Among You Secret Children

by Jeff Kamen

  ‘We call it the dismantling of wills,’ he said, lowering the torchbeam as Stoeckl squinted. ‘A process of numbing people, of instilling a sense of unease, and yet enhancing apathy, stopping them from getting organised. It creates a sense of helplessness that in the end the people depend on the authorities to alleviate. Basically, it’s governance by fear.’

  Stoeckl turned to the leaflet again, nodding uncertainly.

  As they continued talking, Moth looked across the gap to where Vonal sat alone in the shaft they’d come crawling from, a hunched silhouette with a radio to his ear whose mutterings were now a persistent backdrop to the sense of foreboding he could feel, a sense that great wheels were in motion and that he was trapped between the cogs, waiting for the next terrible intermeshing that would crush him down and break him. Finally, haggard and pale, Stoeckl seemed to run out of questions. Lütt-Ebbins whispered something, moving the torch so that the pale galvanised walls rotated in shadow. The intersection fell silent, cooled by a steady downdraught of air from the systems station.

  Vonal’s voice was now all they could hear, his words unfathomable and half-formed. Eventually, punching a button, he fell quiet. He remained still a minute, simply facing the wall. Then he gathered up his satchel and came crawling towards them.

  Lütt-Ebbins watched him cross the gap and sit. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s going on?’

  ‘Sachs. He’s been called to a meeting. High level. The bigwigs obviously suspect something.’

  ‘What? So why’s he going? Surely they’ll just use it to trap him.’

  ‘He knows that. But he has to go. If he pulls out, the game’s up, they’ll know it’s him for sure. He has to maintain his front and point a finger elsewhere. It’s all he can do.’

  Lütt-Ebbins sat breathing deeply, a hand to his brow. ‘Shit. So what’s next? Do we lie low or what?’

  ‘There’s no time, Lütt. He’s given orders. Operation Zeuge starts right now.’

  Lütt-Ebbins looked up. ‘Zeuge? Now? But we don’t have anything like enough —’

  ‘Listen a minute. Listen. I told you, there’s no choice. We’re into the last few hours before they realise what’s happening. I took the codebook, but they’d already made copies.’

  ‘Exactly — a few hours. We’re screwed, Vonal.’

  ‘Just listen. They don’t know who’s who yet, so they won’t risk sending out sensitive comms to the other colonies. They’ll worry about being intercepted. That gives us the edge for the moment. We’re the only ones who’ll be talking across Nassgrube.’

  ‘Right, but Zeuge depends on Sachs being active, in control. He’s the architect of the damned thing. What if they keep him? What if they know already?’

  ‘He’s already delegated everything. Von Tregen’s getting ready as we speak. His team’ll launch a strike at City Hall. Midge and Weinburg will head things at Gabelstad, and you and I can head things here. The main thing is that we keep in touch and work it all through stage by stage. We do it right, the whole place’ll crack like an egg. They’ll never know what hit them.’

  Lütt-Ebbins sank a little, nodding. He looked drained, more tired than Moth had ever seen him before. ‘Ostgrenze?’ he said.

  ‘Let’s concentrate on what we’re doing here first. We need to get organised.’

  ‘Okay, you’re right.’

  Stoeckl gave a slight cough. Vonal turned.

  ‘Sorry, I’m Stoeckl. And you …?’

  ‘Vonal,’ said Vonal, and shook the outstretched hand. ‘I take it you’re with us, Stoeckl?’

  ‘Absolutely. Lütt’s told me all about it.’

  ‘Good man. We need people like you to get word round fast — and I mean fast. Stick these leaflets anywhere you can — offices, toilets, meeting rooms, the gym. Everywhere. Think you can do that for us?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. I was just … I’m, um … still under arrest, aren’t I? Perhaps I shouldn’t let any guards see me? Is that right?’

  ‘Keep your head down and nobody’ll notice. The main thing’s to stay calm. Act as if you’re going to work as usual.’

  ‘I’ve got about six hundred here,’ Lütt-Ebbins said, checking his bag. ‘You can divide them up between you. That okay, Moth?’

  Moth looked up uncertainly, and as he confirmed that he would help, Vonal turned to him with cratered eyes and said, ‘Well, well, our young troublemaker. Matthëus. There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. Takes me back to the old days.’

  ‘Ah … ’

  ‘See the new generation’s coming through nicely.’

  ‘I, ah …’

  Vonal offered a hand, and as Moth took it Vonal gripped him hard, maintaining his hold as he continued to observe him. ‘Welcome aboard, lad. We need the numbers. We need them on our side.’

  Moth had to look down. The hand maintained its grasp.

  ‘You are … on our side, Matthëus?’

  ‘Y-Yes, of course I am.’

  ‘That’s good to know. So I’m sure you won’t mind clearing something up for me. What were you doing with the gun?’

  ‘S-Sorry?’

  ‘You heard me. The gun Tilsen found. The one you kept in your room with the other stuff. Like any good revolutionary would do. Except … ’

  Moth stared.

  ‘Except I’m not quite sure which revolution you’re thinking of. Or should I say, whose.’

  He could feel his hand turn to soap in the crushing grasp, could feel his face betraying him. ‘I … I don’t know what you mean,’ he whispered.

  ‘I spoke with him,’ Lütt-Ebbins said awkwardly. ‘They could have planted it, couldn’t they?’

  ‘They didn’t plant it. They found it in the wall. And seeing as you’re supposed to be with us now, Matthëus, I’d very much like to know what it was doing there.’

  ‘I, ah … I was …’

  ‘Answer him, Moth,’ Lütt-Ebbins prompted, and Stoeckl crooked his neck to watch.

  ‘But I …’

  ‘Answer me, you hear? I’ll count to three and you talk, otherwise you’re down the shaft. We won’t even hear you hit the bottom.’

  ‘But it wasn’t mine, I promise you, I don’t know what it —’

  ‘One.’

  ‘Moth, answer him. Where did you get it?’

  Vonal tightened his grip. ‘Two.’

  ‘Just tell him, Mothy.’

  ‘But I-I didn’t mean anything, I just found it …’

  Vonal’s mouth was drawn in a humourless slit. ‘Three,’ he said, grabbing Moth by the lapels, who, the moment he was dragged aside, squealed, ‘I’ll tell you I’ll tell you, don’t hurt me!’

  The shaft fell silent, set in a frieze of accusation and disbelief that uncoupled with a slight frisson of movement as Stoeckl mouthed something to Lütt-Ebbins.

  Moth sat coughing wretchedly, reordering his overalls as Vonal let him go. Then, in a troubled whisper, he said, ‘I-I wanted it for Tilsen.’

  Vonal smirked at this. ‘For Tilsen?’

  ‘I was … I-I wanted to stop her.’

  ‘You wanted to stop Tilsen?’

  He bit his lips, panicking as Vonal sent a glance to Lütt-Ebbins. ‘I-I thought she was following me.’

  ‘So what was the gun for?’

  ‘I was going to shoot her.’

  Vonal’s stony features appeared to congest a moment, then melted into a look of dark knowing. As the other two murmured together, he said, ‘How? I mean, you can’t just shoot someone like Tilsen. You need to plan it, get things ready, get everything right.’

  ‘Well, I … I was just …’

  ‘Who else was involved?’

  ‘Ah, no one, honestly. Just me.’

  ‘Just you. Just going out to kill Tilsen. Just like that.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘Okay. When were you planning to do it?’

  ‘Later this week. In two days’ time.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I, ah …’ he said hoarsely, ‘in-in the head.�
��

  Vonal studied him with his dark eyes. ‘I meant where in the base.’

  ‘Oh, ah … in the canteen.’

  ‘The canteen? Why there?’

  ‘Ah … the light’s better there, and there’s other people to, ah … to …’

  ‘You weren’t worried about witnesses?’

  ‘I’m not …’

  ‘Spit it out, Matthëus. Did you want people to see you? What was the idea?’

  ‘Ah-ah …’

  ‘Speak up.’

  He was straining for an answer when Stoeckl hissed at them, pointing past Vonal’s shoulder. They turned as one to see an exploratory beam of light in the distance that had them muttering in dismay. Vonal was the first to react, checking his watch and agreeing timings with Lütt-Ebbins before ordering them all to leave. ‘I’ll lead them down this way,’ he said, indicating a horizontal exit. ‘Get clear and continue with your jobs. We’ll meet up later.’

  ‘What about the ops room?’ Lütt-Ebbins hissed, smothering his torch.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘What if it’s not ready?’

  ‘I’ll put Gal on it. I know he’s connected a feed already, probably just needs to tweak the connections.’

  ‘We need it, Vonal, we need it up and running.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be ready. Matthëus?’

  ‘Ah, yes?’

  ‘You do whatever Lütt orders, get it?’

  ‘Ah, of course, I —’

  ‘No screwing up now. This is a one-off chance.’

  ‘Ah …’

  ‘Okay, move. Let’s go.’ With that, Vonal clasped hands with Lütt-Ebbins and wished them all good luck. Moth gripped a set of rungs above him and moved aside to let Vonal pass and soon the agent was crawling away, pushing the satchel ahead as he went.

  Lütt-Ebbins snapped his fingers and Moth turned. His friend was signalling for him to follow Stoeckl up the vertical opening. ‘Straight up to the base,’ Lütt-Ebbins whispered.

  He climbed across, and as soon as there was space enough, he began his ascent, Lütt-Ebbins following close behind.

  Chapter 22 — Woodland Visitor

  After the rites of midsummer, fires of welcome, singing at the Gate, comes the lantern festival. She watches people stringing lamps around the marketplace, around the paddocks and stores. Flaming bowls line the evening pathways in honour of the sun.

  Following a class, she joins the crowds camped along the broad slopes that link the market area with the settlement’s heart as the finalists compete in the seasonal games. Archery, wrestling, hurling logs. She stands at the back as the rowdy spectators sit fanning themselves, cheering on their favourites. Sandor as ever has few rivals. She watches him panting victoriously before those he has thrown over; watches him spear the targets like no other. Claps politely, the first time she has seen him since the argument, her gaze lifting to the cliffs at the crown of the hill and then beyond, to the groined and rocky uplands, the grey ridges split and worn and bleached-looking in the sun. She looks higher still, as if in yearning, but the summit is invisible that day, boiling in summer mists.

  Throughout the afternoon, members of the hunter clan come up to greet her. None remark on her recent absence, and although she knows they are aware of the situation, it makes it easier in a way, and she chats with them as naturally as she is able to, reflecting on how their relationship depends entirely on hers with their leader.

  She waits for a chance to speak to him alone, but it does not come. Towards dusk, with people drifting uphill to eat, she looks for him again but he is not to be seen, nor is he among the crowds at the marketplace. Nor is he present during the performance in the square, where leaf-clad figures enact some ancient drama with stalks of wheat in hand, appeasing gods of land and sky. She asks the hunters if he has said anything, but they know little more than herself. She considers her options, then, guiltily avoiding Anya as the redhead sits laughing and drinking with Staš, she slips away between the huts and hurries downhill to the well and heads from there towards the lower camp, her way lit by flickering bowls.

  In the deep twilight of the slope she spots someone roving between the shelters. Proof that it is him comes when he stands briefly in his doorway. She waves, eager to make use of some precious time alone, but it seems he does not see her, for he closes the sleeves behind him and strides off towards the trees, a bag or sack over his shoulder. She continues downhill at a run, rounding the camp and entering the forest, where a short way along the path she thinks she has found him; but as she draws nearer, his shape dissolves into nothing more than wood and foliage. She turns, listening. Then goes on again.

  Dark hosts of branches enclose her and she pushes her way through them. The path splits and turns and she goes on until the scent of the fields arrives on the night breeze, telling her she’s near to the lowlands. Knowing his preference for the woods to the south, out in the wild territory that lies between the Naagli settlement and the beginning of Ansthalt’s lesser peaks, she turns away. She treks deep into the pines, uncertain and regretful, and is close to turning back again when a faint glow appears up ahead. She stops, focussing on all possibilities cloaked by the forest, wondering if he has planted the light so as to enact some petty vengeance for being followed. ‘Shit,’ she mutters, as the trees lean and breathe and clutch dryly, and then she continues on the path, determined to discover if the light is his, and if so, what he is doing there.

  The yellow aura turns to a deep flickering lacerated by branches. She stops once more, checking behind her, searching the blackness, then stalks on until she sees a lantern hooked to a tree.

  Her breathing alters. It is him. Facing away from her, talking to someone in the shadows. She goes to the shade of a gnarled old trunk and waits until certain she’s not been seen. Then she peers out to discern the stranger’s identity. But all she can see is the outline of a figure that is taller than Sandor, and bigger, heavy in its build; someone either in possession of a huge skull, or with a great mane of hair growing from its head, its features covered in wraps of the same dark material it is clothed in. They continue their discussion, Sandor gesturing at times, but what they speak of she cannot tell, cannot even imagine. Then, moving in a manner that chills her, the figure melts away. It goes lithely, silently into the forest, and disappears. A moment later Sandor turns, and as he reaches for the lantern she puts a hand to her mouth, for he wears a strange, almost terrified expression, is moving unsteadily. He bares his teeth in a manner that makes her fear him, and then, just as he lifts the lantern free, he starts to weep.

  She stares at him, watches him stumble about the path as though intoxicated, but he does not appear to be that way at all, just broken, bereft in some way; and frightened he’ll see her there, or catch up with her as she departs, she leaves in haste. Using the meagre light of his lamp as a guide, she retreats to a dark grove of trees and then runs, runs fast, finding her way through the dry firs and blackness towards the camp.

  Only a few hunters are sitting at the fire as she emerges from the treeline. Voices come drifting, shouts of smoky young laughter. She hesitates; then, fearing Sandor’s return, she cuts back towards the fields. Lost for a while out in the cultivated land, she picks up a trail that leads to the western approach, the main route up to the settlement from the Tarn. All that way in the dark she checks behind her as she runs, searching the night like a woman being chased by something, pursued to destruction. It is not until she reaches the lights of the upper settlement that she slows to a walk, breathless but safe again, and she diverts away from the marquee and makes her way to the warren of shelters that as a large-headed wunderkind she went among in fits of disturbance, at war with herself and all the world those early months of life.

  Now as then, she feels like a frightened stranger as she passes the washing lines and climbing shrubs, the low canework fences housing goats and chickens. Before long she is mingling with families returning from the evening’s festivities uphill, sleeping chil
dren being carried and the long day over, people she walks among in quiet turmoil until reaching home.

  Something warns her to keep alert that night, and when a voice comes whispering in the early hours, she is waiting with a knife in hand, staring at the door. She does not answer, and in a while the rustling and whispering goes away. In the morning, she finds a jar of freshly picked bellflowers outside. She searches the nearby woods uneasily, but no one is there.

  ~O~

  A week later he has gone. The hunters have not seen him days. Deer are foaling in the forests to the west and some suggest he has gone out to observe them, to check that all is well; but others who know him better doubt it. She doubts it too.

  When he returns a fortnight later she hardly recognises him. He is ragged and filthy, his clothes sweatstained and rank-smelling. The smell worsens the longer he stands at her door, and has a feral muskiness to it that at first she takes to be the odour of sex. She would turn him away in outrage but he manages to convince her that it is merely stagnant water, water that has dried on him. He speaks in gasps; then, and later, while she nurses him, using damp cloths to wipe the blood away, the grit from his many wounds.

  It’s bewildering to her: the grazes covering his hands and face are countless, the scratchmarks on his chest and shoulders fewer but also deeper, as if he’s been mauled by some beast. She questions him at length about it, but he cannot account for his injuries; nor seems capable of talking coherently. Realising he is sinking into fever, she makes up a bed for him near the stove, then urges him to rest.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he whispers, and she assures him she is staying. He lies shivering, staring upwards, his hands locked into trembling fists.

  Sitting across from him, stirring herbs into boiling water, she wonders if she even wants to know what has happened. His eyes seem haunted to her, to hold some strange and awful light she can barely contemplate.