by Jeff Kamen
When he wakes, his mood alters entirely. He is stormy and evasive, agitated. He says he has spent some time out in the wilderness, but little else. When she presses him, he mutters something about a tunnel; a place underground.
‘What do you mean? What are you talking about?’ she asks, but he refuses to answer. Exasperated, she lets it go. She gives him a pair of trousers and a clean shirt to wear, but he does not thank her for it, nor does he reply when she questions him again. Instead he grows ever more restless, and eventually tells her he must leave. Before he goes, she asks him to look at her. He does so with a hollow expression and waits for her to speak.
‘I saw you,’ she says. ‘The night of the lanterns. Before you disappeared.’
His eyes narrow, flickering.
‘In the forest. I followed you. You were talking with someone.’
He turns to the stove, gazing without focus.
‘Are you listening to me?’
He seems to nod.
‘I said I saw you talking with someone. Who was it?’
He looks back slowly. ‘My mother,’ he whispers.
‘That was not your mother.’
‘It was my mother.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
His teeth show. ‘Believe what you want to believe. It’s what you normally do.’
A silence passes. She looks down at the floor. ‘I think we need some time apart,’ she says. ‘Something’s changed ... I think we need to look at ourselves. See things a little clearer.’
He snorts, bowing his head, then raises it again, his mouth set in a grimace. Like a stallion drawn up harshly by the bit. ‘I came back for you,’ he says. ‘I didn’t do it to be turned away. We belong together. We’re the same kind.’
‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ she whispers. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure about anything. Not any more.’
Another silence falls. He leaves without another word. She throws his soiled rags into the stove and pokes them into the embers, weeping and cursing.
~O~
She tries to be strong, to keep him from her mind, but her walks alone become excursions into a solitude she no wishes for.
She misses him, misses the buzz and warmth of the camp, all she has hungered for in the past. So long she has dreamt of a life where there could be passion without rancour; where there could be sharing and comradeship and intimacy, a life veined with love. Now she feels she has nothing. One empty night she perfumes her skin and changes clothes, then goes down to the camp and waits for him nervously in his shelter. Upon arriving, seeing her there, he greets her with a smile.
But in a few days he turns. He yanks at her hair where before he’d twist it gently round his fingers. In bed he thrusts without tenderness, tears at her, tears at every part of her, leaving no part unpunished; goes at her with snarls and grimaces until his fury bursts forth in a rush of boiling seed. Like a man seized by a mania, a lust she cannot understand.
Afterwards she lies beside him trembling. It’s like sleeping with a man possessed, a monster haunted by everything, even by himself. She sees that whatever is consuming him might consume her as well, and with the voices growing in her skull like weeds, snaking, proliferating, she finds herself clutching desperately to what they have left. Sometimes, to cope, she spends nights at home, recovering, reconsidering; but always he comes to her with flowers and tears of remorse, and for a short while they become lovers again, grow close and warm.
Then, without fail, come the changes. In shame, she hides away from Anya, from the awful words of truth she’d have to hear. And in thinking of her, it strikes her in lucid moments that Sandor is sucking on the marrow of her feelings in a way which might kill her, and that he is doing so insatiably. She feels him drawing on her like a hollow instrument to be whistled through, to be piped upon when it pleases him. She fights back hard, sometimes with her fists; yet no matter what happens, it always ends the same way: she lying with her face to his chest, weeping, clasping him tightly. ‘Love me,’ she gasps, ‘I just want you to love me ...’
He continues his trips away. And always he returns in a state of speechless anguish, always scratched and torn. On each occasion he breaks down and tells her that he needs her, that they are close to finally getting what they want, what they have dreamed of, have prayed to come true. Time after time she asks him to explain what he means, but all he will speak of is a pain as beautiful as life. She pleads with him. He evades her. She screams at him hysterically, and at last he relents, tells her they will live as happily as they ever lived before — but that in order to acquire what they want, she must give more; must give herself utterly, give all she has.
‘I can’t give you any more,’ she whispers. She is pale and thin by now. She shakes her head listlessly. ‘There’s nothing left of me.’
‘There’s always more,’ he says, lifting his eyes, and she sees dark rings beneath them. The dirt in his hair falling away like powder. ‘There’s always more. You need to find it, you need to dig down.’
‘Why? Why can’t we enjoy what we’ve got? We’ve got everything.’
‘Not everything.’
‘But we can’t have anything more. I’m a woman, you’re a man, that’s it. That’s all we are.’
‘Is it?’
‘There’s nothing else.’
He studies her, then draws nearer, teeth glinting in the lamplight. ‘Who told you your worth?’ he growls. ‘Or mine?’
‘I … don’t know.’
‘Who?’
‘No one. I don’t know.’
He stares wildly. ‘These are the things you need to discover. These things. Do it for yourself. Give. Give for us.’
‘I don’t understand you. Discover what?’
‘You still don’t know what you are, do you?’
‘Don’t talk like that,’ she sobs.
‘Why?’
… listen listen listen …
… ana behibak, habibi ... o, ana behibak …
She wipes her face. ‘Forget it. I know what I am.’
Part Two – Fires and Exodus
Chapter 23 — The Revolution Begins
On reaching another large intersection they stopped to rest, all three panting heavily as they perched around the openings and leant in to talk. Lütt-Ebbins held his torch low over a set of plans and calculated that they were level with the shuttle station, or slightly below it.
A faint rumbling seemed to confirm this as he spoke. Warning them to take a good hold on the fixtures, he dimmed his torchlight to an amber glow. Three faces hung glistening in the dark like impressions of wax, eyes of mercury.
‘Now listen,’ he said. ‘If you get into trouble, play ignorant. Don’t say anything you don’t need to — keep to your story. Remember, you were attacked by a group of fanatics and managed to escape. They wore masks, you had no idea who they were.’
Stoeckl was pulling nervously at his quiff. ‘That’s fine, Lütt, but what if they catch us with the leaflets?’
‘That’ll be difficult. You could say you’d taken them from where you were being kept, and were planning to hand them in.’
‘Think they’d believe us?’
‘Hard to say. Depends how convincing you are. But either way, you shouldn’t be in trouble for long. We’ll release you as soon as we take over.’
Stoeckl glanced over at Moth, who shrugged back with feeble encouragement. ‘What do you think, Mothy?’ he said. ‘Think people will believe the leaflets?’
‘Well, I-I don’t know really. I suppose if —’
‘We’ve got supporters already,’ Lütt-Ebbins-Ebbins cut in. ‘There’s a strong force behind us and it’s gaining momentum. The leaflets are for the undecided. It’s just one way of saying that we’re here, that people should feel confident in taking a stand. If it helps to get people on our side, maybe fifty or sixty more, it could tip the balance when the real action starts.’
‘But do you really think it’ll work? This … Zeuge plan?’
Stoeckl nodded. ‘What do you think, Moth? Are you up for it?’
‘Ah, y-yes. I think so.’
Lütt-Ebbins peered at Moth over his spectacles ‘Look, don’t worry about Vonal,’ he said. ‘He’s just anxious. Underneath, he’s pleased to have you with us.’
‘Ah, okay.’
‘We need you. And whatever he said, you’re not just making up the numbers. I know you have something to offer.’
‘But, ah, what about you? I mean, what will you be doing?’
‘Best I don’t say. In case you get stopped.’
Stoeckl rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, Lütt. It’s not like we need all the details.’
‘Sorry. I’m afraid I can’t say. GRIP policy.’
‘But maybe we ought to know. Safety in numbers and all that. Maybe we can help you. Isn’t that right, Mothy?’
‘Ah, yes. M-Maybe we can help you.’
‘Come on, Lütt. If you and Vonal get caught, you’ll need backup. There’s no point us giving out leaflets if we can’t help you get organised.’
This seemed to resonate with Lütt-Ebbins’ own thinking, for on looking from one man to the other, he said, ‘Maybe you’ve got a point.’
‘Exactly. Just tell us.’
He exhaled. ‘Okay, well, basically, Operation Zeuge’s our emergency plan — it was devised in case we suddenly faced losing everything. The idea’s to seize control of strategic areas top and bottom of the base and squeeze the enemy into the middle, where they’ll have least influence. My own job’s to hold the shuttle bay. Vonal’s is to take the systems station. The aim, well, is to take control of the base without having to spread our support too thinly. It also means we can reach the City directly, and bring in support if we need to.’
Stoeckl nodded approvingly. ‘That’s good thinking.’
‘Well, that’s the easy part. Now we’ve got to get it done.’
Moth had been following Lütt-Ebbins’ words closely, yet what had found its way into his mind had no place at all in what he’d heard. Pow-pow, bang-bang. Boom. Away. ‘I, ah … I’ve just had a thought,’ he said, and had to swallow. His voice sounded strange to him, unnatural.
‘What’s that?’
‘Well, ah … I-I mean it would be easier to do if … if you didn’t have guards to worry about.’
‘But we do have them to worry about.’
‘I think he meant it generally, didn’t you Mothy?’
‘Ah, I-I meant, if they weren’t there … if they went away to check something, then it’d be easier.’
‘I’m sure it would, but I’m not following you.’
He gripped the rungs at his back, feeling his palms moisten. ‘I mean … if they thought there was a fire or something … they’d have to go and check it, wouldn’t they? They couldn’t just leave it unattended.’
Lütt-Ebbins scraped back a strand of hair. ‘You’re not seriously saying we should start a fire?’
‘Yes, I’m not sure about that, Mothy.’
‘N-No, of course not. Ah, not a real one. I’m talking about smoke, we just need smoke circulating.’
‘I’m still not following you. Where would it come from?’
‘Ah, from the basement. The incinerator plant. I could do it.’
Lütt-Ebbins’ eyes narrowed. ‘How, exactly?’
‘It’s easy. Ah, the extraction pipes from the bins all link together. I’d just have to tap into it, and, ah, divert it into the air filter system. Everyone will think there’s a fire in the basement, but there won’t be. It’ll just be fumes and hot air rising up.’
For a few seconds nobody spoke, then Stoeckl looked across at Lütt-Ebbins. ‘You know what? I think he’s got something.’
Lütt-Ebbins was nodding slowly. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘it’s certainly an idea.’
‘Ah … they’d have to go down to check on it, and you could lock them all in down there. It might give you some extra time. There’d be less of them to worry about.’
‘He’s right, you know. Think about it. They’ll be running about everywhere, and we’ll be the only ones to know what’s happening. It’ll make it easier to get these leaflets round as well. Nobody’ll stop us if they think there’s a fire to worry about.’
Lütt-Ebbins continued to nod at them. Then froze as a dull metallic clang came echoing from one of the shafts. He made a shushing gesture, then paused to listen. The clanging continued. ‘We need to go,’ he hissed.
‘What about it, Lütt? Surely there’s nothing to lose?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, clearly torn. He turned to face Moth. ‘It’s a good idea, but I’m not sure it’s fair to ask you to do it.’
‘Wh-why’s that?’
‘It’s a big risk. If they catch you meddling down there, they might do more than arrest you.’
Moth pulled down his goggles to see his friend more clearly. To see both his friends for what might be the last time. ‘I-I don’t mind, honestly. Please, Lütt, I want to try it.’
‘See? He doesn’t have a problem.’
‘But I need you both for the leaflets. It’s a priority.’
Stoeckl leant in further. ‘Yes, but like you said, it’s the real action that counts. And this is real action, not bits of paper. Listen to him, Lütt. He wants to do it.’
‘Do you, Moth? Is that what you want?’
‘Ah, yes, of course. I want to. And I-I know how to do it. It’s easy to do.’
Lütt-Ebbins regarded him a moment, tensing as the clanging continued. ‘So you did do it,’ he murmured, and Moth had to look away.
‘They’re coming, Lütt,’ said Stoeckl.
Lütt-Ebbins grimaced. He seemed to be struggling uncomfortably with his thoughts, tempted and repelled by the proposal in equal measures. Then, tucking away the plans, he said, ‘You swear you can do it? You’re absolutely sure about this?’
Moth felt a trembling smile break loose. So sad, so very sad. ‘Yes,’ he said bravely. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Right, you’ve got it. I’ll expect smoke in the vents one hour from now. Agreed?’
‘Ah, okay. One hour.’
With that they prepared to leave, Stoeckl stuffing leaflets into his pockets while Moth took directions concerning not only the route to the incinerator plant, but which shafts to climb as he made his way to the shuttle station. Lütt-Ebbins told him they were to meet up there as soon as they could, accompanied by as many sympathetic colleagues as they could reach. As the clanging grew more insistent, he added, ‘Take these,’ handing Moth a torch, then a grenade-like object with a short aerial.
‘Wh-what’s this?’
‘A Stubbie. GRIP’s own two-way radio.’
Moth inspected it. There was a small numeric pad on the front, with black buttons dotted around the face. ‘Is it … easy to use?’
‘Fairly. When you switch it on, it sends an encrypted signal via dishes fitted around the base. It’s powerful. You could in theory communicate with people throughout Nassgrube, but you won’t be doing that.’ He showed him a perforated area near the top. ‘Speak into this and push the button next to it when you’re talking. This one. If you don’t, it won’t transmit. Understand?’
‘Ah … what are the numbers for?’
‘You’ll need them to enter the access code. Four five two zero. Pick a channel once you’re connected. We’ll be using channels sixty through to sixty five. By the way, don’t use it for more than a couple of minutes or it’ll fry your brains to gelo. Pretty much literally.’
‘So, ah, when shall I use it?’
‘Listen in before you enter the basement. Check how things are going, but don’t send from it unless you need to. And use an alias. Let’s say … Climber. I’m Workman, by the way. Only refer to me as that.’
‘Ah, thanks. Thanks, Lütt.’
‘No. Thank you, Moth. Really. It’s … a pleasant surprise.’
As Moth looked up, he saw his
old friend regarding him with an expression that seemed to be caught between puzzlement and admiration. As if Lütt-Ebbins had perceived in him a quality that he recognised in himself, some special quality of madness or daring.
‘We need to talk some time, you know. About … things.’
‘Ah, l-look, I didn’t mean —’
‘Not now, Moth. But we do need to talk.’
Moth nodded back at him, struggling to keep from blurting out.
Lütt-Ebbins clapped his shoulder.
‘Lütt,’ Stoeckl urged, as the clanging broke out again.
‘Okay, we’re going,’ he replied, then climbed away from the intersection. Stoeckl extended a hand. Moth shook it.
‘So brave, Mothy. Such a good idea.’
Moth smiled weakly. ‘I, ah … I’d better go,’ he said, breaking his grip, and climbed down into the deep grey trachea of the shaft.
The clanging came again.
‘Bye, Mothy,’ Stoeckl whispered from the darkness above. ‘You’re a wonder.’
Moth wiped his eyes. ‘G-Goodbye,’ he croaked, descending faster.
‘Don’t be long ...’
His feet were stepping down in rhythm. ‘Ah, don’t worry,’ he called up. ‘S-See you later.’
‘Sure ...’ came Lütt-Ebbins’ fading voice. ‘See you then …’
No heroics now ...
‘N-No. Ah, see you soon ...’
Remember … only Climber …
‘I-I know … don’t worry … don’t … don’t worry ...’
Goodbye, Mothy ...
The words echoing like utterances of the dead, dim and wasted and hollow.
Shhhhh ...
Their footsteps growing fainter still.
He descended quickly, eyes to the rungs as they went up past him, then as he looked up once more, he found a rapier of light cutting across the intersection, the beam slowly widening. ‘There! Down there!’ roared a voice, and as the shaft lit up around him he heard a shot fired. The sound of it boomed and barrelled and crashed about his head, and climbing down at speed he spotted a side exit and threw himself inside it and scuttled away.
Chapter 24 — Frescoes
