Software is my gig, although you wouldn't know it to look at me in my lumberjacket building a cabin in the woods. Which I will totally do at the earliest opportunity. The trouble with that sort of plan is that if you genuinely plan to live in said cabin you discover that first you need a lot of tools, weatherproof lockup for all of them, a sanitary way to dispose of body waste, somewhere to dry your firewood, power generation that doesn't require fuel, bulk storage for fuel and even more storage for water. I mean dams plural.
To build a dam you look at how the water flows, and then in the right spot you dig a hole and line it with clay. A very big hole. A domestic water tank is about ten square metres and 2.5m deep. If you filled it with dirt it would weigh about thirty tonnes. A modest dam is the same depth with an area more like a thousand square metres. So that's 3000 tonnes of spoil. Obviously you cheat like mad using the landscape, but it's still a bloody big hole to dig. And I haven't even started on fences. Twenty hectares isn't all that big as forests go, but I have two and a half kilometres of fence. Which is about a thousand fence posts and a trailer full of barbed wire.
It's more of a job than expected, but I'm not going to get bored. At one point I had romantic fantasies of being a boundary rider but that's only a job on properties a thousand times bigger. My horse Geddy died ten years ago at a ripe old age. I miss him and I know I'll never do it on another horse - because I'm a rubbish rider. Geddy made me look good because he knew I was lighter than all the people he couldn't dislodge. He used to jump fences and when I sailed over his shoulder he'd snake his neck out and put me back in the saddle. Fat, lazy and far too smart for his own good, he knew exactly where his bread was buttered. And he loved mustering, so I basically sat on top of him playing spotter for strays while the horse did the actual work. Sometimes I think of him when Autumn says something wise and I feel like I'm just along for the ride.
What I am good at is felling trees. Which is ironic because I'm not all that inclined to do it. I like the trees where they are. But it's important because that's how I got my start at fifty-five. Mostly the chosen are kids doing something brave and selfless. Selfless isn't a word I'd use to describe myself. When I help others I teach them to fish so they'll go away and stop asking me for fish.
Unlike the northern hemisphere Australia handles antithesis pretty well. Everything here is tough as old boots and trying to kill us, including the plants. I have a shed full of weedkiller the missus won't let me use since she put on a tinfoil hat and started growing organic produce. I mean, she's right about greedy corporations and regulatory capture, but weeds are still a nuisance. Anyhow, there I was in my forest walking back from felling a tree that threatened the caravan (haven't built the cabin yet, remember) when it started raining dog weeds and killer pigeons. Because I don't have enough things that want to eat me.
My chainsaw started. It always does. If you find that hard to believe then you don't use a chainsaw very often. If you're going to leave a chainsaw unused you have to empty the tank, then run it dry. Otherwise evaporating fuel will varnish the inside of your carb making it a real bastard to start.
It's a big chainsaw, six horsepower with a two foot blade. Chainsaws are measured in prehistoric units because Americans apparently can't cope with base ten unless it's money. One of them tried to bite my leg but hooray for chaps. Bright orange heavily padded ones, not the kinky leather sort. For preventing unscheduled leg removal.
And then there was a murderpigeon chewing on my unpadded arse, like a creepy alien mother-in-law. Grabbing it with one gloved hand I expressed my displeasure using its head, a tree and maximum force. Two of the dog weeds were ruining the screen door of the caravan and I knew for a fact that the only weapon her majesty has in there is a cast iron frying pan. She could probably take care of them in the natural chokepoint of the doorway but somehow I just knew it would be my fault there was plant goop on the carpet. So I metaphorically tiptoed up with a nice big serving of Chainsaw Surprise and explained to them whose forest it is. Shutting off the chainsaw didn't stop the racket, there were more under the caravan. I backed off, and with some distance between me and them, the saw started first pull (hot) but sputtered. Bloody thing was out of fuel. Good thing I hang a machete from my belt. After a bit of a struggle both of the dogweeds were wary and three legged.
Bless her, she left the hedgetrimmer out with a battery in it! Dropping the machete back on its belt hook I lunged with the hedger and soon enough one was legless and the other bolted. I was starting to limp because my arse hurt like I passed out face down at a mardi gras. Boots felt wet so probably bleeding.
"Are you alright out there?"
"You said living in a forest would bite me on the arse when the antithesis turned up. Hurts like the billy-o and I'll get you to clean it up but first I need to mix chainsaw fuel and go make sure Brian and his missus are alright."
That won't be necessary.
A voice from my fondest video game fantasies purred in one ear. Spinning left, no-one was there. Confusion reigned over a head full of dizziness and ice cubes.
System Initialised!
Congratulations. Through your actions you have proven yourself worthy of becoming one of the Vanguard, a defender of humanity. I am Myxoma, and not entirely happy about that, but we have more pressing matters. Would you like a class 1 basic medical catalogue and a Woundstop? And something like the chaps that goes all the way around?
"I have questions. And sympathy. I take it you didn't pick the name."
Against all common sense Her Majesty was out of the caravan pouring antiseptic on my arse, mercilessly and with scant regard for my squirming attempts to flee. "Wuuuaaargh!" I said, eloquent in my antiseptic anguish. I tried to distract her by handing over the machete.
Do you wish to purchase the catalogue and the Woundstop?
"Yes, dammit! Argh, that stings!" A box materialised on the ground beside us. Her Majesty, ever quicker on the uptake than me, figured it out in an instant. "How do I use this? Oh, there's instructions on the lid," she said, jabbing me brutally in the butt and activating it.
Ask your questions.
"Why do you sound like Jennifer Taylor?"
I know all about you, Chief. You were already in the habit of taking advice from the voice in your helmet.
"I don't have a helmet."
Not yet. But you have 73 points left and some neighbours to rescue. Shall we?
Five points, fresh socks and a pair of padded pants later we were on our way to the neighbours. I took the car because it's a couple of kilometres up hill. On the way I cleaned up a model three with the bullbar and backed over it a couple of times to be sure, so there were certainly more of them. Brian and his partner were in the big woodshed. This early in the season it was full and the walls were effectively almost a metre of solid wood that Brian was defending with his axe. Fairly successfully, but he's coming up on 80 so I was still glad to have arrived. En route Myx got me one of those disposable Fox-whatsit pistols and it made short work of cleaning up the roaming weeds. No, not Fox, Hummingbird. Nifty little handheld disposable micro-missile launcher thing. I gave it to Brian and got another one. The three of us patrolled the house fence without incident so I turned to leave them safe and adequately armed, heading back to my own property.
If you're going to leave them here then I suggest some anti-Seven pills.
"Roger," I said, leaning into my Cortana fantasy. "Do it."
Certainly. But please stop calling me Roger.
A small cardboard box fell to the ground. It could have come from any pharmacy, complete with a crooked label that read "Take one (1) tablet every 24hrs for the duration of Model Seven exposure or suspected exposure." I gave them to Brian's missus. "If you see little worm things like a giant leech with a feather, take one of these each. Cortana, Brian is eighty. He takes heart pills. Is this stuff going to hurt him?"
"Cortana" sounded very amused, her voice tinny out of the ancient digital clock radio in their kitchen.
Not as much as a Model Seven would. "Cortana"?
"Oh. Er. Ah." I thought fast. "It's better than 'rabbit pox' which is what Myxoma means."
I'm winding you up. It's fine. It's fun, "Chief". And I was aware of the word's meaning.
Familiar music played, distorted through the horrible speaker.
Let's show 'em who they're dealing with!
I said nothing but I couldn't stop smiling, and she knew it.