Wants of the Silent

by McPartlin, Moira;

  When she did pluck up the courage to look, she tasted the salt that cracked the corners of her mouth as she grinned. In front of her was no military vehicle, but a small yellow craft that looked like a toy. A craft that had been extinct since Loch Ness had been drained and the monster myth debunked once and for all. The turret hatch of the mini sub popped and the head of the wily Noiri man, Dawdle, peeked out.

  ‘Well, fancy meetin’ yous here,’ he said.

  Ishbel felt a lump rise in her throat and couldn’t trust herself to speak.

  ‘Better get yer arse in here quick, Ish, there’s no other cavalry due fur at least another decade.’

  Sorlie

  The panopticon architecture raised goosebumps over my skin. The regal Vanora sat centre stage, her back to the ticker wall that spewed words no one seemed interested in reading. Who were the authors? Her disciples? Her Vanorettes? And what of these drones fussing about her like insects, what was their purpose in this communication fest?

  A monitor wall, filling one quarter of the area, beamed images of many rooms within the complex. From one I could see the prisoners in what looked like a sports hall, lined up in an untidy drill formation, grouped with the same leaders Scud had designated for the escape. Their attempts at organisation were pretty shambolic. They were a rabble and rabbles need to be contained. But this time I would leave that job to someone else. My ears still burned with the scorching I’d received in the boat. Art of War lesson number one according to Sorlie Mayben – leave the organisation to someone else. If only Pa was still alive.

  Vanora watched the scene in the sports hall bearing a look of almost contempt. This was the army whose release she had planned and seen executed. She should be pleased. When she stood I realised just how tiny she was.

  ‘Come, Sorlie,’ she snipped, and left by a side door.

  As we walked deeper into the network of tunnels we passed many open rooms where frantic activity took place. Laboratories, not with smoking cauldrons but with captured animals, electrical experiments. One room behind glass blinked white with no apparatus, two people in white overalls, bent heads almost touching, looked down a tube. This was all familiar, I had watched them from the centre of Vanora’s panopticon – glass rooms with no escape from her scrutiny. That was what Arkle meant, no state surveillance but plenty of Vanora’s eyes.

  Each time we encountered one of her operatives they would stop and bow. I’m sure the smile on Vanora’s lips and the slight lift of her hand bestowed more to them than a brief encounter. Creepy or what? As each operative rose from their bow they gave me a shifty look as if to say, ‘Don’t think you’re special, boy.’ Paranoia, my next big thing!

  The sports hall was closer than I expected and another huge cavern. When we entered operatives stationed in each corner bowed and muttered a chant as if a divine god had moved in its heaven. She glided in and seemed to tower in her tiny frame. The prisoners shrank into the walls.

  ‘Come, Sorlie.’ She snapped her finger to me. ‘We need to get the men organised.’ I was beginning to think she had forgotten about me and now wished she had. These guys were going to rip the piss out of me. Why wasn’t she using some lieutenant to help her? It wasn’t as if she lacked help, there were hundreds of operatives working away.

  When she stretched her neck the red Hebridean hood slipped from her head and hung low on her straight back. Her clothes were crisp and neat, the red stood out in bright contrast against the washed-out black the prisoners wore. The smell of lavender wafted from her in the same way it had from Ma and I wondered at the aroma’s significance. Had the scent been passed on from mother to daughter in some secret code? The only difference was that Vanora was here while Ma’s body, blown apart by the bomb she strapped to herself, was lying in some foreign land, never to return home with the honours she deserved. Her Hero in Death status meant the State had forced her into a suicide mission. The smell of lavender always reminded me of Ma. Maybe that was all it was; Vanora’s intention to unsettle me. Well, it worked

  As we moved further into the hall, the rows of ineffective guards stood aside. The rabble wasn’t as bad as I first thought from the monitor. The guard, Ridgeway, lurked to one side of the hall. He seemed to have been designated a special role.

  ‘Hey look,’ said Smiler. ‘It’s the wee guy wi the rattle.’ His smile stretched to grotesque proportions. ‘Where’s yer rattle now, wee man. Found yer granny, huv ye?’ My face flushed hot but I stayed schtum. Vanora pulled the twin of Davie’s ancient revolver from her pocket and pointed it at Smiler. Although his smile remained scarred to his face the set of his brow scowled. Vanora held the gun steady. The silence in the hall hummed. I ticked off seconds in my head. Sweat trickled down the hollow of my spine.

  She fired – Fuck! The bodies jumped as one. Smiler remained on his feet, she’d shot above his head. The smell of piss permeated the room. One of the leaders stepped forward. There was a murmur of catcalls.

  ‘Wee sook.’

  ‘Aye, teacher’s pet.’

  ‘Aw, who’s a pretty boy then?’

  Ten or twelve men stepped in his wake, heads bowed to chest. Many behind them laughed in the face of this old woman who had orchestrated their release.

  ‘Is it Vanora then?’

  ‘Aye, boys, it is. It’s that wummin, the one called Vanora, she’s gonnae save us apparuntly.’ The grubby faced speaker turned to her grinning. ‘That no so, hen?’ They seemed to have forgotten she had a revolver in her hand.

  ‘Whit ye gonnae save us wi?’ a ratty man spat through his protruding teeth.

  ‘Make us a pot o’ soup.’ Someone shouted from the ranks. That raised a laugh.

  Another voice, ‘Mebbes she’s gonnae knit us some decent claes.’

  ‘Aye, come oan, hen, these overalls ur aw scratchie, make us itch.’

  ‘Aye, we aw huv itches that need scratched.’ There was widespread sniggering.

  Vanora blanked, no scowl or smile, just boredom. None of her soldiers moved to defend her. It was like waiting for a pesky hoard of midges to be blown off course in a breeze. She fired again, closer to the heads this time. She took a barely discernible breath and said in a clear, even voice that travelled to the back of the hall.

  ‘I want you lead men to take your battalion and organise them into two columns. Then I want you to escort them to the quartermasters.’ She pointed to a row of tables at the back of the hall where grey-uniformed men and women sat nursing piles of communicators.

  ‘I want you to answer their questions and then they will assign you to your task division. It may take a while so I would appreciate your patience.’ She smiled to them. ‘The rewards will be worth it.’

  The shuffling began again. ‘Whit, we no gettin soup then?’

  More sniggering then an angry voice sounded, ‘Whit task division? We no gettin guns? We no gonnae fight?’

  ‘We were promised jetpacks.’ More sniggering.

  ‘Aye, whaur’s oor yooniforms.’

  Some leaders did as Vanora asked and stepped their men forward. Smiler winked at me before moving into Vanora’s space. She didn’t even flinch.

  ‘Whit if we dinnae like the task division we’re given?’ He nodded round the room. ‘In fact, whit if we dinnae even want tae be in yer army.’

  ‘If you didn’t want to be here you should have stayed in the prison.’

  ‘Aye right, hen.’

  ‘Leave then.’

  He looked a bit confused but the smile remained. ‘Why should we dae whit you say?’

  ‘You came on my ship, therefore you are in my army. Now take your men and report to the quartermaster.’

  He smirked and looked round to his men but didn’t move.

  ‘Did you hear the order I gave?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Did you understand it?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘
Then obey it.’ Her tone never quivered, low quiet and strong.

  ‘Ah’m no takin orders fae an auld wummin.’

  ‘So you heard and you understood but still won’t obey?’ She sounded like a Privileged.

  ‘Aye.’

  Vanora lifted the gun and shot Smiler between the eyes. He didn’t even have a chance to look shocked. Spray peppered her face but she remained rooted, gun smoking. The rest of the men shook and puddled. I only just held it together.

  ‘Anyone else want to disobey the order?’ Vanora said as she lowered the gun to her side. The silence and stillness was complete, like a game of statues.

  ‘Good,’ she said and walked from the hall, leaving me behind with the sound of grandfather’s mad mantra ringing in my head in harmony with the gunshot. ‘Out of the frying pan into the fire.’ She had just murdered someone in cold blood.

  Ishbel

  Scud slept in the bulkhead, curled into a foetal ball under the blanket Dawdle had handed out. Ishbel bit her fingernail and worried his ravaged, Privileged face hid more torture than he admitted to. Had she done the right thing by rescuing him? Not only had she risked her own future, she’d also put Scud through unnecessary pain. Now she had him, she’d no idea what to do with him. Even if he survived the trip north, would Vanora’s disciples have the skill to reverse the damage done to his genes? He’d be better off dead. And yet the tug of her native ancestors told her their futures depended on Scud and his historical mind. History was important to the future – she just didn’t know how.

  While he slept, he had some peace. She stored her unease at his Privileged state in a safe place in her mind, because even though she’d worshipped him all her life, and Vanora had praised his sacrifice as a martyr, Ishbel now faced the reality of flesh and blood and she wasn’t sure how trustworthy this new Scud was.

  She pressed her head against the pilot seat and closed her eyes. It had been so much simpler being at the Military Base. OK she was a native and subjected to the usual verbal kicking of the Privileged turds, but all natives knew if you kept your head down and got on with things life wasn’t so bad. Sorlie might have been an Academy brat but he was bearable – just.

  Ishbel pulled her soaked neck-snood over her nose. The sub stank as if the air had been through a male changing room a thousand times. She heard Dawdle beside her, could feel his gaze on her and knew she had to face him. She opened her eyes. He handed her a brew as the mini-sub manoeuvred through the currents on auto route. His hands shook even though his face looked calm

  ‘What happened to the moorlogger?’ Ishbel had hoarded the question as long as she dared.

  ‘Betrayed, weren’t they?’ He glanced at Scud. Weird, did she imagine it or had that look towards Scud held something more than a casual glance?

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Dawdle shrugged. ‘Poor bastards did a sound job.’ He nodded to the bulkhead even though they were enclosed. ‘Moorlogging and their covert operations.’ He shook his head and Ishbel could see by the way he stirred the spoon in his brew that he was struggling.

  ‘Did you know them, the crew?’

  ‘You could say so, aye.’ He slurped his brew and waved his hand over his mouth. ‘Hoat! Too hoat still. Aye, it’s gonnae take years tae replace that sort o’ operation. Some o’ those guys huv been working on the trawler ower ten years.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Aye. Thanks.’

  They sipped the scalding tea, the silence broken only by Dawdle’s occasional cooling blow across the top of his mug.

  ‘Where are you taking us, Dawdle? If we don’t get Scud help soon he might not make it.’

  Dawdle grinned so wide Ishbel noticed he had missing back teeth on the right hand side. Chewing the contraband dried meat all Noiri men were reputed to love would be a real problem for Dawdle.

  She couldn’t help but smile, there was something so comforting in that grin. ‘We have to get to prison ship IV in sector W. Can you take us there?’ She was aware she was not now wheedling the usual deal with Dawdle. This was no bartering of kitchen veg for contraband salt or sugar. He continued to grin but said nothing. ‘Scud’s granddaughter is there, having committed no crime. God knows what might have happened to her. She’s only fourteen.’

  ‘She’s safe.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Come on, Ish, you know ah cannae tell ye ma sources.’ He waited. When she didn’t speak he shrugged and said, ‘We’ll get ye the lassie but first there’s somebody dyin tae meet ye.’

  ‘Who?’ But even as she asked unease washed over her.

  ‘Monsieur Jacques.’ Dawdle’s words echoed her thoughts.

  Monsieur Jacques, the Noiri King, the richest and most powerful person in the Esperaneo underworld. Of course Vanora disputed that fact. It was rumoured that he even had the State in his pocket. What would he want with her?

  ‘What about Scud? He needs help. How long will this diversion take?’

  ‘Too many questions, Ish. It may take a while but Scud’ll be fine.’ Dawdle patted the dashboard. ‘Ma wee Peedle isnae as nippy as she used tae be. We’ll huv tae take it easy, let her catch her breath now and again so tae speak.’

  ‘Peedle?’

  ‘Aye, Peedle by name Peedle by nature.’

  It took aeons. Every few kiloms Dawdle cut to idle to stop the sub stuttering. As soon as Peedle submerged Ishbel’s communicator vibrated. ‘wt the hell u up to?’ Her mother never did mince her words. Vanora had controlled her life since she was born, but the freedom she had while acting as Sorlie’s native had given her a strength her mother never guessed at. Vanora constantly underestimated her. When Ishbel was five Vanora had dragged her from a pleasant childhood in the North West Territories, where she could run with the bears and wolves and hunt and fish with other native children. That existence was no good for Vanora, she needed revenge, she needed her army. So she’d dragged her daughter to the Northern Archipelago where Ishbel was given false papers and indoctrinated her into the ways of Esperaneo natives. She was taught the history of their struggles and the history of the state of Esperaneo. At the age of twelve Ishbel was placed into the home of Kathleen and Dougie Mayben and set to work as the domestic native with principle care of their son Somhairle, or Sorlie as everyone called him. What she learned there was that Kathleen was also Vanora’s daughter, brought up as a Privileged. She’d been sold by her father, Davie, to the Military. His reward was the noble seat of Black Rock penitentiary. At first Ishbel couldn’t understand why her mother had placed her in this home. She’d been there a couple of months before Kathleen told her the truth in an attempt to shake Ishbel out of the sullen bouts of homesickness.

  Was she resentful of Kathleen who had been brought up Privileged? She often asked herself the question. Being a native slave in a Privileged home was no easy gig. Maybe resentment had lingered, but only until she saw the life that Kathleen led. The State placed Kathleen under Hero in Death status, a suicide bomber. Who would want that? Ishbel pitied her sister and viewed the State’s treatment of Privileged with fresh cynical eyes. Her time with Dougie and Kathleen washed out most of Vanora’s influence. She had never carried Vanora’s fanatical hatred of the State. She knew the planet was dying and desperate measures must be taken, but the oppression of the native had taken a new turn with the DNA dilution and must be stopped. Even so, Vanora sometimes went too far.

  The Noiri seemed to be above the law. Its black market network boasted strength and breadth greater than the Military and the State. The thought of Monsieur Jacques’ name churned Ishbel’s stomach.

  Scud groaned in the corner and placed hands over ears. Ishbel faked a yawn to release pressure in her head. The growing grind of the engine shuddered then thumped as bow thrusters kicked in. She watched Dawdle watch her before he turned his attention to the control panel, open the front screen to show the murky sea part. They surfaced into a b
lack night with only one light shining in the near distance. As they drew closer she made out the shape of the shed Dawdle manoeuvred towards. Judging by the short trees that grew on a hillside surrounding three sides of the loch, Ishbel guessed they were no longer in the High Lands and had travelled south into the Lake Lands.

  ‘Where?’ was all Scud managed to utter. His brown eyes filmed over with the grog of sleep and something else. Something milky, sinister.

  Ishbel knelt beside him. ‘Look, Scud, your granddaughter is safe, but we need to go somewhere first before we fetch her.’

  ‘Not him.’ Dawdle’s voice was quiet but sharp.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He stays here.’

  Ishbel felt her mouth dry as she watched Dawdle chain Scud to the bulkhead.

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Nae choice, Ish.’

  Scud shrugged, looked at Ishbel with pleading eyes and a defeated look.

  ‘You can’t leave him here alone.’

  ‘He’s no alone, there’s plenty folk kicking about. They’ll hear if he needs onything.’ Dawdle nodded to Scud. ‘Just shout if ye need onything, china, eh?’

  Scud shrugged again. ‘My life from now on.’ The resignation and accusation in his voice was thrown Ishbel’s way. Disappointment clouded his face.

  ‘Come on Ish, we cannae keep the man waiting. He’ll know we’ve docked.’

  He thumped his fist against Scud’s shoulders. ‘No hard feelings bud.’ Then he turned just before they left the sub. ‘Bring ye some rock back, yeah?’

  ‘Rock?’ Ishbel asked.

  ‘You’ll see.’ Dawdle laughed.