The Secret Under My Skin

by Janet Mcnaughton

  It takes awhile for this to sink in. “Not William?” I finally say.

  She laughs. “I know. It must seem impossible to you, old and sedate as we are. How could you imagine us any other way? But William was brave and brilliant. He rescued scores of people from the technocaust. He didn’t have to join the Beothuks. He could have renounced his profession and remained unharmed. But it was a matter of principle to him. He went underground the first year.”

  “What was he before?”

  “A science teacher in a garrison town. Only at the pre-university level. Not a serious threat, so the Commission thought. Little did they know.” She gives a contented chuckle.

  I’m so bewildered I stop walking. “But how . . .” I can’t even finish the sentence.

  “How did a daring leader of the resistance come to be a Master of the Way? That must be confusing. Remember I told you that the technocaust caused the split between the Way and governments like the Commission? Masters of the Way had always been nervous of science. Like everyone else, they blamed technology for the Dark Times. We had only a few Masters at the university, and they taught things like Latin and philosophy. The Way seemed to be dying out. But during the technocaust, the Masters of the Way began to understand that they had been manipulated into fearing science. Like the weavers, they were sickened by the violence. When the technocaust ended, the High Elders of the Way demanded a general amnesty for surviving scientists, techies, and the resistance. When the governments refused, the Way took us in. Thousands of us. This forced them to negotiate. We finally got our amnesty but at a price. We had to promise not to contradict the official history of the technocaust. We bought our lives with our silence.

  “But that took two years. In the meantime, we lived under the protection of the Way, and William learned to respect the institution. He wasn’t alone. Many techies remained within the Way, becoming Masters or even High Elders. They’ve changed the Way dramatically. Now scientific research is respected and encouraged, though not openly yet. Together, the Weavers’ Guilds and the Way have created a powerful new opposition. Perhaps powerful enough to bring about real change.”

  I have been blind and deaf to everything but Erica’s strange story, so I’m surprised to find we are in front of Lem’s house. The music, which must have been playing for some time, catches me unaware. It’s like poetry without words. Erica opens the door and we step inside—into the music itself, it seems. Lem is standing with his back to us at one of those black-and-white inputting devices. His fingers fly across the levers and the music comes from it—or from him through it. A joyous tumble of sound washes over me, satisfying a longing I did not even know existed. Erica and I stand motionless as long as the music lasts, however long that may be. When the last notes die away, the silence that fills the room is a sound I have never heard before.

  “That was lovely, Lem.” Erica speaks as softly as she can but Lem turns around startled, knocking the inputting device off its stand. “Your keyboard!” Erica cries, rushing to help him.

  He looks shaken. “I wasn’t expecting anyone,” he mumbles as they right the keyboard.

  “I said I’d come for the encryption code, remember?”

  Erica prompts. “You have it done, don’t you?” She sounds worried.

  Lem runs a hand through his wild hair. “Yeah, I do. It’s just, well, Bach will do that to you first thing in the morning.”

  “Bock?” I ask. “Is that what you call that kind of music?”

  “It’s the name of the man who composed it, Little Wheat.” He shows me a sheet of paper. “Johann Sebastian Bach. He was born almost seven hundred years ago. I don’t think he even knew what he was—probably the greatest musical genius that ever lived. This is what I was playing.” The paper is covered in little black blobs. “‘Little Prelude in C Minor,’ BWV 999. Originally written for the lute, an old string instrument, but it translates nicely to keyboard.”

  “You can read that?” I ask.

  He looks puzzled. “Sure. It’s music.”

  “Lem,” Erica interrupts gently, “the encryption code.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He hands her a micro-disk, which she pockets.

  “You’d better erase the original,” she says.

  I remember my Object. “Did you have time to work on that cassette machine?”

  Lem nods, “I tried a few things. Isn’t going to be easy. I might have something in a few more weeks.”

  I can hardly hide my disappointment. That won’t be until after we go to the Tablelands.

  “Why don’t you ask him about the scanner?” Erica says.

  When I finish, Lem smiles. “Now that’s easy. You must have a subcutaneous micro-dot. You know. For ID. Implanted in your arm. Kitchen scanners use the same technology with different codes.”

  “ID?” My voice is very small.

  “Yeah, identification. Lots of techies had them implanted in their kids’ arms at birth in case they ever . . .” his voice trails off as the meaning of his words sink in.

  “. . . in case they ever went missing.” Erica finishes his sentence. “You mean we can find out who she is?” Her voice is unbelieving. “Really, Lem?”

  “Really. It would be in UIDC—Universal Identification Code. The idea is to make them as easy to read as possible. I could program a kitchen scanner to read UIDC in just a few hours if I had one.” He turns to me. “Or you could go to the workcamp. They’d be able to read it now.”

  “I could?” The idea is so compelling I have to stop myself from going there right away.

  “That would be a very bad idea, Blay.” I hear the fear in Erica’s voice. “Our kitchen scanner is built right into the wall, but we’ll find a spare somewhere. Talk to Clara this afternoon when you go to Kildevil. I’ll give you a note.”

  The urgency in her voice makes me remember there are other things at stake. “I’ve waited all my life. I guess I can wait a few more days.”

  Erica hugs me. “Good girl,” she says. “What will it tell me, Lem?”

  “Basic stuff. Your birth date, place of birth, your name.”

  “I would have a real name? I would have an age and a birthday. Erica, I would know who I am.” The idea makes me laugh but, strangely, when I do, tears run down my cheeks. I can’t stop smiling but I can’t stop the tears, either. “If I get a scanner this afternoon, can I bring it to you right away?” I ask Lem.

  “Sure, Little Wheat. Any time.” I wonder why he’s so kind to me.

  Not until we’re walking back to Erica’s house do I understand what this information might mean. More than I’d realized at first. “Erica, do you think I might . . .” I am almost afraid to say it, but I gather my courage, “. . . find my parents?”

  Erica looks serious. “Blay, don’t hope for too much. When children go missing, people search for them. With that micro-dot in your arm, you could have been located if anyone was looking for you, dear.” Her voice is gentle, but I know what she’s saying.

  “You mean I wasn’t found because I wasn’t wanted.” I look down when I say this.

  Erica lifts my chin gently so our eyes meet. “No, Blay. Lots of parents want their children but can’t keep them. Adults who fail to support themselves are indentured. When you were little, there were no workcamps. People had to set their children loose on the streets. It doesn’t mean you were unwanted. But indentured workers can have short life spans.”

  “I understand,” I say, but my voice is flat. The joy of the moment is gone.

  Erica seems to know what I’m feeling. “I hate to ruin this for you, Blay. It will be wonderful to know who you are. But the odds against finding your family are astronomical.”

  “You’re right,” I say, but I’m lying. I clutch my left wrist and wish as I never have before. I wish the micro-dot would unlock the secrets of my past and lead me home.

  At the house, the kitchen is filled with unexpected smells.

  William is cooking. He looks sheepish. “I had hoped to surprise you with lunch,�
�� he says to Erica.

  “Omelettes,” Erica says. “Just like our bushcamp days.”

  They both laugh, then Erica frowns. “Oh, but the girls will never eat omelettes.”

  “I was surprised, but Marrella said she would. She even said she’d like to try moose some time.”

  “My goodness! What’s come over her? Blay, do you know?”

  I hope I’m not blushing. “She was impressed with the moose we saw by the water,” I say. Then, to smooth Marrella’s way, I add, “I would try some omelette, too.”

  “You would?” William looks pleased. As he works around the kitchen, I try to picture him as he must have been in the technocaust. It isn’t hard. Determination and power still radiate from him. I remember the first time I really looked at him. I thought he looked like a warrior. That was closer to the truth than I’d guessed. Erica puts her hand on his shoulder. I remember the warmth in her voice when she spoke of her love for him. Marriage is alien to me. I’ve never known anyone who was married before. I wonder what it’s like to have a life’s companion. It seems impossible for someone like me.

  My Name

  By late afternoon I’m on the path to Ski Slope again, a palm-sized scanner in my pocket. I passed the Grand Hotel both ways without event. Clara took Marrella’s measurements for the seamstress and Lem’s micro-disk with equal calm, as if both were part of everyday life. Then she set out to find the scanner. People in Kildevil don’t use kitchen scanners for inventory, but she knew where to find the kids who play with gadgets. “That wasn’t allowed when I was a child,” she told me. “It’s a sign of the times.”

  As Lem’s house comes into sight I wonder what I’ll learn—my identity, my age, my name? Things I never imagined would be mine. I quicken my step until I am running and arrive breathless at Lem’s door.

  “Lem? Are you there?” I call.

  He walks out of the kitchen and smiles at me. “Hello, Little Wheat,” he says. “Did you get a scanner?” I take it from the bag and hold it out to him. His smile changes to a frown. “Whoa, ancient device. Where’d you get this?”

  “In Kildevil.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Clara tested it before she gave it to me. It seemed to.”

  “It’s three or four generations out of date. Kildevil folks aren’t known for their devotion to technology.” He turns the scanner. “This is the problem. After the technocaust, devices like this were limited to perform a narrow range of functions. This little critter was made just after those rules began to relax. I can program it but it’s going to take time. Come back tomorrow . . .”

  “Tomorrow!” The word rips from my throat before I can think, startling Lem so badly that he almost drops the scanner. “Couldn’t I help somehow?” I add to make up for the outburst.

  “I don’t see how, Little Wheat. I have to connect this to an inputting device and type the UIDC in manually. It’s a job for one set of eyes and one pair of hands. The code is simple but it’s long.” He sighs. “If I work all night it should be ready for you in the morning.”

  “But you shouldn’t lose sleep for me.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t sleep much most nights anyway. It’s good to have something to work on. Keeps those demons at bay.” He says this as if living with demons is the most natural thing in the world. I’d almost forgotten what he’s been through.

  “I don’t know how to thank you for this, for trying to get sound from my Object, for everything. You don’t even know me and you’ve been so kind.”

  It isn’t usual for Lem to look directly at me; but he does now and he smiles, although the smile doesn’t touch the sadness in his eyes. “Lost souls like us have got to stick together, Little Wheat. You lost your family, your identity even. I lost a lot myself. More than I can say. Erica’s like that, too. We do what we can to help each other out. That’s all anyone can do.” He looks away, as if embarrassed to have said so much. “I’ll get to work on this right away. Come back in the morning and we’ll see what we’ve got.”

  I don’t know if Lem sleeps that night but I don’t. I can barely sit still long enough to eat supper, and afterward I can’t concentrate enough to read. I lie awake hour after hour rigid with tension, playing my few, poor memories over and over. The city, the fine stone buildings. The arms that held me. The other arms that reached out of the blackness, the howl that followed me into the dark. All I have ever known about my past. Will what I am about to learn piece these things together in any meaningful way? It’s foolish to hope but I cannot stop myself.

  When the sky turns gray I rise and dress as quietly as I can, slipping down the back stairs to the kitchen. The thought of eating makes my stomach heave, but I put water on the methane burner. Maybe a cup of something hot will stop me from shaking. The back door opens, and I startle. I had assumed everyone was in bed. Erica reacts the same way when she sees me.

  “Oh, Blay, it’s so early.” She goes to the control panel and enables the cloaking device. “You’re not going to Lem’s at this hour, are you?”

  I nod. “He said it would take him all night to program the scanner. If I get this over with, he can rest. If I wait, I might just wake him.”

  “I suppose that’s true. Would you rather go alone?”

  “No. Would you come with me?” I can’t begin to tell her how grateful I am. The tea helps, too. By the time we leave the house, my hands have stopped shaking. My breath makes clouds as we step into the cold morning. Everything is rimed in downy white frost. I start to shiver again.

  Erica notices. “You’re cold.”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m scared. I’ve waited so long and now—I’m afraid of what I might find out and what I might not.”

  Erica says nothing but she takes my hand in her warm, work-roughened grip and we walk up the hill. We find Lem asleep, his head resting on his arm, which is flung across his desk, his face toward us. He looks tired and peaceful and, although he is big and solid, somehow fragile. The gray in his hair and beard remind me of the frost outside, how it will wither when the sun touches it. Lem seems just as insubstantial. Erica gently shakes his shoulder. “Lem.”

  “Michelle . . .” He opens his eyes and then says, “Oh, it’s you. Are you ready?” We all pretend we didn’t hear the word he spoke on waking.

  I am shaking so badly now that Erica brings a stool for me to sit on. “Don’t worry,” Lem says, “it won’t hurt.” He runs the scanner past my wrist. It beeps just as the kitchen scanner has dozens of times. “That’s it,” Lem says. “You can put your arm down.” The display goes wild, red characters scattering across it like leaves in the wind. Then it stops.

  “What does it say?” Erica asks. I can say nothing at all. “Let me write it down.” Lem takes a paper and pencil and writes for what seems like forever. Then he hands it to me. “Read it out,” he says.

  I do. “Place of Birth: Toronto Prefecture. Registration Number: 2352051409384. Date: July 14, 2352. Sex: Female. Eye color: Brown. Identifying marks: None. Name: Blake Raintree.” I look from Erica to Lem and back again. “Blake Raintree. My name.” Then I realize something. “Why doesn’t it say who my parents are?”

  “The number’s a prefecture code,” Lem says. “The records would say who they were.”

  “But what kind of a name is Blake Raintree?” I ask. “Your parents probably created it,” Erica says. “That was the fashion before the technocaust. Raintree sounds like it comes from rainforest. Blake is an unusual name for a girl.”

  “She could be named for the poet,” Lem says.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Erica says. “And your parents’ last names were probably different,” she continues. She looks at the paper. “2352. Blay . . . Blake, I mean, you’re not thirteen, you’re sixteen. If you were one or two when you hit the streets, that would have been ‘53 or ‘54, the height of the technocaust.” She turns to Lem. “You were right. It all makes sense. The message on a cassette. The micro-dot. The fashionable name. Her family was educated
. She must be one of the Disappeared.”

  “Then I can probably trace her.”

  “You can? What does that mean?” I ask.

  “The resistance posted lists of missing children on secret computer groups,” Lem replies. “They’re archived on the net. If someone was looking for you during the technocaust, I’ll be able to find the postings.”

  I can hardly believe this. “How long would that take?” Lem yawns and stands. “Long time, Little . . . Blake, I mean. The archives are encrypted. I’ve got the codes, but they weren’t indexed, to make it hard for the Commission to trace people if they broke into the sites. Thousands of kids went missing. Even if I start at 2354 and work forward, it’ll take weeks.” He smiles. “It’d be useful if you disappeared early in the year.”

  “I don’t think I did,” I say, and I tell them my memories.

  The yellow bowl was outside. The trees had leaves. When I describe the stone buildings Erica looks surprised. “A building with a round green roof. You really remember that?” I nod. “There aren’t many places that match that description,” Erica says. “It sounds like the university in Toronto Prefecture.”

  “Really? You know it?”

  “I used to teach there.”

  “Could you have known my parents?”

  “I don’t think so, Bla . . . ke. Thousands of people passed through that university. I didn’t have any friends with small children. Odd though, isn’t it? I might have passed you on that campus when you were just a baby. Back before everything changed.” Her eyes grow distant, as if she’s looking back in time, and when she turns to me they shine. “If you are one of the Disappeared, it doesn’t end here. There are ways to find out who you are. But this must be a secret. If the Commission knew, they would take you away from me. Your reasons for hating them are too strong. And we can’t draw attention to the work Lem is doing here.”