by Jaine Fenn
Kety arrived in a gaggle oflimbs. ‘Awake again now, eh, girlie?’ she asked.
‘Uh.’
Kety wrinkled her nose. ‘Oooh. Best get you cleaned up.’ The woman reached into the cocoon, zeroing in on her charge’s lower body, loosening ropes and pushing down leggings to expose what felt like some sort of nappy. She fled back to the numbers. They made more sense now: a count, measuring out time. Measuring out time because … because … there was something important she had to do. If only she could remember what.
She only realised she was whimpering when Kety made shush-ing noises, sending gusts of warm, reeking breath across her face.
She looked beyond Kety, though her vision was jumping due to the chattering of her teeth, which in turn was due to the touch of freezing air on bare, damp flesh. She was stretched across a tunnel, smooth-walled and about twice as wide as she was long. From the look of the other, empty, cocoon-like hammock and the bags and nets of random junk tacked around the walls, this was Kety’s horne.
She turned her head the other way. On her right the tunnel was blocked by hard-set yellowish foam. She suspected she had once known the name of that substance. She suspected she had known a lot of things, once. That reminded her of the alternative to this reality and, desperate to escape, she tried again to tune in to the virtual.
The pain was instant, sharp enough to make her buck and squeal.
Kety grabbed her then made soothing noises and stroked her forehead before going back to the nappy. By the time Kety finished dealing with her bodily functions, she had calmed down enough to speak.
‘Kety,’ she said as evenly as she could.
‘Aye, girlie.’
‘You’re my friend, aren’t you?’
Kety smiled. ‘Aye, girlie. I’ll keep you safe.’
‘So … will you untie me? Please. I won’t go anywhere. I just can’t bear this … Please, I won’t run, I swear.’
The woman looked down at her, and shook her head slowly.
‘Please! I’m begging you, just-‘
Kety raised a hand, palm chopping upwards, ‘Hush! No shouting now. Quiet, quiet, girlie.’
‘Why be quiet? Why?’ Her voice ran away with her, control slipping. Kety was kind but she was also her jailer! ‘Why be quiet when I’m trussed up and you won’t tell me why or where or even who I am!’
‘Nameless!’
‘What?’
‘You’re nameless. Nameless but safe. But only safe if you stay quiet and still. Understand?’
‘No.’
Kety mimed preparing to deliver a slap.
She took a breath. ‘Yes. Yes, Kety.’
‘Good. Enough questions.’
She shut up, and watched the numbers.
Kety refused to speak to her for the rest of the ‘day’ - the period the light was on. Her host - or jailer - spent her time working through piles of junk, fiddling with this, trying to fix that, hum-ming tunelessly as she tinkered. She broke offlong enough to give her charge more water and spoon tasteless goo into her mouth.
She spent the time thinking, but her memory had stalled. All she knew for sure was that for whatever reason, the unreal world, her other - true? - home was currently inaccessible. She was a prisoner in her body, and her body was a prisoner in this cocoon.
Yet she had an odd intuition that, grim though her situation was, this was not the worst thing that could have happened, not the eventuality she feared the most. She had no idea what was.
Although virtual space was forbidden to her, she still had the display that counted time. Those numbers led to others that existed 202
purely in her head. She recited comforting sequences, performed arithmetic operations, counted and calculated.
That night she dreamed she was walking in a garden (normal grav, noted the detached self, observing the dreamer); she was with a boy and they were happy. The sky in the dream curved up and over them. Was that somewhere near here? She woke up, infuriated by her inability to make sense of anything, only to slip back into sleep.
Kety fed and cleaned her again the next day. Her jailer refused to answer direct questions, though her mutterings included a reference to an ‘open above’. Was that where the boy from the dream lived?
Eventually Kety went out, having first explained how important it was for her guest to stay ‘quiet and still’. She took the light with her, briefly revealing the fact that this tunnel curved away sharply beyond their living space.
She had already examined her cocoon as closely as she could from within it while Kety’s back was turned. It was based on a loose mesh hammock bound into a tube by additional scraps of rope, string and rags. The tube tapered off to a single, thicker rope at the foot - and presumably the head - which was looped round a hook driven into the tunnel wall. She hung slackly and was permitted some movement in the cocoon, but not so much that she could dislodge the looped rope from its hook.
Kety - or whoever had put her here - had lashed her limbs to the cocoon, but her legs weren’t bound tightly and she reckoned she could kick and contort her lower body free, given time. But first she needed to untie her hands.
There were tight loops around the wrists; a separate thicker rope coiled around her upper body, binding her crossed arms over her chest. The wrists were the weak point: if she pulled one she felt a faint tug on the other, which meant they were held by a single rope threaded behind her back. Free one hand, and she could free the other. But to do this, she needed to get her wrist to her mouth.
She eased her right hand up her chest. When the rope was at full stretch, she raised her head, which wasn’t tied, towards the hand. She was asking a lot from unused muscles, and in normal gra vity she doubted she could hold this position for more than a few seconds, but, after some flexing and straining, she managed to butt the back of her hand with her chin. The cord on the back of her wrist was easiest to reach but if, as she suspected, it would take more than one session to get through it, Kety would spot what she was up to. She turned her wrist as far as it would go; the cord bit painfully into her flesh. She felt the warmth of her breath on her wrist, but it took more effort, neck muscles spasming, before her lips brushed the cord.
She paused then opened her mouth, catching the cord in her teeth. Ignoring the repellent taste, she bit down. The cord caught, then slid away. She tried again but only succeeded in grazing the inside of her wrist.
The cord would break, because it had to. She just needed to adapt the plan. The problem was the angle: the binding was verti-cal, running across her mouth. So, rather than catching and biting, she needed to cut across it.
She opened her mouth wider, pressed her lower jaw to the cord, and moved her head fractionally from side to side, sawing at the cord with her lower teeth. After several minutes, during which her neck muscles burned and twitched, she felt part of the cord break. She wanted to rest, but she made herself probe her handiwork with her tongue. From the feel of it there were three strands making up this binding, and she had severed one. Forcing herself to ignore her aching neck, the revolting taste in her mouth and the slippery coating of saliva, she began worrying at the next strand.
When her neck muscles cramped, making her bite her own wrist, she gave up. What mattered was that escape was possible.
Kety came back soon after. By then she had turned her wrist over to hide her handiwork; Kety frowned at the drying drool on her prisoner’s chin, but made no comment.
CHANDIN
(Cyalt Hub)
Chandin stared at the envelope. Actual paper, with his first name written on it in a spidery, unsteady hand. It was lying innocuously in his desk drawer. Someone had got into his office, and left a handwritten note for him.
He should call security … but he recognised that handwriting.
He reached into the drawer, picked up the envelope, and ripped it open. As a result of his lack of experience with the medium, he managed to tear the rough sheet of paper inside, though he could still read the message, which was also han
dwritten. It said simply: I got news. Meet me at 20h at the Razzle Do - your da.
When Chandin was growing up, the Razzle Do had been a Floorville bar frequented by the semi-reputable poor, drowning their sorrows after a long shift scraping pipes or grading resyk. If his father was still drinking there, that was probably still true.
But why, after nearly two decades without any contact, did ‘Da’
want to talk to him? What news was so important? Going on past performance, it probably involved credit, and Chandin’s access to it. His initial instinct was to ignore the note. But perhaps the time had come to reconnect with the family he had left behind; it felt apt, now the family he had chosen was entering a new phase.
He tried to concentrate on the day’s work, but with the hand-over to Tanlia finally complete, and his new subordinates carrying some of the weight while he settled in, he was not overly busy, for once. He distracted himself from his father’s note by browsing old records, under the guise of getting familiar with some of the more obscure historical precedents in Treaty history. He had come across some odd references he wanted to follow up.
Meanwhile, his subconscious was working out how he might - if he chose - keep tonight’s appointment. Chandin could request an armed escort if he felt he was in personal danger - which he could be down in Floorville - but such a request would be logged, and though he had no immediate superior to question his actions, the Commission prided itself on its oversight apparatus. Someone, at some point, would ask why he had visited such a dubious part of the station. So, no guard. And if he went dressed like this, he was asking to get mugged.
Perhaps he should destroy the note and leave the past safely locked away.
But then there was the other recent message, received less than a week ago by means as hi-tech as this morning’s letter was lo-tech.
He had no idea if the two were connected, but given the inscrut-ability of the former message perhaps he should pursue the latter.
If he did go, he should go armed, although getting his hands on a gun would be complicated. Not impossible, though. He checked the station directory. This just took a bit of thought.
His subconscious appeared to have made the decision for him.
The Razzle Do hadn’t changed. The same worn-out furniture, the same worn-out staff, the same dim-enough-not-to-show-the-wear lighting. There was even the inevitable terceball holofeed in the corner, turned up just loud enough to disturb a quiet drink.
Chand in sipped his watery beer and watched the door. So far, so good. His plan had started with a trip partway down the wall, to a mid-level exchange boutique where he had pawned his expensive suit for a shabbier one and some scrip; this had, in many ways, been the riskiest transaction, because there was a chance, however slight, that the pawnbroker might recognise the new Prime Commissioner Legal by sight. If the slovenly woman behind the glass did know who he was, she didn’t respond and, now suitably attired, Chandin used the public chain way to make his way further down the crater wall, his gaze carefully fixed on the carriage’s grubby floor. He stopped off to visit a second, less salubrious establishment, whose listing in the station directory omitted certain details that Chandin was relieved to find still held true. Here he used some of the scrip to buy an antique-looking dartgun; the shopkeeper admitted that the design was so old he would have trouble getting reloads, but Chandin was only carrying it for peace of mind, and planned to ditch the weapon at the end of the evening.
Now he had reached his goal, he was wondering if all that effort was in vain, because the time was coming up to twenty-thirty and there was no sign of his father. So far the only person to pay him any attention was a woman with too much makeup and a weary smile, presumably a prostitute.
He decided to finish his drink then go. He had a third of a glass left. He was debating whether or not to leave a sealed note behind the bar when his father walked in.
Chandin was shocked. If the sagging belly and jowls were anything to go by, twenty years was a lot longer down here than up on the rim. Then again, money kept the signs of age at bay. But it was still dismaying to see the changes to the familiar face.
His father came straight over and sat down opposite him. While Chand in was going through the conversational openings he had mentally rehearsed, his father said, ‘You’re looking well!’
‘Thanks.’ He couldn’t bring himself to lie in return.
‘So, a drink?’
Chandin remembered that tone. Rather than give in to his irritation - because obviously the drinks would be on him - he made himself smile and said, ‘Of course: beer?’ When his father nodded eagerly, he tapped the table and ordered two more.
‘You got my note, then?’ said his father, pointlessly.
‘Yes. I did wonder how you got that to me.’
‘Oh, I knows a man, who knows a woman who’s got a TopTier cleanin’ contract.’
‘Right.’ It was odd to hear his home district referred to as TopTier. Then again, those who inhabited the bottom of the crater rarely used the term Floorville. ‘So what’s this news, then?’ he prompted.
His father had been looking longingly at Chandin’s glass, but now his expression fell. ‘Your mother…’ he began.
That was what Chand in had suspected. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’
His father stared at the table. ‘Yeah,’ he said slowly, ‘she is.’
‘Was it the Mathors?’
‘Yeah. Got’ er in the end.’
Mathors Syndrome wasn’t curable but it was treatable. In the circles Chand in now moved in, sufferers could live a long and relatively pain-free life. But those treatments were not cheap. He refused to feel guilty. Thanks to his father’s actions - and his own, long ago - he had had no way of helping his mother. ‘She fought it for a long time,’ he said. He would have liked to have said goodbye to her properly, but that was the other thing about the cheaper treatments: one day they stopped being effective, and that was that, sometimes in a matter of hours. He had come to terms with never seeing his mother again some time ago.
‘Yeah…’ His father was still looking at the table, and an unpleasant suspicion began to dawn on Chandin. At that moment the barman brought their drinks. From the look he gave the older man, the barkeep knew him well, and had his suspicions about who Chandin was. Chandin wished his father had chosen a more discreet place to meet.
When the barman was safely out of earshot, Chandin leaned forward and said, ‘When did she die?’
His father was busy with his drink. When he put his glass down he mumbled, ‘Oh, comen up fer six years gone now.’
‘Six years!’ Chandin refused to lose his temper: he should have known. ‘So why are you only telling me now?’
‘Well … I was waitin’ fer the right time.’
‘And why is this the right time?’ Six years: a long time, but also a significant one.
‘She missed you, y’know, right up till the end.’
‘Why did you ask me to meet you here today?’
‘S’bout Maira.’
‘My sister.’ An alien word implying kinship, familiarity. He had seen Maira three times in his life, and not at all for the last nineteen years. ‘What about her?’ Then, despite himself, he said, ‘Is she all right?’ His most recent memory of his only sibling was of a round-eyed child barely old enough to know who he was.
‘She’s fine. Grand and sweet.’
‘Good. I’m glad.’ Right now he missed the sister he barely knew more keenly than he felt the estrangement from his father or the death of his mother. He wanted to ask about Maira’s life, but that would make her more of a stranger, not less.
‘Thing is, she’s-‘
‘Is it Mathors?’ The condition wasn’t usually hereditary but it was all Chandin could think of.
‘No. Not that. She’s finally got ‘erself sorted, see. And she wants another child.’
So much left unsaid! Chandin forced himself to ask evenly, ‘Another child?’
‘Yeah, see,
after her little girl, what she ‘ad when she were dancin’-‘
‘Dancing where?’ Not in the aeroballet, that was for sure.
His father flicked a hand. ‘Clubs. You know.’
Chandin didn’t know, but he could guess. He reminded himself that when he was growing up, jobs like servicing ducts, tending bars or being the sort of entertainer-his sister had apparently become were nothing to be ashamed of. He had no right to judge her life choices. ‘Is she still … dancing?’
His father shook his head. ‘No, she’s outa the clubs now, works in a dockside beauty parlour, doing touro ladies’ nails an’ stuff.
Married a shift supervisor on the facilities maintenance crew; they got themselves a top-floor apartment. It’s real nice.’
Chandin remembered that tone; the pride in his father’s voice.
Sweet void, that’s how he’d sounded when he had talked about Chandin thirty years ago. My son’s trainin’fer the Commission, he is.
And his mother had wept with joy. This despite the pitifully low pay for the first few years. He put those feelings aside. ‘But you say she already has a daughter.’ My niece, he thought with a jolt.
‘Yeah, but she lives wi’ her da, see. And now Maira and Jold want their own litlun. So I was wonderin’ if you-‘
‘No.’ Last time he had said yes. Not again. Never again.
‘You ain’t even ‘eard me out.’
‘I don’t need to. I’m not repeating that mistake.’ Twenty-five years ago he had been a junior administrator sending a percentage of his pittance wages back to his family. But he had known - and they had known - that he could get his hands on more credit.
Corruption was rife in the lower ranks of the Commission, but rather than fight a losing battle against it, those above used the endemic culture of bribes and kickbacks as a self-selection process: a low-paid employee who got caught taking advantage would have a note put on his or her file and never attain high office.
Chandin had been determined not to fall into that trap. But then he found out about his mother’s illness; add that knowledge to his residual shame at his humble origins, and he had weakened when his father had begged. It had just been a single lump sum, taken from a contractor bidding for courier franchise rights. The whole amount had gone direct to his family. No one had known. But that had only been part of The Mistake.