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before.
    “This is Eirik,” she announced. “He wants to hear about Horizon.”
    Vikram was suspicious. He could tell that Nils and Drake felt the same way, sensed them bristling beside him.
    “Show him the letters, Vik,” said Mikkeli. She spoke to Eirik. “Every week we send a letter to the Council. Vik does the writing for us. He’s the smart one.”
    Vikram was embarrassed.
    “He doesn’t want to see those, Keli.”
    “Oh go on.”
    “That’s our business,” Nils interjected. “We don’t know who this guy is. No offence, Eirik.”
    Eirik smiled. “None taken. How about we all get a drink instead?”
    Later, Eirik took Vikram aside.
    “I didn’t want to make you feel awkward, Vikram, but I’d be interested to see what Horizon sends to the Council. There’s too much talk of violence out there. It’s understandable but it won’t work. We need to use our heads.”
    “He’s a spy,” said Nils, when Mikkeli and Eirik had left and Vikram relayed what had been said to the others.
    “He’s almost forty.” Drake emptied the dregs of a tankard into her mouth.
    “What’s that got to do with anything?”
    “Old, but no grey hair,” she said simply. “Don’t you think that’s interesting?”
    “Clearly Keli does,” said Nils sourly.
    “I’m not sure he is a spy.” Vikram was thoughtful.
    “Must be.”
    “But he looks like us.”
    Eirik had what they all had—the unmistakeable taint of the west. It wasn’t just the general shabbiness and the permanent smell of salt from water travel and poor diet. It was something in the eyes. Part wariness, part resignation; a continual expectation of the worst, as though by acknowledging, almost welcoming the worst of their situation, they could somehow ward off the reality. According to the only survey ever carried out in the west, by the Colnat Initiative, life expectancy in the west was an average of forty-three. The years before, filled with sickness and unemployment, would become increasingly harsh. They all carried this knowledge on their faces, and the only time Vikram actually noticed it was when he saw someone who did not look like that. Like the skadi.
    Eirik came back. One by one he won them over. Part of the lure was undoubtedly that Eirik knew how to talk.
    “You people are exactly who I’ve been looking for,” he said.
    When Vikram showed him the transcripts of their letters, Eirik was visibly excited.
    “These are great ideas! Joint fishing missions, that’ll appeal to the anti-Nucleites, they’re desperate to get further out of the city. And if you rephrased a few things—you don’t mind me making suggestions? Like here, you talk about reducing security at checkpoints—what you want to say is border reconciliation . It’s all about the jargon.”
    Vikram wrote it down.
    “How do you know this stuff? Who taught you?”
    “You learn to pick things up. Odd jobs in the City—I always scan their newsfeed. Listen to them talking. Know your enemy, Vikram. It’s the oldest rule in the universe.”
    Then he began asking questions. So now we know what we want—how are we going to get it? It was we , right from the start. That had made them feel good. And it was a valid question, to which none of them yet had an answer. This was what they sat around arguing about for nights on end. They had been happy enough doing that for a while, with Vikram composing the letters, and occasional suggestions that they might organise a protest. Mikkeli had come up with a series of slogans. But after Eirik showed up they started noticing other things—like the fact that one electric bulb did not produce adequate light even in the summer, and that no amount of well-written words could assuage the fact that none of them had had a decent meal in weeks.
    “We need to engage with the early justice groups,” said Eirik. “Get right back to the start. The Western Repatriation Movement, they were good people—you know about them? They sent the first official