A Brother's Secret

by Andy Graham

  Stella

  The statues on the Stone Bridge watched Stella as she crossed north out of Effrea. They called to her in grey whispers, their words mixing with the smell seeping out of the cracked seals of the sewer lamps on the bank. Those lamps hadn’t been used since the Purges. Not the Silk Revolution, the Purges. Somehow that term felt more appropriate now than its official name. That worried her. It was not a slip of the tongue you could make publicly more than once.

  Beyond the bridge, she kept to the middle of the roads that led into Tye. She wanted to stay as far away from the street lamps as she could. The shadows hanging from them gave them the air of gallows.

  She followed the route to the Ward, the echoes of her footsteps clipping back at her in the deserted streets. The trap door to the society was shut. Light and muffled laughter spilled through the cracks. The Famulus’s ceremony must have finished early tonight. She strode past the Ward, into the rolling waves of silence that filled the ruined church, and picked her way up the steps to a balcony. It was deserted save for the rustle of scraps of rubbish in the wind and the scurry of tiny claws.

  She waited. “Where are you, Ray?” Stella leant against the cold stone wall and gazed out across the city she had grown up in. From her vantage point above the Ward, she had a view along the river which took her breath away.

  Effrea was a forest of light. A patchwork of whites, blues, greens and reds that competed for her attention. The power rotations seemed to stagger tonight, slower and less uniform. Dominating the skyline were the twin towers housing the country’s leadership, Lesau and Melesau. The four chimneys of the Brick Cathedral were up-lit in the colours of the flag. It was stunning. It was— She gave a start as a part of a wall became a man’s shadow. “How did you do that? And you never told me how you know where I live, nor how you got into my flat!” Her voice carried around the hollowed out church.

  Ray raised a finger to his lips and took her hand. He led her along the balcony, down to the mezzanine she had climbed past earlier. There, he pushed her against a wall. His hands ran through her hair, behind her ears, around her neck, along her body, between her legs, under her shoes. Hidden in the shadows of the twin moons, she felt helpless. Naked. Something stirred within her. “Stop this.”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “Food. For you. Would you like me to taste it first?”

  He took the bag off her and opened it. His shoulders sagged.

  “Don’t you like cheese?”

  “What?” He sniffed one of the packets in the bag. “Cheese is good. As long as it’s not got veins. I pulled an old lady out of a building fire once. Her legs reminded me of the stuff, the smell, too. Not been able to eat it since.”

  “It’s not old-lady cheese.”

  Ray was already stuffing his mouth with the sandwich. The hollows under his eyes blended with the darkness around him.

  All the other occasions they’d been together, there had been something else on her mind: Lenka, work, escapism. These things had coloured what she was seeing. Tonight, the controlled fury in his face revealed a side she was not sure she wanted to know. Just as the medical world had an unpleasant side the squeamish chose to ignore, the military had the same.

  “I need to know where that camp is, Stella”

  “If I knew, I’d tell you.”

  “You can find out.”

  “I can’t. If I start clicking around without a good reason or the right clearance, then things get uncomfortable for me and my family, and I’m not going to do that.”

  “Do it the old-fashioned way. Ask someone.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like someone who goes to this secret society of yours below us. I don’t believe the Governing Medical Council looks kindly on people dabbling in practices they don’t consider scientific enough.”

  The hairs stood up on the back of her neck. “You followed me. That’s how you know where I live!”

  “Not my proudest moment. I told myself it was for your safety, because of the serial killer. I think I was kidding myself.”

  “And are you proud of blackmailing me now?”

  “You’d do anything to protect your family. I’m just looking for the same chance. But no. No, I’m not.”

  Stella shoved her hands into her pockets. He had a point. Her parents had their faults but they had always been there for her. How could she understand what Ray was going through now? He had never known his family. He’d killed and watched friends be killed. He’d discovered he had a twin, someone he shared a womb with, someone who was genetically more similar to him than anyone else. Then he found out the twin may or may not be dead. A yes or a no, an up or a down, that’s all he needed, not the bit in the middle.

  “OK,” she wasn’t sure who was more surprised to hear the words. “But not for the blackmail, for Lenka, for Phoebus. I feel I owe them something.”

  The soft purr of an engine rolled up from the street. Risking a glimpse under the low transom of the window, she saw a long black car gleaming in the dark light.

  “The timing is almost too good to be true,” she mumbled. The man’s arrogance was unparalleled. He hadn’t even bothered to hide the government plates.

  They waited in silence until they heard the click of the hatch door in the street. Stella buttoned up her coat, her cold fingers stumbling over the buttons.

  “Why did you sign up?” She was stalling. Unable to start what she had committed to.

  “I believed.” A wry smile played across his face.

  Stella listened as he explained the feeling of excitement and pride all those years ago when the legions had rolled into town: a kaleidoscope of noise, free regulation haircuts for any kids that wanted it. He explained how he’d been the first in line, not that there had been any rush. The military had been back to Tear almost every month. He had been on the other side of those missions a few times since then, and was not sure how honest he should have been with the kids, despite his orders. “There aren’t many more options if you’re Bucket-born,” he continued. “The food’s regular and it’s a job ’til you die.”

  “You sound bitter.”

  “And angry. But stray thoughts like that are not conducive to outcome efficacy or back health.” He laughed softly. “Have I remembered that from somewhere, or have I caught verbose-itis off you?” He smoothed her forehead with rough fingers. “If traits were names and names were traits, I guess I’ve moved on from Pedant to Prattling Franklin. The legions have been good to me on the whole, if you ignore the people trying to kill me, the chronic back pain and losing most of the best people I’ve ever known.” His laugh died. “And you?”

  “You know why I became a medic.”

  “No. Why did you go out without your wedding ring on?”

  Her breath caught in her throat. It seemed so long ago it didn’t feel important anymore. Odd how her life had pivoted on one moment, a solitary decision she had thought harmless.

  She’d got home to find the kids had been bathed, fed and put to bed. The washing had been done and breakfast prepared for the morning. Her husband was loyal and loving to a fault, dependable and reliable to the point of boring. She hated herself for even admitting that last thought. “You don’t have kids, do you?” she asked.

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “They change things, no matter how much you love them and each other. Between the intense moments of tragedy, joy, laughter and learning are hours of grind. Life becomes a checklist of things that have been done and need to be done.”

  She was caught between a need to keep talking and an awareness of who she was talking to. She had been so wrapped up in her own head, so weighed under by the workload and pressures that had built up as she got older, she had retreated into herself. She had lost sight of who she was and who she had married. The love and friendship between her and her husband had deepened over the years, the strains of work and kids knitting them closer together. Had the strengthening of their marriage come at a cost
? It was hard to feel excited about someone after watching them diligently scrubbing a toilet clean in novelty boxer shorts. Dan had come to her last night, holding her in that way she knew so well. She had turned him down again, snapping at him about work and money.

  “No one’s dropping bombs on us, Stella,” Dan had replied. “They may do so at some point, but they’re not just now. We have kids, each other, a roof and food. What more do we need?”

  Her husband was a fool sometimes, but he was their fool. Why had it taken another man to make her see that?

  She took Ray’s hands in hers. “I love Dan, Ray, and would die for my children. I’d always thought it was an overblown sentiment but it’s the most powerful thing I’ve ever felt — more of a default wiring than an emotion.”

  “You’re a lucky woman, Stella, to have a man like that.”

  She snorted, pulling her hands free. “That kind of statement ranks up there with men saying ‘we’re pregnant’. It’s rubbish. Am I lucky that I met my husband? Yes. That we were allowed to keep our daughter after we had fulfilled our maximum quota of one child? Yes. That we fell in love with each other and chose to start a family together? No. There was no luck there. I couldn’t love and wouldn’t marry a man who didn’t share my views on life and childcare.”

  “I don’t think my mother would’ve chosen to have kids with a man that would desert her when she got pregnant, either. But that’s what happened. The world’s not full of binary choices. I’ve had to learn that the hard way. Stop ducking my question.”

  “Is this bloody-minded persistence part of your military training?”

  Ray tapped his wrist. When she looked at him again, she could feel tears in her eyes. “I left my wedding ring at home because I wanted to pretend to be single again, just for a night.” Stella hadn’t cheated on her husband. She’d never planned to. She had just wanted the thrill of chasing and being chased, but still couldn’t shake the feeling she’d betrayed Dan somehow, the man who had given her so much. “I guess I just wanted to feel alive.” She hung her head, sliding the wedding ring up and down her finger.

  “Why me?”

  “I should slap you again. I’m married, not blind. You’re a good man. There aren’t many around.” She put her fingers on his lips. “Even if I wanted to cheat on Dan, I could never betray my children like that. I’m happy, Ray. I guess I just forgot to remember that for a while.”

  She wrapped her arms round him. He returned the hug, slowly at first, then more strongly. She pushed him away. “I have no idea why I’m doing this. Let’s go find Rhys.”

  48

  An Unexpected Visitor

  As he entered the Ward, the thud of drums from the crypt vibrated through the soles of the VP’s mirror-shined shoes. The post-ceremony indulgences had already started. Should he go down and play? Hunt? Take someone for a stroll in the ruined church above? He could do with the distraction. No. Too much noise, temptation. His mood was on a knife edge already and he knew himself well enough not to trust himself in the half-darkness that surrounded the obsidian altar. The undercroft was the better option. Mainly because it had the bar, also because it had people — easier to lose himself in both, all the better to avoid the Famulus, too. He didn’t have the patience for the woman’s latest rants on elemental vengeance. The logic behind her arguments was as scrawny as she was. He helped himself to a bottle and sat in the centre of the room. Since the redhead with the fisher gull tattoo had been murdered, he’d avoided the leather chairs in the shadows.

  His phone beeped. The president. His finger hovered over the screen for a moment. Twitching. He had no desire to give that woman any chances to confront him ever again after tonight’s meeting. He had never seen her so furious. Her dogs had picked up on the mood and their bare-toothed aggression had made the situation worse. Her opening sentence still stung. Yes, he had understood every part of what cosmetic damage meant. No, he hadn’t been prepared to admit his own interests had got the better of him with his handling of the sabotage of Substation Two. Salvaging the situation from that point on had been increasingly tricky.

  He had relayed the news from Lind, hoping it would help. The Population Project, the genetic solution for the diseases ravaging some areas of Ailan was ready. The VP had been keeping that information back as long as possible on the off chance he may need some good news on his side. It hadn’t dented Bethina’s mood.

  (Lind had added the private side project the VP had commissioned had also been completed. The VP had kept that quiet. Bethina didn’t need to know everything.)

  The VP stuffed his phone, still flashing angrily at him, in his pocket. He pulled out the mint tin and immediately switched it for the bottle he had just liberated from the bar. No point in waiting.

  A drink had been the first thought when Bethina had exploded. That annoyed him. As a child, his father’s need for alcohol had confused him. The VP had seen it as a sign of weakness in his teens. More and more, though, traits and gestures he thought he had trained out of himself were resurfacing. He filled his glass to the brim, alcohol slopping over the table top.

  The VP knocked back two shots, one to fill each foot, and topped up the glass. He set it on the table in front of him with deliberate care. The cramping feeling left his neck as his thoughts returned to tonight’s meeting.

  He knew full well that losing the main power facility in winter was a serious problem. Why had Bethina kept pointing it out? He hadn’t known the back up stations were struggling to keep Ailan running, that many of the other cities were already complaining of outages. Even the Brick Cathedral was struggling with power cuts. It was a major blow to the government’s credibility. His scheme to pin the disaster on Bethina’s weak leadership and consolidate his own hold on power looked in danger of collapsing.

  When Bethina had transferred her ire to the unmarked soldiers seen in Grid Substation Two, he had thought the worst of the evening was over. The little he’d caught of what she’d said hadn’t made any sense. Something to do with a plan made in the Window Riots, a rich-kid playing poor who should know better. She had progressed to calling the mystery protagonist a sanctimonious bastard when more news had come through: a clip of two separate helicopter crashes had been uploaded from a rogue terminal. The president’s fury had become incandescent and the VP had witnessed an elderly woman using a word he had thought most females abhorred.

  The clips were blurry and shaky but clear enough to cause problems. Clear enough for the government to have to rewrite their press release, which had already been uploaded and shared. He hoped the electronic spiders would do their job before the clips found dark virtual corners to hide away in.

  A handful of candles on the table flickered in a blast of cold air. He refilled the glass he didn’t remember drinking. Those clips were from a legionnaire’s helmet-cam in Substation Two. Exactly which legionnaire had gone rogue was another question. There were only four he knew of that had been there with the necessary skills. The rest of the people sent in might as well have been expensively dressed tailor’s dummies, for all their talent and initiative. These mobile mannequins had been hand-picked, in a fanfare of clandestine pomp, and sent out wearing aggressively proud smiles.

  Two of the four, taken from the ranks of the Unsung, knew him well enough not to try and double-cross him. So which of the others had been running out of the sub-basement, framed in a halo of flames? He had a suspicion he knew which one it was.

  Chair legs screeched on the stone floor. Someone sat in the chair opposite, spots of rain sparkling in her dark hair. She helped herself to a drink, clinking her refilled glass on his before swallowing the second shot.

  “This is an unexpected surprise, Dr Swann.”

  Her cheeks were ruddy from the night air. The VP felt his mood lifting. Maybe a midnight stroll amongst the ruins was in the offing after all.

  49

  A Wooden Chair

  (Friends)

  David Prothero snatched the bottle of painkillers from his bathr
oom cabinet and rattled it. He’d got these high-strength pills from his neighbour, a man with an evergreen smile and sculpted hair who had vivisected the health service. Talking to him made Prothero’s skin crawl but, like the drugs, he had his uses. Maybe next time he would remember to give Prothero the information about how many of these bloody pills he could take with his regular meds and not die in a frothing heap. Stupid man. Worse, he was rich and stupid, an unforgivable combination as the former gave you a way of not being the latter.

  He shook out a fistful of pills and tried a tentative quarter squat. His knee still felt like there was a metal rod inside it, even more so after the day he’d had. Shouldn’t the operation have fixed that? In retrospect, Prothero realised the surgeon had said the operation would make the knee stable again, not help the pain. Medics, he decided, were cut from the same linguistically devious cloth as politicians. Whether that was worse than being rich and stupid, he wasn’t sure.

  He heard the apartment door click, called out a greeting and washed down as many pills as he thought he could get away with. Back in the main room of the apartment, he stopped dead. The reflection scattered across the glass and steel walls was not who he was expecting. Prothero’s eyes darted towards the door as a swipe card slid across the table.

  “Your guard’s fine. Sleeping. You may want to untie him later, though.”

  “I was expecting someone else,” Prothero said, “an old friend.”

  “Life’s a treasure of surprises, Spokesperson.” Blooded and dirty, the legionnaire leant his rifle, a Mennai weapon, against one of the brass stopcocks.

  “Franklin, right? Corporal Franklin? From the hospital,” said Prothero, buying time to think.

  “Captain Franklin, sir.” The man’s voice was low and wary. “I was promoted just before being sent into Substation Two. You’re aware of what happened there, I take it?”