by Mark Henwick
What news?
Hwa will understand that my reference to a cousin will mean Kat, even though we had no idea we would meet. She’ll also be aware of the travel problems. I’m hoping against hope that she’ll say something like ‘we’ll come and fetch you’, but that’s not likely.
As I scan other messages to see if Hwa’s tried communicating with me, the random movement of the crowd in the station changes suddenly.
I switch the pad off and tuck it back down my pants as I get to my feet.
Police. In the station.
I don’t have my ID. I have to get out or they’ll arrest me.
Not everyone is running, but there’s enough who seem to be as eager to avoid the police as I am. The flow becomes a surge, and I go with it, keeping my head down. The station has emergency exits; we should be fine. They probably just want to clear the station for supplies to come in.
That turns out not to be the case.
The surge is stopped and turned back. There are police at all the exits. Through the bodies, I catch a glimpse of batons swinging, people cringing back. Everyone in the station is being forced into a single tight knot. I’m trapped in the middle, unable to move in any direction because of the crush of people.
Just my bad luck. I’ve picked the wrong day to visit the station.
Shit.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
After an hour, it becomes clear that this is a deliberate, well-thought-out plan. There are trucks pulling up outside the station. Small groups of people are taken out of the crowd. Their papers are inspected. Some of them are allowed to go. Others are taken to the trucks.
I don’t know where the trucks are heading. No one around me does, but the fear is like a haze steaming off bodies in the crowd. It forms a choking smog around us. People are crying. Others are fainting.
I reckon I have one chance.
When they finally reach me, I don’t wait to be dragged forward; I walk confidently, my head up.
My bulky clothes hide the shivering. I don’t lick my dry lips—that would communicate nervousness. I am not nervous. I am not. I am not.
Heads come up. They look closely at me, because I’m acting differently. They’re expecting people to be scared of them.
One of them pulls the bag from my hand and holds up the fruit I had in there as if it’s proof of something.
I ignore him. My eyes are focused on the officer. I hold his eyes, don’t look down, which unsettles him. I pull the hip flask of Ranger’s alcohol out of my pocket, take a sip. It’s vile.
One of them reaches for it, and I move it away. His face is a picture of blank incomprehension, slowly becoming anger. I’m not doing what they expect.
“So, you guys are ready to make a move on the Nightwatch?” I look them over, contempt on my face.
The guy holding my bag drops it and raises a fist as if he’s going to punch me.
The officer stops him.
“What do you mean?”
The man’s voice is raw and his eyes are mean, but there’s cunning in them. I think I’ve guessed correctly. This police gang don’t want trouble with the Nightwatch.
“Touch me and find yourself talking about it to the Nightwatch.”
The officer glares at me, but his glare is uncertain.
“ID.” He holds out a hand.
“Go ask for the guy they call Sarge in the Nightwatch,” I say, shrugging. “He’s got it.”
“Why would he have it?”
I take time replacing the flask in my pocket before replying, careful to keep my movements slow and unconcerned. “So he knows I’m coming back.”
They know what it means, and they know it’s something the Nightwatch does.
“If you’re his new whore, what’re you doing here?”
“Searching for my sister. Look, why don’t you guys call him?” I challenge them. “Ask him what you should do about Maria. Maria Orita.”
The officer nods to one of them, who gets out his pad.
“Stand over there,” he says to me.
I take my bag and wait.
They continue checking IDs and they’re thorough about it. The officer has a scanner attached to his pad. If I had been caught with my fake ID, I’d probably be in one of those trucks outside.
Luckily, whatever comes back from the call to the Nightwatch convinces them.
“You got a couple of hours to find your sister,” the officer says. “Then he says you better be at the barracks.”
He smirks.
My heart still racing, I sneer at him and walk out, shouldering my way through their ranks.
My stomach aches with fear.
I have to check whether Hwa has responded and find a way to get out of the city.
All in a couple of hours.
Chapter 39
Zara
The library will have the InfoHub connection I need. Maybe even a clue as to how to get out of Cabezón. I should need ID to get into the library.
But either I’m starting to feel lucky, which is usually when things go wrong, or I’m desperate. I’m not entirely sure which it is.
The Serena Library is situated overlooking the Plaza Mayor. Another time, the row of tall, pale columns which flank the entrance would have me taking a picture or sketching. It’s a beautiful building.
No time.
I rush in through the glass doors and come to a sudden halt in front of a security guard.
He’s an older man with a serious face. He looks as if he’s a retired policeman. The real police, not the gangs of animals outside.
All my ideas of lying about searching for my non-existent sister evaporate.
“My ID was taken this morning,” I say, when he holds his hand out for it.
“Who by?” His tone is quiet, reserved. There’s a hint of anger in his eyes.
“The Nightwatch.”
If it wasn’t anger before, it certainly is now. He’s no fool. He knows the purpose of the Nightwatch taking my ID, what it means for me.
“Please,” I say, when it looks as if he’s thinking of getting involved. “There’s nothing you can do. But if you let me in, there may be something I can do.”
All expressions vanish from his face, as if they’d never been there.
Have I made a mistake? Did I misread him?
No. Moving stiffly, he gets up from behind his desk and opens the barrier to walk through, then stands at the glass doors, ignoring me and looking out onto the plaza, rocking to and fro on his feet, with his hands clasped behind him.
I scuttle in, breathing a word of thanks.
The library is nearly full, but hushed.
People avoid eye contact. They keep their heads down. It’s as if they’re all ashamed that they’re not doing something about what’s going on in their city. And yet, what could they do? The ‘police’ are armed.
I find an empty table in the middle, almost hidden, surrounded by tall bookcases of ancient Terran history, and take my pad out of its hiding place.
Hwa first.
The library comms has been isolated in the same way the station was, but this time, Hwa’s tools burrow through without any trouble.
I frown.
Too easy?
I imagine the trap: some InfoHub spider just waiting somewhere for people to make an attempt to break through the communications barriers.
No. That’s crazy. What’s happening here is evidence that they’re barely keeping control as it is. They probably don’t have the resources to monitor every library comms interface on Newyan, and they certainly don’t have enough to send agents out here to arrest me.
Communications options from libraries are wider than from the station, so Hwa’s tools have more selection of routes to open.
It’ll all be different when we get to Iruña. Security there will be very tight.
If we get there.
One step at a time.
I glance around; no one is watching me.
My comms app bounces through half
a dozen servers, obscuring its trail, and then sets up a connection to the bulletin board where I posted.
There’s a response.
So good to hear from you at last.
Need you here, back at work. Having difficulties.
One week, absolute max.
I blink.
One week to get to Iruña without giving my location away to the Hajnal.
Stealing an aircraft seems the only option with any chance of success. The host of problems involved boils up in my mind. How do we re-fuel it? How low do I have to fly to evade land-based radar detection? How dangerous is that, especially here in the hills? Could they track me on space-based surveillance? What about the weather? What if it closes in, and I have to land somewhere else? How close can I land to Iruña without the Hajnal knowing about it?
It seems impossible.
While I’m thinking, Hwa’s spooky apps find some hidden link in the bulletin board, and I see an encrypted file from Hwa downloaded. Probably a full update. I can’t look at it now. I post a response to Hwa.
Understood
I close down the pad and check how long I’ve taken. The less time I’m on the InfoHub, the safer I will be.
Something makes me look around again to make sure no one’s paying me any attention, and I’m just quick enough to catch the face of a man walking out of the library. The bookshelves in the way give me no more than a glimpse. A man of medium height with dark hair and eyes. Well dressed. A second later, all I can see is his back as he walks toward the front of the building and the security desk.
A surge of adrenaline makes my hands clammy.
It almost seems as if he was looking at me, waiting, and then started moving when I looked up. As if he wanted to be seen.
Why?
Why does his face seem familiar?
Calm down.
I’ve visited Cabezón before. The last time was five… six years ago? What was I doing here? Who did I meet?
I feel a sudden panic and my memory blanks.
Think!
It was a study trip. I must have met hundreds of students and teachers. He could be any one of them. My looks have changed a lot—theirs would too.
And even if he was one of them, and he recognized me, that doesn’t automatically mean he’s going to the police.
If he did recognize me, why walk away without a word?
There is, of course, the small matter that there’s been an enormous reward for ‘information or assistance leading to my capture’ since I escaped.
I mustn’t panic.
A woman is approaching from the other side, edging her way between the shelves nervously. Head down, blonde hair visible despite the hood pulled over her head. She’s dressed almost as scruffily as the people outside the gates. She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say anything. A tiny slip of paper falls from her hand onto the table and then she’s past, walking steadily away.
With trembling fingers, I pick up the paper scrap, smooth it out.
Zarate,
Upstairs please. It’s important.
Yion Bey.
The shock of the name jars my memory.
It’s a different context. Not Cabezón at all. Later. Iruña itself. The ridiculous debutante balls that my grandfather made me attend.
Yion Bey, heir of the Founding Family Bey. Former owners of the estates which produced my favorite tea—Harantza.
Don’t waste your time with Bey, Grandfather had said. Too unengaged. Too distant. No political weight.
Which meant I danced with him, rather than the chinless wonders my grandfather proposed. Yion wasn’t a jerk about it, but I could feel he didn’t want to dance with me either. I suspected he was in the same position I was, being urged to look for a partner for political reasons.
It wouldn’t have helped either of our families.
Now what?
He’s recognized me.
Not only that, he and others here, the woman for one, are acting as if they have something to hide.
There’s no alternative, really. I have to find out what’s going on behind the smooth silence of the library.
The guard doesn’t look around while I pass behind the security desk and take the polished stone stairs to the upper floors.
There are long corridors to either side. Lots of closed doors, except one at the end on the right-hand side.
I walk quietly and look through the open doorway. There’s a glossy meeting table in the middle of the room, with chairs around it. Yion is standing at the other end, looking out of the window.
Five paces into the room and I hear the door being closed quickly behind me.
I spin around.
It’s the woman who lured me upstairs with the message, and she’s holding a pistol pointed at me.
Chapter 40
Zara
I glare at her, and the pistol lowers a fraction.
“I’m standing directly between you and Yion,” I point out. “I’d suggest, unless you can be absolutely sure of hitting me, you move to the side, so you don’t risk killing him by accident.”
Her eyes narrow and her lips thin, but she moves—willing to take advice, if not gracefully.
Yion laughs. It’s genuine, but short.
“I see time hasn’t mellowed you then, Zarate.”
“It’s only been a couple of years, Yion, hardly had a chance. What the nova are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same.”
Stalemate.
“The thing most likely to mellow me right now is a cup of Harantza,” I say.
He could be faking all sorts of things, but not the anger I see in him at the mention of the name. Yion Bey is not going to hand me over to the people who took his family’s estates.
I take a deep breath. I have to trust him, and maybe he can even help. “I’m on my way to Iruña to bring the Hajnal down.”
“Hajnal? What’s that?” He frowns, and I remember that to everyone here on Newyan, it’s just ‘the government’ that has somehow gone crazy. They probably haven’t heard anything about Kernow, about the Terran Council, the TSS Annan or the Commission of Enquiry. All news the Hajnal will try and control to their advantage.
“Sit down,” I tell him.
Twenty-five minutes later, both of them are seated opposite me with their faces blank with shock.
I get up and move to the window.
There are few people walking by outside, fewer than the number of policemen standing in groups scattered around the Plaza Mayor. Which reminds me of the problem I have.
“Have you got a way in and out of the city that avoids the checkpoints?”
“You can’t leave,” the woman says immediately.
“Natalia’s right,” Yion says. “You have to help us. Just your name...”
I turn around and lean on the table. One look at my face and he goes quiet.
“Help you do what?” I ask.
“Recruit more people! Organize. Take down the police. Take back Cabezón.”
“And then what? Where’s the food coming from?”
“We’ll take back the estates as well,” Natalia says. “The workers are all here in the city.”
“Which will get you food next summer. Provided you haven’t died of starvation. Provided the Hajnal leave you alone in the meantime. Which they won’t.”
Yion’s face starts to settle into stubbornness, and I slap the table.
“You can’t fight them in Cabezón alone,” I say. “Every city would have to rise, at the same time, otherwise the Hajnal would pick you off one by one. And even then, you won’t persuade everyone. Putting these gangs calling themselves police to one side, do you really want Newyans to be fighting Newyans? Are you really going to plan a full-scale military campaign? Have you worked out how many will die from fighting and starvation?”
They shift uncomfortably on their seats and exchange a long, questioning look. Natalia nods finally and Yion leans forward, his face intense and his voice lower.
/> “There’s an armed resistance,” he says. “They stay outside of cities. They’re probably organized across the whole of Newyan already. We’ll coordinate with them. There’s a company in the hills not far from here.”
I drop back into my seat, with my head in my hands and an ache in my chest. It takes a while to control my voice enough to speak levelly. “Commander Benat?”
“Yes! Yes! You know how to contact him?”
I shake my head, squeeze the tears away.
“What do you think you know?” I ask. “And how?”
“Benat’s training the Resistance out in the sierras,” Yion says. “He found a way to get thousands of people out of the cities just as the government was about to arrest them. He had stashes of weapons and supplies hidden and he’s stolen more. He says that all it needs is for one city to throw off the yoke and reveal what’s really happening, and all the others will join them.”
“It’s started already. There were reports posted about some fighting,” Natalia says. “Of course they were taken down and replaced with propaganda trying to tell us it was just a group of terrorists who’d been eliminated, but no one believes them.”
I suddenly feel old and tired.
“Benat is dead,” I say.
From the expression on their faces, I might as well have said that the sun had collapsed on itself.
“He died in a battle up in the sierras a couple of weeks ago. He didn’t have thousands. He’d rescued a few hundred people, mainly kids, who were due to be arrested for their family connections. He armed them with weapons, most of which were antiques. He managed to feed them and trained them surprisingly well.” I try to soften the blow. “They gave a good account of themselves, but the Hajnal’s mercenaries were sent into the hills. Almost all of Benat’s force died. There is no Resistance waiting to launch attacks.”
“You’re lying!” Natalia jumps up, sending her chair tumbling backwards. “Your own family—”
“Was there,” I interrupt. “Yes, Kattalin Espe Aguirre fought in that battle. I know. She posted the report you’re talking about, but I guess you haven’t seen all of it, or it’s got mixed up with this propaganda.”