Shades of Grey (19 page)

“Not
quite
right,” he replied, counting off my potential choices on his fingers. “Simone Russo is the low-percepting product of the head plumber and a Grey—
quite
unsuitable. Rose Madder is on a promise, and Lisa as good as. Tabitha is on a half promise to Lloyd Bluto. Lisa Scarlet is a bit low on the social scale, what with her father being sent off to Reboot. Cassie is hideously weird, and Jennifer declared herself last week with a Grey named Chloe.”

“Ah.”

“So that leaves my sister Fran and Daisy Crimson.”

“Choice of two? Generous of you, Tommo.”

“Not so fast. Since I’ll thump you painfully between the eyes if you even
think
about placing any part of your grubby person on my dear Francesca, whom I’ve sworn to protect from all life’s unpleasantness, I’m afraid that leaves only Daisy Crimson. I hope you’re very happy together.”

“You’ve got this all worked out, haven’t you?”

“I think of little else.”

While we had been talking, every last vestige of natural light had vanished. The sky was like ebony, and the only illumination was the harsh white light of the central streetlamp, which cast shadows so hard it seemed you might cut yourself on them. Just as I was telling Tommo what complete rubbish his fantasy marriage league was, a figure dressed in an overcoat and carrying a valise walked out of a nearby house. I didn’t realize the figure was Travis Canary until he was quite close.

“Hullo!” he said when he saw me. “How are you settling in?”

“Pretty well,” I replied. “Have you met Tommo?”

They shook hands, and Tommo looked at the Yellow suspiciously.

“You’re not wearing your spot,” he said.

“I’m not going to need one where I’m going.”

I thought he meant Reboot, but he didn’t. Before we could say anything more, he tipped his hat and walked into the night. In a few seconds the darkness had swallowed him up, and he was gone.

Tommo and I could hardly believe what we had just witnessed, and stared at each other in astonishment. I looked around, but though the square still had a dozen or so people out for a nighttime perambulation, no one else had noticed.

I walked across to press the Nightloss alarm, but Tommo stopped me.

“Wait, wait, Eddie. He’s a
Yellow
—one less is no big deal. Besides, he’s up for Reboot, and more important, it’s nothing to do with us.”

“You
never
leave anyone out at night,” I retorted pompously, “not even a Yellow.”

I pressed the Nightloss alarm, and the klaxon sounded three shrill blasts.

The square was suddenly deathly quiet, and within a few seconds, empty. When there was a shout on, most people found something else to do and somewhere else to be. Nightloss was a sorry, tragic affair, and trying to rescue someone could have doubly tragic consequences. The custom was to not get involved—or at least, not until the morning, when the search took place. We walked to the limit of the falloff and peered into the darkness, which swirled like an angry black fog. We were right on the edge of the village. Beyond the houses to our left and right was only the lumpy grassland.

“Who’s out there?” came a voice.

It was Prefect Sally Gamboge, and she looked as though I had interrupted her dinner. I explained that it was Travis Canary who had just walked out, and she looked at me with an expression of supreme indifference. “Reboot or Nightloss,” she said, “it’s all the same to us. Isn’t that right, Tommo?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But he’s
Yellow,
” I persisted.

“In color, but not in spirit,” she replied. “His selflessness just saved us a train fare out of here, so in that respect we should be grateful.”

“So you’re not going to do anything?”

She looked at me, and her eyes flashed dangerously. “No.”

And without giving me another look, she walked back toward her house.

I stood there, staring into the darkness. He had been Rebooted only for his attempt to
improve
things, and despite Travis’ flawed hue, he had offered a friendship, and I had accepted it.

I opened the cabinet below the Nightloss button. The reel of string and the belt clips were there, but the emergency Daylighter magnesium flare was missing. I looked into the darkness and tried to visualize where Travis might be. Although I couldn’t see anything, the road in front of me led past the flak tower, through the empty grassland, past the bridge and, beyond that, to the linoleum factory.

And then I heard him. A series of short cries as the night terrors began to take hold. No one was immune, not even the wisest prefect or sagest Colorman. We all knew what it was like—even indoors the absence of light has an effect upon the senses that brought forth a multitude of terrifying apparitions. But only if you panicked, and let the terror get a hold. Once you were in the grip of a night terror, it would take nerves of steel to get you out.

Without thinking, I slipped off my shoes and socks and felt the warmth of the Perpetulite on my feet. If I didn’t stray from the roadway, I would have nothing to fear.

“What are you doing?” asked Tommo, as surprised as I was by my actions.

“He sounds like he’s at the Faraday cage,” I replied, attaching the clip to my belt, looping the string around it and handing him the reel. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“Without a flare? Wait—”

But I ignored him and stepped forward into the wall of darkness. Although I was initially without panic, after thirty paces or so the enormity of what I was doing caught up with me, and I suddenly felt my chest tighten and my mouth go dry as the swirling darkness started to heap into shapes. I could tell the onset of a night terror, and from long practice simply closed my eyes and breathed deeply until the panic subsided. It didn’t help that Travis gave out the occasional cry. Annoyingly, though, he hadn’t stopped walking, and his cries were becoming fainter by the minute. After I had walked fifty yards or so and kept to the road by the feeling of the smoother and colder central white line beneath my feet, I heard the Nightloss siren sound again, which was unusual in the extreme—some other fool must have gotten himself lost on the other side of the village.

I walked on for another ten paces, but slower this time, as I was beginning to feel disoriented, and the excited chatter of fresh observers reached my ears, doubtless drawn from their houses by the news of a double Nightloss. It was only when the string went tight, stopping me from going farther, that I realized that the second Nightloss alarm had been for
me
.

“Eddie!”

It was my father, far behind me. I shouted back that all was well, but my voice, which I had intended to be deep and full of confidence, came out sounding weedy and fearful. He told me to turn around and they’d reel me in. I did actually turn, and far away, wrapped in a dark tunnel, was a small village entirely adrift in the night. It didn’t stay in one place, either, but seemed to move around as my unpracticed eyes darted back and forth, trying to make sense of the unusual surroundings. For a moment I thought I would do as he asked, but I’d be an even bigger fool if I didn’t actually accomplish anything, so I once again told my father that I was fine and asked for more string.

I moved on, despite his admonishments, and all of a sudden something hard struck me on the shin. I fell forward, collapsing onto a painfully angular object, and felt a sharp blow to my face, followed by a salty taste of blood in my mouth.

If there was a time for panic, then this was assuredly it. The swirling darkness suddenly seemed to gain shape and bear down upon me. I felt a cold hand grasp my heart and a sweat prickle my back. I bit my hand to stop myself from screaming, then sat down on the roadway, stared into the inky darkness and took deep breaths. All around me the night seemed to fall ever tighter and closer, in an embrace that made me feel as though I were being smothered; as if the darkness would close over me like a millpond, and I would gratefully pass into unconsciousness and death.

But it didn’t happen that way. I fought back the panic, discovered that the object I had fallen on was nothing more nor less than a wheelbarrow and allowed myself to be ignominiously reeled back into the village by none other than the head prefect himself. The feeling of a safe return was short-lived, as the flagrant irresponsibility of my actions were made abundantly clear to me. DeMauve explained in strident terms that I had just recklessly gambled the twenty years of investment that the Collective had placed on my person.

“If you want to attempt such foolhardy stunts,” he said, “you should conduct them in your retirement when your Civil Obligation is at an end.”

In short, I was subjected to an ear bashing of momentous proportions. But it was without demerit as I had done nothing against the Rules.

By way of consolation, my excursion had convinced the prefects that an effort should be made to look for Travis, “fallen Yellow or not,” and Mr. Fandango was dispatched to fetch some Daylighters. Mrs. Gamboge, doubly furious not only that I had disobeyed her but that my actions had required her to do the right thing, insisted that she and Courtland look for Travis. When it was pointed out that this placed not only the Yellow prefect but also her successor in unnecessary danger, Mrs. Gamboge laughed it off and indicated that they would go as far as the boundary and no farther.

The Daylighters were soon produced, and after Gamboge senior and junior had donned walking boots, they pulled the firing cord of the first magnesium flare. The lamp fizzed for a moment before bursting into a flaming white light that pulsed and crackled as it burned, and it gave off an acrid white smoke that made us cough.

They wasted no time, and both hurried off into the night. We watched them beneath their umbrella of flickering light until they were lost from view in a dip.

“Three months’ flare allocation gone in a single evening,” grumbled Fandango, and the small crowd slowly dispersed.

Dad just shook his head sadly and told me I’d better go to my room and “consider my position,” which in Dad-speak meant that he was sorely hacked off, but that it would all be forgotten by the morning.

I went upstairs to my room and sat cross-legged on my bed. My muscles were still twitching from the night panic, but I didn’t feel half as bad as I thought I would. I could hear the Apocryphal man moving about upstairs, and the lighter footfalls of a second person, who moved slower. Despite Travis, I still had important matters to attend to, so after pushing the night’s events to the back of my mind, I took out my notebook, adjusted the angle-poise mirror to maximize the light that streamed across the landing and in my open door, thought for a moment and composed my telegram to Constance.

I decided for strategic reasons
not
to tell Constance of my early Ishihara. In fact, I thought I might surprise her with it on my return, and force her into a decision under Roger Maroon’s upswept nose. I was rereading the missive for the fourth time and wondering whether actually
receiving
the poem would make up for its lamentable lack of quality when I heard the Gamboges’ return. I moved to the spare room and looked out into the town square, where a small group were welcoming the Gamboges back with hot cups of cocoa and blankets. They were quite alone; Travis was now officially Nightloss.

Only twenty minutes later, the first bell sounded, and exactly ten minutes after that the light abruptly went out, and the world was plunged into an inky blackness without depth, shape or form. Across the gulf of hollow emptiness I could hear the sounds of settling that a village makes when bedding down. The odd cry as someone was caught out and stubbed a toe on a bed leg, the bark of a dog and the wail of a child who’d not yet come to terms with nightfear.

 

Within a few seconds of lights-out, the first sound of the evening’s Radtalk began. It was quiet, as from a distant originator somewhere at the other end of the village, and I strained to hear the metallic Morse code strikes on the radiator. It wasn’t anything particularly inappropriate, just sounded like banal gossip among juniors—who fancied who, that sort of thing. They used call signs, as the centralized heating system was an open circuit, so I didn’t know who was being talked about, and wouldn’t have known them if I had. After a few minutes of this another stream started off, but this one used a wooden striker for separation. This Morse code was faster and harder to keep up with, but it turned out to be chapter eight of a serialized book titled
Renfrew of the Mounties
—likely as not, on the Leapback list. Tommo had hinted that Mrs. Lapis Lazuli might attempt something at story time, so I had to assume that this was she. And indeed, my Morse would have to be up to scratch, for the code was tapped out at a phenomenal rate.

I listened for a bit, until a
third
stream started up, this one below the other two, slower and more considered. It was also tapped out with a lead bar, again for easier separation of the streams. This one was directed to me, and after I had found a piece of metal and wrapped it in a pair of underpants to tap out an acknowledgment, I was asked by someone named “Fifi23” about news from the outside. I signed myself in as “Nik” and tapped out the broadest possible news that I had from the Green sectors. As soon as I strayed onto anything remotely sensitive, the duty radiator monitor would jam my stream with a series of fast random strikes that drowned out all the channels. The jam soon stopped, however, and I resumed, this time watching what I said more carefully. I tapped away for half an hour until my wrist grew tired, and after receiving thanks from “Fifi23” and quite a few others, I listened to Mrs. Lapis Lazuli’s serialization, which was enjoyable, despite making little sense—many of the words and idioms were obsolete, and it took me a while to figure out that a “Mountie” was some sort of Red Rule enforcer, but on horseback.