Every Sunday evening, after a morning of combat training and an afternoon of language, we lost most of our evening to hear the lecture on how we were Aotearoa’s saviours. Normally Lieutenant Jiangshi’s speeches filled me with a bubble of pride that pushed me through the next hard week of training. He’d come from here too; a prototype that exceeded all expectations until a scatter bomb stole his legs. Our hero. He never questioned. He never regretted. He’d sacrificed the body the government had given him so a real human could stay on the ground in New Zealand.

But that day my ears rang from the surgery, the freshly shaved hair itched, and the paper aeroplane tapped at my brain.

Who was Kali? And why had they sent a message? How had they got it to my window? Especially with an aeroplane so limp it might as well have been sat in acid rain for hours.

“Tui, get up!” my neighbour hissed.

I jumped up from the bench and saluted with the rest as the lieutenant left the stage—but a nurse was watching. As we lined up for our serum shots, he kept watching me. And as he flicked open the cap on my wrist and inserted the needle, he spoke.

“Did you not enjoy Lieutenant 62’s speech today?”

“Yes, yes I did, I’m sorry.”

The amber liquid gurgled out of the tube and into my bloodstream. The earache faded as my whole mind numbed into a peaceful buzz. Calmness enveloped me. What had come over me, to miss the lieutenant’s wise words?

“My ears hurt. It won’t happen again.”

The nurse eyed me, still suspicious. He tapped his wristscreen then nodded my dismissal. “I have made a note on your file. You will discuss it with your counsellor tomorrow.”

We marched single-file back to our cells in perfect silence. Each figure in front of me disappeared through their doors. An echo of curiosity wanted me to glance back to see if it was as uniform behind as well—but then I would break the uniformity, and the serum was digging its claws in, making my mind heavy.

I scanned my wrist and stepped into the comforting separation of white walls on all sides. There were no nurses, or counsellors, or instructing officers here. The security camera in the corner had stopped flashing months ago, and budget cuts meant they couldn’t repair it. The serum rushed to my head with a wave of guilt as I thumped down on the bed.

That was my fault. The scene replayed. Tearing out wires with wild fingers, because a serum shortage had made me weak. I had been so desperate for a moment of privacy that I’d destroyed compound property. I hadn’t been willing to make that sacrifice for the country that created me. The lieutenant would never have been so ungrateful. Without the government, we wouldn’t even exist.

Next to the window, my aeroplane moved.

I blinked at it, trying to react.

It moved again, almost folding itself against the glass. Inside me, under the serum, Tui shouted that it was going to get damaged, and they’d spent too much time making it perfect to allow that. I stumbled across my room, picking it up and sliding open the window. The paper shifted restlessly in my fingers, pulling away. I looked back and forth down the muddy alley between the blocks, but no security passed. Summoning all the energy and focus I could manage from beneath the serum that urged me to sleep, I threw the aeroplane out into the world, expecting it to slide into the mud.

But it sailed up like a magnet had caught it, zipping straight through an open window on the 3rd floor of Block A. I gazed up with my mouth hanging open, but no one appeared. Guilt for disobeying communication rules fluttered at the back of my mind, but I was too enraptured. Strange things happened in Block A. None of us knew what. We only heard whispers of more than the usual procedures. In my whole life, I had never communicated with anyone outside Block B.

I stayed by the window, this time grateful for the stench of sulphur. It kept me alert, knocking my senses back into action. When the aeroplane floated back as directly as it had flown off, its other wing now scrawled on, I plucked it from the air.

It’s a direct method of communication that they can’t spy on. No one is forcing you to reply—if it’s really too much hassle. But isn’t that the beauty of this? We’re not doing what we’re told. You can reply. Or you can ignore me. You have a choice.

(But you should reply, because this has to be the most interesting thing that’s happened to you in years.)

Kali

I laughed, then blinked in surprise at the sound. I scribbled out a reply, glancing up every few seconds in case Kali appeared at the window.

Well I thought the aeroplanes would end up in the mud! How did you make it fly to you? Can everyone in Block A make things fly? It was like Mary Poppins with an umbrella!

The aeroplane whisked away, and returned with one question.

Who is Mary Poppins?

Mary Poppins is… Mary Poppins. The magical English nanny. There’s a book, and a film—it’s in the library. Do you not have a library in Block A?

We do. I went there once and every word was post-bomb, pro-war propaganda.

You have to ask for the Cultural Education section! Our GB cousins donat

The serum pulled suddenly, weights on every angle of my brain. I tried to fight through and keep writing to Kali, keep asking questions about life outside Block B, but the next letters fluttered away every time I reached for them. The pen slipped from my fingers.