by Jaine Fenn
‘It ain’t about credit, son!’
He wished he wouldn’t call him ‘son’, for all sorts of reasons. ‘It wasn’t about credit last time, was it?’ Chandin failed to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Some of the black-market credit had gone on treating his mother. The rest … His father had friends in low places, some of whom had interesting talents. One of them had managed to hack the station’s ID database and reset the family’s status to ‘childless’. With her son gone on to higher things and her own mortality brutally brought home to her, his mother had been desperate for another child. He had tried not to be hurt at being edited out of his family; after all, the further he moved up in the world, the more their initial pride soured to resentment. He was happy in his new life; happy, if he was honest, to be free of them.
‘No, you see, it’s about the lottery.’
‘The lottery?’ Chandin refocused; his father must mean the licence lottery, run to redistribute unallocated child licences. ‘What about it?’
‘Well, what with you bein’ up with the authorities these days, I wondered if you had any influence-‘
‘Of course I don’t!’ But he did have a spare child licence. No, that was stupid: to donate it to a random low-life would raise questions; thanks to the databreaker his father had hired, station records contained no link between himself and this man. If he donated his licence to his father, he may as well just turn himself over to IDOB and confess to The Mistake straight up. Yes, I took a bribe, and yes, I am aware that a major ID infringement was paid for using the credit I appropriated. Just escort me back down to Floorville right now.
‘Oh. Right.’
Presumably the databreaker who had hacked the family’s records last time was no longer around. Or perhaps his father thought manipulating the lottery was an easier option. Did he really believe his son could pull those sorts of strings? Quite possibly: Da had never been one for holding realistic expectations.
‘Even if I could, I wouldn’t. You know that.’
His father’s face took on a cunning cast, and Chand in felt the chill of uncertainty. Was there any connection to the other, virtual communication, the one simply signed ‘Orb’? It had been a short and simple message: The time is coming. Our deal still holds. Save this key. When those words had popped up unexpectedly on his screen last week, it had taken Chand in a few moments to recall his only other contact with ‘Orb’. That had been six years ago. Now he knew about his mother’s death, he suspected the timing was related: the truth about Chandin’s past might have been briefly exposed when his late mother’s records were updated, and whoever ‘Orb’ was, he or she could have spotted the anomaly then.
His father said, ‘It’d be a shame if anyone ever found out about what happened, y’know.’
‘Yes,’ said Chandin tightly. ‘And how were you thinking that might happen?’
‘Well, I dunno. Anonymous tip-offs? You say yer Commission is hot on those oversee-oversights. Course, a little credit would, er, distract me from that, like.’
Chand in fought the urge to smile. That his father was an idiot was nothing to be happy about. ‘Have you any idea how many libellous, accusatory or simply unhinged messages the Pan-Human Treaty Commission receives every day?’
His father looked hurt, and in that moment Chandin had the odd impression that, regardless of biological age, he was now the older one. He also knew that, despite his fears, there was no link between this pathetic, foolish man and the mysterious ‘Orb’.
His father’s expression underwent another open transformation, becoming the very essence of the put-upon elder. ‘I’m sorry,’ he wheedled, ‘I shouldn’ta said that. But you know, you could just remember your 01-‘
Chandin held up a hand, forestalling him. ‘I’m glad Maira’s doing well, I really am. I hope her number comes up in the lottery.
But this has nothing to do with me.’ He stood up. ‘And neither, I’m afraid, do you. Not any more.’
His father watched him walk away, for once lost for words.
TRYING TO SURFACE
The following night, she bit through the second cord.
Now it was just a matter of waiting, using the numbers to keep herself sane.
Kety went out late the next day. Even before the light had fully disappeared, her wrist was in her mouth. She gnawed at the last cord with frantic speed. Finally it gave.
She let her head fall back with a sigh. But there was no time to rest. She pulled her left wrist, wincing as the binding stung raw skin. She freed both wrists and wiggled her fingers, ignoring the painful pins and needles. Then she used her numb hands to ease the thicker but looser bindings around her chest down her body.
At the same time, she kicked her legs, twisting to pull them free. One heel hit the ground with jarring and unexpected force, and she gave an involuntarily grunt of pain.
She eased the bindings down over her stomach. From here it was relatively easy to disentangle herself from the cocoon, pushing rope down and away, and finally flopping out from the filthy, torn netting like a beached fish. She eased her left leg free from the final loop of rope, waited a moment to catch her breath, then used the hammock to pull herself upright.
It was only when she stood up that she realised her head was still constricted. She reached up and felt her skull. Some sort of tight-fitting cap covered her from her forehead to the nape of her neck, secured under her chin. She could ease a finger under the strange headgear, but found no way of getting it off. She decided that removing this last, non-restrictive binding was less important than getting out of here. Kety could come back at any moment.
She eased one foot forward, then the next one, letting go of the cocoon. She had estimated the distance to Kety’s cocoon in the light, and - foolishly - assumed she would be walking, not shuffling. She kept expecting to come across it, and when she finally did, she inevitably tripped over the damn thing.
The fall wasn’t hard, but it still shocked her. She lay where she was for a moment, heart thudding, working out what to do next. Given the sloping floor, utter darkness and weird gravity, crawling made more sense than walking. She raised herself onto all fours and began to crawl, taking it slowly because if she did encounter anything now, she would be meeting it head first.
When she put her hand down on something sharp she recoiled, then paused, arm upraised. She lowered her hand gently and tapped at the sharp object with a fingertip. It was some sort of ceramic knife, serrated along one side. The other edge felt blunt, and the knife had a plasticised handle. Moving carefully, she felt all around the knife, then picked it up. She had no idea whether she could use a weapon but she liked the idea of having one. Sitting back on her haunches, she tucked the knife into the waistband of her leggings. When she bent forward again, it fell out. She pushed it deeper, working it down between her clothes and her bulky underwear. This time it stayed put.
She set off again, crawling along the bottom of the tunnel. The path curved, as she expected. When she came to an odd bit of floor, she paused, visual ising the set-up; Kety’s tunnel must have met another intersecting one. She took the left-hand path. All was silent, still and dark, and she began to get up a bit more speed.
When she reached another intersection, she went left again: she had a vague notion that always turning left worked in these situations, and even if it didn’t she was out of other plans. Kety’s lair only had one exit, so at least she wouldn’t end up back where she started.
The next left came up quickly. She took it. It curved to the right, which she decided was a good thing.
She was getting tired, and the knife had worked itself round to scrape the delicate skin at the top of her groin. She sat down and adjusted her clothing. As she did so she remembered the strange headgear. There was something about that, a lost memory trying to surface … She felt her head again. The cap was a skin-tight lattice made of thin strips of cold, rubbery material.
Feeling along the chinstrap, she failed to find a catch or buckle; but al
though the strap was too tight to work up over her chin, it was just loose enough to get a finger underneath. She reached carefully into her clothes and withdrew the knife; then, before she could think better of it, she tipped her head back. Holding the strap away from her neck with a crooked finger, she worked the tip of the knife under it, careful to keep the serrated edge pointed outwards. The dark worked in her favour: if she had actually seen the knife she had just put to her own throat, common sense might have got the better of her.
She began to saw at the strap, using tiny, measured strokes.
It was tough going. By the time she was halfway through, her sweaty hands were making the job dangerous, so she paused, knife still stuck absurdly and dangerously into the chinstrap, and wiped her hands on her clothes. Then she carried on.
The strap finally gave. She put the knife down then pulled the cap off.
It was as though a veil had lifted. Memory and ability flooded back. She knew who she was, and where: this was Xantier. She must be in the hab-rat tunnels, which burrowed through the natural rock of the hollowed-out, elongated planetoid that formed Xantier station; hence the low grav and stinking air. With that knowledge came fear, and a myriad of other questions.
First things first: she blinked up the function that intensified her night vision. It worked, but the act hurt her head. A residual effect of the inhibitor cap, perhaps? She wasn’t sure. She felt muzzy, slow. Drugged.
Bez’s final memories before waking up in the tunnels began to trickle back. Something had attacked her in Xantier’s infoscape; whatever it was had been powerful, unlike anything she had encountered before. It had ripped through her defences effortlessly.
She was shivering: she caught herself, clenching her teeth against cold and fear. Her first priority was to get out of the tunnels. Once back in the station proper, she could work out how to get off Xantier safely, ideally to Catherli. She blinked her chrono out of its default setting of hours, minutes and seconds to show the full date. Four days had passed since the virtual attack, so the memory-core should be safely away.
She could risk walking, now she could see. Her instinct was to access a map, but it was unlikely anyone had uploaded schematics of this place; besides, she was right on the edge of Xantier’s virtuality, and if whoever put her here was still watching the infoscape, such activity might alert them.
She picked up the knife and stood slowly.
She had only taken a couple of steps when she froze. A flicker of light was coming from a side tunnel up ahead. She began to turn, ready to run, but missed her footing. She slipped on the smooth, curved tunnel floor, falling onto all fours. The knife went flying.
Even as she scrabbled to get up she heard muffled voices.
‘Like rats, heh?’
‘Nah, rats taste good.’
Laughter, suddenly cut off.
Then, clearly, ‘What the shit-eatin’ fuck?’
She turned towards the voices, sitting upright in the centre of the tunnel. She found herself facing four boys, filthy and leggy, bundled in rags. One of them held a lamp like Kety’s. Another danced past his companions to come right up to her and crowed, “S a touro medame! She seriously lost!’
She leaned back, away from his stink, trying not to panic.
Where was the knife?
The boys seemed more curious than hostile. One of the others said, ‘Not touro all ragged like that. Street-above.’
‘Not gonna be missed, then,’ said the nearest one, and reached for her. She brought her right arm round, trying to fend him off, but only succeeded in falling backwards. Now she was lying down, sprawled and defenceless.
‘Heh, yeah!’ The boy loomed over her.
She should say something, do something, but this was too far outside her experience. She had no idea how to react.
A brief call and the others were there too. Someone grabbed her breast; someone else began fumbling with her clothes lower down.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
‘Ah!’ Rancid smell of old urine. ‘Fuckin’ too-grim.’
‘Just pull it off! Still warm crack underneath, ain’t it?’
Deep inside she was appalled and disbelieving, but action, even speech, was beyond her.
Another boy said, ‘Ah, wait. This the one, y’know. Kety’s?’
‘What?’
‘Like jujuman said? Keep her alive?’
‘Ain’t gonna kill her, yer doik!’ A weight pressed down on her belly.
‘Yeah, but Kety…’
‘Kety what?’
Her heart jumped at the familiar voice.
The pressure eased. One of the boys said, ‘Heh, heh, bag-hag!’
‘You leave her now. She’s mine. Gonna save her.’
‘Like you saved yer little girl, heh?’
Kety said, ‘That’s past. She’s my girl now. Jujuman says so.’
She should try to get free, use the diversion and run. But she could barely breathe.
‘Not gonna kill this one. Just play.’
Kety’s tone was firm. ‘You tell that to the jujuman.’
‘She’s right,’ said one of the boys. ‘She’s blessed by him now, y’know. Food, water, everything, all fer free.’
Kety said, ‘Right, Kety’s his special friend. You cross Kety, you cross him.’
A pause, then the vile touches withdrew. The nearest boy said, ‘You keep her close, then, hag. Keep her close or we’ll cut her, jus’ like we did yer girl.’
Bez waited until the boys had moved off before opening her eyes. Kety was crouched next to her. The other woman’s long face had a look that might have been sympathetic before the shadows got to it. The loose net of the inhibitor cap dangled from her hand.
‘All safe now,’ she said. ‘But poor nameless needs her crown.
Needs her crown to be happy.’
‘No.’ She must not let Kety put the cap back on. She had to get out of here. She got as far as raising herself onto one elbow. Kety reached forward with the crown, lamp held high in her other hand.
Bez lashed out, fooled by the low gravity into thinking she could overpower her more delicate opponent. But the blow was badly judged, and Kety batted her hand away; on her home territory she had all the strength she needed. Her expression hardened. ‘Bad nameless!’ she hissed, bringing the lamp round in a wide arc to connect with Bez’s head.
Bright light was followed by utter darkness.
She had an idea she knew this place, knew the scarecrow woman who fussed over her. The woman said she was called Kety. Perhaps she was. Apparently she herself had no name. Kety said she didn’t need one, and given Kety looked after her, she had no reason to doubt this.
Whenever she felt afraid, she deflected the dread with the numbers in her eyes, and the numbers in her head. The numbers were always there for her, reliable and constant.
Sometimes as she slept, her mind dredged up fragments and images: a luxurious room of bright furnishings; long square corridors; a man sitting opposite her, talking earnestly; crowds surging while she watched from above; a bright, infinite sky of burning turquoise; floating over rooftops, full of secret potential; the feel of the boy’s hand in hers as they meander through the park, at peace with the world and each other; a glass tank spattered with purple blood.
While she experienced them, the dreams were vivid and vital; when she awoke, sense fled and she felt bereft, then confused and angry. In rare moments of lucidity she wondered if the nightly images had their roots in real memories and were part of the puzzle of her past. More likely they were mere illusions of an uncontrolled mind. Perhaps, if she embraced the numbers fully, the dreams would eventually stop haunting her.
*
One day when she opened her eyes the light was wrong and came from beyond Kety’s cocoon. She blinked uncertainly.
Someone cried out. Kety’s hammock jerked, and was still.
There were people here. Two of them, pushing past the limp form in Kety’s cocoon, filling the room. They were bundled
in fabric and had lights on their shoulders. They shuffled along the floor like they were stuck to it.
One of them said, ‘Holy Christos, what a fucking mess!’
They were both men. She had an idea that men had tried to hurt her once. And they’d already hurt her friend. ‘Kety!’ she called out.
‘Who the fuck’s Kety?’ said the first man.
The second one replied, ‘No idea,’ then looked directly at her and drew a stubby knife.
She shrieked. It was too late to stay safe and quiet.
The first man reached forward and clamped a hand over her mouth.
She bit him, as hard as she could.
He sprang back with an oath, shaking his hand. He came for her again, fast but careful. He turned her head to one side. She tried to resist but something cold touched her neck, and then there was nothing.
We met at a party.
I only went to shut Chellis up. She was my facilitator - that’s what ThreeCs called the handlers who managed mavericks like me. She said I should get out more. So I got out. The party was to celebrate someone’s promotion or suchlike.
The first thing Tand said was, ‘Are you the numbers girl?’
I remember thinking, Oh, give me a break.
But he looked as uncomfortable as I felt. And when we got talking it turned out he actually knew what a beevee cryptographer was. He was probably the only person at that party who did. He was a freelance researcher. ‘I study the patterns of history,’ he said, then pulled a face and added, ‘Yeah I know that sounds pretentious. Actually most of the time I freelance for the Holo-Ents division; hardly intellectually challenging but it pays the rent.’
We spent the rest of the evening sitting in a corner and talking, ignoring everyone else.
