Darkness Follows

by L. A. Weatherly

  I’d constantly dreamed of my old world while at Harmony Five, so why did everything feel so off-kilter now?

  Arvin and the others assured us tensely that “wheels had been put in motion” about us. Ingo and I couldn’t doubt their sincerity. They fed us and hid us – and seemed desperate for Vince Griffin to respond and take us off their hands.

  We stayed in the small apartment, with the noise from the bar downstairs drifting up. We learned it was a Resistance safe house. The door to the apartment stayed locked and no one entered who wasn’t supposed to. Even depleted, the Resistance seemed more organized than I’d imagined.

  I realized now that my wariness when Ingo first mentioned them was because Collie had made them sound so unreliable. But Collie was a liar. Maybe the Resistance’s plan to bring down Gunnison was a good one. Maybe Ingo’s message from Miguel about the Day of Three Suns – the names he’d been given, the information about the caterers being the way in – would mean they could really do it, if we reached Vince Griffin in time.

  The hope was painful. Our information had to be successful.

  The bed still felt too soft. I took painkillers and my bandages got changed and slowly the seeping red-black holes wept less. I tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. How could Harmony Five and this cosy apartment exist in the same universe? Nothing seemed real.

  The nuclear weapons haunted me. If Gunnison wasn’t stopped, millions could be killed…and Dad had made it possible. At the thought, the thing I had refused to face since Harmony Five struggled to be heard.

  My guts chilled. I buried it deep. No. I couldn’t go there.

  But Madeline had talked Dad into throwing that fight. And she’d be at the Day of Three Suns.

  Two weeks after we’d arrived, I’d found a pistol in one of the drawers in my bedroom. I’d stared down at it, leaning heavily on my crutches. Finally I’d picked the weapon up and weighed it in my hand. A box of cartridges lay beside it.

  I’d stood holding the pistol for a long time before putting it away again.

  A week later, as I sat in the green armchair with my leg propped up, trying to read, the moment came back. A tremor of disquiet went through me. I looked up as Ingo came in, relieved to see him.

  “Look what Arvin brought,” he said, holding up a guitar.

  I mentally shut everything away and put the book aside. “Does he play?”

  “No idea.” Ingo sat on the floor near the bookcase and started to tune it, twiddling with the knobs. Twangy notes floated out as he plucked at the strings, testing. He looked better now – still too thin, but his face had lost its gaunt look.

  It had been raining for days. Drops pattered against the windowpanes. “Do you actually know how to play that thing?” I asked.

  “No, not really…how’s the book?”

  I shrugged. “Same as the others. I keep reading one page over and over.”

  “Try poetry.”

  “What?”

  Ingo stopped tuning the guitar and studied the bookshelf. He selected a thin volume and tossed it to me. “Here,” he said. “When I can’t read anything else, I read poetry.”

  I flipped through the pages, reading snatches here and there. I’d only encountered poetry in school. I’d always preferred adventure stories and non-fiction books about flying.

  “There’s a poem about April,” I said.

  “See? April happens everywhere,” said Ingo. “Even in Harmony Five.” He glanced at me with a rueful smile. “That kept me going sometimes, thinking that,” he said. “Maybe they could take away everything else, but they couldn’t keep the world from bursting into spring… Okay, that sounds incredibly stupid, saying it out loud.”

  I thought of the hawk I used to watch. “No, it doesn’t… this is nice,” I said, scanning the poem. “Thanks,” I added, looking up. “I think I might be able to read these.”

  Ingo struck a chord then and started to play. Under his long fingers, a tune drifted out from the guitar’s strings. It reminded me of spring too. It was lightness and hope, with a plaintive undercurrent. I sat up a little, listening.

  “Is that your idea of not being able to play?” I said when he’d finished. “When people ask, do you tell them you can’t really fly airplanes, either?”

  Ingo smiled and kept strumming, coaxing out another song. “You’re not very musical, are you?” he said without rancour. “Seriously, I’m not that good. My brother Erich is the musician. Him and our mother.”

  “Well, Erich must be a genius then.”

  “Don’t tell him that if you ever meet him. He’s conceited enough already.”

  I hugged my good leg hard, remembering everything Ingo had said about his family. I knew I’d never see my own family again – I hoped Vince Griffin could help Ingo get home to his.

  “Tell me more about them,” I said softly. “Erich and the others.”

  He glanced up. “Like what?”

  “Anything. Erich is a musician and so’s your mother. You said your sister Lena can sing… What about you, actually? What do you do?”

  He smiled slightly. “You mean apart from flying Firedoves and playing guitar very badly?”

  “Yes. Apart from flying Firedoves and playing guitar very badly.”

  I thought he wasn’t going to answer at first. He studied the guitar, his fingers still moving across the strings. “The vineyard,” he said. “I help out on it…well, we all do; it’s a family thing. But I’m the one who actually likes it. I think…” Ingo trailed off. He stopped playing.

  Tapping the side of the guitar, he said, “I think Dad hoped that I’d run it someday. Erich has no interest; he’s studying to be a lawyer. And Lena would never want to stay in one place long enough.”

  “But you would?”

  “Yes. I love the vineyard,” he said. “I love our home there. My idea of heaven would be to just watch the seasons shift over those fields for the next fifty years…ah, hell.”

  He started playing again, something quick, almost angry, and I knew he was remembering that his family probably thought him dead.

  “Why did you become a Peacefighter?” I asked finally. “I mean, why did you leave?”

  “I’ve been asking myself that question for the last three years.” Ingo put the guitar aside; he dropped his head back against the wall. “It was Lena,” he said wryly. “My sister hates being bored. She was always getting me into trouble, growing up. And our village…”

  My thigh throbbed; I shifted on the chair. “What’s it called?”

  “Calliposa. About forty miles from Florence. It’s tiny; a bread van comes twice a week and that’s the most exciting thing ever. It’s up on a hill. Lots of olive trees. You can see vineyards in every direction…on a clear day, the Med to the west.”

  “It sounds beautiful,” I said wistfully, imagining it.

  “It is. Well, I think so. Lena always wanted to travel, though – to see the world. Our whole area is actually a big Peacefighting place. Lots of EA pilots are from there.” Ingo snorted slightly. “Even our name. Manfred. It means ‘peace warrior’ in Germanic.”

  “Really?” My smile felt bitter. “That’s my name too. Amity for peace, and Louise for warrior.”

  There was a silence. I looked down, thinking of the World for Peace flag in the Western Seaboard base. How it had made me feel to gaze upon it each morning and know that I was protecting the world from war.

  I felt like such a fool.

  Finally Ingo shrugged. “It meant something once. Maybe it still will, someday. Shall I go on?”

  “Yes, I want to hear.”

  “All right, so Lena got a bug in her ear about becoming a Peacefighter, and she got me and a few of our friends to apply with her. I don’t actually know what I was thinking, to be honest. I was barely eighteen and had just spent four years in boarding school, only coming home for holidays—”

  “New Manhattan,” I said.

  Ingo’s good eyebrow shot up. “How did you know?”

 
“Memory like a steel trap, remember? At The Ivy Room that time, you told me your mother was from New Manhattan and that you’d gone to school there.”

  “Ah, yes.” He gave me an evil smile. “You’d commented on my excellent English for a foreigner.”

  The Heat was neutral territory. I’d felt like an idiot the moment I’d said it.

  “You knew exactly what I meant, you louse,” I said. “How was I supposed to know that you’ve been speaking it your whole life?”

  “I’ll forgive you. Anyway, all I wanted was to stay at home and help with the vineyard, but Lena kept asking, and…I got swept away. It felt like a lark, an adventure.”

  “So what happened?”

  Ingo made a face. “Guess. None of the others got into training school. Lena and our friends all went home, and I stayed – the only one who hadn’t wanted to do it in the first place. But to admit to that felt too feeble for words, so I ended up going on and making it as a pilot. I’ve been homesick every day since.”

  He plucked a discordant note on the guitar; it hovered in the air. “So there you have it: my youthful stupidity.”

  “You love flying though,” I said. “I mean, you must, the way you fly.”

  “Yes, I do love it,” Ingo admitted. “And…I believed that Peacefighting was important. Noble, even. The problem is, I’m not particularly noble.”

  I understood now why he’d been so upset to learn about the corruption. “You’re fairly noble,” I said after a pause. “You saved my life, if you don’t remember.”

  “Against your will.”

  “That probably makes it even more noble, doesn’t it? Hauling my resisting carcass across however many miles?”

  “Knock it off with the ‘noble’, Amity. It was entirely selfish; you’re my only friend for about ten thousand miles and I like your company. All right, your turn. The Peacefighting story, please.”

  Stalling, I said, “Small talk again?” The night we’d first met, I’d asked him how he became a Peacefighter, and he’d fielded the question by saying we didn’t want to have small talk.

  “Only it’s not small talk at all, which is why neither of us wanted to tell it before.” Ingo picked up the guitar again and strummed a dramatic chord. “Go on. Amity Vancour became a Peacefighter because…”

  I felt myself go tense. I played with the cane that sat propped beside the chair – I found it easier to use than crutches now.

  “Maybe later,” I said. “You’re right, it’s not small talk. I’m not really in the mood.”

  Ingo glanced up quickly. “I’ve upset you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  I cleared my throat. “No, it’s not your fault. If I told anyone, it’d be you. But…not right now, okay?”

  He nodded. As he started playing again, I thought of the reasons I had longed to become a Peacefighter, and wondered dully why I couldn’t cry any more.

  I reached for the cane and got up from the chair. I stumped my way over to Ingo, wincing, and settled on the floor beside him, lowering myself awkwardly with one hand.

  “No need to rupture yourself. I’m fine with you not telling me,” said Ingo dryly.

  “I know.” We sat in silence as he played. “Am I really your only friend for ten thousand miles?” I asked.

  “Who the hell told you that?”

  “In the Heat you seemed to have dozens of friends. All those EA pilots you palled around with.”

  Ingo shrugged and plucked out another tune. “Do you have dozens of people you consider real friends?”

  I saw his point. “No. Okay, you’re right.”

  “Call me old-fashioned, but to me a friend is someone you’re willing to half-carry for over a mile with Guns after you…so, by that definition, you’re the only one on the continent, sweetheart.”

  Though he weighed the endearment heavily with irony, his use of it made me think of Miriam. Apparently I wasn’t alone. Ingo looked down, his fingers growing still on the chords.

  “This isn’t a come-on in any way,” he said finally. “But I’m starting to think that being friends with someone should be a prerequisite to…everything else.” He glanced up, his dark gaze level. “You’ve never asked me exactly how it happened. My face, I mean.”

  I swallowed, wondering how that was connected to Miriam, and managed not to flick a glance at his ruined skin. “I guess I thought you’d tell me if you ever wanted me to know.”

  Ingo put the guitar aside but was silent for so long that I thought he’d changed his mind. Finally he said, “Three days after you and I broke into the World for Peace building, I had a Peacefight against Oceania. At first everything was normal. It was above the Holy Hills.”

  I winced, and he saw. “What?” he said sharply.

  “That’s where mine was,” I said. “When my plane was sabotaged.”

  “Oh, wonderful.” He gave a short laugh. “Nice and isolated, I guess… Oh, fuck, why does that make it worse somehow?”

  “Go on,” I said.

  His shoulders were tense. “How did yours happen? Amity, please don’t tell me that a wing blew off when you—”

  “When I tried to fire. Yes.” I cleared my throat. “So they knew you’d been with me then. They’d seen us together in the Heat that night.”

  “Yes, they knew.”

  “The only reason I survived was that I took the wrong parachute – the straps of my own had been cut. What about yours?”

  Ingo shook his head. “My chute was fine. I don’t think they wanted to kill me. It was a warning – a show of power. What they wanted was information about you. I didn’t know that until later, though. I…”

  He took a deep breath. In a monotone, he said, “My plane went into a spin. I bailed. The other Dove just…flew away. What was left of my plane crashed on the ground, right in the middle of that ancient arena – you know where I mean?”

  I nodded. Oh, I knew.

  “I tried to steer the chute away, but there was a strong wind. I landed too close, and then the plane exploded.” He fell silent, his fists tight. “My, um…my helmet had a loose strap,” he said finally. “I’d been meaning to get it fixed for days. It came right off my head in the blast. Then something hit me; I was knocked out. When I came to, I could smell myself burning.”

  Silence settled. There was only the rain, and the faint sound of the bar downstairs. I wanted to touch him, squeeze his fingers, but felt frozen.

  “My face,” Ingo finished. “I’d been hit by a burning piece of engine. My hair was on fire. My skin smelled like meat cooking.” He swallowed. “It didn’t hurt, that was the strange thing. I panicked. I rolled on the grass, got the fire out – all I could think of was that they knew. I could hear more planes approaching, so I ran.”

  He explained that he’d hidden on the road near the arena for hours, his face hurting now, but not so badly that he’d thought he was seriously injured. Finally a truck had passed by; he’d taken a chance and swung himself onto the back of it. He’d crouched unseen between some crates. The truck took him right into the Heat.

  “I think I was half-crazy by then,” Ingo said softly. “All I could think of was getting to Miriam. If she knew that I’d stolen the keys to the World for Peace building from her father, I had to try to explain it to her. I didn’t want her to think that I’d betray her family on a whim…”

  Ingo looked down. “My family is very important to me,” he said finally.

  I swallowed. “I know.”

  “I missed them a lot when I first got to the base. I still do. Then Miri and I met at a party one night and started seeing each other…and her family were good to me, you know? Always having me round for dinner. Her father and I would debate politics, and she had a little brother who I’d play chess with…” Ingo sighed. “Remember we talked that time about loving and liking? I’m starting to realize that Miri’s family was the only thing I really liked about her.”

  He tipped his head back against the wall, studying the ceiling. “But I loved her. No, I
was besotted by her. I’d had girlfriends before, but I’d never fallen so hard for anyone. I’m not even sure why, now. I thought she was beautiful, of course, and exciting… I don’t know. She was all I could think about. Even when she was making my life hell, I couldn’t walk away.”

  “You didn’t seem very happy with her,” I ventured. I was remembering Miriam ignoring Ingo the night of his peak day celebration, when he’d just completed half his three-year Peacefighting term. He’d told me later that she’d done it because she liked playing games.

  “No. I wasn’t. But I was in love, you see, so that was all right. Maybe I thought all the agony was purifying.” His mouth twitched. “You called her a bitch once, remember? The second time we met. Lena thought the same.”

  I hugged my good knee to my chest. “She met her?”

  “No. It was from things I said in my letters home. Or rather, things I didn’t say. Lena would mention meeting Miri someday and I’d never respond.” He looked down at the guitar and plucked a string.

  “The thought of ever introducing Miri to my family gave me cold shudders,” he said. “They know when I’m really happy and when I’m just putting on a front. And Miri was always making these little barbs that were supposed to be jokes…” He gave a quick, angry grimace.

  “Anyway. Lena called me up on base and made me tell her the truth. I’ve never been able to lie very convincingly to my sister. She told me that Miriam was a spoiled, bored little rich girl who was just playing with me, and I should dump her. I told her to go to hell. Very enjoyable.”

  “I like the sound of Lena more and more,” I said. “She was just worried about you.”

  “I think you two would get on very well, actually. And yes, I know. We made it up later. But I was still angry that she didn’t see how perfect Miri was for me, despite everything.”

  Ingo gave a short, bitter laugh. He rubbed his forehead. “You know, I’m sitting here and I’m saying these words to you,” he said in an undertone, “and part of me still can’t believe that I ever thought them. But I did.”