Context (88 page)

‘Lead on.’

They walked among the canoes,
careful not to touch one and set it rocking into motion: if they had to depart
in a hurry, they should leave no obvious traces.

Earlier, at midday, Tom had been
outside: walking by the long straight canal, where the arched ceiling bounced
back the musical wave sounds, the reflected ripples of light. There had been a
family, taking a picnic on the flat stone bank; a matronly fruit vendor; some
young revellers canoeing for pleasure on the placid, gentle waters.

But at some point a patrol had
walked by, scarlet flashes on their grey uniforms, and at that moment the
laughter faded. Even afterwards, when the Tunnel Guard militiamen were gone, a
subtle sober change remained in the atmosphere.

Another sound, and Tom dropped
into a crouch.

‘That’s Rilka.’ Tyentro seemed to
be inspecting the back of his hand: lasing-gel, a his-eyes-only display. ‘And
all’s clear. We can debrief now, sir, if you’re ready.’

‘Go ahead.’

Rilka
was Academy-trained, working in the local constabulary as a trusted cleaner.
Somewhere, she kept a concealed lab kit, and was adept at reconstructing
flash-burned or reinitialized crystals.

‘And then,’ said Tyentro, as
Rilka’s voice trailed off and it was clear she had nothing more to report, ‘there’s
Ralkin Velsivith

He held out a crystal.

‘I’d better leave.’ Rilka nodded
to Tom and Tyentro. ‘Take care.’

She rose and slipped away, into
the shadows beyond the hanging canoes.

Was gone.

‘It
was my wife they threatened.’ In the holo, Velsivith stopped. ‘You know my
Vhiyalla’s blind, don’t you?’

Rustle of cloth. Out of
view-field, Tyentro must have nodded.

‘A morale officer’—a humourless
smile, the amber ovoid inset beneath his cheekbone suddenly catching the light
-’had a little chat with me. About the importance of rooting out the realm’s
enemies. And, just as I was leaving, she asked whether Vhiyalla was being
treated right by the Service’s benefits scheme. “Given her circumstances,” he
said.’

And that was a threat?’ Tyentro’s
voice.

‘Yes, and none too subtle.’

Tyentro paused the playback.

‘He’s edgy, at this point. I don’t
think there’s real friction between us.’

Tom wondered if that was a veiled
hint. Did Tyentro know of his past encounters with Velsivith?

‘Carry on.’

‘At first
... we
really arrested
criminals, made the corridors safer. People we ‘d suspected but didn‘t...Well.
We were told they were conspiring against the realm.’

He sank back, shadows darkening
the amber ovoid and his eyes.

‘But then ...Complaining about
food rations, during a residents’ meeting—that became a crime. One that carries
a five-SY sentence. We’ve shipped out hundreds, thousands, of prisoners for
such “treasonous” activities.’

A pause, then:

And who knows whether any of them
will ever be sent back?’

This time it was Tom who halted
the re-play.

‘Stress analysis?’

‘Seems genuine.’ Tyentro waved
open a secondary holo-volume: phase spaces gently rippling, colour-coded sheets
of lights a gentle green, within normal parameters. ‘But I wasn’t using
sophisticated equipment.’

‘Takes some training, all the
same, to lie without detection.’

‘I’ve been fooled before.’

Tom looked at him, then nodded.

‘It’s a memetic virus. People
informing on their neighbours, on their friends. Even family:

‘So we take them from their homes
in the middle of the night, hold them for a while, ship them out. Some of
them..
.
Their
sentences should be up soon, and then we’ll see.’

Tyentro: ‘See what?’

‘Whether they come back.’

Pause.

‘There are more stressors here.’
Tyentro pointed. ‘I think he’s seen people he knows—maybe even friends—being
loaded onto deportation trains.’

‘Fate.’

Tyentro glanced up. ‘You sound
sympathetic’

‘That only goes so far.’

‘When you take them from their
homes... there’s no fuss, you see. No disturbance. It’s in their eyes:
terrified, but convinced it’s a mistake. The world has tipped upside down but
they’re sure that someone in authority will see it’s a cruel misunderstanding,
and set everything to rights.’

Another pause.

‘It’s why,’ Velsivith added, ‘they
never fight.’

‘Never?’ Tyentro.

‘Not... until the torture cells.’
Blinking. ‘Sometimes then, too late.’

Stress indicators flared orange,
then scarlet.

‘Are there visitors?’ asked
Tyentro.

‘Family members.’ Looking up,
towards the out-of-view Tyentro: ‘They’ll do anything for news, never mind the
hope of leniency.’

‘And?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Velsivith’s face
looked raw. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Are they ever successful? The
family members.’

Turning away: ‘It’s always too
late for that. For any of them.’

Halting the display once more,
Tyentro said: ‘Visiting family don’t always reappear either. Pleading on a
prisoner’s behalf can be construed as treason, if the interviewing officer
decides.’

Tom let out a breath.

‘Where are the camps? Do we know
anything about them?’

‘Far away.’ Tyentro shook his
head. ‘A thousand klicks or more. If anyone’s infiltrated them, it’s not our
network.’

They
played it a second time through, in silence.

‘The problem’—Tyentro shut down
the holo, concealed the crystal in his surcoat’s flash-pocket: ready to wipe
the crystal at a tapped command—‘is that Velsivith is a pro.’

Even the questions which Tyentro
asked could be used to gauge his knowledge.

‘We’ll work him gently,’ said
Tom. ‘And slowly.’

‘Sir? I don’t want to expose your
cover, but a safe-chamber, with you sitting in darkness, perhaps—’

‘Velsivith and I have a personal
history.’

A pause. ‘I see.’

‘Slowly, then?’

‘Agreed.’

There
were parts of the following tendays which were pleasant, almost intoxicating:
strolling through the market chamber in the early morning, buying fruit from
the Belkranitsan mother and daughter who ran a modest stall, strolling past the
canal when the canoeists were at practice, getting deep into the language so he
could eavesdrop on serving girls’ gossip, bright with the promise of youth when
love’s promise was everything, even now, under the occupation. In the evenings,
there might be picnics by the fresh-smelling canal, where the families’
laughter was softened, yet made more piquant, by the gentle wavelets which
trapped the ceiling’s light, rippling with blue and golden reflections, lapping
gently at the clean stone banks.

Or perhaps it was the constant
awareness that informants and the Blight’s Tunnel Guard militia were
everywhere, and that life’s quotidian pleasures could be snatched away
instantly and without warning by the human representatives of a vast
distributed power which cared nothing for individuals, which saw no pleasure or
purpose in the smiles of a teenage couple walking hand in hand through a world
of bright awakening, or in the simple warmth of a communal meal spiced by
light-hearted gossip.