by Jeff Kamen
‘I, ah ...’
‘You know, a decade ago, we were on the verge of doing something, finally getting somewhere. People were talking about making a home outside of the City, a topside settlement with an O2 manufacturing plant. Something useful and brave, something to help create a better future. And what did we get instead? This place, with no other remit but bits and pieces of research. Seismic studies. Weather reports. Geological surveys. Well, I don’t know about you, but I don’t believe it. I don’t believe they’d sink everything we had into Van Hagens unless there was a reason. And what’s the research for in any case? Do they think we’re going to dig our way out of trouble?’
Moth was going pale. He could see a flickering pair of overalls. A note with his name on it — that he had signed — being steadily obscured by smoke.
‘… managing all the resources? Why are they doing it? You tell me.’
‘Lütt, I … I’m sorry, I need to go now, I ...’
‘What? No. You sit there and listen.’
‘I need to go, Lütt, I need —’
‘I said sit and listen. It’s high time we got this out between us.’
‘You don’t understand, I have to —’
‘Stop this,’ Lütt-Ebbins snapped, ‘just stop it,’ and Moth sat cowering. ‘Now listen. You might not like to hear it, but you and I could be living up there right now. Clearly we’re not, and nothing seems to happen.’ Lütt-Ebbins watched him a moment, then went on, ‘So ask yourself this — what do you think their motive is? Why are they so keen to crush any debate, any criticism of what they’re doing? Why? Unless there’s something they’re afraid we might find out.’
Moth stared at his friend as if he no longer recognised him. He tried to smile, to think of something to say, but couldn’t. He went to rise from the chair but Lütt-Ebbins was blocking his way, his voice turning low and desperate as he said, ‘All the change here is wrong, done for the wrong reasons. You know, not that long ago you could have told your supervisor you didn’t like the way things were organised, and you’d have been listened to. You wouldn’t necessarily have got your own way, but your viewpoint would have been noted, even respected. Would you do that now?’
He shook his head, whimpering.
‘No. Exactly. Where would you go, if you wanted a better way of doing things? Where would you sleep? What would you eat? Who’d help you?’ Lütt-Ebbins studied him again, frowning darkly as he caught him checking his watch. ‘Well, anyway, I think you know the answer. In fact, I know you do. We all do. Anyone speaks out of turn and it’s the long ride out and goodbye at the end of it.’ With that, raising a finger to keep him in place, Lütt-Ebbins returned to the console.
Moth watched his friend punch the controls. He was shaking. Among the images crowding his mind was that of a visit to Gabelstad some years before, his father a hollow-eyed figure behind the fence. Over this image came security men with whistles and clubs and guns, Derring screaming in fury. He saw Lütt-Ebbins being led away in chains, saw himself running to the metsat chamber, being fired outside; the huge vessel droning relentlessly after him as he scrambled through the dust. His note discovered by a shrewd, tenacious officer and a death squad assembled to go after him. All horrors, all closing in on him like walls.
As the tray ejected, he saw that the disk was the key to saving himself. Without it, Lütt-Ebbins had nothing but a story. Once it was destroyed, he’d be secure again; he could hunker down and wait for the incident to blow over, wait for life to continue whilst he plotted his next opportunity to leave.
‘Lütt,’ he croaked, ‘what are you going to do with it?’
‘What do you think I’m doing?’
‘No. Please. That-that’s mine. I need it. Please give it to me.’
Lütt-Ebbins turned, pocketing the disk, his long face green in the static glare. ‘I’d be a lot happier if I kept it,’ he said. ‘I know someone who might have an idea what this tanker is. What it’s about.’
‘But it … it’s mine.’
‘I said I’ll keep it, thank you.’
Moth jumped up from his seat. ‘But it’s mine! It’s mine, Lütt, give it back to me.’
‘Quiet. You don’t know who’s outside.’
‘NO! No, I won’t be quiet! Ah, g-give it back to me!’
‘Just shut it, will you, and sit down. We’ve got some talking to do.’
‘No!’ he gasped, and then as if some inner circuitry had shorted, he flew at his friend to retrieve it, tearing and clawing at his jacket, flapping his arms about like an overwound toy. ‘You’re mad, Lütt!’ he cried, his feet lifting from the ground, ‘stop it! You’re mad! You’re mad!’
Whilst they fought, a calm electronic voice in the corridor began issuing warnings about a suspected fire. It went through emergency procedures for the benefit of new personnel, exhorting them not to take unnecessary risks or leave appliances running; to remember the edicts of the Shared Need at all times.
A moment later he was skidding across the floor empty handed. He banged his head against the wheels of the stand and lay there winded, aware of a growing commotion in the corridor. He’d need to reach the basement in minutes. In minutes … minutes …
The room was swimming. Along the ceiling the fluoros shone like a radiant highway running from nowhere to nowhere. He sat up unsteadily to find Lütt-Ebbins at the locker in the corner of the room, pulling on his breathing gear. He called to him weakly and Lütt-Ebbins turned, clad in a mask, then came over with a spare kit for him to use.
‘Please, Lütt,’ he begged. ‘Just give it to me.’
‘I thought I’d made myself clear. It’s safer where it is.’
He sank back again, feeling sick and wretched, watching as Lütt-Ebbins placed the breathing gear at his side.
‘Listen,’ Lütt-Ebbins said reassuringly, ‘you’re not going to get in any trouble. I promise you.’
He sniffed, afraid he was going to cry.
‘You’re a good kid, but you need to start looking around yourself. Then ask if any of this is right.’ Lütt-Ebbins waited until he’d acknowledged this, then stood, leaving him to pull on the gear. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t get back to you. Just leave it out of your report. There’s something going on now by the sound of it, so nobody’ll check anything. Derring’ll never know.’ With that he returned to his desk, where he began to scoop together the stack of papers.
Moth sat up. He slung the cylinder over his back, then as he wriggled an arm through a strap, he said miserably, ‘You don’t know that, Lütt. Not for sure. I-I mean, who are you giving it to?’
Lütt-Ebbins clawed back the loose hair hanging down at his ear. ‘Now look here,’ he said. ‘I think we need to come to an arrangement.’
Moth looked at him dizzily, barely seeing him. His head hurt … basement, the room was reeling, basement, he had to get downstairs.
‘Now, I’ll admit that there’s a small chance I’m wrong about this vehicle. I won’t know until I hear from my contact. So I suggest you forget you ever saw anything. If there’s any fall-out, I’ll take the full blame for it.’
Just then a siren began wailing. Someone ran yelling past the door.
‘What do you say? You ask no questions, I’ll tell the lies.’
Moth saw a determined pair of eyes on him. Then he noticed the pile of papers. They seemed as sinister and unpleasant to him now as folds of human skin. ‘None of this is what I want, Lütt,’ he said. ‘I hate it. I hate it all.’
Lütt-Ebbins snorted. ‘You know what your problem is? You hate the wrong things. It’s a pity, really. Some might say a waste.’
They looked at each other, then Moth looked away.
‘Well? Do we have a deal?’
But Lütt-Ebbins didn’t get an answer. Instead, the door pad beeped. By the second tone he was scrambling to hide the papers in a drawer. He turned as if to warn Moth to watch himself, but he had disappeared. Completely vanished. An instant later the door swung open and a slab-faced guard glanc
ed inside. ‘You,’ he said. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Right. I’m sorry,’ Lütt-Ebbins mumbled, closing the drawer behind him, ‘had to finish my weather report. We were told —’
‘Let me finish it for you,’ the guard cut in with a smirk. ‘I’ve got three little words. Fire. Alert. Basement. Like that, weather man? And here’s a few more — get your shit together, get downstairs, and keep out of the lifts. Now move it.’
With a lunge of a huge shoulder he was gone, leaving an icy hush in the room. Looking round uncertainly, Lütt-Ebbins locked the drawer, then started as Moth crept out from beneath Stoeckl’s desk. He was wearing a loose-fitting mask, and as he rose up he blinked from behind it in silent shame.
Lütt-Ebbins looked him over, pocketing the key. ‘Well,’ he said curtly, ‘I’ll take that to mean we’ve got a deal.’
Then before Moth could say anything, call him back again, scream, he was out through the door, merging with the noisy human traffic outside.
Chapter 13 — Anya
She can smell Anya’s cooking a long way off, even through the smoke drifting from the main cluster.
It is almost dark, the amber sky reefed with thunderous clouds that evening. Insects swarm, snatched at by crisscrossing birds. All along the hillside, families sit camped around small blotches of firelight. The evening feels charged to her, with static and expectation, and she is pleased to be spending it in company.
More smells as she unties her boots and calls from the door, catching familiar aromas of earth and balsam. She looks inside to see Anya shelling beans over a bowl.
‘Come on in,’ Anya says, not looking up.
She goes through to a draped table and sets down the jug of beer she’s brought with her. She greets Anya with a kiss and pours them drinks using the cups that have been set out. ‘The ones you got me,’ Anya adds, and with a smile Jaala loads a tray and carries it over to the cushions and sits a few feet from the stove.
They chat easily while Anya adds the beans to the stew and gives it a stir, after which she goes behind a partition to change clothes.
Sitting cross-legged, Jaala looks around the shelter where she’d spent her earliest years. Much larger than her own, with two spare beds set along the walls and a small area where visitors sit during consultations. Nearby is a tall wooden unit with varnished drawers, the shelves of the upper part host to ageing papers and books, to medical supplies. She studies the neat rows of pots and phials and jars. The twists of herbs and dried leaves strung up on hooks. Nothing out of place and all as she has known it to be and all of it a comfort to her.
When the stew is ready they serve it into bowls, talking as they eat, Anya recounting how events had turned out at the Maga camp; she discussing her classes, describing the children’s progress. ‘Sorry about the other night,’ she says at one point. ‘Hope you didn’t wait up for me.’
‘Thought you must have fallen asleep.’
‘No, I … I was out.’
‘I did wonder. Actually, I came by to check on you.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course I did. Thought your head might be playing up.’
‘No, I’ve been okay.’
‘What did you do, go for a walk or something?’
‘Kind of.’
‘What’s kind of?’
‘I mean ... I wasn’t alone.’
Anya grins. ‘Well, well,’ she says. ‘No wonder your head’s feeling better.’
‘Mm.’
‘So, who’s the lucky boy? Anyone I should know about? A certain István?’
Jaala bites her lip, guessing what might come.
‘Yann? Was it Yann?’
‘Annie ...’
‘What about Pétar? You like him, don’t you?’
‘Annie, I ...’
‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, I like him, but it’s not who you —’
‘No, don’t tell me, I’ll guess.’
‘Annie, listen.’
‘Andraž? Damijan?’
‘Annie, please. It was Sandor.’
Anya’s eyes widen a fraction, then lower as she discovers something of interest in her bowl. ‘Well,’ she says, teasing a lump around with her spoon, ‘Sandor. That is a surprise.’
‘We had a talk. A long talk. We sorted it all out.’
‘That’s … quite a development.’
‘It’s what happened.’
Anya’s eyebrows arch in challenge. ‘Who sorted it out, then? Who’s we?’
‘Us. We both did. We both feel ... well, the main thing is we’re together again. It feels right, really right.’
‘Oh, my sweet girl …’
‘I’m not sweet.’
‘You are to me.’
‘Well, not to me.’
‘I know. And I know it’s got nothing to do with me, and I know you’ll think I’m fussing again ... but I do worry.’
Jaala smoothes her shirt across her knees.
‘I mean it. You see everything else clear as day, yet you’re blind to him.’
‘I’m not blind to him.’
‘You only see his good side, and that’s blind as far as I’m concerned.’
‘That’s not true. I know what he’s like. And yes, he’s rude, he drinks too much, he gets into fights now and then. And he’s been awful at times. I accept that, I’m not pretending. But you don’t know all of him. He’s thoughtful. He’s kind ... he gives. He makes me feel special.’ She looks up to find a cynical gaze upon her. ‘I know he hasn’t always made me happy, I’ll admit it — I’m admitting it now. But he’s not like the other men. There’s … I don’t know, something else to him. A spirit. He makes me feel alive.’
Anya places a dish behind her and stretches her feet. ‘I do trust you,’ she says. ‘And I trust your judgement. I do. But in a way it’s not about judgement, it’s about what you know. I think you forget I grew up at the same time as him.’
‘So?’
‘So, I saw what he did to the other kids back then, and I’ve never seen him change. The man’s a savage. A bully.’
‘Annie, we’ve gone through this, why can’t —’
‘Listen a minute. I saw him destroy Lila. Not hurt her. Destroy her. And I’ve seen him almost do the same to you. I haven’t said anything for a while because I thought you’d finished with him. I thought it was all over, done with.’
‘I know, but ...’
Anya exhales in frustration. ‘Can’t you understand me? Can’t you see why I’m concerned?’
Jaala looks into her face. The open, freckled countenance now lined with care. She looks deep into the truth of those candid eyes, then away.
‘Jaala?’
‘... What?’
‘I want you to listen to me closely,’ Anya says in a different tone, and for a few painful minutes she is forced to endure the lecture.
She sighs, having heard it all before: Sandor the young bully, the thug, bastard child of the Maga tribe. Breaker of noses and arms and legs; collector and distributor of scars. The man-boy who’d turned father soon after seducing the most wanted and beautiful woman in the Naagli tribe — a woman who now was dead, a point Anya makes forcefully and purposefully while she sits squirming.
Eventually, it seems there is nothing else for Anya to add. The crimes have all been listed.
Jaala maintains her gaze on a stretched hide pinned to the wall. Struggling to keep the resentment out of her voice, she says, ‘I thought she died of drink. That’s what I heard.’
‘You’re right, she did. But that’s not the point, and you know it isn’t. She was in torment. Lost. Anybody else would have helped her. Instead, he just … toyed with her.’
‘I … I know he regrets it.’
‘Does he? I’ll bet. And does he regret how he treated you?’
‘Yes. He regrets it a lot. All of it.’
‘Really? You know, any fool can keep slapping you and saying they’re sorry. It’s not that hard to
do.’
‘Annie, please, we both made mistakes. Both of us. It wasn’t just him.’
Anya mutters something, adjusting the cushions. Jaala shakes her head. After a while she notices thin strains of music coming down the hillside. The sound of an old wooden soundbox, squeezebox, something being played in the marketplace. When she looks up again she sees a frank expression that she knows all too well. But before she can stop her, Anya says, ‘You know what upset me the most?’
‘Hell, Annie, now what?’
‘You know what I’m talking about.’
She picks at a loose thread at her knee.
‘The fact that it didn’t have to happen. That it was such a … such a waste. I mean, she wasn’t just beautiful. She was strong, she had her own mind. And deep inside, she had a good heart. She was a lot like you.’
Winds the thread around a finger.
‘I know you don’t want to hear it, but I know what I’m talking about. And yes, I realise his upbringing might not be his fault. I don’t even want to think what some of those kids go through down there. But the thing is, in the end, he’s just a spiteful bully. He seized hold of her and didn’t let go until she was under. I saw it myself. I was there.’
Snaps it.
‘That poor soul. She’d stopped eating by then. There was filth everywhere inside her tent. The place stank. Luckily, the kids had been taken away. Her body … well, she looked like a stick. She was delirious, screaming and shouting, saying the most disgusting things. And the things she was saying about him were pretty nasty too. I swear, she’d been bad before, but I heard some ugly things that week.’
‘Annie …’
‘No. You listen.’
‘Please …’
‘You know what really shocked me? She didn’t mention the kids once. Not once, and I was there almost all the time. And you know why? Because there was only one person in the world she cared about. I told her, said if she didn’t get some water down her she’d never see them again. But she refused. Just refused. Like she’d given up on them. She didn’t say another word. I can’t remember how long she lay there, but I know that right at the end, after everything, she started crying. Then that was it. The last thing she did was call his name.’
