Black Moon

by L. A. Weatherly

  Explaining that “the other guy” had been Mac, the Resistance leader I’d told them about, felt beyond me just then.

  “Yeah,” I said finally. “I heard he was there.”

  They went on. Later, when my broadcasts had started, they’d both begun drawing Vs everywhere, passing the newspapers on, doing whatever they could.

  “Been trying to find you for months, Vancour.” Harlan nudged me with his foot. “You secretive Resistance-types don’t exactly advertise how to join you.”

  I had to smile. “No. Mac is pretty careful about who can join. He’s been Resistance for years; he was a double agent under Gunnison. He’s an amazing man.”

  “Where is he now?” asked Vera. She wore her wavy hair tied back with a scarf.

  I had my arms around my knees; my grip tightened. “He was shot trying to get President Weir out of house arrest,” I said softly. “He’s still alive…or was the last time I saw him. Most of the Resistance was arrested or killed.”

  I looked down at my hands and cleared my throat. “Ingo…someone I know…left a few days ago to try to get Mac and some others out of the city through the tunnels.”

  Vera was studying me quizzically. Harlan gave a slow nod.

  “So…we’re kind of it, then,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “We’re kind of it.”

  Harlan lay propped on his side. In the silence that followed he shifted and pulled out a hip flask.

  “Here,” he said, handing it over to me. “Just the thing to wash down liquorice and candy bars.”

  I took the flask, amused despite everything. “You just happened to have this on you when you heard the shouts and came out to join us?”

  “Yup.”

  “You carry it with you at all times?”

  “Yup.”

  “And why not, in this city?” muttered Vera.

  “See? My true love understands,” said Harlan. “Are you having any of that, or not, Vancour? ’Cause I’ve got better uses for it than watching you sit there holding it.”

  I took a swig. The welcome warmth burned through me. My muscles loosened a little and I sighed. I passed it to Vera.

  “Maybe I should have been carrying a flask too, all these months,” I said.

  Hal joined us then, looking weary. It was almost dawn; someone had relieved him at his post.

  “What’s happening?” I asked quickly.

  “Still there,” said Hal. “Even more than we thought. They’re all armed.”

  Vera and I glanced at each other. Harlan swore softly. If Kay Pierce’s plan was to drive me crazy with waiting, it was working.

  After a pause, Vera took a sip from the flask. She offered it to Hal. He hesitated and took it. He winced slightly at the taste, then had another sip and handed it to Harlan.

  “Is this what Peacefighters did?” he said finally. “Sat around drinking whiskey?”

  “Damn straight,” said Harlan. “If you’d made it, you could have joined our poker game.” He took a swig and capped the flask; he put it away again. His voice turned deliberately light. “Hey, Vancour, tell him about the time you lost your actual shirt and had to sit there in your brassiere.”

  Hal snorted with surprised laughter and darted me a look. “Seriously?”

  “Harlan.” I kicked him. “I just…got into a kind of standoff situation and was out of credits,” I said to Hal. “They’d all seen me in my brassiere a thousand times anyway.” The mixed-sex changing rooms had allowed no privacy.

  Vera was snickering. “I knew I was missing out, not joining the poker game. If I’d realized we could bet our clothes…”

  “I’d have stacked the deck so that you lost every time,” said Harlan.

  “Cheat.”

  “Justified.”

  Hal’s cheeks were a little red. “You didn’t play?” he asked Vera.

  “No,” she said, settling against Harlan. “I was far more refined. I was probably off dancing and drinking gin somewhere.”

  My brother nodded slowly. “So…the safety of our country was in the hands of a bunch of poker-playing, gin-drinking alcoholics, basically.”

  “The boy catches on quick,” Harlan intoned.

  Hal fell asleep, lying on the floor with one arm under his head. Harlan followed not long after, his head in Vera’s lap. I sat leaning against the bleachers, unable to relax.

  “How did this happen?” I murmured, gazing at the sleeping people – the snipers crouched against the windows rimming the stadium’s ceiling.

  Vera smiled sadly. “I guess it didn’t go quite to plan. But you’ve put something in motion, Amity. Maybe it’ll all work out.”

  I didn’t see how it could, but hoped she was right. Then I looked at her.

  “So…you and Harlan?”

  Her expression turned gentle as she looked down at him. “Things on base were…well, pretty awful after the Western Seaboard fell. But people started talking more. You know?”

  I nodded, remembering all too well the customary reserve on base. When someone could die any day, you didn’t let yourself grow too close.

  “So I got to know him better. And he wasn’t at all like I’d assumed. He’s so solid, Amity. A good person. And he really thinks about things, you know…he just doesn’t always let on.”

  Vera gently brushed back a strand of Harlan’s hair as he slept. “It’s funny how some people aren’t really who they seem to be, isn’t it?”

  She realized what she’d said and winced. Our eyes met.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Funny.” I was glad Hal was asleep. I sighed and tipped my head back against the bleachers.

  “Collie joined the Resistance,” I said, my voice low. “He helped us plan the attack on Pierce.”

  Vera’s eyes widened. “Tell me,” she whispered.

  I told her all of it, including Collie’s betrayal of me, which I’d avoided before. When I finished, she said slowly, “You know, we couldn’t believe it when he turned up on base in that uniform.”

  I hesitated. “The other Gun was Mac.”

  Vera’s face slackened. “Your Resistance leader?”

  “He was expected to arrest a lot more people. He risked his life to only send so few away.”

  I couldn’t tell what Vera was thinking. “Was Collie with the Resistance too then?” she said at last. When I told her he wasn’t, she hesitated. “Well…do you think he had anything to do with the attack going so wrong?”

  Our voices were hushed. By now, most people had gone to sleep. I could see their shadowy forms – hear the rhythmic sound of breathing. A few others still talked in faint murmurs. The large space somehow felt drawn-in, intimate.

  I slowly shook my head, remembering the encounter with Collie in the tunnels. “It’s strange, but I don’t think so. Mac trusted him, and…I suppose I do too, at least when it comes to the Resistance.”

  “Are you still in love with him?”

  “No.”

  “So…is there anyone else?” When I didn’t answer, Vera traced a circle on Harlan’s shoulder. “Over a year is a long time,” she pointed out.

  I fiddled with the silver ring Dwight had given me. “I hope there’s someone else.”

  “Ingo?”

  I glanced up. “How did you—”

  “The look on your face when you said his name before. Who is he?”

  I exhaled and raked my hair back with both hands. “His name is Ingo Manfred,” I said finally. “He was a Peacefighter for the European Alliance.”

  “Go on.”

  “He’s Germanic…has dark, curly hair…plays guitar. His family owns a vineyard near the Med.” My voice had grown gentle. I thought as I spoke, choosing each word carefully. “He’s incredibly honest. Straightforward. And funny – he makes me laugh even when I don’t want to.”

  “Is he handsome?” Vera had her elbows propped on Harlan’s muscular shoulder, as if I was telling her a bedtime story.

  I pictured Ingo’s tall, lean form. “I think so,” I said so
ftly. “You probably wouldn’t. He has a—” I swiped my hand down one side of my face. “A bad burn scar. All down here. When people first see him, they flinch. He never shows that it bothers him, but it must.”

  “He sounds very brave.”

  “He is, but he’d say something sarcastic if you told him that.”

  “And very contrary.” Vera smiled. “You know, I can definitely see this.”

  I told her about how I’d first met Ingo in The Ivy Room – our escape from Harmony Five together, our work in the Resistance. Vera listened quietly.

  “When we were on the run, there was this one time…” I swallowed. “The Guns were after us, and I was injured…and I was so scared, Vera. I wanted to die rather than go back. Ingo promised that he’d do it. That he’d kill us both if he had to; he wouldn’t let either of us be taken. And I knew I could trust him. I was able to let myself pass out then, against his shoulder. I could hear the Guns coming, but I wasn’t scared any more.”

  I looked down, playing with a fold of my dress. “That’s the way it always is with him. I know that I can trust him with…anything.”

  A silence fell. Vera looked as if she understood more than I’d said.

  “Oh, Amity…” she murmured.

  That night on the roof flashed back, taunting me. I pressed my fingers hard against my temples.

  Vera squeezed my arm. Neither of us spoke again for some time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  July, 1942

  The wire mesh of the rooftop pigeon hutch gleamed in the moonlight.

  Inside a dozen shadowy shapes were roosting. As I waited for Ingo to come up, I opened the door and took out Harold, my favourite. He stirred with a rustle. His small body was warm, alert with life.

  Still trying to forget the execution I’d seen earlier, I stood stroking the bird’s smooth feathers, feeling his heartbeat against my palm and gazing out at the buildings of Harlemtown. This late, they were mostly dark. Though the New Manhattan lights drowned out almost everything, a few stars shone through here and there. The moon was tipped on its edge – a white boat sailing across the sky.

  My chest eased a little. I thought of flying a Firedove above the clouds – the way the moonlight stroked across their tips to make a weird, silvery landscape.

  “You’d love it, I bet,” I murmured to Harold. “Do you ever fly that high?” He trilled in response, pushing at my fingers with his beak. I fed him a bit of seed, then kissed his head.

  “Your new man?” said Ingo’s voice from the doorway.

  I glanced over. “How did you guess?”

  Ingo shut the door to the roof behind him and came over. He’d taken a shower and wore beige trousers and a soft-looking white shirt. Its sleeves were rolled up, showing his forearms.

  He stood beside me and stroked Harold’s head with a knuckle. His hair was still damp. “Which one is this?”

  “Harold, of course. Don’t you recognize him? I think you’ve hurt his feelings.”

  Ingo inclined his head. “Bitte entschuldigen Sie vielmals, Harold. Harold?” he added.

  “A distinguished name for a distinguished bird.” I put him back on his perch and latched the door.

  Ingo draped his arm across the top of the hutch. “So are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” he said quietly.

  I grimaced, seeing again what had happened and not wanting to go into it, not even with him. Finally I glanced at him and tried to smile. “Want to sit down?”

  He raised his good eyebrow.

  I nudged him. “Come on.”

  It was still hot even though it was so late. We dragged the wooden deckchairs next to each other. I wore a sleeveless blue dress, slightly too large, so comfortable it was like a nightgown.

  “We should just sleep up here,” I said, stretching out. “It’s funny. I used to not be able to sleep unless I had a soft bed.”

  Ingo lay on his back with one arm under his head, gazing up at the sky. His angular features were clear in the dim light. “Yes, me too…we’ve a lot to thank Harmony Five for, I guess.” His voice held a tinge of bitterness.

  His shirt was unbuttoned; it lay open over a thin undershirt that showed the sharp lines of his collarbones. I found myself studying him, and then we both started to speak at the same time.

  “You first,” he said, turning his head towards me.

  I propped myself on my side. “Any more news from your family?”

  “No, nothing more since the first letter,” Ingo said. “You?”

  I shook my head. Ingo’s gaze was still on me. Before he could ask again what was wrong. I said, “Show me the photo again?”

  His dry smile said he knew I was stalling. He sat up and fished in his back pocket for his wallet. I shifted over to his deckchair. We sat side by side on its edge as he took the photo out and angled it towards me.

  The black-and-white image his mother had sent showed a table set up under a tree, beside a house made of mellow, worn-looking stone. Rolling hills covered with vineyards rose in the background.

  His family – his parents, his older brother and his younger sister – sat at the food-laden table, holding up glasses of wine in a toast to the photographer. You could tell the photo had been taken especially to send to Ingo.

  “You look just like your father,” I said.

  Ingo’s father had a patrician air to him – a long, serious face with a faint twinkle in his dark eyes.

  Ingo lifted a shoulder. “I used to. Not with the scarred mug.”

  “No, you still do.” I pointed to the house. “Which was your room?”

  He tapped the photo. “This one. I had to share with Erich for years, and then I begged to have the attic. I liked the quiet, and the view.” He smiled slightly. “I used to stare out at the vineyard – study the way the vines were trained. Draw sketches. Wonder if we could do it better.”

  “The way the vines are trained?”

  “Yes, look.” He indicated a tiny vine. “No, I guess you can’t really see. But the vines have to be trained against something. We weave the branches against posts; it’s been done that way in our region for centuries. But you lose some of the grapes. We grow pinot noir, mostly; it’s delicate. I wondered if we wouldn’t have a better yield if we spaced the vines out more, trained them lengthwise. When I was twelve I showed Dad one of my sketches and he started laughing – said he’d raised an anarchist.”

  I grinned. Ingo went on. “He took me into his library and showed me books about the different methods. The one I’d thought of is called trellising. I asked him why we didn’t do it, and he said over his dead body. But he still gave me a couple of rows and let me try. Every year when I came home from school, I’d spend all summer out there.” He smiled, rubbing his jaw. “I finally yielded a few mature bottles when I was sixteen. Dad served them at a party and when people complimented it, he laughed and said, ‘Thank Ingo. He’ll change this whole damn place when he gets the chance.’”

  “He’s very proud of you,” I said quietly.

  “I know. He’s proud of all of us. But I suppose I’m the one most like him.” Ingo studied the photo, tapping it lightly against his fingers.

  “One day,” he muttered.

  Though I knew what it meant to him, sadness touched me at the thought of his going back there. I realized I was looking at Ingo, not the photo.

  I cleared my throat. “I’d like to meet them all someday.”

  “Yes…I’d like you to. Very much.” He hesitated and then looked at me, his dark gaze steady.

  Suddenly I was aware of how close we were sitting. Neither of us moved. As we looked at each other, my heart unaccountably beat a little faster. Nervous for some reason, I looked over at the pigeon coop.

  Ingo straightened and put the photo away. He rubbed the back of his neck. Finally his mouth twisted in a crooked smile.

  “All right, so we’ve established that neither of us has heard anything new. We’ll skip the platitudes about how we’re sure everyone is fine. N
ow what’s wrong?”

  When I didn’t answer, he said softly, “You don’t always have to be so strong, you know.”

  I felt very conscious of him beside me. “You of all people should know that I’m not always anything of the sort,” I said finally.

  The same hand that rested beside mine had once held a shard of twisted metal to my throat. I’d held a piece of glass to his. Abruptly, I recalled crouching together, shaking with fear, ready to die rather than be taken by Guns. More recently, I’d cried in Ingo’s arms when everything had caved in on me.

  From the look on his face, he was remembering it all too. “Amity…tell me.”

  “There…was an execution today,” I said at last. “I was at Ernest and Mabel’s…we could see it from the window.”

  Ingo shifted so that he was facing me. He went still, listening.

  I described how we’d been working on Victory when we’d heard the shouts and sirens – how we’d seen the shaven-headed woman dragged out and shoved on top of a Shadowcar. How a Gun had read out her crimes, then put a noose around her neck.

  “She was…arrested for aiding Discordants.” The words felt thick in my throat. “They hanged her from the lamp post. They didn’t give her any last words, but…just before she dropped, she yelled, ‘V for Vancour!’”

  The distant rattle of an elevated train went past. It faded to silence.

  Ingo touched my shoulder, his hand warm on my skin. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me, instead of letting me babble about the vineyard?”

  I gave a shaky laugh. “I liked hearing it. It made things seem more normal. As normal as they ever get here.”

  He slowly let his fingers fall. “Are you all right?”

  I rubbed my forehead. “You know what?” I said finally. “When it happened, I was just glad that Hal was here, at the deli, safe. That woman died thinking about my broadcasts…and Wildcat sat watching, terrified, glad that it wasn’t her and her little brother who’d been caught.”

  “You’re allowed to be afraid.”

  “People think I’m so brave, though! It’s a joke. Every time I see a Gun in that uniform, I remember Harmony Five and I…” My throat closed.