Huia Short Stories 14 E-Book

Various Authors

• Herausgeber: Huia Publishers
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Serie: Huia Short Stories
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 255

Beschreibung

Here are the best short stories from the Pikihuia Awards for Māori writers 2021 as judged by Emma Espiner, Carol Hirschfeld, Vincent Olsen-Reeder and Maiki Sherman. This competition, run by the Māori Literature Trust and Huia Publishers, is held every two years to promote Māori writers and their work. This year, the awards sought short fiction from first-time and emerging writers in te reo Māori and English.The competition attracts entries each year from writers of all ages and those who are starting out to seasoned authors. This collection of finalists' fiction celebrates Māori writing, introduces new talent and gives an opportunity for Māori writers to shine.

Leseprobe

First published in 2021 by Huia Publishers39 Pipitea Street, PO Box 12280Wellington, Aotearoa New Zealandwww.huia.co.nz

ISBN 978-1-77550-660-7 (print)ISBN 978-1-77550-676-8 (ebook)ISSN 1177-0848

Copyright © the authors 2021

The authors have asserted their rights to be identified as the authors of their respective works.

Cover image: © Kereama Taepa 2021

This book is copyright. Apart from fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without the prior permission of the publisher.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.

Published with the assistance of

Ebook conversion 2021 by meBooks

Contents

Foreword

Eboni Waitere

Kahukura: Te Tama nō te Māra Taro

Iraia Bailey

The Future is Koe

Shelley Burne-Field

Alexandra

Frances Duncan

The Bus Driver

Miriama Gemmell

Good Thing

Olivia Aroha Giles

Mangrove Heights

Emma Hislop

Ki Hea Noa Iho?

Jordanah-Lee Hohipa

He Rūkahu Rānei

Panitahi Howe

The Trouble with the Bubble

Nadine Anne Hura

Two Letters

Nadine Anne Hura

Food Porn for the Incapacitated

Merryn Jones

Not Quite Home

Steph Julian

Argentine Ants and My Search for Hawaiki

J Wiremu Kane

Wairua

Atakohu Middleton

The Children of Church Street

Airana Ngarewa

Spotlight on the Marae

Airana Ngarewa

Iti te Kupu, Nui te Kōrero

Zeb Tamihana Nicklin

Te Māminga a Tamanuiterā rāua ko Takero i a Māui

Zeb Tamihana Nicklin

Te Māra a Tangaroa

Zeb Tamihana Nicklin

Pōhutukawa me Tana Āporo

Zeb Tamihana Nicklin

Te Atakura

Sean Ogden

Marble Pills and Raspberry Vodka

Anthony Pita

The Weather Man

Leeann Ramsay

Let It Be/Waiho

Chris Reed

Ngā Hoa Hoariri

Bonice Ropiha

The Label Machine is Broken

Ashlee Sturme

Te Uaua o te Kimi Hoa

Maia Thompson

The Skinhead

Te Ariki Wi Neera

The Authors

Foreword

There’s a buzz in the air. It’s that familiar excitement and nervous energy surrounding the Pikihuia Awards. In anticipation, we wait for the new generation of Māori writers to emerge from the entries in the biennial short story competition. This will be the fourteenth awards ceremony and marks thirty years of publishing for HUIA.

The Pikihuia Awards short story competition for Māori writers is hosted by Te Waka Taki Kōrero – the Māori Literature Trust. Its purpose is to identify the best new and emerging Māori writers and celebrate these works by publishing them in a collection.

In thirty years, we have received hundreds of entries from Māori authors. While this may be impressive to some, we’re not so surprised. We have always known that Māori are remarkable storytellers, and the stories we have read are world-class.

Māori storytelling takes on different purposes. Sometimes it’s a geography lesson dressed up as a tipua on a quest. Sometimes it’s science told as a myth or legend. What I have learned about pūrākau is that, just like all good stories, there are the words on the page and then there are the messages between the lines which are designed to impart the real mātauranga. Māori have always been masterful at evoking ideas, calling us to action, exploring the natural environment, and articulating the dynamic relationships and emotional connections between people.

Traumatic experiences are universal, and some Māori have more than their fair share of challenges. Writing is a recognised therapeutic tool. Writers have long turned to their craft to expose their mamae, like tearing the plaster off a wound, hoping it will scab over and eventually heal. But the writing kete for Māori is large and varied, and it encompasses all kinds of experiences and characters, and diverse opinions, perspectives and themes.

We once had a young gang prospect enter the Pikihuia Awards. If you had known him, you might have thought that his short story would be one of violence, substance abuse and hurt. Instead, his was the oldest kind of story known to people – a love story. In the same way that you can’t judge a book by its cover, you can’t judge a writer by their story – and we are proud to share these twenty-eight stories with you.

The stories in this book are rich with wry humour, sharp dialogue and emotion. These new and upcoming writers skillfully pull the reader between poignant descriptions of human connection and assertive messages, whether that be on the impact of lockdown, living with neurodiversity, the revitalisation of Māori language, the healthcare system, police violence, or suicide. Throughout the book, writers play with dualities between loneliness and optimism, tranquility and violence, and certainty and suspense. Most importantly, each of these stories has its own distinctive and authentic voice.

Ancestral knowledge is featured in new ways, where karakia meets a computer, and in ways we as Māori have always known, like our connection to place. The evocative descriptions of land and sea situate this book firmly in Aotearoa. However, the impact of these stories and the Pikihuia Awards has a far bigger reach. This collection is a testament to Māori writers taking their place not only in New Zealand literature, but also in the world.

In addition to the Pikihuia Awards short story competition, the Māori Literature Trust lead a mentoring programme for aspiring Māori writers called Te Papa Tupu. Every two years, six writers are selected and matched with mentors who guide the writers in crafting their manuscripts. The selected writers attend workshops and literary festivals and build up their network of writing contacts.

We are proud to report that these books have been published as a result of this programme:

Watched by Tihema Baker

The Scent of Apples by Jacquie McRae

The Graphologist’s Apprentice by Whiti Hereaka

Zhu Mao by Mark Sweet

Tūtewehi by Fred Te Maro

The Pōrangi Boy by Shilo Kino

Butcherbird by Cassie Hart

Hine and the Tohunga Portal by Ataria Sharman

Flight of the Fantail by Steph Matuku

Close to the Wind by David B. Hill

As this list of publications grows, we acknowledge the many other Te Papa Tupu alumni who have gone on to publish new works developed after Te Papa Tupu and the numorous award-winning authors and mentors who have contributed to the success of the programme.

Mā te huruhuru te manu ka rere. It’s important that we pay homage to Creative New Zealand for their leadership in the arts. I would especially like to acknowledge their guidance and foresight during the COVID-19 pandemic. Their contribution to Māori in the arts extends beyond pūtea. We hope that they reflect proudly on how their funding has assisted in growing the number of Māori authors and illustrators and, more importantly, the number of creative Māori works now published.

I invite you to read and enjoy this year’s collection of short stories. Remember the names of these writers, as one day they will be on the covers of the books on your bookshelf.

Eboni Waitere

Executive Director

Huia Publishers

Kahukura: Te Tama nō te Māra Taro

IRAIA BAILEY

‘Kātahi rā te rangi ātaahua rawa ko tēnei!’ ko tā Rongo.

Koinā tāna i ngā wā katoa ka hau atu ana mātou ki roto i te māra. Koinei anō tāna tino i te ao, ā, i te pō rā anō!

He tangata mahi kai a Rongo, he tohunga rawa ia ki ērā mahi mai rā anō. He mahi tuku iho i roto i tōna ake whānau mai i tōna koroua, ā, heke iho ai ki tōna pāpā, mai i tōna pāpā ki a ia. Ināianei, kua tae te wā kia whāngaia atu ai ērā mātauranga ki tana tama, ki a Kahukura. Heoi, ko Kahukura tētahi tamaiti haututū rawa atu. He waewae tipi haere ōna, ki te hiahia koe ki a ia, kore kore rawa e kitea! Ki te kore ia e hiahiatia kei konā ia e whakahōhā tangata ana!

Kāti, i taua rangi rā i te kimi haere a Rongo i tana tamaiti kia tīmata tā rāua mahi whakatō i ngā huri taro. He nui te pōhēhē i waenganui i te iwi Māori kua ngaro katoa atu ngā mahi whakatipu taro, heoi, kei waenganui i te hapū o Ngāi Te Ngaki, kua roa e pūmau ana ki tēnei mahi mai i ngā wā onamata, ā mohoa noa nei.

Nā reira i a Rongo e kimi haere ana i tana tamaiti a Kahukura, ka kite atu ia i tētahi momo kapua e tārewa ana ki runga i te tihi o Te Kō a Haumi – koinei tō Ngāi Te Ngaki maunga e whakarārangi mai nei i te taha whakarunga o tō mātou papakāinga. Ko taua momo kapua e mōhiotia ana i waenganui i a mātou ko te kaiwaka, he tohu anō tēnā ka pā mai te marangai ākuanei.

Ka tahuri atu a Rongo ki te whakarite anō i te kāinga me te whakawhāiti anō i ngā ō ki rō whare kei noho ka pāngia kinotia e te marangai me te hau pūkeri tae atu hoki ki te ua whakarēwai, ka makere iho nei ki te whenua. Mai anō i tō mātou tīpuna a Rawahiko me tana hē nui ki a Hine-te-Ihorangi kua kangaia te kāinga nei. Ka whakawhiua āna uri ki te waipuke, ki te ua whakarēwai anō hei whakamaharatanga mō mātou i te hē o Rawahiko. Nā konei rā, ka mōhio mātou me whakarite mātou i a mātou anō.

Ka kohia e Rongo ana huri taro kia kaua e ngaro noa atu i te wai. Koinei hoki tā mātou tino kai. Engari, i a ia e whakatikatika haere ana, ka pāhiko anō i te hinengaro, auē, kei hea tana tama a Kahukura? Ka oma tere atu ia ki te māra taro, koinei tana tino wāhi tākaro i ngā wā katoa nā te pai hoki o te taumarumaru i raro iho i ngā rau nui. Ka tae ki reira a Rongo, ka karanga atu ki tana tama engari auare ake! Kīhai i puta, kīhai i kitea.

Ka kimi tonu a Rongo mō te hemo tonu atu, engari kāre tonu ia i kite atu i a Kahukura. I taua wā, kua māpuna rawa te awa ririki nei a Mangakōura, e katokato ana ōna wai. Ka whakaaro ake a Rongo tērā pea kei te kāinga rā anō a Kahukura, ā, ka hoki.

I tana taenga atu ki te kāinga karekau ia i reira, ka pā mai te wehi nui ki tōna ngākau, heoi, i tana titiro atu kua waipuketia ngā māra, ā, ka whatia iho mai te marangai nui.

Ao ake te rā ka rongo ake i te tioro o ngā manu, ka puta atu a Rongo. Kua maomao te ua, kua āio te rangi, kua whiti mai te rā. Ka tīmata anō a Rongo ki te kimi i a Kahukura. I te pā, pōuri rawa atu ia i te mea kua whakapono ia kua mate kē tana tamaiti a Kahukura, ka hīkoi haere ia i te māra nui i runga i te ngākau marū. I taua wā tonu, ka puta mai tētahi āniwaniwa ki mua tonu i a ia, ā, ka haere tōtika atu ia ki taua āniwaniwa nā te mea ko tōna kānapatanga i runga ake i tō ngā mea katoa kua kitea nei e ia.

I tana taenga atu ki te wāhi i tau iho ai te āniwaniwa, ka kitea e Rongo tētahi puia taro nui. Kāore anō a Rongo kia kite atu i tētahi puia taro pēnei rawa te nui, kua āhua piko whakaroto ngā rau katoa kia rite ki te kōhanga. Kīhai a Rongo i paku whakaaro ake he aha kei roto, heoi, ka rongo ia i te tatangi o ngā rau, ka titiro atu, ā, ka kite i ngā rau e korikori ana.

Ka tangohia ngā rau e Rongo, ki tōna whakamīharo i reira a Kahukura e moe ana me te mea nei he pēpē e moe ana i te kōpū o tōna whaea. Ka oho ake a Kahukura ka titiro atu ki tana pāpā, ā, ka menemene! Ka māringiringi iho ngā roimata a Rongo i runga i te hari, i runga i te koa, i runga i te ngākau whakamoemiti ki te Atua nāna anō tana tamaiti i atawhai.

Mai i taua wā tae noa mai ki tēnei wā, kua whakapono katoa te hapū o Ngāi Te Ngaki kua tohua a Kahukura hei rangatira mō mātou ā tōna wā, waihoki, kua huaina anō taua momo āniwaniwa ko Kahukura hei whakamaharatanga ake ki taua tohu i tohua ai a Rongo i reira tana tamaiti. Hei āpiti atu, mai i taua wā anō kua noho a Kahukura i te māra taro, ko te Ōtangaroa, ko te Kōareare anō me te Taro Hoia ngā momo taro e whakatipungia ana e ia.

Ināianei, mēnā kei te hiahia te tangata ki a Kahukura kua mōhio katoa kei hea ia, arā, kei te māra taro e mahi ana. Nā konei, kua hua ake anō te kōrero:

‘He puia taro nui, he marangai, ko Kahukura e!’

The Future is Koe

Shelley Burne-Field

Anahera bounced into her favourite café, nervous about the 9 a.m. meeting with two of her pāpā’s heroes.

The waiting breakfast guests sat at a square table by a large window. A tall man, bean-like, had contorted into one of the chairs. His knees knocked the back of the table, clinking china against cutlery. He steadied teacups, then reached with his long fingers to spin the ends of his thin moustache. The other man, a portly figure with slumped shoulders, fiddled with a polka-dot bow tie and brushed away old burn marks from his lapel. His jowls pulled every expression towards chin and chest, yet there was a twinkle in his eye. In front of him sat a tumbler full of white wine. Both men smiled cheerily as Anahera sat down.

‘Mōrena, Sir Winston,’ said Anahera. ‘And good morning to you too, Mr Orwell.’ She shook hands with them both and marvelled once again at their authenticity. Each of their features – noses, ears, eye colour, wrinkles – was perfectly matched to the original, once-living being. Every hair was meticulously cloned. They were artificial intelligences, AI bots. Anahera had been looking forward to this, their third and final meeting.

‘Mōrena to you, young lady. Terribly charming language, Māori,’ said Winston Churchill. ‘Our dear Anzac friends,’ he added and took a swig.

‘Thank you both for agreeing to our last lesson,’ she said.

‘Our pleasure,’ murmured George Orwell. ‘I’ve ordered what we all ate last week.’ He poured the tea and passed a cup to Anahera. ‘Oh, except I did order black pudding as an extra.’

Orwell’s tall frame suddenly hunched up, and he coughed into a white handkerchief pulled from his jacket pocket. It was a long deep hack, and at the end of it he sat back with closed eyes.

‘Have you learned anything about anything?’ Orwell asked the question, softly, out of breath and with a slight wheeze. His eyes blinked open. Both men looked expectantly at Anahera, and she felt caught in the beam of a search light. She took an exaggerated sip of tea. It was full-bodied and strong. She deliberately sat back into the chair.

‘Let’s wait until we’ve eaten. Agreed, gentlemen?’ She wanted to get her thoughts in order.

‘Agreed,’ said Churchill loudly. ‘The bacon here is as good as anywhere in the empire – apologies – the world.’ Seeming to prove his point, a wiry waiter with a full-face tā moko appeared as if by magic with three laden plates. He set them down and gestured to the group, prompting them to ogle the glistening food.

‘I didn’t see you the other day at the hui?’ the waiter whispered into Anahera’s ear. ‘Enjoy your kai, including the aroha,’ he said jovially to them all, and backed away with a flourish.

‘Shall we eat?’ Anahera said, avoiding the waiter’s eyes.

She visited the café most weeks – mostly for the cheese scones. It was only a bicycle ride from her town house, and on the same road as the launch complex where she’d worked the past two years, at the end of a tiny peninsula.

‘I’m having organic black pudding,’ said Orwell, ‘made from meatless hog blood.’ He’d regained his breath and was contemplating the black crispy rounds on his plate. They lay beside three perfectly poached eggs, two ovals of toasted rēwana bread and a classic roasted tomato relish. Churchill looked anything but impressed.

‘If the meatless meat is what I fear, George, it sounds very much like a fraud, a fake; indeed, a pig forgery.’

‘Winston, I believe it’s made from mushrooms,’ said Orwell. He created a large stack of food with his fork and placed it in his mouth. His moustache twitched with every chew and swallow. ‘The hint of mint reminds me of my vegetable garden, but the smell – ugh.’

‘None of those gourmet items for me. Simple fare, and lots of it,’ said Churchill. He seemed to think on that a bit, and called to the departing waiter’s back. ‘Champagne!’ he roared, and turned away from Orwell’s disapproving brows.

‘I have to be at the lab by 2 p.m.,’ interrupted Anahera. ‘Tomorrow we have a perfect launch window for our latest payload.’

‘Still tinkering with those hexagonal satellites? The mind boggles,’ said Orwell. ‘They occupy lower orbit, don’t they?’

‘Yes, they can be manoeuvred quite accurately these days.’ She trailed off when she noticed the two men exchanging glances.

‘Good chess pieces, I’d warrant,’ suggested Churchill.

‘Our payloads are strictly science-based,’ replied Anahera. Her tone was defensive.

‘Strictly?’ asked Orwell as he stretched out his knees.

‘It’s always been the vision.’ Anahera cut the delicate Hōhepa cheese omelette, glimpsing the oozing gold, and then tasted a forkful. ‘This is good,’ she said, her distraction delicate. ‘Did you know Vermont cows have their own personality development programmes?’

‘Vermont?’ mused Churchill. ‘My mother was briefly raised in New York: Lady Randolph. Iroquois Indian on my grandmother’s side!’ He wound a strip of plump bacon around his fork and chewed it for a short five seconds before shaking his jowls in delight, then took a long drink of champagne from the stemless flute and whispered, ‘I adored her.’ At that he was silent and moved on to consuming the fried eggs, mopping up the runny yolks with a slice of bread spread with thick butter. The whole thing felt completely surreal.

Orwell sat back after finishing. ‘In the last two sessions, we’ve talked of early twentieth century politics and war … now tell us your final thoughts,’ he said, addressing Anahera as she finished her omelette.

Churchill sat back too. ‘Miss Anahera, you won the Rutherford Physics Prize at, what, thirteen? Professor Rehua must have been a vital influence. Correct?’

Anahera nodded slowly. ‘Āe, Pāpā shaped who I am. Being Māori especially.’

‘And a good thing,’ murmured Churchill. ‘Shall we retire to the outdoor sofas? My cigar is calling.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Orwell. ‘A cigarette is one of life’s only pleasures. I’m looking forward to hearing about your father’s lessons, Miss.’

‘I’ll meet you out there.’

The two men nodded and walked outside. Anahera watched through the window, still amazed that these men were fake humans, a remnant of their former selves. Still, they had become her teachers; a strange inheritance from Pāpā.

She kept watch as Orwell and Churchill prepared their choice of smokes – one a fat earthy cigar, the other a tiny rod of rolled tobacco.

Churchill pulled the unlit cigar up to his eyes and examined it. It was, of course, Cuban. He poked a hole at the mouth and tested the draw with a few dry puffs. After it was lit, on the third inhalation, a look of tranquillity eased the tension on his face, and he chewed on the end as if it was a piece of jerky.

Orwell, meanwhile, held the crude cigarette in front of his nose and gazed down upon it before lighting the end in a crackle. He scribbled a few sentences in a notebook that Anahera would read years later. The air is full of pine pollen and tea tree. There is an underlying smell in this land – both bitter and sweet.

She hurried to the bathroom, treading the wet lino on the tips of her long white sneakers. At the mirror, she viewed her heart-shaped face, and touched her hair. The ends were as rough as a mānuka branch. She stood slim and balanced and felt as she’d always felt: sure of herself and confident. Her moko kauae lifted her chin, and her whole being expanded into a force-field against the world. Bigotry still existed in Anahera’s Aotearoa, and Pāpā had always said there was a simple explanation: fear of the other. She knew that in some spaces she was other still.

Anahera washed her hands and wondered about Sir Winston. It was as though she was some sort of unintended legacy. She was post-colonial – wasn’t she? A burnt gingerbread girl bursting out of the oven? Keeping out of the jaws of foxes crouched in hidden holes? Is this what Pāpā wanted her to see? Wanted her to be? Her father’s image merged into the mirror: chiselled nose, hair-bun, whorled tā moko. His lips parted: the future is koe.

On her way outside, Anahera’s musings strayed to Orwell. She was struck by his sometimes bleak mood and suspicions. A vision flashed in her mind’s eye – a glorious red tomato sat ready and ripe, but underneath was a rotting mess. He was the magnifier of hidden things.

She stopped at the counter and ordered a long black, a local fruity pinot gris and another pot of tea, this time Ceylon. She added some Stilton and goat cheese, dried fruit, crackers and local fresh figs with a drizzle of bush honey. The waiter winked at her, his lips full and moist, and she ignored him for the hundredth time.

‘I’ve come to a conclusion,’ announced Anahera, back outside. She stood with hands on hips. Churchill and Orwell said nothing.

‘Right,’ she said, ‘I think that neither of you have any idea what it’s like to be a young brown woman, or actually even a young white woman in this world of ours.’ She smiled and felt one of her dimples pucker. They wanted her opinion? Fine. A look of surprised humour landed on both men’s faces.

‘Very good. So your argument revolves around our combined inexperience of powerless sub-groups and feminist theory?’ asked Churchill good-naturedly.

‘Powerless in your eyes,’ she continued. ‘But I suppose I don’t know what it’s like to be a pale, stale male either?’ said Anahera with a shrug.

‘Miserable, phlegmatic, solipsistic,’ said Orwell, smirking.

‘Speak for yourself, man,’ said Churchill. ‘And your point is, Miss?’

‘I’m getting to it …’ she said, but she was interrupted, again, by the waiter.

‘Middle-earth second breakfast to share, e hoa mā?’

Orwell seized on the honey-drenched figs. ‘Glorious; this reminds me of Spain.’

‘Stilton! How did you know?’ said Churchill with watery eyes.

Anahera received the drinks and waved the waiter away. He grinned over the top of her head, and she took a sip of the hot coffee. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘even though you’re not young Māori wāhine, I have a feeling you both know exactly what it’s like to be unheard, sometimes unseen, and even actively undermined?’ Again, the two men remained silent, their faces confused. ‘Your absent fathers? Of course,’ she concluded, matter-of-fact.

Churchill frowned and nibbled on a piece of Stilton for a long moment. ‘Perhaps you’re onto something psychological, my dear. Lord Randolph only spoke to me two or three times my entire life – when he wasn’t demolishing my self-esteem in his loathsome letters.’

‘Exactly,’ said Anahera. ‘I completely disagree with some commentators who say you have no idea about the lives of common people, Sir Winston – no offence.’

‘None taken.’

Orwell scratched his moustache. ‘And what about my elderly, absent father?’

‘Well, you hardly knew him and had terrible experiences with authority – even when you were a police officer in Burma. That’s why you have trust issues with government,’ said Anahera through a mouthful of dried apricots. ‘Well, that and the abject failure of communism and the abuse of power that compromised the altruistic tendencies of others in your direct experience, I suppose.’ The sentence flowed out in a rush.

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Orwell, grinning.

‘Right you are,’ said Churchill.

‘What about your trust issues?’ asked Orwell. ‘What about your rocket corporate?’

‘I don’t have any trust issues.’ Anahera immediately set down her cup.

‘Really?’ Orwell’s eyes narrowed. ‘The latest launch? Are you happy with the ethics application?’ His voice deepened, and his gaze bore down into hers.

‘What? How did you know about that?’ she asked, shifting in her seat.

Orwell shook his head. ‘What would your father say? Have you forgotten what we are?’ He threw a glance at Churchill, who gave him a two-fingered victory salute.

‘Your father left us here to teach,’ said Churchill. ‘“Who does not regret the days that are gone? Yet it is our duty boldly to face those that are yet to come,”’ he said, gruffly. ‘Incidentally, that was a direct quote from myself after the Boer War.’

‘How did you know about the HexSats?’ Anahera demanded.

‘Your Professor Rehua was a wise man, Miss,’ Orwell said. ‘So I’ll ask you the same question – any trust issues about your rocket corporate?’

‘Not really.’ Anahera’s heartbeat sped up ever so slightly. Both men sat still and inhaled. They blended like ghosts behind the blue smoke plumes.

‘What I meant was,’ she said, hurriedly, ‘there’s no need for corruption any more. You both taught society that! The company is transparent!’

Churchill coughed out a cloud. ‘Miss Ana, why did you question the ethics application?’

‘How do you know those details?’ Anahera sat forward.

‘Your father made sure there would be no memory holes for you,’ said Orwell.

‘He knew your political potential would be stellar,’ said Churchill.

The waiter loped past the window with a tray in his hand. A huge smile reached out to Anahera before he disappeared to the front of the café. A pīwakawaka fluttered into a tī kōuka palm set in the middle of the courtyard. Sweat beaded on her cheeks.

‘What have you learned?’ asked Orwell.

‘Apart from the fact that you’re a pessimistic paranoid boor?’ said Anahera. She drew a shuddery breath. Orwell raised his thin smoke.

‘No need to get personal now, dear,’ said Churchill.

‘Or the fact that you’re a conceited narcissistic alcoholic?’

Churchill raised his cigar. ‘Yes, well we’re all, ah, human,’ he said with a wink.

‘What have you learned?’ repeated Orwell.

‘New Zealand isn’t Europe!’

‘No,’ Churchill said. ‘It is not.’

Anahera swore under her breath and walked over to the courtyard wall. She could see right out to the ocean, a turquoise line blending into the misty clouds. The tall spires of the launch complex sat outlined against the sky. They’d taken on a sinister shadow. She turned away. Anahera wished Pāpā had left her an artificial bot of himself instead. Of everything he could have done, why did he fucking leave her two old Englanders as mentors? Her lip curled. She was torn. They were famous worldly figures, but irrelevant, surely?

‘You okay, kare?’ The waiter’s voice sounded once again in her ear.

‘What the …? Hey, you scared me!’

‘Sorry!’ The waiter laughed and turned on his heel. ‘See ya āpōpō!’

‘Wait!’ she called. ‘The hui the other day?’ she asked.

‘Oh yeah. Why weren’t you there?’

‘Uh, I don’t know. Do you know who the suits were?’

The waiter looked puzzled, but then a knowing look passed over his face. ‘Ah, you need something from me?’

‘What? Wait, no!’

‘Just joking,’ he said and laughed. ‘A couple of them were vaping out back by the kitchen – they were wearing camo.’

‘Really?’

‘Āe, I thought it was a bit weird.’

‘Āe. Hey thanks.’

‘Any time. Pēhea koe?’

‘I’ll be fine. Just gotta jump outta this oven.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Ka kite anō.’ She turned back to find Churchill and Orwell staring directly at her.

‘Fine!’ she said loudly. ‘The first lesson I learned from you both – I think – is that if you see something right in front of your nose, or the evidence is right in front of your own eyes, then believe what you see and work the matter out for yourself.’ Her red line was beginning to rise.

‘Well said,’ said Orwell, scooping some honey off the plate in front of him and lifting it to his lips.

Anahera’s shoulders trembled, and she continued, ‘And I suppose if your principles mean the world to you – then you work with all your might, all your passion, and all your strength to live them, and fight for them, beyond power and beyond fear.’

‘Cheers to that,’ said Churchill quietly as he sipped the floral wine.

Anahera closed her eyes and she was back in her Pāpā’s office, two years ago. Books and paintings lined the walls. A korowai hung framed behind his broad shoulders.

‘Can you trust this new company, Ana?’ Pāpā had asked.

‘It’s cutting edge,’ she’d replied. ‘I can’t work for the university my whole life.’

‘What about manaakitanga? Who benefits from their decisions?’

‘They’re legit, Pāpā. The Chancellor has signed off on a partnership.’

‘Reach through the fire, Ana.’

‘There’s no fire! Why don’t you believe me?’ she’d cried.

‘E whakapono ana ahau ki a koe! Whakapono ki a koe anō. The future is koe.’

She hadn’t convinced him. He’d never approved. That was two years ago, and then he’d gone and got cancer, and left her alone with these two. The cigar and cigarette smoke curled around and into her hair. She breathed it into her lungs, where another memory latched on to the pull of her breath.

The meeting two days ago. The hui at this very café. She’d cycled past and seen her boss meeting with a group of suits. An unscheduled meeting. On this project, each and every meeting had been scheduled to the nth degree. Except this one.

‘And what of your pa-pah’s lessons?’ Churchill asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Anahera closed her eyes. In her mind, she pushed open a door, and the flames exploded. ‘I think the HexSat05 project … may be military …’

‘Certainly military,’ said Orwell.

‘… the ethics application was accepted too easily …’

‘Old boys, definitely,’ said Churchill.

‘… five new satellites were added to the manifest two days ago.’ She sighed.

‘Ah,’ Churchill replied.

‘Now what, Miss?’ asked Orwell.

Anahera’s hand lifted to her chin. ‘Kōrua – I’m going to reach through the fire.’