Among You Secret Children

by Jeff Kamen

  The remaining leads had been stripped and spliced and plaited into two long cables resembling lethal skipping ropes, one connected to the terminal nearest to the door on either side of the gangway. The free ends that hung down from these desks he planned to wire to the fuse box, forming a single live ring of corrupted connections. He jumped as another welt was driven into the door, and with a curse began the last leg of the operation, twisting the copper wires together as he linked yet another branch to the cable he was lengthening. He worked feverishly, shutting out the threats, the banging and yells, the incessant beeping; shut it all out as long as he could tolerate, until finally, with what sounded like a battering ram going at the door, shaking it on its hinges, his nerves couldn’t take it any longer. Taking up the ends of the knotty cables, he brought them across to the open fuse box and held them tightly as he switched on his torch.

  Inside the box, the fuses were arranged like squat cocoons. A warning notice was printed inside the door, something he did his best to ignore as he gripped the mains lever switch.

  After a long moment’s hesitation, sweating, he pulled it down.

  The room blacked out, as did the lights beneath the door. Somewhere a gun went off. A woman screamed. There was a dim clattering and querying voices, then everything fell silent.

  He plucked out two fuses. Then, taking up the cables, he pushed one of the ends between the contacts and worked the first fuse back into place so that it crushed the wires back against the prongs. He did the same with the second cable, then checked them both, making sure nothing could slip, that the fuses were secured; then he knelt back in the darkness just as a timid knocking sounded at the door.

  As the knocking grew louder he took a last sorrowing look around the room, eyeing the creature within the wurmbad with deepening self-empathy. Then before he could change his mind, he gripped the lever and threw it upwards.

  ~O~

  Lütt-Ebbins was a worried man. In the two hours since he and a group of fellow insurgents had taken control of the shuttle bay, he’d heard nothing from Vonal, nor from other friendly parties on the upper floors of the base; nor had there been contact from Moth or Stoeckl.

  He and a group of comrades were shielding themselves behind a freight container left where it had fallen from the arms of a toppled forklift truck. They were positioned a short but deadly run from the Goods In office of the cargo bay, where he and his team had set up headquarters. Shielded by the projecting bulkhead that marked the beginning of the office buildings was a dozen of their comrades, who like his own group were engaged in returning fire in the direction of the station entrance. The bulkhead was streaked with bullet holes and parts of it had been blasted away to the steel skeleton. As a fresh round of shots broke out, another seam of plaster was torn away, showering him and his party with dust. He rose and fired twice and dropped down, screaming a warning. Heavily armed troops had appeared at the barricades strewn across the central concourse, and as they opened fire, bullets streaked in every direction, a ferocious ongoing detonation of sound colliding with its own echo and roaring and the ricochets careening in sprays of whitehot sparks. There were chunks of debris flying from the walls and for a short while he lay in a ball with his head covered. Then as the squad behind the bulkhead leapt out to return fire on the troops, the storm coming from the entrance died away. He reached into a bag for another clip and reloaded and then raised up a little and got off a few rounds with some success, aiming over the container at the shadowy shapes around the barriers and behind the reinforced glass of the main entrance doors. But within seconds the troops were blasting back at them with machine guns. The tiled floor on either side of the container was torn open. Sparks struck off the towering blocks of containers which stood as a corrugated wall between themselves and the nearest platform. Dropping down, he roared in dismay as a man at the bulkhead fell and was dragged back motionless to the doors and hauled inside. Two others rolled out from the wall to take his place and the exchange continued until the pair rolled back again to rearm. For a few moments there was nothing, no shots at all from the entrance area, and then a fresh onslaught was unleashed and he and his team lay cowering behind the container wall, shielding their faces. ‘This is getting out of hand,’ yelled one of the women, and without replying Lütt-Ebbins took out his radio and tried once more to contact Vonal, but without success.

  ‘We’ve got those prisoners in there,’ yelled a man at his side, indicating the offices, ‘why don’t we use them as a barrier? We can’t move, we can’t do anything. You’ve got to take action, Lütt. We can’t last like this.’

  ‘I’m on it,’ Lütt-Ebbins yelled back, punching digits, then into the mouthpiece he shouted, ‘This is Workman calling Builder. Calling Builder. Are you in there yet? I say again — are you there yet? Reply urgently.’

  There was still no response. He tried another channel. ‘Climber?’ he yelled. ‘Climber, it’s me, Workman. Did you do it? Did you do what you said you’d do? I need to know. Lives depend on it. Get back to me as soon as you can. Remember to push to talk.’

  He turned to the group and told them to hold steady, told them he was certain help would come their way, faltering in his message as one of the group pointed upwards, shouting in alarm. He followed the man’s gestures, looking in the direction of the great cupola at the centre of the station’s cavernous white roof. There were fronds of smoke trailing from the filters around the cupola’s rim, pale as the magnificent dome itself. He peered uncertainly over his spectacles. The fronds were gradually elongating, becoming fine white streams that swished and coiled and began to circulate slowly in the air currents, spreading outwards in a quilted haze.

  ‘Where’s it coming from?’ someone yelled, but Lütt-Ebbins did not share their concern, rather he felt something else, a sense of burgeoning faith and pride, and when he spoke to his group again he was showing them a clenched fist. ‘Of all the people,’ he yelled. ‘The little beauty. He’s gone and done it after all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘We’ve been given a break,’ he yelled back, cut off from further words by an alarm ringing in the Goods In offices. As he turned, alarms all across the station began to wail, some piercingly, some in an off-pitch and odd-sounding manner that combined to form a growing assault of noise. It built up on a scale that seemed to make those crouching beside him forget they were being fired upon, for instead they sat looking nervously across the clouded roof with their hands covering their ears.

  ‘What is it?’ his neighbour screamed. ‘What’s happening?’

  But what he said to them in reply they could not hear.

  ~O~

  Moth could smell burning. There was smoke around him. Everything hurt. Coughing, he tried to sit up but couldn’t, could only reach about with his hands, one of which was blistered.

  His jacket had been torn open, exposing his vest. When he looked down at himself he saw a trail of burnmarks down his overalls. He thought this might account for the smell, but when the lights cut out he saw the walls glowing and realised the room was on fire.

  Coughing harder, he hauled himself around and reached feebly for the vent mouth to find in dull surprise that the grille had been refitted. How, he could not account for, could not understand, and in mounting confusion he dug about in his pockets until he found the multitool, and with it shakily removed the screws.

  He tore the grille from its place and stood it aside. Still coughing, he put his head into the coolness of the shaft and peered ahead. He couldn’t see anything. A stale draught wafted into him, reminding him of a journey that had ended so deeply in fear he backed out again and sat in the smoke coughing and groaning, looking at the room’s devastation. The panels were buzzing and flashing in spasms, with blue-white flurries of sparks erupting as the new configurations took hold, the power fuelling the controls surging one moment and puttering out the next. Near to him, a hanging pair of leads jerked up and fell again like failed antennae. He
took little pleasure in surveying his creation, but in knowing he’d helped his friends as much as he was able to, he was satisfied that it was time to go.

  He buttoned his jacket and pulled it up to breathe through and was about to enter the shaft when a huge weight crashed into the door and the yelling and banging recommenced. It sounded as though dozens of them were gathered out there, wild with rage and desperation. He was wondering how much longer the bolts would hold when the room lit up in a dense white radiance that had him groping for his goggles. Moments later the warbling shriek of an alarm broke out in the passage. It was drowning out the racket at the door and drowning out every thought in his head as he turned wet-eyed to the opening and entered it feet first and pushed himself away, scrambling backwards, the intense brilliance searing into his brain before turning suddenly to a square white window overhead.

  A square that was warping. Shrinking. Receding.

  He’d not even felt the shaft open up beneath him. With a scream he dropped down and down into the darkness.

  ~O~

  ‘Workman? Workman, this is Builder. Do you read me?’

  Lütt-Ebbins snatched up his radio. ‘Builder?’ he cried. ‘Builder, is that you?’

  ‘Workman, this is Builder. Do you read me?’

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s Workman here, I read you. What’s happening?’

  ‘… going to ask you the same ... alarms … anything about them?’

  ‘I can hardly hear you, Builder. I heard alarms. Yes, we’ve got alarms down here too.’

  ‘What’s going on? What ... for? ... to flush us out or what?’

  Lütt-Ebbins put a finger in his other ear, wincing. ‘No. Negative. No need to worry, Builder. We have everything under control.’

  ‘What’s ... control? Say again.’

  ‘The problem has been identified. You need not concern yourself. It’s planned. We have a man in charge of the operation.’

  ‘... for that. We’ve got enough to worry about up here.’

  Lütt-Ebbins peered over the container again, watching as another cluster of troops retreated to the entrance doors, returning fire indiscriminately towards the cargo area before hurrying away. ‘Could you clarify, Builder?’ he yelled. ‘Are you inside yet or not?’

  There was a loud crackle on the line.

  ‘Builder? Are you inside the ops room yet?’

  ‘… complicated … trying to break in ...’

  ‘Builder? I’m losing you.’

  The radio spat.

  ‘That better?’

  ‘Yes, a little clearer. Are you in trouble? What’s your situation?’

  He listened, catching gunshots, people shouting in the background. ‘Everything okay, Builder?’

  The speaker hissed and scratched, then Vonal spoke again: ‘Repeat your last, Workman.’

  ‘I said, what’s your situation? Do you need help?’

  ‘It’s tight. We’re in a bit of a corner. What ... help can you offer?’

  Lütt-Ebbins watched as the glass in one of the entrance doors blanked out and fell in a shower, the troops who were using it as an escape route scrambling to help one another away. Wisps of smoke were settling in layers above the tiled concourse, where bodies and overturned equipment and trucks lay bleached and dreamlike in the overpowering light. ‘They’re pulling out!’ he called to those of his group still rearming, signalling them to move to the next phase, then to the radio he said, ‘I’m here, Builder, sorry. Things are looking up our end. The troops are backing out. I sent a call out to Waxman and Runner earlier, but I don’t think we need them now. I’ll send them your way instead.’

  ‘Affirmative. Do it quickly. We need all the help we can get.’

  ‘Roger that, Builder. Look, I know your words are restricted, but it would be useful to know where you are in relation to it. The room. Can you indicate?’

  ‘Same floor. Just send them, we’ll keep a look out.’

  ‘Got you. I’ll do that right now. Before I go, is there any news from our cousins?’

  ‘Some. The youngest ... healthy, but the older one has problems.’

  ‘What kind of problems? Is he still active?’

  ‘Still active, yes, but not as strong. Something happened earlier, uninvited guests. It may work in his favour, or it may go badly. We’ll have ... and see.’

  ‘And the other one? The one we don’t hear from very often.’

  ‘Still alive, apparently. But things are tough for him. There’s family around him but it turns out not all are blood relations. If you understand me.’

  ‘I do understand. We warned him about it.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Let’s hope his condition improves.’

  ‘Of course. Okay, I’ll get that help to you now. Stay tight.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll call you ... we’re inside.’

  ‘Good luck, Builder. Out.’

  Chapter 29 — Death And Spices

  The air of the assembly tent is warm and fetid, filled with smoke and the reek of too many bodies and the rumour of their fear. It feels to her like the atmosphere in the paddocks before a slaughter.

  Staš is speaking in a voice every bit as vexed as those demanding answers of him, and when he calls again for quiet, amidst the shuffle of feet and the constant waft of drapes by the entranceway, the voices gradually lower, become a steady resistant murmuring. Soon only a quiet sobbing is audible.

  She sits at the marquee’s centre, close to the fire, close to the man she’d loved. Gazing down on him with lost and empty eyes. Sandor. Once a leader of men, now fallen, the light on him glistening unnaturally, the long wet hair hanging from his skull like glossy weeds. The filthy blanket not wrapping him but rather clinging, smeared with the same dark stains that coat his skin like a bloodied caul. And it does not look at peace, this silent form, more like a violation of birth, something torn by accident from a womb that was meant to lie forever sleeping, undisturbed beneath the ground. Like something demonic.

  Staš’s voice rises again: ‘Move back a little. Come on, there’s family here. Move back to the walls.’

  Leader of the hunt no more. The muddy hands twisted together as if his wrists have broken; the attitude of his filth-covered face that of a man screaming in horror of himself, and who will continue to scream for all eternity. A number of the onlookers start crying.

  She continues to stare. They’d told her he’d gone out alone to swim after a long night’s drinking. To freshen up, to go diving; that he’d gone off whistling into the darkness. That he could never have seen what lay before him, could never have known.

  And as she stares she sees him as she’d seen him that day, that first aching day, watching him striding up with a swagger in his gait as he approached the well. Eyeing her coolly.

  I know you, he’d forever say to her, picking the stalk from his mouth. You’re the one that ran way.

  That’s right.

  Where did you go?

  Nowhere, really. Just out west.

  Nice out there.

  Yes.

  Quiet. Private.

  Mmm.

  See anything interesting?

  Maybe.

  Maybe?

  A few things.

  A few’s better than nothing.

  I suppose so.

  Why did you come back, then?

  I don’t know. A few reasons.

  A nod. Bored?

  Not really.

  A smile, teeth. Lonely?

  ... Sometimes.

  His green eyes flickering. The stalk back in his mouth. See you around, then.

  Okay. See you around.

  She puts a hand to her mouth, feeling as if she too is underwater. Breathe, all she can do is breathe.

  ‘No,’ says Radjík, as Lajos reaches to cover his father’s face. He is kneeling across from the girl, his dark eyes moist and glittering. Then in a different tone she adds, ‘Don’t. I want to see him.’

  For a few seconds Lajos continues to stare at his sister, then he look
s over the body with a hopeless expression before slumping back again. Sonja holds him like a large clumsy child and strokes his hair. Members of the hunter clan look on broodingly. Jaala acknowledges a few of them as they nod at her, Karl standing in a daze and next to him the sinewy and raw-scalped figure of Jakub and close by Tanya with the mythic felines wrapped in ink down her naked arms. Rosa and Tomas are there, their jaws working and their eyes hung with tears of fury. She notices the filth streaking their clothes, slick and blackly gleaming. In the low light they appear almost sinister, more like crows than people, large standing crows with a cold and faraway look to them as they continue to stare downwards. As if they are not really there, as if they are still discovering the tainted landscape left to them by the swollen belly of the night. Discovering it again and again. Seeing what they saw when they’d first approached the foul and curdled waters stewing there that early morning; staring in silence beyond the strangely quiet banks.

  ~O~

  In time the onlookers stir, begin to talk among themselves. The questions rise again and grow in outrage. She looks up.

  Staš is being called upon to take action, and in response answers that he’ll wait for his scouts to return, following this with an order that nobody is to visit the Tarn until the surrounding area has been checked. ‘We might not be the only ones wanting to look at it,’ he says pointedly, then moves through the crowd to talk to the siblings. After offering his condolences, he suggests they take their father to the rear enclosure. ‘For privacy,’ he says. Lajos nods sullenly; Radjík looks away. He calls for assistance and before long there is a makeshift stretcher being lowered through the smoky light.

  Jaala watches the limp arms flop and roll and get tucked beneath the blankets. As they lift him, the wooden poles creaking, it strikes her that he will never hold her again. Those long summer arms, with all that strength and vitality. The room swims in her tears.