Amatka

FIRSTDAY

Vanja presented herself at the commune office at eight o’clock on Firstday morning. She was greeted by the gangly man in the reception, who introduced himself as Heddus’ Anders. He gave her a rundown of her tasks. He didn’t seem especially delighted with her presence. “You got this job because it was the most highly prioritized position you’re qualified for.” Anders pursed his lips. “And we have to follow the priority order.”

Vanja’s new job consisted of sorting and filing processed applications, reports, and certificates. Every change in a citizen’s life entailed paperwork: birth, relocation to the children’s house, relocation to a household, education, procreation, work, retirement, death. All work-related events had to be documented as well, of course: employment, resignation, production, results, accidents. The never-ending stream of paper was ferried back and forth by the couriers out of the distribution hub next door. Being a courier was an envied position, reserved for disciplined youngsters in peak physical shape, model specimens of humanity who usually went on to occupy coveted positions at the commune office and on the committee.

Most forms originated in the clinic, the children’s houses, the mushroom chambers, and departments inside the commune office. At the administration office, these were sorted, counted, and indexed, and the information they contained incorporated into the colony’s statistics. Very important papers, such as birth certificates, were copied onto good paper.

At midday, Anders showed Vanja to the commune office’s canteen, where stewed parsnip and some sort of agaric was on the menu. Anders sat down at a table together with a woman and two men from somewhere else in the office building. Vanja sat down next to him, was introduced to the others and then promptly ignored. It was a relief to be able to eat without having to make small talk. The others were busy discussing the imminent committee election: Who were the candidates? Who made a fool of themselves trying to get elected? Who looked like a promising choice? It eventually emerged that Anders was planning to run. Vanja wondered to herself what the others would say about him when they were out of earshot—that he was a suitable candidate, or that he was a moron.

In the afternoon, Anders put the box of forms she had gone through that morning in Vanja’s hands and led her to the back of the office, where he opened a gray door. Vanja followed him down a set of stairs and into a long room lined with filing cabinets. The only break in the long rows was another door, marked only with the sign DOOR. Documents concerning citizens were stored in the cabinets to the left, documents relating to the colony’s administration to the right. Vanja’s task was to sort citizens’ forms into the correct personal files.

“What’s in there?” Vanja nodded at the other door.

“The secure archive,” Anders replied curtly.

“What’s that?”

“That’s none of our concern.” He pulled out a drawer in one of the general filing cabinets. It was nearly three feet deep.

Vanja pressed her lips together and began sorting forms into files. The personal files were all identical: a birth certificate, a graduation certificate, and so on and so forth. The supply of good paper was finite, however. Upon a citizen’s death, their whole file was removed and pulped or scraped clean, and their name added to the list of the dead. All that remained of a citizen was a name, birth and death dates, profession, and cause of death. There was one death certificate among today’s papers. Vanja removed the corresponding file—Anmirs’ Anna Three—then opened the drawer that contained the records of the dead. It was divided into alphabetical slots, each with a list of names. Out of curiosity, she peeked behind the B label. Almost at the top of the most recent list sat the name: Berols’ Anna Two, farming technician and poet. Cause of death: accident. She had been forty-three. Her date of death corresponded to the date of the fire at the recreation center.

When Vanja was done sorting the forms, Anders handed her a new stack; this time it was temporary documents that needed copying onto fresh mycopaper while they waited to be processed. This pile was thicker than the one that had arrived in the morning and kept Vanja busy for the rest of the afternoon, with only one short coffee break. At four o’clock, Vanja started home with fingers made white and dry from handling all that paper. That night, she had a completely normal dream: she sorted forms.

SECONDAY

At the midday meal on Seconday, the canteen was buzzing with conversation. Vanja sat down next to Anders and the colleagues who had ignored her the day before. “…five of them,” one of the men said, the thin one who was so tall he had to hunch down over the table. He turned to Anders. “I’m sure you know more! The reports must have come in by now.”

Anders shook his head. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Accident in the mushroom farm,” said the woman. Her eyes showed a little too much white. “They say one of the tunnels collapsed.”

“Well.” Anders stuck his fork in a fried mushroom cap. “Nothing’s come in.”

“It will,” the woman replied. “I heard it from someone who was there. I saw her in the street just an hour ago. Her face was completely white. Your colleague looks a little peaky too, by the way.”

Anders poked Vanja’s arm. “What’s the matter with you?”

Vanja shook her head. The bite of food she’d just taken sat in a dry lump against the roof of her mouth. She forced it down. “I have a housemate down there.”

The woman snorted. “Everyone has friends down there. Get a grip.”

An older woman in neat overalls and a neck covered in mushroom farmer’s eczema waited by the front desk. She was holding a sheet of paper. Anders shooed Vanja toward the pile of forms she hadn’t managed to finish yesterday and turned to the farmer. It looked like they were comparing forms. Vanja strained to hear their conversation, but they were speaking too quietly.

When the farmer had left, Anders posted a short list of names on the wall. “Five farmers are missing,” he said. “We have to get word out to their households. I’ll go talk to the junior secretary.”

Vanja scanned the list. The second name from the top was Jonids’ Ivar Four.

Vanja and Nina sat at the kitchen table with a rapidly cooling evening meal between them. Vanja hadn’t been allowed to go home and tell Nina herself. Everything had to be done according to protocol. Anders had sent a courier to inform the households of the missing workers. Toward the end of the day, the courier had returned to the office and informed Vanja that her housemate was missing. It was almost enough to make her laugh.

When the workday was finally over, Vanja went home to find Nina at the kitchen table and Ulla pacing the room with a look of either fear or excitement on her face. Nina had finally asked Ulla to stand still or leave, and Ulla had walked out into the fading afternoon light. Vanja had made a quick stew that neither one of them had touched. Nina sat with the tip of her thumb between her teeth, slowly chewing the nail down to the quick.

It was very late when the door opened to reveal Ivar, leaning against the doorjamb. He had washed his face, but his forehead was black around the hairline, his curly hair matted with dust. He was wearing someone else’s coat. Nina rushed over to him and took him in her arms. He leaned his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes.

After a moment, Nina took a step back, bent down slightly to look him in the eye, and put a hand on his cheek. “Are you hurt? Do you feel sick?”

Ivar shook his head. “They’ve already checked me. All that’s wrong with me is a scrape on my hand.”

He let Nina steer him to a chair, slumped down on it, and stared at the wall. Nina filled a cup with water and placed it in front of him. He emptied it in one gulp and rested his head in his hands.

Nina put a hand on the back of his neck. “What happened?”

It took a while before he answered. “One of the chambers collapsed. The one with the cave polypores. The floor just fell away.”

Nina moved her hands to his shoulders. “Were you hurt?”

“No, no,” Ivar replied in a muted voice. “I already said. Could I have something to eat?”

Vanja reheated the evening meal and put a bottle of liquor on the table. Ivar shoveled food into his mouth and swallowed almost without chewing. The others waited until he pushed the empty plate away. He rested his head in his hands again.

“The floor caved in,” he muttered between his fingers. “I fell through with it. It was a long way down. I landed on my back, had the air knocked out of me. Got covered in dirt.” He rubbed at his eyes and looked up at Vanja and Nina. “Torun and Viktor were standing next to me when it happened. They just disappeared. I couldn’t hear them. The others say I’m the only one who made it out.”

Ivar poured liquor into his cup. His trembling hands made the bottle clatter against the rim. “There are tunnels. Under the mushroom farm. I don’t know how long I was down there. What time is it?”

Vanja told him. Ivar nodded. He drained the cup, then filled it back up. He stared at the bottle. The muscles of his jaw flexed under his skin. “Somehow I was still wearing my headlamp,” he said suddenly. “So I could see there was no way back up. The whole tunnel behind me was filled with debris. So I thought I’d try to find another way out. I couldn’t see very far, but it was a big place. High ceiling. The walls and the floor were made of some sort of stone that sparkled. It was smooth, smoother than concrete. Maybe the others hit their heads on the floor, maybe that’s why they haven’t come out. Or… maybe they suffocated.”

Nina stroked his arm. “Try not to think about it. I’m sure they’re all right, you were just lucky to get out first. What happened next?”

“The tunnel. It ran in both directions, I think, but one way was blocked by soil and rocks. So I went the other way. I walked for a long time, and then the tunnel split into two. One of them sloped upward, so I chose that one. And then… then there was like a gust of air from below. And noise. At first I thought it must be rescue workers, so I headed back. I called out so they could find me. I shouted, ‘It’s me, it’s Ivar.’ And then.”

Ivar had turned pale. He made several false starts before he spoke again. “And then someone answered. But something was off about it. The same words came back: ‘It’s me, it’s Ivar.’ At first I thought it was an echo, but then the words, the words changed places. ‘Ivar me it’s, me Ivar it’s, me me me.’ And then more voices joined in, until it was like a choir, shouting the same words over and over again: ‘It’s Ivar, it’s Ivar.’ It was like when children copy you, like when they do it to be mean.”

He shuddered. “I didn’t stop to see what it was. I just ran the other way. The tunnel kept branching off. I just picked whichever one, at random. But then I found a ladder, just like that. I ran straight into it and banged my shoulder. I climbed it, it was a very long ladder, but there was an opening at the top. I had to squeeze out. It was a pipe—I’d crawled out of a pipe. Then I saw Amatka’s train station in the distance, straight ahead. I had ended up all the way out there. They found me when I reached the station. And then they examined me, and tomorrow I have to go in for a hearing.” He slumped back in his chair, as if all the talking had spent the last of his remaining strength.

“A pipe,” Vanja said.

Ivar sighed through his nose and closed his eyes. “They found me at the edge of town. They said I must have gotten confused and wandered out of the farm without anyone noticing.”

“What?” Vanja said.

“If you were hallucinating, that could be indicative of brain injury,” Nina said.

Ivar raised a hand. “I wasn’t hallucinating. The tunnels are there. The pipes are there. I didn’t wander out of the farm. I came from across the tundra.”

“Could it be like at Essre?” Vanja asked. “I mean, like what I’ve heard anyway. The remains of people who lived here before us.”

Nina frowned. “We don’t know that. And I’m certain that I’ve never seen any pipes out on the tundra.”

“Like you’ve been out on the tundra a lot?” Vanja asked. “What do you know that we don’t?”

“Let’s just leave it,” Nina said. “Please.”

Ivar got to his feet. “I need some sleep.” He left his coat hanging on the back of the chair and went up to his room.

Nina remained at the table, her arms crossed. “What do you think—” Vanja began.

Nina interrupted her. “No. That’s enough.”

THIRDAY

Vanja woke up as Nina got out of bed and went downstairs. She could hear a stranger’s voice in the hallway. More footsteps, and Ivar’s voice on the landing. A short conversation. Footsteps. A door slamming shut. Then silence. When Vanja stuck her head out, the house was empty. She quickly got dressed and checked the time. She was late for work.

When Vanja arrived at the office, Anders was already stamping the forms that had been delivered that morning. He took a step back, smiled, and handed her the rest of the stack.

“You’re thirty-two minutes late,” he said. “How is your housemate?”

“He’s back,” Vanja replied. “He’s all right.”

“Great,” Anders said. “He’s upstairs.”

“Here?”

“For the interview.”

Vanja stamped the rest of the forms, all the while glancing furtively at the corridor.

About an hour later, Ivar came downstairs. He looked haggard. He greeted Vanja with a small wave. “Just fine,” he replied when Vanja asked how he was feeling.

His voice was faint, as if he didn’t really have the strength to speak. “It was an in-depth interview.”

“Are you hungry? I’ve got my midday break soon.”

Ivar shook his head. “No. I’m a bit tired.”

Vanja lowered her voice. “What did you talk about?”

Ivar looked at the floor. “They took me to a room. They asked me what happened. I told them about how I fell into a small cavity underneath the mushroom farm, fainted, and was pulled out by the rescue workers. My housemates can confirm that I was a little confused last night. That I said some things I didn’t mean.” He looked back up at Vanja. “Right?”

Chills ran down Vanja’s back. At the edge of her vision she could see that Anders had stopped leafing through the papers on his desk. “Of course,” she said. “That’s what Nina and I said to each other, that you must have had a little concussion or something.”

Ivar nodded. “I’m going to the clinic now,” he said. “I’m having another checkup.”

He left. Vanja went back to sorting forms. She did it quickly, to keep her fingers from trembling. As soon as her midday break came, she walked over to the library.

Evgen was alone at his desk. He locked the door and got out his packed lunch while Vanja told him everything: how Ivar had disappeared, wandered through the tunnels, gone in for an “interview,” and come back with a different story. Evgen ate with his eyes fixed on Vanja, his fork moving mechanically between his lunch box and his mouth.

When Vanja finally fell silent, he put the fork down and swallowed. “They’ve probably filled the hole in already.”

“But do you agree with Ivar, that the tunnels were there already?” Vanja asked.

“Let’s see what the library says,” Evgen replied.

He got up and walked over to one of the bookcases. He crouched in front of a shelf near the floor and ran his fingers along the spines, then pulled out a book: About Amatka’s Geography.

Evgen opened the book to the first page. “Layout of the colony, structures, installations. Mushroom farm.” He leafed through the book. “‘The mushroom farm is located at a depth of a hundred feet and covers an area the same size as Amatka. It was originally planned to be built in two levels; however, the bedrock below a hundred feet consists of a species of rock so hard that conventional excavation methods have failed. The advantage of this is, naturally, that Amatka rests on an extremely solid foundation.’”

He closed the book. “There you have it. In other words, either the tunnels were dug in secret—or someone else dug them.”

“What do you believe?” Vanja asked.

“I believe anything’s possible,” Evgen replied. “And I believe the committee knows.” He ran his tongue between his teeth and cheek. “So, a pipe out on the tundra. I’ve never seen that.”

Nina met her at the front door of the house. “Ivar isn’t feeling well.”

“Did something else happen?”

Vanja looked over Nina’s shoulder. Ivar sat by the kitchen table, his head bowed low. Ulla sat next to him with a hand on his shoulder.

“The hearing at the commune office, and then the same thing at the clinic. They really worked him over.” Nina crossed the room to the kitchen cabinet and took out a plate for Vanja.

“I can’t go back down there.” Ivar’s voice was weak and hollow. He muttered a muddled stream of words into his plate. “Nothing I’ve seen exists. They explained that to me. But I know. That they’re there. The tunnels. And people, that there’s people. The doctors say I had a concussion. Maybe the doctors and Nina are right. Maybe I’ve lost my mind. Because that’s the truth, isn’t it? That the tunnels don’t exist? Because I’m the only one who saw them. And the voices. I’ve had a nervous breakdown. Everyone knows I have mental problems. They said as much, my ‘mental health is fragile.’” He sniffled.

Nina sat down across from him and took one of his slender hands in hers. “Having a concussion isn’t the same as being mentally ill, Ivar.”

“I heard the doctors talking to one another. They talked about doing a procedure,” Ivar told the plate. “I know what a procedure is.”

“I know you do, dear,” Ulla said and patted his shoulder.

Vanja glanced at Nina and hesitated. She knew how Nina would react, but she squared her shoulders and said it, for Ivar. “We could go there. I mean, back to where Ivar said he climbed out. Just go there and look, so he can see that he’s not crazy….”

Nina’s lips narrowed. “That’s really not a good idea.”

“But if they’re ruins, then it’s the same as at Essre. Then they’ve always been there. Then it doesn’t matter. Let’s just take a look? For Ivar’s sake. People are going there anyway. They have to investigate.”

Nina shook her head. “Then that’s what we’ll let them do. We’re not going to run off and do something stupid. Are we, Vanja?”

Vanja avoided her eyes. “No,” she mumbled. “It was silly of me.”

“I know what a procedure is,” Ivar said loudly. “They drill into your head and stir your brains around.”

Nina tried to soothe him. “No one’s going to drill into your head, Ivar.”

“Technically,” Ulla said, “they don’t actually stir your brains around. They sever the connections to the prefrontal cortex.”

Ivar burst into tears.

Nina glared at Ulla. “Thanks for that.”

“We all know there’s a risk,” Ulla said. “Even if you won’t admit it. Even if these… ruins… have been here since before.”

“Excuse me,” Nina said, and went upstairs.

Ulla gave Vanja an amused grin. “I think we both know what’s what,” she said. “I think you should go look.”

“Do you know something?” Vanja said.

“What are tunnels for?”

“What do you mean?”

“What does one use tunnels for?”

Vanja shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Travel,” Ulla said. “One uses them to travel.”

Later, when Vanja lay with Nina’s arms around her, her breath in tickling gusts against the back of her head, it was hard to tell which was worse. That she’d lied to Nina when she’d promised her she wouldn’t go out there. Or that Nina might be right, and that by going out there, Vanja would make things worse.

FOURDAY

It was still dark outside. The office wouldn’t open for another couple of hours yet. Nina was fast asleep. Vanja stole out of bed and brought her clothes downstairs to the bathroom, where she got dressed. She didn’t bother with food.

A few workers were out in the streets, pale and drawn from a long shift at work or too little sleep at home, staring blindly at the ground or out into space with bloodshot eyes. Following Ivar’s description, Vanja walked straight west, past the station and across the railway tracks. After that, there was just the grass and the sky.

The grass rustled in the soft breeze. Vanja’s boots splashed into little puddles that dotted the steppe, invisible in the gloom. She walked on until she came to the foot of a small rise. Something stuck out of the ground on the other side. It was too dark to make it out clearly. For a brief moment it was like standing on the hillock outside Essre, and she was sure of what she’d find on the other side: the silhouettes of asymmetrical buildings, little shapes moving between them. Then she reached the top and looked down the other side.

It wasn’t just the one pipe but several, visible as dark shadows against the gray sky. Some were straight, some curved at a right angle at the top. A sudden cone of light hit one of the pipes, revealing a yellow surface with riveted joints. Its angled opening was torn, as if something had burst out of it with great force. The light moved on. Someone was walking around among the pipes. More figures joined the first, bringing more light. Vanja flattened herself against the ground. Cones of light swept across green protective suits. The shortest pipe ended at head height; some of the others were twice as tall. All of them looked easily wide enough to crawl into. The people in overalls didn’t make any attempts, though. They took measurements, made notes, and talked among themselves. One of them opened up a canister and started to paint letters on the pipes. Two others began picking their way up the slope. Vanja crawled backward until she reached flat ground, then ran north at a crouch. If those people were going anywhere, it was probably back to Amatka. She looked back to see the beam of a flashlight sweeping across the rise. She lay down on her stomach again and waited. She hadn’t run like that for a long time; it was hard to breathe without making noise. She pressed her mouth into the grass. The scent of wet vegetation and cold filled her nostrils. More silhouettes carrying flashlights arrived at the top of the rise. They were walking very slowly. One of the beams swung her way and then back again. The sky was growing lighter; they would be able spot her any moment now. She rose into a crouch and ran farther north.

If she hadn’t banged her shin on its edge, she would have run right past the low pipe in the semidarkness. She toppled over and for a moment could do nothing but hold her leg and whimper. When the pain had subsided somewhat, she sat up and peered down. The opening was perhaps three feet across. On the inside, right below the edge, she could glimpse the rungs of a ladder. She leaned closer to the opening to listen. At first, there was only the pounding of her pulse in her ears, the wind rushing across the edge of the opening, the echo of her breathing. Then, something like distant music, a snatch of notes forever repeating. She listened for a long moment but couldn’t decide if it really was music or her own head trying to create order from chaos.

It occurred to her that more rungs in the pipe had become visible. She looked up at the gray expanse of the sky, which was ever so slowly growing brighter. In the old world, the sky had been full of light. Lars had said so: that the sky was blue in the daytime and black at night, and that glowing lights traversed the sky, and one could follow their paths with one’s eyes. That it was sometimes overcast, but that was only vapor; the sky was still there behind it. That there was something beyond the clouds, something that moved. This was always followed by Vanja’s inevitable question: Is there something behind the gray of our sky?

We don’t know, Lars had said. Maybe, maybe not.

The inhabitants of Colony Five had thought there was. They missed the skies of the old world. They longed for light. They talked about it so much that something finally appeared: a sun, a white-hot sphere that broke through the sky and burned the colony to a cinder. Such is the world in which we live, Teacher Jonas said. The words need guarding. A citizen who doesn’t guard their words could destroy their commune.

Vanja arrived at the office just before eight. Today’s first batch of forms was already on the reception desk, together with a handwritten note:

She took the note and walked upstairs to the long corridor of small offices on the first floor. The first office belonged to the head secretary, a graying woman in her fifties dressed in a rumpled green shirt. She was hunched over a ledger but looked up with a benevolent smile when Vanja opened the door. “Anders is off sick,” Vanja said.

“Yes.” The secretary nodded and continued to write in the ledger, with a dry, scratching noise.

“I don’t know what Anders’s tasks are.”

The secretary firmly underlined something. “Oh. You haven’t watched him work?”

Vanja considered this. “I suppose I haven’t,” she replied. “I’ve been very busy.”

Moving with deliberate slowness, the secretary put her pen down and looked up at Vanja. There were dark circles under her eyes. She gave Vanja another smile. “Sort incoming reports, write a summary, file or dispose of reports as needed. There’s a marking schedule on the notice board. And a manual under the reception desk.”

“I see,” Vanja replied. “I’ll go do that, then.”

The secretary nodded slowly. “Very good.” She turned back to her ledger.

Vanja returned to the reception and looked for the manual. The space behind the desk was filled with carefully sorted rubber stamps, blank forms, notepads, sharpened pencils in a small cup, stackable letter trays.

She found the manual in a drawer under the desk: a small stapled bundle of good paper describing daily routines, marking order, emergency procedures, and instructions for machinery that Vanja didn’t recognize and hadn’t actually seen anywhere in the office. While she browsed through the manual, another courier arrived with more documents.

She started by separating forms from reports. The reports came in thin folders printed with titles like Patient Statistics: Clinic Department 3, or Report: Results of the New Hygiene Protocol, or Follow-Up: Special Diet Plan for Mushroom Farmers with Dermatological Issues. The receptionist’s task was to record the total number of reports into a log along with titles, a summary of the contents, and date of registration; sign it; and then date the signature. After that, everything had to be filed according to a system that the manual needed three pages to describe. Vanja realized that Anders had actually been going easy on her.

One of the reports gave her pause. The title was short: Incident Report. Vanja opened the folder. The account of the collapse in the mushroom farm took up only a single page. They called it a solidity incident. Information was scant: the floor had collapsed and exposed a hitherto unknown cavity. Said cavity was now sealed. Three workers had perished. That was all, except for a short sentence at the bottom of the page: further information restricted, committee-level clearance.

In other words, no reports of what she had seen on the tundra, or what Ivar had seen under the mushroom farm, would cross her desk.

Vanja quickly put the report aside when the courier returned with a fresh stack of papers, this time from a children’s house. She would have to speed up if she were to have any hope of finishing today.

It was only when she had sorted, stamped, and entered everything into the books and worked through almost the whole midday break that Vanja realized she couldn’t find the keys to the archive. She went back upstairs to the secretary, who pulled out a drawer and removed a small key from a key ring.

“I’m making a note of your loan of this archive key,” the secretary said. “The time is thirteen twenty-two. You will return the key thirty minutes from now, at the latest.” She put the key in Vanja’s hand.

“What if I need more time?”

The secretary smiled and shook her head. “I’m sure you won’t.”

According to the wall clock above the door, Vanja had seven minutes left of her allotted archive time. She had filed everything except the incident report, which according to the manual belonged in the Incidents section of the drawer labeled MUSHROOM FARM. The section was empty. She slipped the folder in behind the divider and skimmed the other sections. They bore labels like PLANNING, ACTIVITY, STAFF, CONSTRUCTION. Behind the CONSTRUCTION divider lay a fat folder from which a corner of a yellowed sheet of good paper stuck out. Six minutes left. Vanja pulled the folder out and carefully leafed through the documents. This was an old file, the paper yellow and brittle. The contents were sorted in chronological order—blueprints, diagrams, and calculations, none of which Vanja could decipher but which probably referred to the construction of the chambers. A report from the committee meeting that approved the construction plan made things a little clearer. It was dated the sixday of the third month, year fifteen, written by Oltas’ Raisa One. It began with a long enumeration of the agenda: opening the meeting; nominating and approving the president, secretary, members responsible for checking the report; establishing the meeting’s validity; and approving the agenda. Finally, at Item 8, a clue.

Member Harjas’ Gustaf Three presented the results of the preliminary investigation into the possibilities of a mushroom farm. The idea was to construct a system of farming chambers that could double as a shelter in case of a catastrophe or incident. The chambers would be separated by heavy doors, allowing for isolation of any one area if needed. However, the construction plan had to be revised:

Architecture? The term didn’t make sense here.

Had Ellars’ Karin wanted to talk the tunnels into existence? But they had decided not to. And yet, Ivar had fallen through the floor and found something underneath. Someone else had made the tunnels, that much was clear.

The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs made her stuff the files back into the drawer as quickly as she could. Just as the drawer slid shut, the secretary appeared in the doorway. She was much taller than she had looked sitting down; she almost had to hunch to fit through the door.

Vanja held out the key. “I just finished.”

The secretary gave Vanja a gentle smile that somehow made her feel as though she’d been caught red-handed.

She went over to the library after work. Evgen was alone at his desk. He waved at her when she entered.

Vanja sat down at the table in the middle of the room. “Don’t you ever have any other visitors?”

Evgen joined her at the table, sitting down where he could keep an eye on the door. “Two or three a day, maybe. Fewer all the time.”

“I went outside this morning. I saw the pipes with my own eyes.”

Evgen listened wide-eyed as Vanja retold the events of the previous night. “Listen,” Vanja said, leaning closer. “One of them is a little out of the way. You can’t see it until you’re right on top of it. I don’t think anyone’s spotted it yet. We could go there.”

“And have a proper look?”

Vanja nodded.

“Didn’t Ivar say there was something down there, that he was scared of something?” Evgen said.

“He did. But I want to know. And so do you.”

Evgen drummed his fingers on the table. “That’s true.” He slammed his palm down with a bang. “Let’s do it.”

The door to the library opened. Two older women in baggy overalls with blackened knees came inside; farmers, probably, from the plant houses.

Evgen stood up. “Come back tomorrow, and we’ll see if the book has been returned.”

“Thank you very much.” Vanja turned around, almost collided with one of the farmers, mumbled an apology, and left.

The rhythmic noise came from the wall to Ivar’s room. Next to her, Nina sat up in bed. It was still dark. Vanja felt dazed; her eyes ached. She couldn’t have been asleep for more than a couple of hours.

“What is he doing?” Nina whispered.

In one fluid movement, Nina slid out of bed, stood up, and opened the door to their room. Vanja followed a little more slowly.

Nina crouched next to the bed with her hands on Ivar’s knees. Ivar himself was naked among the sheets, leaning against the wall. He was painfully thin. “Get a blanket from our bed, Vanja,” Nina said without turning.

When Vanja came back with the blanket, Nina had sat down next to Ivar. Vanja helped her wrap the blanket around him.

Nina cradled the back of Ivar’s head in her hand. “He was banging his head against the wall.”

“I’m sorry,” Ivar said. “I didn’t realize. That I was making noise.”

“Should we take you to the clinic, Ivar?”

Ivar shook his head, as much as he could with Nina’s hand holding it. “No. No, no need. I just need some rest. Maybe something to help me sleep.”

“Are you sure?” Nina bent forward, forcing him to look her in the eye. “Are you absolutely sure? Look, I know you don’t want to be a burden. But you’re allowed to be a burden right now, Ivar. I need you to be. If things are this bad, we need to get you some help.”

“It’s all right. I promise. It’s just a bit of anxiety. It’s nothing I haven’t been through before. It’s not like I was trying to hurt myself or anything. It was just like”—Ivar waved his hand forlornly—“like swinging your legs from a chair, you know.” He pulled the corners of his mouth up in an attempt to smile.

Nina sighed. “I’ll get something to help you sleep. And then I’ll sit with you. If you won’t let me do that, I’ll fetch someone from the clinic. Understood?”

Ivar nodded.

Nina walked past Vanja where she stood in the doorway. “I’m getting him a pill.”

Vanja sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at Ivar out of the corner of her eye. When Nina’s steps had receded sufficiently, she leaned closer. “Would it help if you knew that what you saw was real?”

“They say it wasn’t real. But it felt real. But then again, I’m not well, you know.” He leaned his head against the wall.

“I believe you,” Vanja said.

Ivar slowly rolled his head from side to side.

Vanja got up when Nina came back with something in her hand. “Here. It’ll calm you down.”

Ivar swallowed the pill and lay down. “I don’t want to go to the clinic,” he mumbled. “They’ll drill a hole in my head.”

“No, they won’t.”

Nina tucked the blanket around him. She gently stroked his forehead with her thumb, over and over again, until he closed his eyes.

Vanja took a deep breath. “I’ve seen it.”

Ivar opened his eyes again. Nina’s head slowly turned to look at her. “I’ve seen it,” Vanja repeated. “The pipe that Ivar climbed out of. It’s really there.”

“Before or after?” Nina said quietly.

“What?”

“Before or after. Did you see it before or after Ivar came out of it?”

“I… after.”

Nina stared at her without speaking.

“Is it my fault?” Ivar’s voice was thin. “Did I do it?”

“Shh. You did nothing.” Nina went back to stroking his forehead.

“You don’t know that,” he muttered.

“Yes I do. Now be quiet. Breathe in. And out.”

Nina turned her back to Vanja and bent over Ivar. The two of them formed a little unit of their own. Vanja left the room. She crawled into her own bed, hovering between sleep and wakefulness until it was once again time to go to work.

FIFDAY

According to the requisition copy Vanja received for filing purposes, the turn to donate good paper had come to the clinic’s psychiatric ward. They were to copy all their medical journals onto mycopaper and send the good paper originals to the commune office. Children’s House One and Two had been given the same task, along with Retirement Home Three and Four. The purpose of the requisition was given as “establishment material,” whatever that was. Vanja sorted the requisition copies into the Resource Management section of the Economy drawer in the Administration row of cabinets.

The gently implacable secretary gave her no opportunity to search the archive today, either. Vanja barely had time to sort everything into the right drawer and section before the secretary stood in the doorway again.

“This is very stressful,” Vanja ventured. “I need more time.”

The secretary chortled. “It doesn’t look that way from where I’m standing. You’re doing just fine.”

This time, her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

There were three other visitors at the library. Vanja loitered by the biographies, but the others were taking their time. They were involved in a lively conversation about the nuances of Berols’ Anna’s plant-house poetry and kept dragging Evgen into it. His clipped replies only seemed to fuel the discussion. Evgen made eye contact with Vanja but didn’t seem able to contrive an escape.

Finally, Vanja walked over to the desk. “I was wondering if you could help me find something in the letter collection.”

“Certainly!” Evgen got up and elbowed past a visitor who was just about to ask another question.

“Tonight,” Vanja whispered when they had made it in among the boxes.

Evgen pulled out a box, opened it, and showed Vanja the contents. “Where?”

Vanja rummaged through the letters. “Plant House Eight. Northwest. At one o’clock.” She closed the box.

“I’m sorry I didn’t have that particular letter,” Evgen said loudly. “They might have something at the commune office.”

“Thanks anyway.” Vanja put her hat back on and left Evgen to deal with the poetry connoisseurs.

Slow shadows moved across the plant-house wall. The night growers were among the very few workers who were up at night, but it was bright enough in the plant houses that they couldn’t see outside.

They arrived at the same time. Evgen handed Vanja a flashlight. She grabbed him by the coat sleeve and guided him out on the tundra. The plant-house glow gave them a little light to navigate by. Vanja traced a wide arc around the hollow where the pipes grew and where there might be people, but near enough that she wouldn’t miss the spot where that one lone opening was located.

They walked for a long time. Evgen stumbled several times on the uneven ground before adopting a knee-high gait, carefully walking heel to toe. Lights winked in the direction of the hollow to the southwest. Ahead, the darkness was almost absolute. Now and then, Vanja briefly turned her flashlight on, scanning the ground for the opening. Each time, she looked over her shoulder, half expecting the lights from the people in the hollow to home in on them. Nothing happened. When the glow from the plant houses had nearly faded, and they had walked so far across the hard ground that Vanja began to doubt that she’d ever find the right spot, the beam of her flashlight revealed an angular shape. Evgen gasped. He walked a slow circle around the pipe, shining his light down the shaft.

“Are you sure this wasn’t here before?” Vanja asked.

“Am I sure?” Evgen crouched and tapped the metal. “I’ve never been out this far in this direction.” He looked at her over the rims of his glasses. “Are you with me?”

“Are you?”

“I’m with you. But I’m nearly shitting myself.” He let out a thin laugh.

“Me, too.” Vanja’s own laugh came out as a shrill giggle.

Evgen climbed in first. Vanja stuck the flashlight between her teeth and followed him. The rungs looked dull in the light from their torches, and they were rugged to the touch; it was easy to find purchase. The sound of their feet against the ladder was almost deafening inside the shaft. Vanja had counted one hundred and fifty rungs when Evgen finally said, “Found the bottom.”

Vanja carefully put one foot on the ground and turned around, catching the beam from Evgen’s flashlight straight in the eyes. “Ow.”

“Sorry.” Evgen pointed it away from her. “Which direction do you think Ivar came from?”

They were standing in a vaulted tunnel with smooth walls, just big enough that they could stand upright side by side. Both directions were pitch-black.

Vanja wiped her chin with her sleeve. She had drooled around the flashlight. “Amatka is that way. He must have come from there, right?” She pointed to where the colony should be and started walking.

The tunnel smelled of cold earth and stale air. The walls absorbed the beams of their flashlights and the sound of their footsteps. After what felt like a long time, something in the distance reflected the light: a plain door with a handle. Vanja grasped the handle and cautiously pushed it down. The door opened inward with a low creak. On the other side the darkness was virtually solid. Behind her, Evgen’s breathing was rapid and shallow. Vanja realized she’d been holding her breath. “Can you see anything?” Evgen whispered.

Vanja shone her flashlight into the murk. A broad staircase led downward, rough-hewn steps covered in a layer of dust. Vanja descended, keeping her beam of light fixed on the steps.

Behind her, Evgen shone his flashlight upward. “I can’t see the ceiling.”

He was right, the ceiling was out of sight. It either absorbed the light completely or was beyond the reach of their feeble beams. The echo of their footfalls was faint and scattered. The air gradually became warmer.

Vanja halted. She should have noticed earlier. “There are no footprints.”

Evgen stopped next to her. “There are no footprints on the stairs,” she repeated. “Ivar said he climbed a staircase. But there’s no trace of him here.”

“Maybe he came from the other direction. Maybe we should have walked the other way when we came down the ladder.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. It leads away from Amatka.”

“If you got the direction right, sure. And if the tunnel is completely straight.”

Vanja clenched her teeth. “Just a little farther. We can always turn back.”

The staircase ended in another door. When Vanja pushed the handle down, it opened outward with a groan. Judging from the echo, they were now standing in a very large space. Something was dripping in the darkness.

Vanja shone her flashlight on the floor. “How far did we walk, d’you think?”

“We could very well be underneath Amatka now,” Evgen replied. “We would be under the mushroom farms, in that case. It smells… it smells like metal in here.”

He made a small sound of surprise. The room grew darker. “Turn off your flashlight, Vanja.”

“Why?”

“I want to try something. Turn off your flashlight.”

Darkness rushed in. Vanja fumbled for Evgen, got hold of a corner of his coat, and hung on to it. A tug at her anorak told her he’d done the same. Then she realized that the darkness wasn’t complete. A greenish glow emanated from the walls, brightening as they watched. Silhouettes emerged.

Beside her, Evgen let out a laugh. “Gleam lichen. I thought I saw something.”

They were standing in a large chamber. In the middle of the floor sat a huge contraption, partly covered in the luminescent lichen. It looked at once both mechanical and organic, its details distinct from one another but with rounded edges and surfaces that seemed to have pores. Vanja could make out what looked like pistons, plungers, vents, an enormous cylinder. High above their heads, sheathed in the soft light, rose the arch of a spoked wheel whose highest point seemed to have merged with the ceiling.

“It’s a machine.” Saying it sent a chill down Vanja’s spine.

Vanja and Evgen walked a full lap around it. Liquid bled from the ceiling and dripped onto it, settling in hard patches that choked the organism growing on the surface.

“Once when I was a boy, we went to Essre,” Evgen said. “We visited the Pioneer Museum. They had a steam-powered machine there, a small one. Someone had brought it from the old world. It looked a bit like this.” Evgen gestured at the wheel looming above them. “The wheel went round and round. Have you seen it?”

Vanja nodded. “Once. Then they removed it.”

“Did Ivar say anything about a machine?”

“No,” Vanja said. “I wonder if we went the wrong way. Or if it wasn’t here before.”

Evgen shone his flashlight at the walls. “I wonder if there are more exits.”

Vanja took a mitten off and ran her hand over the machine’s hull. It gave off a slight vibration at her touch. “That little machine in Essre was supposed to power other machines. I wonder what this one is for.”

“I don’t like this place,” Evgen said. “We should get out of here.”

There was a circular plaque on the cylinder’s hull. It reminded Vanja of a clock, but the symbols inscribed on the face looked unfamiliar. She tried to make out the symbols, but they kept drifting out of focus; she could almost read them, but not quite. If she could just concentrate for a moment.

“Vanja!” Evgen said it loudly, right behind her. She realized he’d called her name several times. “Can’t you hear me?” His voice was thin. “I can’t find the door.”

Vanja straightened reluctantly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I can’t find the door.”

His face appeared next to hers, eyes wide between the hat and his dewy beard. Vanja took her hand off the machine and turned on her flashlight. She aimed it at the wall but couldn’t see anything at this distance. She glanced at Evgen, who looked back at her. They slowly walked over to the spot where the door should be. The wall was unbroken and black.

“Let’s follow the wall,” Vanja said. “We just missed it.”

They followed the gentle curve of the wall. After a while, Vanja spotted tracks in the dust in front of them: two pairs of footprints, starting at the wall and leading to the center of the room. Another set of footprints returned from the center. No door. She stopped short. Next to her, Evgen grabbed her hand and squeezed it so hard it hurt. The pain cleared her head.

Vanja took a deep breath. “The door is here somewhere. We’re just a little scared and confused.” She squeezed Evgen’s hand back. “Aren’t we, Evgen?”

“Yes.” Evgen’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

Vanja spoke more loudly. “The door is exactly where we last saw it. The door is still there.”

“The door is still there.”

“Do you remember what it looks like?” Vanja said. “It opens into the chamber, I remember that.”

“It’s gray. And has a plain handle.”

They continued around the room. The colossus in the middle of the chamber constituted a very insistent presence.

Evgen clutched Vanja’s hand even tighter. “How many hinges does the door have?”

“Two hinges,” Vanja said. “And it’s a matte gray. Not shiny.”

Further ahead, Vanja could see their footprints again, the ones leading toward the machine. And there, in the wall, where the footprints started: the door. She let out a long breath.

Evgen pushed the door open with a faint squeak. On the other side, the broad staircase rose up into the darkness. He rushed upstairs, two steps at a time. Vanja took one last look over her shoulder. It was as if the machine made a noise, a note so deep she could only feel it as a vibration in the pit of her stomach.

The steps felt much higher than when they had descended. Vanja’s thigh muscles burned every time she heaved herself upward. It was with relief she saw the door at the top of the stairs—both because she’d reached the top and because the door was still there. Evgen leaned on the door and pushed it open. They jogged down the tunnel, Evgen’s breath like tortured groans behind her.

Finally, a row of rungs broke the smooth wall. Vanja clambered up the ladder, almost slipping a few times. Cold, fresh air was blowing down the shaft. No light made it this far down, but she could hear the wind whistle across the opening. When she finally made it up, she heaved herself over the edge, fell down on the grass, and stayed there. Evgen collapsed on the ground next to her. They lay like that, staring up into the night sky, until they could breathe again. Eventually, Vanja stood up on unsteady legs. Evgen held out a hand, and she helped him up. Amatka’s lights gleamed on the horizon. They started walking.

“It opened away from us,” Vanja mumbled after a moment.

“What?” Evgen stopped.

“The door. When we came into the chamber with the machine. The door opened into the chamber.”

Evgen nodded.

“But when we found it again,” Vanja went on, “then it was turned the other way. It opened onto the stairs.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Evgen abruptly leaned over and vomited.

Nina was still fast asleep when Vanja stole into bed. It wasn’t long until dawn. Then Ivar would get up, and she’d tell him that it was all true, that he wasn’t insane. That there really was something underneath the colony.

The tunnels they had gone through—it was either a system or the tunnels themselves shifted. That, or Ivar had seen the machine but not mentioned it. Who had built the machine? Who had dug the tunnels? What were they for? Travel, Ulla had said. Tunnels are for travel. Who was traveling to Amatka? The memory of her dream by the lake came back: feet across the ice, voices, flutes. Voices had called out to Ivar underground. Amatka wasn’t alone anymore.

SIXDAY

It was well after the breaking of the ice. Vanja had taken yesterday’s leftovers out of the fridge and was reheating them on the stove. The coffee was brewing. She could smell Nina on her clothes.

The steps coming down the stairs were slow and heavy. Nina entered the kitchen with a small note in her hand. She sat down at the kitchen table in silence. Vanja took the pan from the heat and plucked the note from between Nina’s fingers.

Nina scrunched her face up. She pressed her fists against her eyes. “I can’t. I can’t go down there.”

Her body was so taut it trembled.

Vanja wrapped her arms around Nina from behind and put her cheek against hers. “I’ll go.”

The streets were almost empty in the gray light. It was far too early to be up on a Sixday. The only thing that moved was the shadow of the night growers on the plant-house walls. Vanja caught the sound of sprinklers as she passed, following the water-supply pipe to the lake. Stiff grass rattled against the irrigation pipeline. Vanja halted as an unfamiliar shape appeared at the edge of her vision. It stood far away on the tundra—long and thin, with a curved top end. Vanja squinted. It looked like a pipe, like the ones she had seen in a cluster the other night. Possibly. She turned in a slow circle and counted one, two, three slender silhouettes on the horizon, which until now had always been flat and featureless.

Vanja found Ivar’s shoes among the rocks on the beach, and his coat at the water’s edge. A ways out she could see the rounded shape of a back. Even though the waves seemed mere ripples on the surface, the body was drifting quickly toward the shore. Vanja took a couple of steps into the water, sucking in breath as her boots flooded with painful cold. She forced herself to move forward. After only a few feet, the water reached halfway up her thighs. She gasped as the cold made her legs burn, but the body was close enough now that she could grasp the pale yellow sweater. She pulled it to her and grabbed hold under the armpits. Only once the body was halfway out of the water did she turn it over.

Ivar had walked out on the ice dressed in nothing but his underclothes, and the lake had thawed underneath him, dropping him into the frigid water. The warm tone of his skin had turned pallid. His eyes were only closed halfway, revealing a glimpse of dark brown iris. Vanja crouched next to him. She took her mitten off and gently stroked his cheek. It was cold and unyielding. His unrelenting frown had been smoothed out; his lips had parted slightly, as if in sleep. But Ivar himself wasn’t in there anymore. Vanja carefully pulled him all the way out of the water. Thin as he was, his body was very heavy. She fetched his coat and draped it over him. It wasn’t long enough to cover both his head and feet, so she chose the feet. Cold feet were the worst. “I went and looked.” She tucked the edges of the coat under him. “I was going to tell you this morning. That you’re not crazy, that there’s something down there.”

Talking made her throat ache. “I wish you could have waited just a little while.” She patted his cheek. “I’m going to get some help. You won’t have to stay out here.”

Vanja walked back toward Amatka on numb legs. When she was almost there, she realized Ivar wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves. He would be cold.

No. He wouldn’t be.

At the clinic, two orderlies ushered her into an exam room, where they undressed her and swaddled her in heating blankets. They didn’t seem surprised by what she’d found in the lake. “Here we go again,” one of them said. “We’ll send someone to get him.”

“I have to tell our housemates,” Vanja said.

They noted her address. Vanja wasn’t allowed to go anywhere until they were sure she was unharmed.

They finally released her three hours later. Nina was still sitting at the kitchen table. She had stopped crying.

She looked up at Vanja, her eyes remote. “They were here.”

“I had to stay at the clinic. The water, I went into the water to get him, it was cold.”

Nina nodded. They were silent for a moment, Vanja by the door, Nina at the table. Finally, Nina pushed her chair back. Her voice was raspy and flat.

“Well, he finally went and did it. At least now I don’t have to wonder when it’s going to happen. That idiot. I saw it coming for years.” She went over to the stove and started making coffee.

Vanja sat down and watched Nina do the dishes and then violently clean the counter and stovetop. Nina talked while she cleaned. She talked about a quiet boy who became a melancholy but kind youth, who became the Ivar of recent years, slowly wasting away. “They tried everything,” she said. “Medication, light therapy, psychotherapy. Shocks. And at best he was… he functioned. He could get out of bed, get dressed, eat. He could go to work.”

She had given up on drying her cheeks. Fresh tears ran down her face now and then, and dripped onto her sweater. “Maybe he would have been all right in the end. But then this. Or… maybe he would never have been okay. Maybe he was incurable. Maybe he was just broken.” Her last word was accompanied by the loud bang of the scrubbed frying pan being slammed down on the counter.

Vanja topped up their cups. “I’m hungry,” Nina said.

She walked over to the fridge and took out a bowl, then fetched a fork.

Vanja rose halfway from the chair. “Let me heat that for you.”

“No need.” Nina mechanically shoveled bits of mushrooms and root vegetables into her mouth. “Talk. Talk about something. Tell me about Essre.”

Vanja told her about Essre: the square plant houses radiating out from the center; the massive commune office that housed the central administration; the circular streets; the throng of people. Nina stared into the wall, chewing and swallowing. When the bowl was empty, she pushed it aside.

“I know you’re up to something,” she said. “With the librarian, that Evgen guy.”

Before Vanja had time to reply, Nina continued: “Are you fucking him?”

Vanja started. “What? No.”

“Fine. Then what are you doing?”

“We talk.”

“About what?”

Vanja turned to the window. “For example… what happened to Ivar. What’s under the mushroom farm.” She took a deep breath. “I went out last night. I went down that pipe. To prove Ivar right. I was going to tell him this morning. But when I woke up he was already gone.”

Vanja braced herself and waited. When the silence went on unbroken, she glanced back at Nina, who had leaned back in her chair and sort of deflated. The shadows under her eyes were a bluish black. The rage had drained from her face, to be replaced by something worse. When she spoke, her words were almost inaudible. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I’m trying to help. To find the truth. To make things better. Down there, there’s…”

Nina held up a hand. “No. What you don’t understand is that it only takes this much”—she pinched her thumb and forefinger together—“to destroy us all. And if things have already started happening, then you’re making it worse.”

“But how do you know? How can any of us know? How do we know it’s bad? Maybe it’s just different. Better. Nina, anything is better than this.”

Nina gave her a look that made Vanja shrink back. “No. Anything is not better than this. I’ve seen Berols’ Anna’s colony. I know what happens.”

Vanja was dumbfounded. “How? When?”

“No. No, enough of this.” Nina held up both hands. “Just… leave it alone.”

She got up from the table and went upstairs. Vanja heard one door bang shut, then another.

Vanja stood outside Nina’s door for a long time, listening. At length she managed to muster enough courage to knock. No reply. She knocked again.

Eventually Nina opened the door. “What?”

Vanja’s mind abruptly went blank. “I just thought, I don’t know. I’m sorry.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Nina breathed in through her nose. Her words were slow and her voice flat. “You can’t help me right now. I want to be alone. You’d better leave.” She closed the door again.

Vanja lingered for a moment, staring at the door. Of course. There was nothing she could do. Nina and Ivar had been so close for so long, like brother and sister. What they had was so much bigger and more profound than what Vanja had with Nina. Anything Vanja did to comfort her would just be clumsy and clueless. At least today. She turned around and went back downstairs. Maybe Nina would want to be with her when she came back out. Or maybe not. She would grieve for a long time.

SEVENDAY

The leisure center filled up early. Instead of the usual games and organized play, a note by the entrance informed the crowd that song and poetry were on the program. The evening meal would be accompanied by a reading of Ivnas’ Öydis’s great poem “The Pioneers.” After that, communal singing. And after that, more readings—excerpts from Berols’ Anna’s Plant House series and several other poems Vanja didn’t recognize. It was remarkable that her poems were still allowed, considering what she did. Perhaps the power of her realist poetry was so strong that it outweighed her later deeds. And to the public she never did those other things, anyway. She had just died in the fire.

Vanja registered at the entrance, hung her anorak on a peg by the door, and looked around for a seat. The tables along the walls were almost full. Children who couldn’t sit still were chasing each other below the dais at the far end of the hall. Only on Sevenday were they allowed to run wild like that. Vanja found a free seat at the end of a table. She greeted the others, who nodded, smiled, and returned to their conversations. Their murmur enveloped her.

Sometime later, the cooks emerged from the kitchen carrying huge pots to rapturous applause. Vanja’s hands clapped along. Someone put a bowl in front of her. The clatter and banging of cutlery on bowl rims filled the air. After a while, Vanja became aware that someone had gently nudged her aside and now sat in her spot at the end of the table. It was Evgen. He had said something.

Vanja blinked. “What did you say?”

“I said hello.” His face looked sallow.

“Hello.”

“You look like I feel.”

“Ivar killed himself,” Vanja said.

Evgen’s eyebrows shot up, but then he merely nodded. “Was he afraid they’d do a procedure on him?”

“How did you know?”

He smiled thinly. “It was a guess. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

They ate in silence for a while. The meal was a slapdash, over-salted stew of shiny mushroom caps. Further down the table, people had started drinking and were talking loudly. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” Evgen mumbled next to her.

“What’s that?” Vanja put a spoonful of stew in her mouth and focused on chewing. The mushrooms were leathery and seemed to grow in her mouth as she chewed.

“I can’t stop thinking that the door might have led somewhere else, and that we’re not in the real Amatka anymore.” He hacked at an agaric with his fork. “I know it makes no sense, that can’t be the case. I’m not saying I want it to be true. I just can’t stop thinking about it.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Because this fake Amatka might be even worse than my own.”

Vanja glanced out at the crowded hall. “You probably shouldn’t say things like that in here.”

“If we’re in fake Amatka, maybe the rules don’t apply.” Evgen giggled.

One of their neighbors shot them a glance. Vanja managed a hollow laugh and elbowed Evgen in the ribs. “You’re impossible!”

Evgen laughed back. “You bet!”

Their neighbor turned his attention back to his own company. A tapping noise from the podium made them fall silent. It was time for the first reading of the night.

When they had sung “The Pioneer Song,” their host called the children up on the dais.

“And now it’s fun time for the children!” he shouted. “We’re going to sing ‘The Marking Song’!”

They sang several rounds of “The Marking Song.” The children took turns pointing to different objects in the room, and everyone laughed whenever it was tricky to fit the words in. After six rounds, it was time for “The Farmer Song,” and after that “When I Grow Up.” There was a quiz, too. Extra credits were awarded to citizens who answered questions about the number of houses in the colony and the number of inhabitants and streets correctly. Even more credits went to comrades who could name all the different types of buildings, their functions, and the number and names of the mushrooms grown in the chambers. Then they all sang “The Marking Song” again.

On the dais, their host’s gestures grew ever wilder and more sweeping, until he finally gave up his spot for a poetry recital. While the reader slowly chanted his way through “The Streets,” the host took a seat in a corner by the coatroom. The happy grin had vanished from his face. He looked sweaty and feverish. He’d found a bottle of liquor somewhere and was swigging straight from it. When he noticed Vanja watching him, he bared his teeth in a grimace and waved at her. It took her a moment to realize it was supposed to be a smile. She waved back.

Ulla was in the kitchen, putting on her boots. She looked up at Vanja with a small smile. “Going somewhere?” Vanja asked.

“Just out for an evening stroll,” Ulla replied. “Did you notice the pipes? No one else seems to have.”

Vanja paused. “I had forgotten about them somehow. What with Ivar…”

“Of course.”

“Ulla, what’s going on?”

Ulla finished tying her boots. “What do you think?”

“I think you know exactly what’s happening,” Vanja said.

Ulla stood up. She seemed younger somehow, more sprightly. “You want freedom,” she said. “Don’t you?”

“I do,” Vanja whispered.

“So do I,” Ulla replied. She squeezed Vanja’s arm gently. “Go to bed.”

Nina had fallen asleep in Ivar’s bed with her face buried in his pillow. She was wearing one of his sweaters. Vanja went into her own room. She hadn’t been in there for days except to sleep and fetch new clothes. She took a turn around the room, touching furniture and objects. Then she curled up on the bed with her clothes on.