by Jeff Kamen
Coming to the room where Lütt-Ebbins was quartered, he knocked and listened. Knocked again. Then he tensed. Heavy bootsteps were approaching from around the corner. He knocked more urgently, drumming now, and the door opened slightly. The bootsteps were almost upon him. He slipped inside, shutting the door with a soft click and gripping the handle as the boots went clumping past and faded.
He turned in the darkness. The room felt empty somehow. ‘Lütt,’ he hissed. ‘Are you there?’ A pump throbbed monotonously behind a wall. ‘Ah, it’s me. Moth.’
He pulled down his goggles. His eyes worked well in the dark and the interior emerged quickly from the gloom. He saw a bedframe, blackly skeletal. He saw stripped shelves and drawers, everything gaping emptily. He switched on the lights, blinking as a cupboard shrieked open. The room was derelict and naked and not the room he knew. Panicking, he ran through to the bathroom.
Nothing but a sink and toilet and a shower. Bare white tiles. He returned to the bedroom in bewilderment, found no vids or cartons, no cherished lump of blackened glass, no grit samples, no clothes, no nothing. The place had been scraped clean. He returned to the door, wanting to be far from what might close in on him if he stayed.
~O~
He tried repeatedly to get hold of Stoeckl the next day, but there seemed to be a fault on the line.
There was no reply from the few members of Lütt-Ebbins’ family that he knew of, and on finding Schwager’s number, he dialled it only to find himself being directed to the City infirmary by a cagey operative who refused to identify herself. The call went through to a clerk who told him he’d pass on the message, adding that the notes said that Schwager was suffering a relapse. ‘Try in a week or two,’ he said.
He replaced the receiver and slumped forward, staring. Then he sat up again. He snatched up the phone and dialed. ‘I, ah, I’d like to speak to Derring, please.’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘It’s Matthëus. Nightwatch.’
Click. Silence. Click.
‘Matthëus. Marty.’
‘Th-that’s right.’
‘What did you want him for?’
‘Oh. Ah ... well. It-it’s about my shifts. Someone’s supposed to be back from leave. And, ah, they’re not here.’
Click.
‘Ah ... hello?’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Derring. He’s not here.’
‘Can I leave a message for him?’
Click. Silence. Click.
‘Derring’s not here.’
‘Yes, I … I heard you. C-Can I leave a message for him? It’s quite urgent.’
Click.
Silence.
‘Hello?
‘There’s no Derring here.’
‘Sorry?’
Click.
‘Well, ah ... do you know where he is?’
‘There’s no Derring. He’s gone.’
‘… I’m sorry? Ah, gone where? To the City?’
Click.
‘He’s no longer with us.’
‘Oh. Ah … oh, I see.’
Silence.
‘I, ah ... I didn’t realise. I mean, I didn’t know he’d ... I mean, I had no idea.’
Silence.
‘Is he, ah ... oh. Oh, dear. I-I’m very sorry.’
Silence.
‘But how … ah, how did it happen?’
‘There is no Derring.’
‘I, ah ... yes. Yes, I see. Well. I’m, ah ... I’m very s—’
Click.
Chapter 15 — Harvest Balloons
Harvest is coming, and she must begin her duties down in the lowlands.
In the mornings, with a thin mist overlying the land, she follows the carts westwards as they shamble down towards the steep and tree-protected fields. Her days spent working in a blaze of heat and dust, scything and gathering and lifting, shouldering crates and baskets; thinking things through.
So much of that evening’s conversation returning to her as she works. And along with it intrusions. Things that steal into her sleep and hang over her cold-eyed and hissing, stirring up the voices. In the flickers a thin-faced young woman shouting hoarsely outside the cave, already ravaged-looking at twenty, her skin blotched and pale. As Grethà had seen her. Leering and wildly obscene, mother of Sandor’s children.
Lila … Lila …
She pictures her own face bubbling in a box, the eyes gone, the gaunt cheeks pierced by worms.
~O~
She sees little of him in the days before the harvest celebrations, but when they meet she makes it clear that something is bothering her; that in spite of herself she is frightened.
He listens with his head lowered, a few grey hairs catching the light like threads of silver. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes. I’m here for you. You should know that.’
‘I know I should, but —’
‘I am. Listen to me. I’m here for you.’
They talk for a long time, and if there had still been reservations in her heart, she finds them now dealt with, disposed of. And when they make love it is with a passion that is almost a rage, forged with a heat to expunge all bitterness, to leave them clean and pure. Then comes the anniversary, the day on which they have promised always to meet again, whatever their circumstances. As usual they go out walking, going quietly through the forests, entering dark swathes of trees that above all else make Ansthalt feel to her like a sanctuary, a fertile oasis raised above a world of encroaching decay. Climbing to the eastern uplands, they sit by a small grassy mound. The old woman’s cave is less than a stone’s throw away.
As though pulled, she looks beyond Ansthalt’s rugged slopes to the outlying wastes, to where the ash clouds are erupting like some hot sulphurous discharge. Other times come marching, and she sees in those swirling walls other walls, black gates of dust leading round to streets that no one will ever walk along or ever know; that lead to no place other than themselves ...
Once more she asks him about Lila. He takes her into his arms, kisses her neck, her ear.
‘Why are you worried?’ he whispers. ‘I see it different now. All of it. Her. Those years. Everything’s different now.’
‘Is it?’
‘Why are you so afraid?’
‘I want to believe you. I want to.’
‘Death opens an eye,’ he says. ‘It changes everything. It changed me. Nothing looks the same any more. You know this.’
‘Why should I know?’
‘You’ve known death so long, it’s part of your instinct. You should trust me.’
‘Can I trust you?’
‘You have to.’
‘I want to, Sandor. I want to trust you.’
‘Then trust me now, trust what we have together. Let it grow.’
She watches him kiss her hand. A cool wind is coming off the cliffs, ruffling through the tall grass standing so yellow and so dry. Desiccated. An endless rustling sound. The skies are already lowering and in a few weeks will be menaced with storms. Harsh rains will lead to snow, falling softly over the mound like a downy coverlet. A time when everything, everything would be sleeping. She cries quietly, and he pulls her near. They look out at the growing dark. She turns her face. Kisses his bearded cheek. The creases at the corner of his eye. ‘I want to be with you,’ she says. ‘Always.’
He clenches his jaw.
‘And you?’ she adds softly. ‘What do you want?’
He breaks from her, then picks a small dead leaf from the mound, tosses it away. He sits back again, still gazing down. ‘What do you think?’ he says.
‘I know. I just want us to be happy. That’s all. Are you happy?’
‘We’re here, we’re alive,’ he says. ‘That’s enough for me.’
She kisses him again. Then looks out at the underlit clouds, slowly massing. Finding there a wilderness of dust beneath a wilderness of stars; the jagged outline of a planet rol
ling among countless others, all things circling endlessly. Yes, she thinks. We’re here, we’re alive. What else is there?
He strokes her hair and she takes in the smell of him and everything seems so simple, is all there in front of them, there for the taking. She wants to seize the core of her life and put her lips to it, crush it, drink it dry.
‘There,’ he says, indicating as the first of them comes riding up from behind a ridge. The balloon rises and drifts away, then the wind seizes control and hooks it violently southwards.
‘Strange, don’t you think?’ she says. ‘That there’s always three of them.’
He says nothing, just stares emptily, almost tragically, at the path the balloon has taken.
‘Always the same,’ she says. ‘Isn’t it. Always the same.’
Chapter 16 — Missing
In future days he is seen wandering the base like an automaton in search of his missing friend, touring ceaselessly the canteen and library, the labs and workrooms and offices; hunting through the vid lounges and stormhavens, the sporthalle.
He peers through doorways, eavesdrops on conversations, waits and hovers, gathers what precious information he can. He searches everywhere he can think of, but it seems that Lütt-Ebbins has both physically and statistically disappeared.
Van Hagens feels different to him now — is different, somewhere he does not know, a place where strangers serve his food and run the pharmacy counter, where anonymous guards patrol at every turn. Rumours circulate that an army of inspectors have set up quarters on the base in order to head the efficiency drive, and soon enough the noticeboards are plastered with yet more reminders to eat less and exercise more, to be more punctual, to work with greater accuracy, to surpass the new departmental targets that have been set. As he continues on his rounds, he sees his own fears mirrored in passing eyes; finds the same uneasy stares around him wherever he goes, entering lifts or lounges, when taking his meals. A mood of intense suspicion has pervaded Van Hagens, is drifting through it like a foul vapour. In the staffrooms and offices, card games prop up whispering galleries; phone conversations have become cryptic, terse. He dreams of stealing explosives and blasting his way outside in a rage of smoke and flame and bloody devastation, but knows he cannot leave without knowing the fate of his friend; he cannot abandon him. He prowls on sleeplessly, always alone.
~O~
One evening a smiling cadet called at his office, inviting him to a talk in the main lecture hall. The talk concerned new security arrangements: attendance compulsory.
Sitting at the back of the hall, he watched his fellow workers as they shuffled through the doors, most filing along the rows in silence, exchanging anxious looks. On the stage, members of the panel due to address them were taking seats behind a lectern. None of the panel was known to him and he sat back with his arms folded, another pill dissolving under his tongue. Dully, he scanned the audience as the rows began to fill, but the tall figure he was searching for was absent.
He took little notice of the speakers’ messages, took little notice of anything until an athletic-looking young woman came to the lectern and the lights went down. She seemed icily composed as she surveyed the audience, her blonde hair tucked neatly beneath her cap. He sat up groggily and noticed others shifting too, whispering behind their hands. When he looked again he was shocked to find himself within the ambit of her gaze. Perhaps it was the light, the angle of her head, but he could have sworn her eyes were trained upon him. He shrivelled down in his seat.
She addressed the hall with cool confidence, sending penetrating looks here and there to emphasise the points she made. She thanked the audience for stepping up its efforts in recent times, whilst mentioning the need for improved vigilance. She spoke of trying times ahead, of commitment and sacrifice, reminding the hall that they acted as the eyes and ears of Nassgrube in a dangerous world: a world where new issues had arisen that stood to threaten their collective safety. Without any fluctuation in tone, she spoke of an enemy within; of the hand of terror. As she paused to take in her audience, he noticed they were sitting transfixed.
‘From this time on,’ she continued, ‘our future security will depend on your commitment, your skill, and your integrity. And yes, your loyalty. Loyalty not to me, not to your supervisors, not to your colleagues … not even to yourselves. But to what binds us together. Citizens, we enjoy the benefits of a sound education, a nutritious diet, countless opportunities. The Shared Need, in turn, expects cooperation and work performed to the highest possible standards. This is the essence of not only how we must live, but, ultimately, how we shall prosper. Citizens, we have a great destiny ahead of us if Nassgrube can be strong again. We can and will rise above our current status, underground. But to get there we must live without waste, without weakness, and without deviation.’
A bony official behind her nodded at this, and as he began clapping, others in the panel followed. Some of the audience joined in hesitantly.
‘In general … thank you … in general we find at Van Hagens a well trained and disciplined technical section.’ She nodded at someone in her view. ‘You are the ones giving back to us, and with your help we will move forward together. To you we say — help us. Help us weed out the parasites. Help us weed out the malingerers and secret-keepers, they undermine us all. Citizens, the truth is there is no room for a double life in Nassgrube. There is no room for this.’ She signalled to the back of the hall, then turned to look behind her as an image was projected onto a screen. Three lines of handwriting came into focus. People gasped, began whispering. Moth sat cringing, avoiding the cold sweep of her gaze.
L. What tanker? Fuel ??
Show me.
Tell no one.
‘Citizens,’ she continued, ‘Van Hagens had the great fortune to be rigorously inspected this month. The message you see before you was discovered by chance. But remember — we may not always be so lucky.’
More disconcerted muttering broke out. Someone called out a question.
‘Be assured,’ she said, acknowledging the disturbance with a hand, ‘we have checked the base thoroughly, and no devices have been found. However, this does not mean we are safe from attack. The enemy in question could be well organised and widespread. We apprehended the recipient on this occasion, but I’m afraid to say that the Sender is likely to be among us in this room.’
Moth almost moaned. He was racing through his options, wondering what to do. As the woman surveyed the audience again, he looked to the doors and noticed fresh squads of guards entering the hall, all armed, all in black uniforms. As more poured in behind them, they fanned out to block the other exits. Everywhere, heads were turning. A few people were getting up by now, reacting angrily, shouting to the stage to ask what was going on.
With another calming gesture she went on, ‘You have been targeted for destruction, Citizens, but I can assure you that with your cooperation these people will be caught. Their cowardice will collapse in the face of our resolve.’
The panel led another round of applause, but all that came from the audience were shouts of protest, demands that the speaker provided proof to back up what she was saying.
‘Finally,’ she added, raising her voice, ‘... finally … thank you … finally, Citizens ... finally, it is with much regret ... that I have been instructed to announce …’
More people were rising to their feet. Some were chanting slogans of defiance and Moth had to strain to hear what she was saying.
She broke off a few moments later as a scuffle broke out by one of the doors. There was a yell, then the man protesting was seized and bundled outside. In response to this, the hecklers began tossing things at the guards, who looked to the stage as though for guidance. At the lectern, the speaker smiled reassuringly as she said, ‘As a result of these measures, your quarters are being searched as we speak. This action …’
At this, the audience cried out in consternation. A few began ripping the seats from their chairs and hurling them at the stage, at
the encroaching lines of guards. A slow handclap started, feet were stomping.
‘This action …. this action, Citizens ...’
Moth was hugging himself, eyes shut to the room. So scare, so scare. Thinking of his bathroom, asking himself why he hadn’t stashed his supplies somewhere else, somewhere they couldn’t be traced to him. People were yelling in outrage as guards forced another protester to the ground. Threats were being made; he heard people weeping, screams of pain. Over a growing clamour he could just hear the speaker trying to calm the auditorium, crying, ‘Think, Citizens! Now is the time for us to pull together! Be vigilant! Now is the time for cooperation!’
~O~
He found bootprints in his bathroom, but the tiles had held, and as he knelt at the pedestal he rested his brow against the cool surface, breathing deeply.
He felt like going to bed, but was in the office as usual that evening, aware that all he could to shield himself was act normally, continue with his routine.
He spent much of the night staring at the towering face of the mountain. Talking to the man who dwelt upon it so secretively, begging for the help he needed to pull him through. ‘Get me out of this,’ he whispered, ‘just get me out.’ He slept at his desk and awoke the next day to a terrible thirst, having snacked from the wurmbad several times without water. He was outside, on his way to pick up a carton, when he noticed the Daywatch door was ajar. Approaching it, he heard typing. He peered inside the office, then started. A tall grey-haired figure was seated with his back to him, thundering away at the keyboard.
‘Lütt?’ he gasped. Then louder: ‘Lütt?’
The lanky man hammered away.
He smiled crookedly, advancing. Then he began to laugh, and he put his hands to his mouth with joy, not knowing whether to rush up to his friend and throw an arm around him or to pummel him, punish him for all his needless worrying. ‘Lütt!’ he cried, ‘I thought they’d got you! I thought you were —’
