by Tim Lott
“You like stories, don’t you?”
Little Fearless nodded.
“You think they make things easier. You think we are all the better off for telling stories to one another and to ourselves.”
Little Fearless nodded again. The Controller grimaced as if in pain, and then spoke again. “Let me tell you a story, then.”
“Is it a true one?” she asked immediately.
The Controller didn’t answer her question. He simply started speaking. At first his voice was so soft, Little Fearless could hardly hear him. But as he went on, his voice became stronger, louder, more powerful, almost as if it were a different person telling the story.
“Once there was a man. Just an ordinary man. A young man. He was young at a time when the City was still free. Before the bombs and the terror, and the law of the army and the police, and the City Boss, and before rule after rule after rule.
“He loved his freedom. He breathed it in. It enriched his blood; it made him … so alive. He travelled, and read books, and had many friends. In those days, there were no identicards, no laws dictating what you could or couldn’t say, or what kinds of jokes were allowed and what kinds forbidden. He met women. Many women. They liked him, but he liked his freedom too much to get involved with any of them. He kept his distance. He was a wanderer, and a rogue. Everyone smiled when he came their way. He was popular. Everyone wanted to be his friend.
“Then, without any warning, he fell in love.”
The Controller faltered. It seemed he couldn’t speak.
“Who did he fall in love with?” prompted Little Fearless softly.
“He fell in love with the most beautiful woman you could ever imagine. Not just beautiful in her face, but in her mind, you see. She was like … like a bubbling spring of water. She was like the south wind. She was like a wave of light curving into the blue depths of the ocean.”
Little Fearless was amazed. The Controller’s face had changed utterly. Always so dead and colourless, it actually seemed alive for the first time. He nodded to himself, smiling, as if remembering. Then his face settled into stone again, and his voice became once more dead and emotionless.
“Then the bombs came,” he said, bitterness lacing his voice. “The worshippers of Ormazd decided they wanted to destroy the City Boss and the Ten Corporations. They hated the false god, Eidolon; they hated the Democrenes; they hated it all and they waged war against us.”
The Controller fidgeted with his hair. Even through his tinted glasses it seemed that he could not meet Little Fearless’s gaze, instead focusing on a spot just above her head.
“The City Boss and the Ten Corporations responded by taking away the freedoms that young man loved so much. The freedom to say what he wanted, to be who he wanted. The freedoms to read and watch what he wanted. The freedom to walk down the street unchallenged, without having to show papers to the police. All these things began to disappear. And the City Boss and the Ten Corporations became more and more powerful and tyrannical as the fear in the City grew and grew.
“When that happened, he started to hate the City Boss and the Ten Corporations. In fact, he even had sympathy for the lovers of Ormazd, because they were poor and dispossessed and angry. He came to believe that his enemies’ enemies had to be his friends. He couldn’t blame them for what was happening to his beloved City. So he turned his anger instead on the City Boss and the Ten Corporations.”
Now at last he seemed to look directly at Little Fearless. She could see herself reflected in his glasses. She saw her own face, pale but unafraid.
“He decided he had to do something about it. He became a freedom fighter. They called him a spartakan and a fomenter, but he was none of these things. He was fighting for liberty. In their eyes, though, he was simply an insurgent. He attacked the City government. He arranged protests. He even – Eidolon, help me – he even hurt people … innocent people … so that the City Boss would be under pressure to give the Cityzens back their freedom.”
Now the Controller stopped, as if incapable of speaking any more. A cold, clammy atmosphere filled the room. Little Fearless could hear the distant sounds of voices and movements outside the four walls.
“They worked together – he and … and the woman. The woman he loved. They were bold and brilliant. No one could capture them. Their plans were impeccable. They were outlaws and, to tell you the truth, they loved it. They believed that their god – not Eidolon, not Ormazd, but the god of human freedom – was on their side.
“The woman was amazing, Little Fearless. Amazing. She could run fast; she could talk fast; she could think fast. She was honest, and true, and like … like … like no one anybody had known before. He became famous, although it was she who was the brilliant one. He even had a nickname: Oroborous, the snake eating its tail. He was said to be the mastermind. The villain behind all the plots that ever were. But some of the people – the people who believed in freedom instead of tyranny – loved him.
“And then … and then…” The Controller’s voice faltered again, then strengthened into a monotone. “And then the light grew dark. The spring dried up. The wind was stilled.”
“What…?” asked Little Fearless.
“The woman died,” said the Controller, chewing on his fingernails.
It seemed he was going to end the story there. He picked up the leather-bound book and stood up. But as soon as Little Fearless said, “How did she die?” he sat meekly back down again, and continued.
“She was blown up by an Outlander’s bomb. By a fanatical worshipper of Ormazd. She had said something that they believed insulted their god. So they killed her like a dog. Blew up the car she and three others were in. All of them died. And someone else died too. The young man died, although he was nowhere near the car. Although he hadn’t even a scratch on him.”
Little Fearless nodded. She felt like a priest taking confession. She looked directly at the Controller. He was shaking. Then she spoke.
“And who was he? Who was this man?” she asked gently.
The Controller didn’t answer. Instead he very slowly rolled up the right sleeve of his shirt, exposing his arm. Just above the wrist, he picked at the flesh. Then, horribly, the skin began to peel back.
It took Little Fearless a couple of seconds to realize that the skin wasn’t skin at all, but a thin, flesh-coloured plastic strip designed to blend in exactly with the rest of his arm.
Underneath the plastic was the tattoo of a snake eating its own tail.
“Oroborous!” gasped Little Fearless.
The Controller shook his head and slowly pulled the strip of plastic back over the tattoo.
“Oroborous is dead,” he said flatly. “He died when the woman he loved died. After that he realized that freedom was a trick and a ruse, and a lie. That there was nothing – nothing – more important than law and order. That the madness of the fanatics must be crushed at all costs. So he surrendered himself to the City Boss, and said he would do everything he could in his power to help him bring the insurgency under control.”
He laughed suddenly, a bitter, knowing laugh that was ugly to hear.
“They were clever, I’ll give them that. Anybody less intelligent would have announced the capture of Oroborous and paraded him before the crowds. But no. They understood – they still do – that the people need a bogeyman to keep them in order and afraid. So even now they pretend that Oroborous continues to roam free, blowing up people and buildings, the police always getting closer and closer, but never quite catching him. As long as Oroborous is at large, the City is in grave danger, and they can do anything – anything at all – to try and ensure his capture. But of course, the moment they actually catch him, the period of fear will be over, and they will have to start relaxing all the rules again. And they love the rules – because they love power. Like all governments.
“It was after they captured me that they decided to set up the school. The Institute. It struck them as amusing to make me its controller. Me. The m
an who tried to bring the City freedom, now responsible for imprisoning children – children – without trial or hope of release. They realized it would simultaneously punish me and make me useful. And I turned out to be a good administrator, an excellent Controller. Why? Because I no longer believe in freedom. Because I believe in order at any cost. At – any – cost.”
As he spat out these last words, the Controller regarded the book of rules again. Then he looked up at Little Fearless. Sighing, his voice reverted again into one of sadness and resignation.
“That is all there is. The rules. Nothing beyond the rules. And the rules tell me quite clearly what is to be done with any child who tries to escape from the Institute. I am here to carry those rules out. And they shall be carried out.”
At this a change suddenly came over the Controller. It was as if his normal self had suddenly appeared again, even deader and colder than before.
“You need to learn, girl. You need to learn the truth about the world, just as I did.”
He rose and made to leave.
“But why?” asked Little Fearless urgently. “Why are you telling me this?”
The Controller shook his head almost violently. “No, no, no, no, no.” He began to walk towards the door. “You think I am cruel. But I am not. Not that cruel, no. I just carry out what needs to be done. What the City Boss and the Ten Corporations tell me needs to be done and said. You don’t need to know any more. What I have told you is explanation enough.”
“But—”
The Controller held up his hand. “You are right to hate me, Z73. Hate me all you need. For there are worse things than hate. Truly there are. I know that far better than you can imagine.”
“But,” said Little Fearless, desperate for more information, “why Oroborous? Why the snake that ate its own tail?”
“Because that,” said the Controller slowly and with infinite sadness, “is what people do.”
In the days and nights that followed, there was much talk about Little Fearless.
Many of the children were adamant that she had got what she deserved. Soapdish, Beauty and Tattle, while upset at losing their friend, became angry at Little Fearless because it was less painful than feeling sorry for her. Stargazer stood up for Little Fearless and said that she was a hero and that everyone should try to be like her. But nobody listened to her.
A few other children, Z girls, the lowest of the low, stood by Stargazer, and talked, and told stories at night of the legend of Little Fearless. Occasionally graffiti would appear scrawled on the walls: Never forget Little Fearless or the letters LF.
The Controller was clever, though. Now that Little Fearless was gone, most of the girls noticed that although the Institute was still terrible, it was very slightly less terrible since Little Fearless had disappeared.
Then he promoted Little Fearless’s friends – Tattle, Beauty and Soapdish – to X girls, where they learned to bully and be lofty and arrogant. Tattle, when she did imitations of people nowadays, no longer copied X girls or the Controller, but instead ridiculed Y and Z children. Beauty loved her new uniform, and as they had proper mirrors in the Control Block, where the X girls lived, she spent a lot of time attending to her face and hair, which she was allowed to grow again. And Soapdish was delighted to be where there was plenty of soap, and where everything was tidy and in proper order.
The Controller never referred to Little Fearless again when addressing the children at the Sunday Gatherings, and he instructed all the X girls to do the same. Some of the Y and Z girls still talked about her and some told stories. But, after a while, the talking and the stories faded. After a little more time had passed, the X girls began to hint that there had never been any such person as Little Fearless.
That she herself was just a story.
At first, the children thought this was mad – to think that anyone could believe that something that had really happened was just a story. But then, when they thought about it, no one could remember very clearly what Little Fearless had looked like. All the Y and Z girls had, for a long time, looked the same and dressed the same. And Little Fearless had, in those last days, been hard to distinguish from all the other girls. They had no history books to remind them of what had happened in the past, and no newspapers to tell them what was happening in the present. So more and more of the children began to wonder if the things Little Fearless had done were just in their imaginations.
The Controller instructed his spies to repeat, with absolute certainty, that there had never been any such person. The other girls, faced with such unshakeable convictions, began to lose faith in their own memories. Eventually, any time anybody did mention her, someone was bound to say “Don’t waste your time on make-believe” or “If you believe in that, you’ll believe in anything” or even “Good words make history; bad words make misery.”
However, there was one person left who was absolutely sure that there had been someone called Little Fearless.
The last thing Little Fearless had whispered to Stargazer was “Remember me.” And Stargazer had sworn to herself that she would remember, come what may. To anyone who would listen, she would say, “But you must remember Little Fearless. She was the bravest and the best.”
However, the other girls didn’t want to listen. Their guilt and their shame at abandoning Little Fearless was too great. After a while, they began to say that Stargazer was mad. After all, that was why she had been brought to the Institute in the first place. Eventually a day came when even Stargazer herself began to think she was mad, just as the doctors at the orphanage had once told her.
Perhaps, thought Stargazer, Little Fearless is just one of my strange visions. Someone who never existed after all.
One day, the Controller sent his three chief X girls into the Work Block to find out who still believed in Little Fearless.
Lady Luck saw Stargazer working quietly in the laundry, scrubbing away stains and spots from the clothes. She spoke loudly, in front of all the other girls. “Look, there’s that mindcrip who thinks there really was such a person as Little Fearless.”
And slowly, deliberately, Stargazer turned her head and snapped, before anyone could laugh at her, “No, it’s a lie.”
Bellyache cast a stony glance at Stargazer. “It’s true. She believes that there was once a girl who went to the City in the back of a rubbish lorry.”
Some of the other girls started sniggering and pointing at Stargazer.
“There never was such a person,” insisted Stargazer.
The Whistler stared at her doubtfully. Stargazer turned on her angrily. “There was no one. No girl has ever escaped from the Institute. No one ever will.” Then she turned back to her laundry and began scrubbing twice as hard as before.
So, that day, Lady Luck, Bellyache and the Whistler reported back to the Controller that there were no girls left in the Institute who believed Little Fearless had ever existed. The Controller looked satisfied behind his tinted spectacles, and decided that the matter was now well and truly closed.
The Pit
Do not enter. Danger of death.
Temporary sign outside
the Discipline Block
Just as the children in the Institute had ceased to believe in Little Fearless, some people in the City were beginning to acknowledge her existence.
The reason the woman from the house that Little Fearless had visited had never phoned the Institute was because her husband, John, had asked her not to. In fact, that same night, John the rubbish collector had done something remarkable. Thinking of Little Fearless’s tired, desperate face, he had risen from his chair in the middle of the touchball game.
Then he had switched off the vidscreen.
His family had screamed and shouted and made him turn it on again. But like the policeman and the priest, he had a thought in his head that he couldn’t make go away.
The morning after Little Fearless had visited, while he was putting out the rubbish, his eyes were momentarily blinded by a glitter o
f reflected sunlight. He blinked, dazzled. When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the glare was coming from a small glass bottle in the dustbin. For a long moment he stared at it. Then he gently picked it up, careful not to drop it, and took it inside.
That day, he happened to be working in the university zone. He was acquainted with a scientist who lived there, and John handed him the bottle and asked him to find out what exactly was in it. Later the same week, when John was collecting his rubbish again, the scientist handed the bottle back and told him that extensive and conclusive analysis in his laboratory had revealed that the bottle was full of children’s tears. Twelve thousand, seven hundred and three to be precise.
That’s an awful lot of unhappiness, by anyone’s reckoning, thought John.
He stared at the bottle of tears night after night. He started to have odd thoughts. So odd, in fact, that he showed the bottle of tears to his neighbours. Who also started to have odd thoughts.
The story of the bottle of tears began to spread like a virus around the City. People began writing to newspapers and phoning radio stations to see if it could be true. The rumour that the Institute was really a prison full of miserable girls, and not the City Community Faith School for Retraining, Opportunity and Hope, persisted and grew.
Finally the Cityzens started to boycott the laundry at the Institute. Profits began to plummet. That was the final straw. Something had to be done.
The City Boss announced that although he could not open the Institute to the public – issues of national security prevented it – he would take round a small group of handpicked reporters and cameramen in order to prove that the City Community Faith School was exactly what he said it was.
But many of the Cityzens were still not happy with this. So they decided to organize a Bottle of Tears demonstration outside the Institute for the same day as the City Boss’s visit.
The first thing the City Boss did when he was faced with the prospect of opening the Institute to the vidcams was to phone the Controller and tell him to prepare for the visit.