Janus

by John Park

  “As you know by now, there was an explosion in the new generating room this afternoon. According to the latest information I have, about forty people were injured, seventeen seriously. Relatives and close friends are being informed individually, but none of the injuries are believed to be life-threatening.” Beside Elinda, Larsen gave an audible sigh.

  “To be blunt, we believe the explosion was deliberately set, an act of sabotage. I see this doesn’t come as a shock to most of you, which is another reason why I called this meeting. We have had suspicions for some time that a group in our midst has been planning to disrupt our life here—though we did not suspect they would go this far. We are going to need the full cooperation of every member of the community if we are to prevent a repeat of today’s tragedy. I’ll outline what precautions we plan to take and what new bylaws we shall require. But first I’ll hand the microphone over to Erik, our engineering manager, to explain what we believe happened.”

  The engineer stood and described how the effects of the blast and how some quick forensic science had established that two or three sticks of plastic explosive had been used in the main generator bay. He described the effects of the blast and the type of injuries it had caused. Then he paused and put a cardboard box on the table. He lifted out some blackened pieces of metal and a length of wire.

  “These are some of the fragments our team found. Some of them were taken from the thigh of one of the injured, where they had created shrapnel wounds. They are part of a lithium battery and a timing device. Personally I cannot see how this explosion can be anything but a deliberate attempt to damage equipment that is almost irreplaceable here, and to kill some of our most valued workers.” Without further comment he sat down.

  Dr. Henry thanked him and introduced the Security chief.

  She stood and surveyed the audience for a few moments before speaking. “Several of you in this room,” she said with emphasis, “are close to people who were almost killed this afternoon, and who may be maimed for life.” She paused and looked at them again. “And, almost certainly, someone listening to me now either planted that bomb or knows who did.”

  Larsen muttered, “Here she comes, the witch-hunter. She will destroy us all if she sows distrust like that.”

  “We don’t believe a large group was responsible,” the woman continued; “but in a society like ours, even a single deviant can threaten the safety of every one of us. As the result of some recent events here, we have some idea of who is involved, and we are keeping our suspects under observation while we assemble our evidence.

  “Dr. Henry has indicated that we’ll be tightening security. I can’t reveal all the measures we will take, but I think it fair to tell you that our personnel will be among you more often now. Some of them will be apparent; some will not. We have enacted the emergency powers regulations, giving all accredited members of the Security forces the authority to stop, question, and if necessary search any person they feel may be a threat to the safety of the community.

  “Needless to say, we have emphasised to our staff that these new powers are to be used with the utmost tact and restraint. Nevertheless, I have no doubt that they are utterly necessary, and therefore I ask you all to give us your understanding and cooperation while the crisis lasts.”

  Dr. Henry summed up and asked for questions.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Elinda saw Grebbel slide into a seat at the end of their row. Someone was asking how long the crisis was expected to last, and how they would know when it was over. Henry started to make soothing noises that made little impression on her. When he finished speaking, she surprised herself by standing up.

  “Sit down,” Larsen whispered urgently. “Don’t make a fuss here.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Henry said. “The young lady on the left.”

  “You believe there’s a connection between the bombing and some recent events here. Can you be more specific? Were you referring to the leaflets put out the other day? And does that mean there’s some truth to what they said?”

  Henry looked at her appraisingly. Finally he said, “I could hand this one to our Security chief, but I’m sure she’d merely tell you that we can’t divulge information like that until we’re sure the criminal or criminals have been put away. If you have a particular reason for asking those questions, perhaps you could contact me at the end of the meeting.”

  Larsen tugged at her sleeve. “Sit down. Let it go.”

  She shrugged and took her seat. The questions continued, but she paid no attention. After a couple of minutes she caught Grebbel’s eye, and he pointed towards the door. Larsen muttered, “Yes that’s a good idea. Go now. I’ll tell you tomorrow if anything else happens here.”

  She joined Grebbel at the back of the Hall and they left together.

  “It’s started, then,” she said. “Did you hear all of it? I can’t help wondering if I didn’t leave a whole universe behind to get away from things like that—emergency measures and arbitrary surveillance.”

  “Why did you ask Henry about the leaflets then?”

  Ahead of them, bronze and white clouds broke like slow-motion surf around a black pinnacle. One of the moons made an ivory crescent above the head of the valley.

  “I was upset,” Elinda said. “I wanted to see what he’d say. Barbara had something to do with those leaflets, but I’m certain she’d never start bombing people. If they’re trying to incriminate her, to use her as a scapegoat, I want to know. Did you get to her lab, by the way?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Grebbel. “I copied the files. They’re on a blue stick in Barbara’s drawer.” He looked less withdrawn than when she had left him that afternoon.

  “Thanks. I’ll look in tomorrow and pick them up. You want to go in here?”

  A swinging signboard illuminated by a colour-corrected mercury lamp bore the name Red Lion. “This the tavern?” he said. “Sure. I’ve yet to see the inside of the place. And I’d say we could both use a drink.”

  Inside, dark wooden panels divided it into alcoves facing on a common bar. The lighting was a mixture of small shaded bulbs, perhaps from flashlights, and colour-balanced LEDs. In a far alcove, a man was singing off-key, something about falling down a rabbit hole. Closer, the benches were occupied by men and women in construction gear.

  Grebbel and Elinda found seats on a padded bench beside a window, near the end of the bar. A waiter in a black and white check shirt came, and Elinda ordered a whiskey sour. “I know too much about their beer, and their hard liquor isn’t something I’d normally drink straight, though it’s getting better. Isn’t that right, Pedro?”

  The waiter grinned. “We always tell the customers we’re getting better. Haven’t seen you in here for a while though. Maybe you’d be surprised at what we’ve got.”

  “Surprised, maybe,” she said; “delighted—I doubt it. If you don’t want what I’m having,” she said to Grebbel, “I’d recommend the vodka or gin.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll try what you’re having. Make it a double.”

  A man in a group at their end of the bar began describing a shuttle lift-off to the other waiter. At a table nearby, a couple were talking about the chances of finding the saboteur.

  Their drinks arrived. Elinda swallowed a mouthful. Grebbel tasted his, then drained it.

  She frowned to herself and shook her head. ”I’m not doing very well yet. I tried tracing where the leaflets had come from. I found where the paper they were printed on went to, but now I don’t think that tells me much. I’m not giving up, but I’ll have to think of something else to try.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Just don’t try anything that’ll get you into trouble. Don’t think of anything like that.”

  They were silent, gazing at each other in the tinted light.

  “. . . you can’t see the laser beam, but you can hear it, at least it seems that way, the whole sky roaring—and there’s the thrust chamber glowing like the sun, climbing like a bird, and the hydrogen not turned on yet . . .
”

  Glasses clinked. A group entered and another left.

  “. . . but that’s the point—how much longer will they pour money into here if someone’s trying to blow their investment apart?”

  Grebbel reached across the table and took her hand. Her fingers stroked his palm. They shared a smile. “Things can’t be important all the time,” she said. “We can go in a minute.”

  Outside, they stopped and held each other. He rubbed her shoulders, stroked the back of her neck, she ran her hands along his spine. In the trees on the valley slope, the wind rose and roared and was quiet again. Masses of moonlit cloud turned ponderously overhead. Beyond the clouds, the aurora writhed. She muttered into his shoulder, “You’re still wound up tight, aren’t you?”

  He nodded, rubbing his cheek in her hair. “We both are. Come on.”

  Two streetlights faded behind them, and doubled moon-shadows accompanied them up the slope. The stream sounded faintly among the rush of air through refurling branches. A four-winged creature like a silver bat, with its crested rider, swooped low over their heads and was gone. Above the clouds a sheaf of rose light shook open into a great orchid.

  And then Elinda was fumbling for her key again, awkward with one arm still around his waist, and the previous evening was recreating itself.

  “Take off your coat.”

  “Yes.”

  They spoke in whispers and moved slowly, putting their coats on chairs, then clinging to each other again; but still stiffly, inert.

  “Last time, you were going to offer me a drink.”

  “All right,” she said, and did not move. “If you’ll help me look for it. And you’ll have to make do with a cup.”

  “Maybe we should have stayed in the tavern then.”

  “You’d have to sleep on one of those benches. You’d get a stiff back.”

  In the dark, they found their way to the kitchen, and she produced a bottle and two ceramic cups. “I never did show you the house, did I? This is the kitchen. And through here, as you see, we have the bedroom.”

  “That’s nice.”

  They were going through the motions, flirting until tensions relaxed.

  They sat on the bed and poured whisky for each other. Leaning together, they took turns to sip from a single cup, one holding it to the other’s lips, while the other’s unencumbered hands explored and caressed.

  At some point, when the cup was put down to be refilled, it disappeared. Turning to look for it, they fell against each other, giggled and kissed and toppled sideways on the bed. And quite suddenly their need sharpened and focussed. The play became urgent.

  Elinda felt her body being caught up in familiar aching rhythms. The hidden, night side of her knew this version of the dance. That knowledge laboured within her, climbing towards the light, bringing its dark and fearful joy.

  And Grebbel, with her face filling his sight, his skin tingling with the sensation of holding her and being held, felt a moment’s pause. Wait, said his mind, touch her there and she’ll beg. But then being inside her overwhelmed everything else, and when the climax came, it annihilated all awareness.

  He was adrift in a place between sleeping and waking. He could no longer tell where his body ended and hers began. Their breathing sounded together in his ears, the fathomless sound of the ocean waves. He was a wrinkled creature, washed free of grit, wounds bathed and soothed, drifting on the edge of the ocean until the tide should roll in again and carry him back to the quiet dark.

  Sluggishly he rolled in the water. On his back, said the waves, turn him on his back. Turn him on his back. Turn his belly to the light, so we can see where he’s hurt.

  Sea—where he’s hurt, there he’s hurt, there he hurts. In the white, in the light. It’s the light, in the eyes, it’s the sounds, in the ears, that’s what hurts. Come to sleep in the deep, in the dimness and the peace. Heal the hurt.

  It’s too late now—see the wound. The wound. The wound.

  . . . severe laceration about the umbilicus, damage to the peritoneum, large and small intestines, lesions to the liver and pancreas. We’ll need plasma—thirty units—dialysis. . . .

  The ocean had vanished. He lay in the dark, his limbs tangled with hers, and stared toward the ceiling. His hands had come together and locked their fingers and begun to squeeze. When he made the effort to exhale, the air rasped in his ears.

  He whispered, hardly daring to formulate the certainty that had appeared in his mind. “I was—a doctor.”

  She turned in his arms and muttered without waking. He peered at the blur of her face, a few centimetres from his own. Her breath was warm on his shoulder, her breast soft against his upper arm. His eyes tried to recreate details that had been familiar during the day. He ached. She stirred again, and he realised his body was damp with sweat.

  He let his head fall back on the pillow and closed his eyes.

  A doctor.

  SEVEN

  Chris glanced up as Elinda went into the office. “Early again,” he said. “This whole place is turning upside down. Maybe even the boss’ll take a day off.”

  The wind moaned about the building. Dry leaves rattled on the window.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” she said. “I’m just passing through. I’ll be back, but there’s order in the universe yet.” She had sat down without taking her coat off and was entering commands through her keyboard.

  As she was about to call up the residence directory, she suddenly realised that if Security was ahead of her, any attempts to reach Strickland might be monitored. She decided to gamble. She called up the directory and asked for addresses for half a dozen surnames at random, throwing in “Swale” and “Stackpole” as well. “Swale” proved to be the name of a real person living in the lower blocks, but “Stackpole” drew a blank. The system then displayed a block of names in alphabetical order centred on “Stark,” the closest it could get. “Strickland” was third from the bottom of the list, with an address in one of the original settlement buildings off the Square. She memorised the address rather than writing it down, completed her search of dummy names, adding Jon Grebbel’s as an afterthought, printed out a couple of the results for show, then said good morning to Chris and set out into the wind.

  She found half the Square roped off. A battery of lights had been set up near the Tree and focussed on the buildings at the far side. Militia in white jackets and gas masks patrolled the barrier, with riot guns in their gauntleted hands. She stopped. The wind surged and the icy waters of the river seemed to roil about her. Then she braced herself and walked up to the nearest of the militia and asked what was happening.

  The hidden eyes swung towards her. It was probably someone she passed on the street almost every day—and the mask must be there for that reason as much as for protection.

  “Keep back, please.” A man’s voice, but distorted beyond recognition. The furled tree fronds rustled and stirred above them, reminding Elinda of pinioned, groping arms.

  “But what’s happening?”

  From the far side of the Square, someone shouted. A whistle blew. Three of the militia ran to one of the buildings and hurled something through a window, then forced the door and ran inside. After a moment there was a muffled thud and more shouting. Smoke streamed out. Then there was quiet. Elinda’s eyes began to smart.

  “Who is it?” she asked. “Who have they caught?”

  But the mask was turned to the house across the Square and made no response.

  The door opened again. The three militia emerged, two in the lead with a tall man in a dark green sweater between them. He walked heavily, seemingly unaware of the cold, his shoulders slumped. In front of the building, he twice bent forward and was shaken by coughs. His face was red; it looked swollen, and it was several moments before Elinda could be sure the man was Robert Strickland.

  Another of the militia in the Square went forward to meet the three. He exchanged words with them, then said something to their prisoner.

  Strickland
leapt forward, was caught by his two guards. Elinda could see his face thrust up at the officer even as his arms were twisted behind him to force his body forward. His mouth was a black gash uttering sounds that were made unintelligible by wind and his own rage.

  The officer turned away and Strickland fell quiet, letting himself be bowed forward, and coughing. Then he twisted his head up and shouted, and this time she understood his words. “You know why! Because of her! Erika! You know!”

  One of the guards made a sharp motion, and Strickland fell to his knees. The guards began to drag him away.

  “There was no need to hit him like that.” She started towards him.

  Strickland sprang to life. One of the guards fell and the other staggered against the wall. Strickland was crouching between them with one of their machine pistols in his hands. Now she could see him easily. “I remember your type,” he was shouting. “Just fit for beating up grandmothers.”

  The militiaman dragged at her arm. “Get down!” The muzzle of Strickland’s gun was swinging back and forth. If he pressed the trigger, he would probably cut her in half. “Get down!”

  She dropped and put her cheek to the icy ground. As she covered her head with her arms, someone screamed. There was a brief clatter of shots. Then more screams.

  For a long time it seemed that nothing was happening. She raised her head. Strickland lay crumpled at the base of the wall. His chest and the side of his head were crimson. There was a short chain of bullet holes in the wall where he had been standing. As she watched, a woman wearing a Red Cross armband went and bent over him, then stood up and shook her head. The two guards went to pick up Strickland’s body.

  Elinda pushed herself to her feet. The militia were taking down the rope barrier and the battery of lights and vanishing into alleys and side streets. People flowed back onto the Square.