Demography Day

Copyright © 2020 by Peter Breally.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/25/2021

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CONTENTS

Foreword

Prologue

The First Day

The Second Day

The First Trimester

Two years later

About the Author

That’s the problem I have, sis. I spent a whole day yesterday trying to find someone who could assure me that women were still conceiving.

Australian journalist Sonya James is visiting her prenatal clinic in the early phases of her pregnancy when she notices something a little too widespread to be a mere coincidence. Women around the world have mysteriously and suddenly stopped becoming pregnant. What begins as a curiosity and certainly good business for the paper she writes for quickly becomes a maelstrom that threatens to dismantle her life as countries around the world fall into a panic that humanity's time appears to mysteriously be up. Spies and government agencies are interested in Sonya, who only observed the phenomenon and has no understanding of her own. With no answers looming on the horizon and her way of life irreparably damaged, Sonya retreats into solitude with her new daughter, seeking peace as the rest of the world struggles to grapple with what seems to be the conclusion of human life on Earth.

What opens as a potential sci-fi mystery quickly escalates into a global political thriller, as powerful individuals try to wrestle control from a situation that will not yield it. The author does an inspiring job of telling the same story from multiple perspectives. At once, we see countries hovering over the threat of a war of extinction, the masses confused and panicking, the intrigue surrounding Sonya, and very real and intimate moments of individuals coming to terms with the fact that they will never be able to start a family. These points of view are balanced delicately and play off of each other brilliantly, illuminating the stakes for everyone involved. The story continually ramps up in intensity until the final third, which like the stages of grief, focuses more on acceptance and graceful presence in the face of adversity. Compelling and impossible to predict, this is a thrilling and thought-provoking read.

US Review of Books

FOREWORD

F rom whence does a story evolve? In my case it came about when I read a factual report that during the period following both great wars of the twentieth century, more boy babies were born than girl babies.

This intrigued me.

Wondering who or what it was that had the ability to manipulate the demographics of the human race on such a short call as this led me to researching books by Sir David Attenborough, Doctor Paul Ehrlich and Doctor David Suzuki, recognized authorities on this subject. These respected scientists wrote at length on matters of population including calamities that had induced five near complete extinction episodes occurring in the history of Mother Earth. One resulted in the total number of occupants on planet falling by an amazing ninety five percent. These graphs and figures I found most interesting, even more so when I read of the mutual agreement by these gentlemen that the biggest threat to the stability of our modern civilisation is by far the alarming human population increase we are currently experiencing.

I was to learn that whereas it took a period of one hundred centuries for the human population numbers on our planet to reach one billion people, these days it takes just thirteen years! Where will we end up? We humans who can control everything but ourselves. Thus the question was posed in my mind, will the same forces that can simply rebalance the agenda by producing more boy babies after the ravages of wars step in and put the brakes on a rampant human race again?

So became the story…. not a tale of graphs and figures for I leave that to the professors. Demography Day is a philosophical journey set in contemporary times as experienced by a brave young woman struggling to contain the roller coaster of emotions life has dealt her…

Peter Breally

PROLOGUE

B ig Al Dullery sat at his desk staring at the screen, which seemed to stare right back at him. It was an impressive display that glowed and changed colours continuously, dominating the entire south wall of the large room that was almost completely sound deadened. Its worth with all the associated equipment was in the vicinity of $50 billion.

Big Al loved his job. Big Al loved lots of things. He loved his wife, his food, his dog, his restored Mustang, and his life in general. But he especially loved his job. He had slaved hard and duxed his final year at college, majoring in radio sciences. His early life had been a struggle. His folks had no spare cash for his education. They were poor dirt farmers growing beet crops and cutting baled hay. Al had always been bright at grade school, however, and had won a scholarship for his college education. It didn’t come easily. When the rest of the gang were out chasing girls or hotting up their cars, Al was harvesting beet or spraying weeds or driving the tractor. At nights, he studied his maths and calculus; on weekends, he worked in the used-car lot in town, washing and polishing vehicles or fixing them up for resale. Mr Harrison, who owned the business, appreciated the effort Al put in and allowed him to pick one car for his use. Al never picked a flash type, just something with many miles under its bonnet and had seen better days. It was a fine arrangement, for it gave Al enough pocket money to buy the small necessities that a college student needed to keep him going, and it gave him wheels to take Mr Harrison’s attractive daughter Julie to the Hop on Saturday nights. His folks were with him all the way, proud of their son who might be able to break free of the shackles of poverty that had always been the way of the entire local farming district that fought losing battles with erratic markets, changing weather patterns, and unsympathetic banks.

Life had become easier when Al graduated with honours in science and maths. His folks were bursting with pride as Al stepped up to the podium to receive his awards. Mom was crying, and his dad looked pleased and embarrassed. The mayor, up for re-election, made the presentations, congratulating all the young men and women on their achievements and shaking hands with everyone continuously. Then Mr Harrison gave Al the keys to an aged Ford Mustang convertible that Al washed and polished more than any other car on the lot but which never seemed to attract a buyer.

Al was stunned. He had expected nothing like that from Mr Harrison. He had hesitated for a second or two, not sure whether the car was being offered as a loan or sold to him at a reduced price.

‘Take it, boy,’ Harrison had boomed. ‘It’s yours to keep. It’ll need a bit of work but nothing you can’t handle. It’s outside now, waiting for you.’ Julie, hair piled high and looking ravishing in a yellow summer frock belted tightly around her tiny waist, clung to Al’s arm as they made their way out of the college auditorium. Al thought he might burst with pride and happiness as he opened the car door for her. Later that night, in a motel room rented just for the occasion, Julie gave Al the most special gift of all: her virginity!

Al had quickly applied to several science-related research centres and was snapped up by the Roland Communications Corporation, a massive government contractor who promptly sent Al back to university, paying for another two years of study relating to deep space radio-wave activities. During that period, they offered him a permanent position at the Wilsonhurst Listening Post, more commonly known as Big Ears by the people who worked there. It was a plum job, good money, and always interesting.

Tonight, however, Al’s mind wasn’t really on the job. He felt like pushing his chair back and throwing his legs up on the desk. The thought of the reaction from the duty supervisor to seeing Al’s feet splayed out over a million dollars’ worth of computer console brought a smile to his face. He shook his head and studied the lines and squirls that indicated the comings and goings of the radiation transmissions of space. Everything looked normal or as normal as the weird transmissions made by all the stars and planets of the universe could be called. A heavy sunspot had been yelling its head off for a couple of weeks now, but that had backed off. The world’s weather forecasting agencies had been voraciously devouring all information available from the Big Ears facility, and the last month had been hectic.

It wasn’t the workload that was worrying Al, though. It was Julie, his wife. They wanted a baby, but Julie just couldn’t seem to fall pregnant, and it sure as hell wasn’t from the lack of trying. The doctor had submitted them to all the tests but could find no reason they weren’t having any luck in that department. Sure, Al was a little overweight maybe, but he worked out in his pool regularly enough. The doc said he had a sperm count that should sire a dozen kids.

‘One will do me fine.’ Julie had laughed in his ear that night as they made love in the shower. Another of the doctor’s suggestions!

Big Al busied himself writing a couple of reports that were overdue and handed the reins of the establishment to his relief at midnight. His beloved restored Mustang convertible shone in the desert starlight as the exit barricades to the world’s largest radio telescope grew small in the rear-vision mirror. When Al pulled the car into his drive 20 minutes later, he was surprised to see the lights still on in the house. Julie was standing by their wedding photo. Her long auburn hair had been swept up, and her trim figure did perfect justice to the dress she had chosen carefully for the occasion.

‘What’s going on, honey?’ he asked, his voice echoing the puzzlement that showed on his face. Julie stood for a moment longer, then launched herself at him, and threw her arms around his neck.

‘I’m pregnant!’ she screamed in his ear. ‘Pregnant, pregnant, pregnant, that’s what.’

Big Al was a happy man. He had a good job, a lovely wife, and a baby on the way. That night they made tender love and fell asleep knowing that they would have a son and he would be special. Big Al and Julie could never have known how special.

*   *   *   *   *

THE FIRST DAY

S onya James drove the entire length of the street before she found a parking space for her car. Christmas was not far away, and the tropical sun burnt through the windscreen. A thin film of coal dust that covered the glass seemed to magnify the intensity of the rays even further. Sonya swung her tanned legs onto the footpath, raised an umbrella to ward off the heat that can visit the coastal towns and cities of North Queensland at this time of the year, and stepped out the two blocks back to the prenatal centre of Gladstone.

Since she was seven weeks pregnant with her first child, Sonya’s doctor had suggested that she begin her prenatal courses earlier than usual. Her mum had suffered from asthma all her life. In fact, it had been an asthma attack while she was at home alone that took her life. Sonya herself had shown no symptoms, but she felt she needed to be sure that she fully knew any hazards that her little unborn baby may have to face and what, if anything could be done about it. The registration process had been completed, all done online two weeks before. Sonya attended her first session in relative silence, most of the talking being done by the mother craft nurse and some of the older ladies on their third or fourth child and knew all the answers to questions being asked by the younger attendees. Sonya found it fascinating to hear the women talking about food cravings, increased sex drives for some, how to deal with morning sickness if it came, breast enlargement (Sonya had rather small perky breasts she secretly wished were larger), and pelvic exercises. She did, however, make a point of asking the class if anyone had raised children who suffered from asthma attacks and was only slightly surprised to learn that most people in the room had a relative who suffered from this debilitating lung condition. The group discussions were interesting and informative, and the clinic sister ran a range of checks on Sonya’s lung capacity and heart rates before and after hopping up and down from a low bench and took blood pressure readings and samples.

Later that afternoon back at work, her desk piled high with features and articles for tomorrow’s edition of the Gladstone Times. Sonya’s mind wandered to the coal pollution problem that filled the town’s hospitals with gasping and wheezing patients, old and young alike. It distressed her greatly, for she loved the seaside city that had been home to her family for three generations.

Three years earlier, having finished her cadetship at the paper and having then secured a permanent position as a reporter, Sonya had begged her editor to allow her to write articles with detailed photographic evidence showing the extent of the pollution now being carried across the city every time the wind blew. She had targeted the government-owned coal load-out facility smack bang in front of the town centre, compiling photographic evidence of the pollution that spread over the schools and houses every time a moderate wind blew from a northerly direction.

Sonya James had proudly put her name to a fine piece of reporting that showed how the government had failed in its feeble attempts to control the downwind pollution.

‘Why,’ she had asked, ‘did the planners of the day place the great stockpiles right next to the port when it could have been some distance inland and the product transported to the shipping areas via dust-sealed conveyor belts or build a shed over the stockpile and paint it the same colour as the sky as they did in other countries around the world?

‘Had the government controlled the problem at that point’, her articles had postulated, ‘perhaps the privately owned load-out facilities that now dominated the great natural harbour would have been designed and built to environmentally acceptable standards.’

There had been quiet responses and letters to the editor praising her stand and expressing their concerns, but nothing had happened. Nothing had changed. Sonya pushed her chair back and gazed dreamily out the window at the harbour. She had a great view from the second floor from her office desk, looking north-east towards the clear waters of Farmers Point. The white beach, fringed with coconut palms, shone in the sunlight; and the water sparkled as a small boat slowly navigated its way out to the north passage. She endured a mind swoop at the recollection of her happy childhood days playing on the beach or swimming around her dad’s yacht. How she missed him! Dad had been her life and soul, her mate, the one she could always turn to. She had never known her mum. Sonya had been only 3 years old when the asthma attack had taken her life. If only Mum and Dad could have seen my little baby when it arrives, she thought. Sonya recalled something that the receptionist at the prenatal clinic had said when leafing through her desk diary today.

‘You know, it’s strange. We have had no new registrations for two weeks now. You are the last one on our books.’

Ever the journalist, Sonya made a note to follow up this piece of trivia. Maybe a woman’s angle about why the men of the land were losing their libido. Later that evening, she rang her older sister in Sydney to talk babies. Alice already had two sons and another child due anytime now. Sonya pumped her with questions:

‘When did the baby first start kicking?’

‘Did it hurt?’

‘Were her breasts sore?’

‘What exercises did you do at your prenatal classes?’

Alice laughed at the enthusiasm in her sibling’s voice and told her to follow the advice of her clinic nurse. Alice then just mentioned there had been no new enrolees at her Sydney clinic for two weeks. Sonya frowned, her mind working.

Next morning, once she had attended to the pile of work that had come in over the night telexes, she called ten prenatal clinics around Australia. Without exception, they all confirmed that not one pregnant woman had registered for classes for two weeks.

What the hell is going on?

Sonya stared at the phone, her mind now racing. On an impulse, she punched www.prenatalclinics.com into her computer and obtained the numbers for similar institutions in England, Ireland, France, and America. Most calls were not answered directly. It was night-time in Europe, although quite a lot of the clinics had an after-hours number. It took most of the morning, but finally Sonya James had a story—and a rather puzzling one at that.

Women had stopped falling pregnant.

She didn’t believe it and sat there staring out the window at the black rooftops, seeing nothing. How could it be possible that unrelated women in different countries around the world no longer needed to attend clinics to assist them with their pregnancies? Was she missing something? Sonya needed help with this and rode the lift to the third floor of the Gladstone Times. The editor sat at his large desk in his shirtsleeves, his face a roadmap of wrinkles. He looked up and grinned when she politely knocked on the glass door. They had built up a special working relationship over the past seven years and had a good deal of respect for each other.

‘Joe, something is not quite right, and I can’t put my finger on it.’

He waved her to the chair and then leaned back, his large belly sticking out between a set of blue braces. Joe was a big man who spent most of his time sitting at his desk. His wife of forty years believed that a man should eat good meals and plenty of them too. Sonya smiled when she saw a set of golf clubs leaning up against the wall next to him. The only person who had picked up the clubs in years was the cleaner.

‘Tell me about it,’ he rasped in a voice that reminded Sonya of the actor Marlon Brando she had seen in some old twentieth-century movie a long time ago. It was his favourite saying, and all the staff mimicked him behind his back. He was also one of the most intelligent men Sonya had ever met, and many were the times she had sought his opinion. Joe placed his podgy fingers on his forehead and closed his eyes while he listened. When she had finished, he rose with a deep grunt and moved to the window. After a while, he turned and stared at Sonya for a full minute.

‘Okay, get onto it. Someone must keep records of the number of pregnancies that occur around Australia or the world. Do it now and do it quietly.’ Joe returned to his seat and sat down with a sigh that told Sonya he was just as puzzled as she was.

Sonya and two of her staff worked well into the night phoning hospitals, paediatric specialists, the Bureau of Statistics, and anyone else who they thought might keep records of which women had fallen pregnant and when. Their exhaustive searching kept coming back with the one common denominator. There was no record anywhere to be found of any new pregnancies for the past fortnight. Surviving on black coffee and biscuits, Sonya and her team had typed up the story that offered questions, not answers, to the strange pieces of information they had gleaned. Tiredly she had placed the finished article onto the editor’s desk and then driven home.

Next morning, Joe had read the story twice and changed nothing. It was a good story that would leave the reader in the dark, disturbed and eager to read more as the full story unfolded. That story sold copy, and Joe was too experienced a newspaper man to miss out on it. He wrote a headline above the article and forwarded it down to the girls who ran the editing desk with a note tagged to it that instructed them to forward it to the printers with no alteration. When the Gladstone Times hit the streets early on Friday morning, the front-page headline would dramatically capture the attention of its large reading public with a bold font that simply read DEMOGRAPHY DAY THE COUNTDOWN IS ON. Full story page 3.’

Joe knew how to sell a newspaper!

THE SECOND DAY

T he phone rang at 2.15 Friday morning, The recipient of the call listened for a while, hung up, then twiddled the mouse on his computer, and brought up the front-page display of the Gladstone Times . The newspaper would not hit the streets for another three and a half hours yet, but the office of Canberra watchdogs knew what news every paper in Australia was running well before the public did. Any editorial or story that might embarrass the government would be analysed carefully by the political scientists who worked there. The bureaucrat, looking smart and fresh in a blue suit, studied the screen for a while. He scrolled through the story that Sonya James had written that morning and raised his eyebrows.

‘Hey, Greg, click onto the Gladstone Times front story and tell me it’s nothing.’

The man in a grey suit sitting on the desk alongside did as requested and whistled softly.

‘Sure beats the hell outta me,’ he replied.

The man in the blue suit picked up a phone, dialled, and waited. After a while, a sleep-laden voice answered.

‘Sorry to wake you, Col, but we’ve had a hot one bowled at us that I thought you should know about.’ He filled his boss in on the details of the story, listened for a while, and then hung up.

‘Okay, listen up, everybody. We’ve received a tip about a front-page story being run by the Gladstone Times in Queensland. Sonya James, who most of you will remember from the ulcers she gave the government about its supposed lack of pollution control a couple of years ago, has come up with a story that women worldwide have suddenly stopped falling pregnant.’

There were six people in the office, four males and two females. They were all dressed in suits, for any department of the Australian Security and Intelligence Organisation had to follow very strict dress codes. They had spent the greater part of their working lives here and had all followed up on sensational news stories often. The rather mannish-looking lady with iron-grey hair and a severe face snorted a laugh.

‘What line of bullshit is that harebrained reporter going to inflict on her readers next?’

Blue Suit glared at her for a while. He was the head of this section of the department. He did not like bad language in his office, he was tired, and he wanted no more hassles on his desk such as this ‘Demography Day’ story.

‘The boss has placed a code-three status to the story. That paper will hit the streets on the east coast in three hours’ time, and we’ve got work to do. The press secretary to the prime minister’s office will have to be briefed on the validity of the story and how the reporter came to the conclusion that she has.

‘More importantly, we need to be able to debunk this story, show that it is just a small-time newspaper that got its facts wrong. The Gladstone Times need to be taught a lesson they won’t forget in a hurry.’

Blue Suit glared at each person in the room, rather like a football coach at half time.

Iron Grey sniffed.

The six research specialists disappeared into their mental space, intent on computer screens. Australia may be sleeping but not its computers. For two hours, there was no talk, each person intent on his or her task. How they carried out their investigation was left up to them, although each enquiry, log-on connection, or telephone call was recorded. ASIO had to withstand any scrutiny constantly levelled at them.

For two hours, inquiries were placed to computers all over the world, seeking information. Unlike Sonya James, they had access to websites that were secure. Websites such as the Bureau of Statistics, the major paediatric hospitals, other newspapers around the world that might be running a similar story, or the theoretical computers that would already have stored in their massive brains the chance of something like this happening.

‘Jesus Christ.’

Blue Suit had temporarily forgotten his office protocols. He slowly pushed his chair back and looked at the others as they did likewise. He looked ragged and stunned.

‘It’s true.’

One by one, computer screens reflecting blue lights off their spectacles, the research team nodded.

‘The theoretical computers say it’s not possible.’

They turned to Iron Grey as she spouted figures that showed the likelihood of such an occurrence affecting the human race was zero. The research officers all talked at once, pointing to the screens connected to every corner of the globe, screens that confirmed that not one new pregnancy had been recorded for seventeen days. They also confirmed that not one other newspaper or news media in the entire world had mentioned the fact. The air in the room was electric as the full impact of the story that Sonya James was about to unleash on her reading public sank in. No one wanted to believe it. It must be wrong, but the best brains and technology in the business could not disprove the startling claim made by the humble Gladstone Times.

Even now, trucks loaded with thousands of copies of the story were speeding around the east coastal regions of Australia. Not only could the story not be denied, but it also could not be stopped. As the first pale glow of the morning sun lightened the sky above Canberra, the man in the blue suit picked up the phone and dialled the head of his department for the second time that night. A hush fell over the other members of his team as he quietly informed his chief of the results of the research they had carried out.

The prime minister of Australia strode purposely along the manicured walking paths that encircle Canberra’s Lake Burley Griffin. The early morning walks had its formative roots set in place by the previous prime ministers. Allen Chancerton enjoyed the serenity that seemed to prevail over his little squad that included the federal treasurer, three security men, the minister for employment, and a couple of other dedicated early risers. Chancerton waved in acknowledgement to a group of walkers who bid him good morning. He even acknowledged a pair of photographers hoping for an early comment or a striking pose or anything.

‘Worse than bloody vultures,’ muttered the prime minister under his breath to the treasurer, never allowing the winning smile that displayed a perfect set of expensive teeth to leave his face. The air was clean and crisp and the traffic noise only a murmur as the walking party crossed a little bridge over one of the streams flowing into the lake. The forecast predicted another hot day; and the morning sprinklers were clicking away dutifully, slaves to the hectares of green lawns and gardens of Canberra.

Chancerton had held the leadership of the Conservative Party for a little over five years and was so set in his ways that even his opponents had labelled him Mr Predictable. It was a strategy set in place by his predecessor during his many years as prime minister. The Australian voting public did not want controversial or radical political leadership. The current ruling party had recognised the one common denominator that ran through the majority of Australian people: greed. It ran through most of the human race; but unlike a lot of countries in the world, Australia was very asset rich. Previous Liberal governments holding office had invested billions of dollars, mostly financed by China and India, into the establishment of infrastructure, enabling the mining and export of huge coal deposits along the eastern seaboard.

Massive shipping terminals dotted the length of the east coast; and hundreds of ships were evident at any one time, hauling the black commodity to other developing countries. With all this wealth pouring into the pockets of the Australian workers, it had been a simple matter to kick start a housing and land boom that had resulted in most of the Australian electorate mortgaged to their eyeballs, owners of land for which they had paid grossly over inflated prices. Thus, the ruling government had neatly ensured its survival by having a voting electorate that must keep working to pay the financial institutions. And because they understood this government had proven to be more aggressive for finding foreign markets for Australian assets, the workers had had no choice but to keep returning it to power year after year.

This was all far from Chancerton’s mind, however, as he and his walking party raised a sweat on the hill that led to the Lodge, the prime minister’s Canberra residence. As a form of mental therapy, he kept all thoughts of the day’s hectic schedule he would face after breakfast at bay. He breathed in deeply five times and revolved his arms. Cameras soundlessly drank it in across the street. The three security people in the walking party this morning peeled off at the gate. Dressed in singlets and shorts, they made an inconspicuous group as they carried on, chatting away about nothing in particular. One of the group was a female of about 25 with silken black hair and a stunning body that bespoke the level of fitness it enjoyed. Her tight bottom pushed provocatively against the cloth of her shorts, and the prime minister allowed his eyes to linger for a few seconds while his mind enjoyed a moment of its own.

Ministerial staff cars hurried the remaining walkers away to breakfasts and busy schedules. Chancerton showered, dressed carefully, and then made his way to the dining room. Although it was barely 6.30 a.m., seven men and women were seated at the table. They rose as the prime minister walked to the head of the table and sat down. He loved these little byplays.

‘Good morning, all,’ he jovially greeted his breakfast guests as they resumed their seats. He realised only too well that each and every one of them was not at his table for the fine servings of food about to be delivered. Breakfast would take an hour of his valuable time, but it was a good way to meet first-hand with people in positions of power who could deliver short briefings on pressing issues. Chancerton knew them all. They were heads of departments, cabinet ministers, and others who held the reins of massive responsibility in their various portfolios. To do breakfast with the prime minister acknowledged their solid footing in his government’s eye. He reached for the marmalade, spread some sparingly on his toast, and glanced around the table.

‘Hullo, Colin, haven’t had the pleasure of your company here for a while,’ Chancerton inquired of the man in the dark-grey suit that headed up ASIO seated to his left. They were good friends who played golf together when the chance arose.

‘What brings you here this fine morning?’

The kitchen staff arrived with steaming dishes of crispy bacon and eggs with all the trimmings, and conversation was impossible for a moment or two. The chief of the Australian Security and Intelligence Organisation waited patiently until they had left the room, then reached into his file holder, and removed a copy of the Gladstone Times.

‘Good morning, Prime Minister, I would like to read you a story that hit the streets of Queensland about half an hour ago.’

Australia’s chief spy melodramatically held up the front page of the newspaper for Chancerton and everyone else to see. He then turned to page 3 and read Sonya James’s article out in a flat, rather nasally voice that carried little emotion, not stopping until he had finished. The prime minister sat immobile, his fork loaded with food paused above his plate. He stared at the person who had just thrown him off track. He recovered himself after a moment and stuffed the food into his mouth, chewed soundlessly, and then patted his lips with a napkin.

‘Colin, now please tell me what you have just read to us is a load of poppycock,’ he remarked in a small quiet voice. The other seated guests as one had stopped eating. The silence in the room was palpable.

‘Prime Minister, my staff have been working on this since they were first notified not long after midnight and can find no evidence to suggest that the story is not true. The page 1 headline proclaiming Demography Day is to be taken for what it is—pure sensationalism designed to catch the reader’s eye. Unbelievable as it may seem, however, the content of the story holds up against all our enquiries and research we have been able to carry out during the night.’ He paused and looked around the table.

‘Every day approximately 350,000 babies are conceived throughout the world, day in, day out. That all stopped seventeen days ago, and we have no idea why.’

Allen Chancerton had had plenty of curly problems thrown onto his lap during his long spell as head of the ruling party and had developed a sixth sense about the impact they would have on his government. This was something else, though. His head swam. He looked at the others seated around the table, who looked back at him with strange eyes, their sumptuous breakfast all but forgotten. The head of ASIO carried on with his report. A hundred thousand copies of the Gladstone Times would be sitting on breakfast tables in Queensland by now. Along with their Weet-Bix and toast, people would be digesting the mind-boggling news and would be wanting answers to the questions that the story created.

Was it true?

How could it be true?

How widespread was the problem?

What was the government going to do about it?

Chancerton ran his fingers through his lustrous thick silver-grey hair.

‘What the hell is going on, Colin? This will cause pandemonium.’

The head of the Australian Security and Intelligence Organisation had little more to add, except to request permission to set up a dialogue with the heads of China and the United States, who it seemed had not yet stumbled onto the story. He then excused himself and left the breakfast gathering to find their voices again.

It was a subdued affair that followed. Various topics were bandied around the table, serious topics that the prime minister and his government had to be kept informed and up-to-date on. The racial issues were no longer just a city problem these days. A group of fiercely proud Australian mine workers had hurled petrol bombs at the migrant employees at a coal mine, burning two men to death and injuring others. Fine having a police force of officers trained and kitted out by the best military instructors in the world, Chancerton mused. They could not be everywhere at once. And then there was the warming problem. Some areas were sending in reports of temperatures still in the high forties with no respite in the drought. It hadn’t rained in Western Queensland for many years now; but government assistance had kept the parched communities still struggling along, hoping the weather would change for the better. Lack of rain was a huge problem, but the daytime temperatures experienced during the past summer months was another thing altogether. Mount Isa had recorded a record high of 56 degrees during an amazing hot spell that had bubbled the tarred roads and all but broiled the inhabitants of the lucrative mining town.

The minister for water resources brought up the need for another rise in the price of water. The Chancerton government had invested heavily in massive water-desalinating units that ran on coal. These costs had to be passed on to the consumers, but it had also been one of the budget promises to keep the price from increasing yet again.

‘And that’s not possible,’ said the minister with a shake of his large head.

The prime minister listened to it all and mentally filed the discussions and comments away in his mind. He was the perfect chairperson and host, giving advice or setting up meeting dates for more in-depth discussions on some topics that had been touched on at the breakfast. When he leaned back and threw his napkin onto his plate, the staff read the sign on cue and moved in to clear the table. The meeting was over, and every one scurried away to attend to the rest of their day.

Chancerton made his way to his bathroom where he sat for a long time, deep in thought. All the problems that his staff had presented to him scarcely worried him. His whole political life had been dealing with one drama after another such as these. He was a big-picture man. As long as the country made money—and plenty of it—his position was safe. Money, after all, could fix a lot problems. This ‘Demography Day’ thing worried him, though. As soon as he reached his day office in parliament house, Chancerton chased the ever-present entourage of secretaries, minders, and analysts out into the corridor and closed the door. Sitting alone, he suddenly felt the enormity of his position weighing upon his shoulders.

He shuddered slightly for a moment, then squared his shoulders, and raised his chin.

‘I don’t believe it,’ he muttered to himself and felt better.

*   *   *   *   *

Waking early, stretching, and donning a towelling robe, Sonya made her way down to the kitchen. The first rays of the morning sun were shining on the vegetable beds behind the shed, highlighting the taller stalks of corn. It was a morning full of beautiful promise, especially for their garden. Humming a little tune as the kettle boiled, she loaded the toaster and then ran back up the stairs to the bedroom, still dark with drapes drawn. Sensing rather than seeing Nick’s body shape under the blankets, she ran her hands over it suggestively. A little moaning noise emanated, finishing in a soft snore. Sonya leaned over and placed a loud smacking kiss into his ear. That did the trick. Muscular arms came out from the blankets, stretched high, and reached blindly into the gloom. Laughing, she stepped back quickly and avoided his embrace.

‘Toast’s on, darling. I’m off for my walk with the girls.’ Clutching her clothes she had laid out the evening before, Sonya went down to the room they had converted to a gym complete with exercise machinery, wall-length mirrors, and a spa bathroom. She dressed quickly and efficiently, scarcely looking at herself as she pulled on athletic underwear, sports halter top, white shorts, and joggers. After gathering her hair into a ponytail, she splashed water on her face and went out the side door that led onto the driveway.

Sonya walked briskly down the footpath towards Auckland creek, swinging her arms and allowing the muscles of her body to warm up in their time. She breathed deeply; and as she reached the park, she swung into an easy lope, running on the balls of her feet in an effortless motion. Maintaining a steady rhythm, shoes tapping out a soft slap that became a musical beat to a song unconsciously hummed in her mind, she passed other walkers and runners without even being noticed. Fifteen minutes later, still breathing easily, Sonya arrived at the foot of the fifty-five steps that climbed up to the top of Auckland Hill Lookout. The steps were steep, more of a stairway than a path; but she did not break her stride and hammered up them two at a time. This was her personal Everest.

At the top of the stairs, the view was breathtaking to behold. The great natural harbour lay below, a red-and-silver sea that led from the sprawling city east to the Pacific Ocean. A dozen or more little islands with tufts of grass and palm tree beaches were scattered throughout, behind all of which Mount Larcom stood majestically like a guardian in the background. Auckland Hill overlooked a huge fluffy eiderdown of mist that spread over the harbour and city, lending uniformity to the panorama. Standing tall in perfect symmetry, glowing silver in the morning sun, and casting long dark shadows on the white mist beneath them were three massive chimney stacks. The power station. The heartbeat of Gladstone. A sulphurous discharge stained the morning sky yellow for as far north as the eye could see.

Louise and Gina had arrived, having both run a similar distance from their respective homes and were waiting near the memorial at the lookout. Both girls were performing breathing and muscle stretch exercises and looked stunning in their tights and tops. Another early morning walker, a fit-looking man in his midforties was ogling them from the corner of his eye while pretending to be admiring the harbour views. Sonya winked and rolled her eyes as she drew near. Gina pulled a face, and they all giggled. Together, at a now leisurely pace, they descended the fifty-five steps and wandered their way through the park towards the coffee shop at the Gladstone marina, chatting to one another.

‘Won’t that power running up the steps be bad for the baby, Son, like puff it out or something?’

Gina was always worried about stuff like that.

‘Do you still feel like it as much? Can you and Nick still, like, do it the same way?’ She never stopped asking questions. Gina and Gary had been trying to have a baby for six months with no success.

‘Not according to my doctor,’ Sonya replied. ‘I’m only seven weeks gone, and he says that exercise is good for me and the baby alike. Anyway, I’ll be slowing down when I get bigger.’

‘What? On the running or the sex?’ Gina asked, and they all laughed. The three girls had been good friends during high school days, and that friendship had never wavered during the turbulent times of courtship and careers that had followed. Gina, a dental nurse, was an attractive brunette with a cute elfin-like face. She had fallen in love with her boss, and the wedding had been a grand event. Gary was a bright, bubbly guy who owned a dental practice.

Louise, tall and equally good-looking with long silken black hair, was single and determined to stay so. Having just finished a degree in business studies, she had gained a good position with a stockbroking firm with plenty of advancement opportunities. Sonya and Gina ribbed her mercilessly about the lack of men in her life, never failing to point out the benefits of married life. Matty Denison was washing a light covering of coal dust off the footpath in front of the coffee shop as the girls came striding along the boardwalk, arms swinging in unison. Matty was a hunk. Muscles rippled under his T-shirt tantalisingly. Without being asked, he disappeared into the shop and made three coffees: two with milk, black for Louise.

‘Mornin’, ladies, bang on time,’ his thick Irish brogue lilted from within.

‘Top of the mornin’ to ye’self, Matty,’ Louise mimicked his accent. ‘’Tis a byortiful day to be sure.’

Matty reappeared with the drinks and served the girls at their usual table. He flirted with Louise for a while and then went back to his hosing job. Sonya did not sit down straightaway; instead, she walked over to the fence and looked down at the dozens of yachts tied up to jetties in neat orderly rows. The morning sun had risen over the hill and reflected off the stainless steel rails and winches, creating bright sunstars. The marina was just coming to life. The people who lived on their yachts were stirring into action for another day. Some worked in the town at the massive refineries, saving their pennies for the day when they will cast off their ropes and scream to the world, ‘I’m free!’ Some will never leave, for they have found their happiness by simply living in the marina on their boat. Some have sailed everywhere; some have sailed nowhere.

Some, like Sonya and Nick, simply climbed onto racing yachts and beat their brains out racing other boats in strong winds. It wasn’t always strong, though. Sometimes it was gentle and smooth and blissful. The male crew members became all dark and serious because of the lack of wind, while Sonya secretly revelled in the serenity of it all.

‘Come on, Son, drink your coffee and stop dreaming about owning a yacht.’

Sonya turned and pulled a face at Gina.

‘Like in my dreams, girl. A house, a mortgage, a baby on the way. I don’t think so.’

Sonya felt a little sad, though, for the time would shortly arrive once she became big and clumsy with the child and she would no longer go racing around the buoys in the harbour. Her dad had owned a yacht, not a big one, but he had loved it with all the same passion he had loved her mother before she had suddenly died. Sonya had only been a baby at the time and had only the faintest memories of a beautiful woman. Dad had never remarried. ‘Never had to,’ her sister had once said. ‘He had his yacht.’ He had raised his daughters to love the ocean and had taught them to sail at a young age. They raced dinghies against the other kids of the yacht club, winning regattas regularly. Sonya loved it most of all, however, when Dad would sail out to one of the many islands that formed part of the Great Barrier Reef with only herself and Alice on-board. It was as if the entire world belonged to them and them alone. Sonya would talk to the birds so tame they sat on her hand, their little heads cocked. She loved the white beaches and the green palm trees and the fish that swam in the shallows.

Most of all, she loved just being with her dad. He was always so happy whenever they took off. Sometimes they sailed up the narrows and set crab pots. A couple of times, they sailed north to the magical Whitsunday Islands. He would teach them navigation and weather forecasting and many things to do with the sea.

Dad had been diagnosed with terminal cancer at the age of 51 and had not lived to see his fifty-second birthday. Both Alice and Sonya were married by then, and the devastated sisters had clung on to their husbands in mind-numbing grief at the funeral. Alice had taken it especially hard as she had been old enough at the time to remember the passing of their mother, and all the old hurt had come welling back up again. After a period, she and her husband had sold their house and moved to Sydney. She was okay now, with two boys and another baby on the way; but she had never been back to Gladstone.

Dad had left his unit to Alice and Solace, his yacht, to Sonya. They had agreed on that before he died. Nick and Sonya had taken Solace out a few times, but it was too confronting. Sonya could see her father on the tiller, at the galley, on the foredeck, his hair blowing back from his bald spot as he laughed with all the joy of life. Nick had finally persuaded Sonya to sell Solace, and they had used the money to put down a deposit on their house.

A large covered truck backed into the space beside the kiosk, its reversing beeper striking a discordant note. A young man hopped down from behind the wheel, climbed up into the rear of the truck, and threw down a large bundle of newspapers. He jumped back down and hefted the heavy load onto his shoulder with a familiar ease and walked into the kiosk. Just as quickly, he came back out and drove off again.

‘Deliver us our daily newspaper, but deliver us from truck beepers,’ Louise quipped as she rose and walked into the shop. People from the marina made their way up the hinged footpaths and along the wooden boardwalks. ‘That beeper is modern man’s answer to the newspaper boy’s