead.

Ester had cursed the government for stealing those fifteen minutes of her life. They should have been, she believed, her fifteen minutes of fame. Fame for giving birth to the first baby in the new nation—Adria.

‘At twelve, they told us it was twelve-fifteen!’ she complained.

To Ester’s mind, the clocks were forever after wrong.

But there was more to come.

On the first anniversary of the revolution, the government announced they were changing the calendar. The year Adria turned one was Year One, the year of her birth retroactively designated ‘Year Zero’.

Adria had always felt a sense of not exactly pride, but something close to it, being the same age as her country. And it meant everyone remembered her birthday.

Not that your own birthday was as important as that of the Commander.

Adria opened her notebook. Two PM, Carriage D, Platform 2, Souwest Capital Station. And there was Wesley’s address—an unfamiliar jumble of letters that, no matter how she squinted and twisted them in her mind, didn’t look right.

She wondered what his wife, Marka, would look like.

The only photo Ester had of Wesley was a crinkled bit of cardboard her sister had managed to smuggle through the fence. But that was years ago—long before Wesley had married or had children of his own.

Adria doubted she would recognise Wesley if she saw him, even though growing up, Ester swore the cousins looked close enough to be twins. This was, doubtless, wishful thinking on her mother’s part. All Ester had to go off was that single photograph Sully had passed through the chain links, down at Camaraderie Square, back before the construction of the wall.

While everyone called it the wall, it was in reality a complex system of imposing concrete walls on either side of the demilitarised zone, topped with slippery round metal capping and razor wire, punctuated by gun towers every so often. This system ran right through the square where, in less hostile times, Noreasterners and Souwesterners had once gathered on opposite sides.

The square was yet another in a long string of things the Noreast and Souwest couldn’t agree upon. Bisected in the way of an unimaginatively cut sandwich, the park was called ‘Camaraderie Square’ on one side, and ‘Friendship Circle’ on the other.

Camaraderie Square was unusual in the Noreast, a country in which most public spaces were named ‘11th July Park’ or ‘27th November Square’ after significant events in the nation’s history.

In truth, the park was neither a square nor a circle. Given the two sides’ inability to agree on something as simple as the boundary of a park, its outline resembled a dropped ice cream—a pointed cone on top, and a single rounded scoop on the bottom.

The park had been the last section of the border to be walled off. Now, the whole thing was inaccessible, trapped inside what Noreasterners called the Dead Zone.

In years gone by, Adria’s mother had been able to glimpse the faces of her family through the wire fence. Reach out and grasp her twin sister’s hand. On special occasions, anyway. It wasn’t worth the risk of being caught otherwise.

As tensions escalated once more, the two governments began to regulate park hours. Noreasterners were allowed into their side of the park only once all the Souwesterners had been cleared out of their half, and vice-versa.

The snatched words, brushing of fingertips, and occasional exchange of letters, recipes, and even sweets, were no more.

Nobody really knew why. Some said it was because of the drug trade. Others, a matter of security. Illegal immigrants might pop over or under or even through the fence when crowds obscured the guards’ view.

Both sides maintained they were more concerned about net immigration than emigration.

But it didn’t matter what the real reason was.

Any sort of lawlessness—or suspected lawlessness—was sufficient rationale for the government to impose its will.

Recently, there had been a few choreographed reunions. Not that Adria’s family had any hope of winning the lottery the governments held to decide who got to see their relatives. But informal meetings were no longer possible. Not only because of government mandate, but because the people themselves had built up the wall.

It all started with a single thread. A red strand, pulled from the cardigan of a woman as she was marched away from the border at the beginning of the curfews. When her mother saw the wool, she knew it belonged to her daughter. After all, she’d knitted the cardigan. Held the fibre in her hands, and worked it till it took form. She’d even re-dyed the wool after her daughter complained the original pink wasn’t strong enough.

So she left a thread from her own sweater in return.

Other visitors followed suit, leaving distinctive threads, lengths of wool, even locks of hair. And as they grew bolder, scraps of fabric and thick, colourful ribbons. One day, someone—no one knew who—dared to write on one of the ribbons. A name. Their own, or that of someone they were searching for. Adria supposed only the writer knew.

Then others began writing. More names. General wishes for the fence—indeed, the entire wall—to be no more.

Adria remembered tying a ribbon to the fence with her Aunt Sully’s name on it when she was little. Yellow, like the bow her mother had tied to the baskets of grapes and sausages on the seat next to her.

The train stopped.

Adria’s heart, along with her kidneys, liver, and spleen, leapt into her throat.

Officials—Souwestern officials, all shiny boots and heavy guns, with large letters emblazoned across their backs and oddly-shaped caps on their heads—approached the train.

‘Everybody off!’

He sounded just like a star in a Souwestern movie.

‘What’s happening?’ Adria whispered to the man opposite.

‘Border check and train change. The Souwest uses a different gauge.’

Of course it did, Adria thought as she pulled down her bag.

The Noreast and Souwest couldn’t even agree on a uniform width to build their reconciliatory railway.

Wesley

Wesley took his seat in silence. The upholstery snagged his suit, and something sharp dug into his backside through the thin foam. The train smelled musty.

It was, in short, everything Wesley had feared public transport would be.

As much to distract himself as anything, he twisted the knob on his watch, setting it to Noreastern time. Of course, there was no real need for the change. But in one of its characteristically nonsensical moves, the Noreastern government had declared a new time zone. Fifteen minutes ahead.

Wesley assumed this was intended as a slap in the face, a declaration of superiority. An assertion that the Souwest was ‘backward’.

Well, look where that had gotten them.

Almost as soon as it left the station, the train stopped.

Officials—Noreastern officials, all shiny boots and heavy guns, with rows of stripes on their shoulders and oddly-shaped caps on their heads—approached the train.

‘Everybody off.’ He was speaking the same language, but his accent was so strange, Wesley had trouble understanding the man.

‘What’s happening?’

‘Border check and train change. The Noreast uses a different gauge.’

Typical, Wesley snorted. The Noreast couldn’t even get that right. From the beginning, they had to be different. Just to prove a point.

The cousins were born only minutes apart—Wesley just before midnight, in the hospital’s west wing, and Adria just afterwards, through a combination of happenstance and overcrowding, in the east.

Ordinarily, this would have been of little consequence. But that night, the country was divided.

The Central Hospital—as the name suggested—lay right in the middle of the city, right on the train line, on the strip of land now designated the demilitarised zone. And so, it too was divided down the centre at the stroke of midnight, as soldiers rolled out lines of looping razor wire.

The most reliable story, so far as anyone could work out, was that a couple of rookie soldiers from the Union of Nations had, inexplicably, been tasked with dividing the nation. The UN, it seemed, was more interested in ending the tensions between the two sides than in accurately determining where one side ended and the other began.

And so it was that two GIs, thousands of miles away, armed with nothing more sophisticated than a map torn from a magazine, lined up a ruler and ran a ballpoint pen through the country at the most convenient angle, bisecting the capital and the city’s largest hospital which, to them, was no more than a dot on a map with a funny-sounding name.

When Ester carried Adria through the east exit, and Sully took Wesley through the west, they stepped not only into different time zones, but different countries.

For years, the hospital stood vacant. The razor wire lines were replaced with walls of solid cement. Inside the hospital, the beds were empty. Abandoned gurneys lined the halls. Curtains sagged and paint peeled. Water dripped. Surgical lights corroded, scalpels rusted on their trays, and vents clogged with dust and cobwebs. Blood dried in test tubes, and formaldehyde evaporated, leaving samples exposed.

The records in the basement—Wesley’s and Adria’s among them—crumbled. The once bustling maternity ward—full to bursting that fateful night—fell as silent as the morgue.

It is into this building, reborn as a checkpoint, that Wesley and Adria now enter from opposite sides.

Chapter 2

Wesley

The official took forever, staring at Wesley’s passport, flipping over and over through the pages, even though they were all blank. Saying nothing.

Was that usual? Wesley had never left the Souwest. Never had a passport.

Perhaps there was something wrong with it?

Maybe he should say something.

‘Purpose?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Why are you visiting the Democratic People’s Republic of the Noreast?’

Why indeed, Wesley thought. Ever since Neero had assigned him to this trip, he’d been asking himself the same question.

‘I’m just here on business.’ Wesley let out a nervous laugh. He instantly regretted opening his mouth. Business. Surely that was the wrong word to use.

The official didn’t respond.

Wesley realised he was staring at the official’s face. He quickly fixed his eyes on the man’s hat. No, that was even worse. Its shape and size were so comical, Wesley thought he might laugh again.

And who knew what sort of torturous interrogation might befall him then?

‘Occupation?’

‘Senior Creative.’

‘A what?’

Wesley sighed. ‘I’m in advertising.’

‘Ah,’ the man nodded, ticking some box on his form. ‘Propaganda.’

‘No,’ Wesley bristled, ‘Not propaganda—’

‘Open your bags for inspection.’ The official pointed to a curtained partition, where Wesley unlatched the first of his suitcases. The contents looked as though he’d thrown half of his wardrobe into the bag—which, he supposed, in a way, he had.

He’d started by opening the largest of the fifteen-piece set on the bed—checking to make sure Marka wasn’t home first. She’d have a fit if she saw a suitcase on her white bedspread, even though it was completely clean, the wheels still wrapped in plastic. Then, he’d packed the basics.

Socks and underwear for the whole trip, since Marka wouldn’t be there to do his laundry. He imagined they’d just bang their washing against a rock in the Noreast, or run it through some ancient contraption. Wesley didn’t remember much about the laundry equipment he’d seen at the historical museum, on one of the rare occasions Marka insisted they all go out and ‘get some culture’. But he did remember a variety of machines that looked like torture devices, and most distinctly, something called a ‘mangler’.

There was no way Wesley wanted his $80-a-pair Apollo briefs mangled.

He’d added a couple of extra pairs, just in case. Then doubled the number of socks. Wesley liked to change his socks every day after he got home from work. The shoes he had to wear for the office made his feet swell up and smell.

The inspector pawed through Wesley’s clothes—his underwear, even—holding up each item and making a face Wesley couldn’t quite interpret. Was he mocking the size of his underpants? Envious of the quality of his ties?

He’d had no idea which to bring. Marka usually picked out Wesley’s ties, telling him which to wear with each shirt. The easiest solution, he’d supposed, was to bring them all.

Trousers were simpler. All of Wesley’s trousers looked the same. And he’d bought a whole set of no-iron polyester shirts for the trip, since Marka wouldn’t be there to do his ironing, either. Finally, he had thrown in several pairs of gloves and some thermal undergarments, along with some extra woolly socks. The Noreast was bitterly cold, he’d heard, and Wesley was sure they wouldn’t have any form of heating.

Everything in his suitcase was brand new. Marka had gone on a shopping spree last year, when it looked as if Wesley was on track to earn the winter bonus, a week at the company chalet. But then John—or ‘JD’ as he insisted on being called—had beaten him to it, and Wesley had to endure both JD’s constant bragging updates, and of course, Marka and the kids’ incessant complaints.

Still, as passive-aggressively disappointed as Marka had been about the ski trip, things would be much worse if she saw one of the red notices demanding yet another mortgage payment he didn’t have, if Wesley didn’t manage to intercept it first.

He had thought that by switching to online statements, he’d have been able to hide the depth of the financial hole they were in. But it turned out that was only good for people who were up-to-date with their payments. The moment the debts started piling up, so did the letters and calls. Not just from the bank, but from a variety of agencies with three-letter names.

Wesley felt a sudden urge of adrenaline. He’d made a partial payment before he came across to the Noreast, in the hopes it might buy him some time. He hoped against all reason, muttering a silent prayer, that he might just come through this week unscathed. That the bank would let up on its relentless pursuit of him for just seven days, while he wasn’t there to intercept the mail or dive for the phone.

The inspector prodded at Wesley’s second-largest suitcase. The one he’d filled entirely with bottled water and microwave meals.

Wesley was certain he’d hate the food in the Noreast.

His final suitcase was full of promotional materials from AMK—a bunch of pens and things with the old logo they were keen to get rid of.

And, of course, the product.

Wesley began to sweat.

When he’d interviewed at AMK, Wesley had never imagined he’d end up smuggling contraband.

But then, Astor wasn’t technically contraband, Wesley supposed. Not anymore, now the Commander was dead. And this didn’t really count as smuggling, did it? Even if he had hidden the stuff underneath all the banners and AMK drink cozies and frisbees and pamphlets and bouncy balls.

Wesley wasn’t sure if he should offer the man a pen, in a gesture of international friendship, or whether that might be misconstrued as a bribe. The shame he’d felt over his poorly packed suitcase evaporated as the inspector shoved his belongings this way and that, creating an even bigger mess than the jolting train ride had.

‘Sir?’ The man zipped up the last suitcase, without delving any further into its layers.

Wesley breathed a sigh of relief.

‘This way, please.’

Wesley’s palms prickled with sweat. ‘Where are you taking me?’

He wasn’t going anywhere. He knew his rights.

At least, he knew his rights back in the Souwest.

‘Adjustment.’

Wesley felt sick.

‘What do you mean, adjustment?’

‘Sir, your appearance violates the norms of Noreastern aesthetics.’

‘What?’

‘Your hair exceeds the maximum permitted length, your sideburns are exaggerated, and your beard is irregular.’

If only Wesley’s father had lived to hear this.

Back when he was in college, Wesley’s father had always been on at him to get a haircut. His long hair made him look like a ‘far-out leftist hippy,’ a ‘Noreastern sympathizer,’ Wesley’s father maintained. And now, the Noreast was telling Wesley that his hair, his own corporate haircut from OfficeCutz, was too long!

‘If you wish to enter the Democratic People’s Republic of the Noreast, you must agree to be adjusted.’

Adria

A few meters down the same corridor, Adria handed over her own passport.

‘Purpose?’

‘I am here on a professional exchange. To learn about marketing in the Souwest.’

‘Best in the world,’ the customs officer quipped. ‘Welcome to the Souwest.’

He slid her passport back.

The walls of the former hospital had been scrubbed, the obsolete equipment shoved into the basement to make room for desks. Medical X-ray machines had been swapped out for security scanners, and the curtained partitions that once provided patients with privacy were now used for luggage inspections and cavity searches.

Adria reclaimed her passport, her fingers leaving sticky circles of perspiration on the cover as she opened the little book to inspect the stamp.

There it was, in black and white—or rather, in smudged blue ink on the passport’s pale red page—SOUWEST HOMELAND SECURITY: TEMPORARY VISA FOR FOREIGN ALIEN, VALID FOR ONE WEEK.

One week. Adria had exactly one week to show what she was worth. To secure a future for herself, and her family, in the Souwest.

Passport in hand, she stepped away from the booth, and towards the line that ran down the centre of the hall.

Somehow that thick stripe of paint seemed more real than the concrete and razorwire she’d seen countless times from afar.

Wesley

‘Adjusted?’ Wesley didn’t like that word at all.

‘Trimmed.’

The walls were covered in peeling, gold-printed paper. Wesley bobbed as the official marched him inside, ducking to avoid a few low-hanging tendrils of the plastic grape vine nailed over the door.

A man clad in a white coat that put Wesley in mind of the pharmacists at SuperDrugz, placed a pink towel on his shoulders with a flourish.

‘Which style would you like?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Which hair style? You can choose your cut.’ The barber gestured towards a chart labelled ‘Approved Haircuts.’ Although there were fifteen portraits of men in total, set against a background of some blue fountain, Wesley could hardly tell the difference between them. All of the styles seemed the same—cropped close at the sides, and tidy on top.

Just one picture, hanging above the mirror, showed any individuality.

‘What about that one?’

The barber’s face darkened.

‘That is the Commander. You must choose from the chart.’

Wesley pointed to one at random. ‘What about women?’ he asked as the scissors rounded his left ear. It hardly seemed fair that men should be penalised for having long hair, and be given such a narrow range of styles to choose from.

‘Women also have fifteen styles,’ the barber answered, pointing to another chart. Wesley squinted. Were it not for the background of pink roses instead of the blue fountain, he would have sworn it was the same chart. Every haircut was short and functional.

As was Wesley’s when the barber finished.

Wesley stood up to pay.

‘Sit back down! I am not yet finished!’

Wesley stared into the mirror. His head looked like a carbon copy of the man on the chart’s. What could possibly be left to do?

Then he saw it.

The razor gleaming in the barber’s hand.

‘I must also adjust your facial hair.’

Within seconds, Wesley’s adjustment was complete. The patch of stubble he’d nurtured —modelled, he had to admit, on Neero’s own—was gone. For the first time in years, Wesley could see the entirety of his face in the mirror.

His ears newly chilly, Wesley finally received his stamped passport from a guard underneath a sign that said ‘Travel Safely. Travel Orderly. Travel Warmly’.

‘Welcome to the Noreast.’

Wesley suspected he smudged the ink on purpose.

Adria

The second train Adria boarded was as old and musty as the first, and yet, every available surface was plastered with some sort of message. The poles were wrapped with sloganed plastic, signs dangled from the handle straps, posters were glued to the walls and door, and there were even stickers stuck on the windows and floor. There was writing scrawled across the seats and scratched into the glass, none of which made any sense. The cacophony of letters, the vibrant callouts and the jagged bursts, the underlines and the exclamation points, made Adria’s head throb.

She sat down as the train pulled away from the border, passing directly beneath the enormous portraits Adria had only ever seen over the wall.

The propaganda wars began when the Souwest started erecting enormous portraits of one of its colonels close to the border. Huge, smiling illustrations of the silver-haired giant loomed atop tall poles, leering over at the Noreast. Lit by fluorescent tubes, his image was visible all day and all night, from both sides of the wall.

It was only reasonable that the Noreast respond to this provocation in kind—installing great banners depicting their own Commander atop their tallest building. Lit by floodlights, visible all day and night, from both sides of the wall.

Not to be outdone, the Souwest constructed a huge flagpole, almost a hundred meters tall, right next to the border. It dominated the landscape—at least until the Noreast constructed one exactly a meter higher.

So the Souwest added an extra two meters to theirs.

But the feuding countries’ quibbles over portraits and flagpoles, and even the nuclear power plants they each built as close to the border as possible, were nothing compared to the villages.

Both countries built villages near the line, reconstructing areas decimated in the thick of the fighting. The Noreast called theirs ‘Peace Village’, the Souwest, ‘Freedom Village’.

Adria knew Peace Village was little more than a shell to hide loudspeakers. Empty buildings fitted with lights that turned on and off at predetermined hours of the day to give the illusion of happy citizens going about their daily lives. One of her first tasks at the Ministry had been to help select the music that would be broadcast across the border.

And so it continued for decades, with ever-bigger portraits of the Colonel and the Commander, ever-larger flags, ever-brighter lights, ever-higher poles, ever-more imposing buildings, and ever-louder music. One side blasting operatic arias and marching tunes, the other blaring soap operas and pop songs.

With an almighty screech, the train pulled into Souwestern Capital Station.

Hands trembling, Adria picked up her suitcase and her baskets, and followed the other passengers onto the platform.

Wesley

The second train Wesley boarded wasn’t exactly what he’d expected.

For one thing, there wasn’t a speck of graffiti—either outside or, as Wesley saw once he’d scrambled up the steps with his three suitcases—inside. Nor were there any advertisements. Aside from a sternly worded warning not to pull the emergency lever, a request to relinquish seats to the elderly, and the obligatory portrait of the man Wesley now recognised as the Commander, every surface was totally blank.

In that regard, it was exactly what Wesley had expected. No culture. Every ounce of creativity the Noreast might once have possessed had been crushed under the Commander’s jackboot.

The Commander. Wesley could glimpse one of his big portraits now. The man whose face was considered so offensive to Souwestern audiences that even when the newspapers and magazines and blogs ran his obituary—which happened more than once, since the Commander was forever disappearing and reappearing, and the media was forever speculating over his death—they obscured his face with a stamp that said ‘DICTATOR’ or ‘TYRANT’ or ‘BANDIT’. It was no wonder Wesley hadn’t recognised his photograph at the barber’s.

But everyone in the Souwest knew what the Commander was responsible for. A nation of slaves, ruled by bandits, where even the children wore ugly caps and carried guns, chanting ‘We don’t love our parents, only the Commander!’ In some parts, Wesley had heard, they dressed in rags and ate bark. At least, that’s what his mother told him, growing up, when he wouldn’t eat his peas.

It was no wonder they were so eager for the freedom and liberty the Souwest would deliver. Democracy was, after all, the Souwest’s biggest export. Wesley couldn’t remember the exact dollar amounts, but he knew it was right up there, alongside weapons, plastics, and pharmaceuticals.

In the most troubled years, the Souwestern government had allocated well over half its annual budget to the military, all in the name of promoting freedom. Even now, the army received more funding than was allocated to labour, science, energy, housing, education, food, agriculture, and transportation put together.

To the Souwestern people, who ultimately had to foot the bill for all this international freedom, the government sold its plan in two distinct flavours: to those who prided themselves upon their patriotic spirit, they were ‘recovering the motherland.’ To those (smaller in number) concerned about human rights, they were ‘liberating the Noreast.’

Although Wesley remembered these slogans from the movies he’d watched growing up, the video games his sons played, and, of course, his marketing classes at college, he didn’t remember much of the troubled years, when the tensions with their northern neighbour had been at their worst. His mother, Sully, remembered them all too well.

‘Every bus had a hotline on it, for dobbing in spies,’ she’d told him. ‘And the cinemas! If you went to see a movie, there’d be instructions on what to do in case the Noreast attacked!’

Wesley could feel himself sweating as the train pulled into Noreastern Capital Station.

It looked exactly the same as the station on the other side.

With fewer advertisements, of course. That was to be expected.

Apart from a few faded signs with red lettering so uniform and boring Wesley couldn’t be bothered to read them, there was nothing.

The effect was almost calming. Tranquil.

An oasis.

Wesley felt a surge of excitement.

The whole place was a blank canvas, and it was all his.

Chapter 3

Adria

Everywhere there were vendors, selling everything from buns to flowers. Adria stared as one man crossed the platform, wearing a board with sunglasses strapped to it, and another, bearing the name of what appeared to be a sandwich shop.

Every wall was plastered with images of tall, imposing figures and slogans she didn’t have time to read. Every square centimetre of the station seemed crammed with trolleys, vats, and carts full of sausages and candy bars. And shoved into all of the nooks and crannies were giant machines selling yet more drinks and chips and chocolates.

The smell of boiling meat made Adria’s stomach churn.

‘Adria!’

Over there, by one of the poster-covered pillars, Adria spotted someone waving madly above the sea of heads. ‘Adria!’

It must be Marka.

‘Good to meet you at last!’ She grabbed Adria’s suitcase and pulled her into a powerful hug. The familiar embrace her mother had always dreamed of. ‘Welcome to the Souwest!’

‘Thank you.’

Dragging Adria’s suitcase through the crowd, Marka motioned for her to avoid two men sitting on the station steps. Adria had expected people across the border to look different, but she hadn’t expected this. One wore trousers stained in several inopportune locations, while the other had shoes with holes so large Adria could see his purple toes. Marka muttered something under her breath, then gestured across the parking lot to an enormous bulky car, the likes of which Adria had never set eyes upon.

‘Here we are!’ she exclaimed, opening the wood-panelled trunk to throw Adria’s case in. ‘Jump in!’ Adria did, settling into what felt like a great leather armchair, with armrests sporting enormous hollows on each side.

Marka started the car, and music blasted from the speakers—the sort Adria had heard wafting over the border. Something about freedom and revolution. For a moment, Adria was shocked at Marka’s tenacity—her willingness to listen to what must surely be an underground radio station at such high volume—at least, until the DJ announced the song’s position in the Top 40.

This was the type of freedom the Souwest was famous for.

Here, you could sing anti-government songs and keep your job, your family—and your life.

‘Hungry?’ Marka asked, as the large square and rectangle buildings gave way to smaller ones, spaced further apart. At least, that’s what Adria thought she said. It was a struggle to hear anything above the music. ‘’Course you are!’ Marka shouted without waiting for a reply. The music was so loud, Adria was sure she was missing every fifth word. ‘We’ll swing by the court on the way!’

Her heart beat faster.

Wesley

‘Wesley!’ Someone waved madly above the sea of heads. ‘Wesley!’

Wesley’s mouth fell open as he saw a man barrelling towards him. Then, he quickly closed it again, as the man greeted him with a double kiss. Wesley felt his spine tighten. He’d never been in such close proximity to another man’s mouth. In fact, the only time anyone other than Marka got this close to him was at Kitty Katz, the club Neero liked to hold meetings at. But that didn’t count. At least, that’s what he told Marka. It was for business.

‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Orien.’ Adria’s husband. ‘The children are so excited to meet you.’

This, Wesley thought—based on his own boys’ reactions to house guests—was likely a lie. Shaw and Zephyr had been complaining all week about their aunt’s impending arrival— Shaw because it meant relinquishing the room he used for filming his videos, and Zephyr because he had to clean his own.

Wesley suspected the company must have sent his photograph over. There was no other way Orien would have recognised him so easily. AMK had been the ones to insist he stay with family after all. Wesley had been plumping for a nice hotel—surely even five-star accommodation in the Noreast would come at a bargain basement price. But the cultural advisor had cautioned against it. You can’t trust hotels there, she’d said. Lousy with bugs— both the bed and listening variety.

‘Welcome to the Noreast!’ Orien smiled. Wesley noted, with some irritation, that he had picked up not just one, but two of his suitcases, and was manoeuvring them with ease.

What the largely empty parking lot lacked in quantity of vehicles, it made up for in quality.

Classic vehicles everywhere.

Every car was buffed to perfection, resulting in a wonderland of chrome and polish even better than the car show Wesley had visited last month.

Orien stopped next to the shiniest of them all and opened the trunk.

‘What model’s this?’ Wesley asked, his fragile sense of rugged Souwestern masculinity still smarting from the moisture of Orien’s spittle he was sure he could still feel on his cheeks.

‘Model?’ Orien laughed as he deposited the largest of Wesley’s suitcases in the trunk. Wesley was astounded it fit. ‘It is a custom build. My father made it.’

‘He built this?’ Wesley ran a finger down the glossy paintwork of the door, realising it wasn’t perfectly smooth.

Orien lowered his voice. ‘He refused to become a member of the Party.’

‘You can do that?’

Orien shrugged. ‘Times were different. He knew he would never get a permit to buy a car in his lifetime if he did not join. So, he made his own.’

Miraculously, Orien squeezed the last of Wesley’s bags into the car.

‘But how did he get the parts?’

‘Most of the car is built of fibreglass. He taped a whole heap of newspapers to the wall, positioned a lamp next to his chair so it would cast a shadow, then sat down. Of course, I then had the job of tracing his silhouette. That was all just to get the size right. He used the tracing as a template to make a mould out of clay.’

‘Clay?’ Wesley tried to imagine how many packages of plasticine it would take to build an entire car. His mother had bought Zephyr an enormous set—with moulds and sculpting tools—for his birthday last year. Not that Marka had let him play with it. Wesley couldn’t blame her. The last thing their white carpet needed treading into it was Purple Grape’Dough.

‘I remember him digging it out of the backyard,’ Orien continued, opening the car door.

‘The backyard!’

‘It took him weeks. But there were worms in it. They made holes all through the clay,’ Orien laughed. ‘So, when he laid the fibreglass on top, it wound up with all these sticking-out bits from where the worms had been!’ He laughed even harder.

That explained the slight bumps and indentations here and there, Wesley mused. It must have taken forever to sand them all down.

‘The rest of the parts were begged and borrowed from other people. Scrap and the like. It is a hybrid, of sorts!’ Orien smiled as he started the engine. ‘In fact, we do not have to pay registration on it. They could not find such a vehicle on any of their forms. According to the government, this car simply does not exist!’

Wesley opened his mouth to comment on the Noreastern government’s notoriously inefficient bureaucracy, when he realised the same was true of the Souwest. Marka’s father had been a truck driver in his younger years, and when he and her uncle welded the front part of one truck to the crane part of another, they’d been exempted from paying any registration for it, too. ‘No such vehicle exists’ the government had written back, returning the check.

The car was more comfortable than Wesley had anticipated, and certainly more so than the train—though he noticed the door handles didn’t quite match. Orien’s father had accomplished a feat of engineering. A car customised to his exact specifications.

Wesley had paid a fortune for all the changes he’d made to his car at home. There was the climate control that allowed him and Marka to have separate temperatures in their respective zones—Marka liked her side to be 80 degrees, and he liked his at 79.5. Then there was the leather upholstering. The tinted windows. Wesley couldn’t stand the thought of people watching him pick his teeth at traffic lights. Not that he actually picked his teeth, but he wanted the option. And then there was the seat warmer. That had cost him almost as much as the car was currently worth.

And a lot less than what currently remained on his car loan.

‘I will take you for a drink on the way home.’

As Orien sped down the largely empty streets, lined with looming grey buildings, plastered with great pictures of the Commander, and with statues of the man all his gilded finery on every corner,