Several headline stories addressed the increasing mood of paranoia following the attack, while others talked about the subsequent government crackdown against the Children of Jove and other radicals. Houte scrolled past these. He didn’t need to read about government efforts to stamp out terrorists and their sympathizers. The semi-weekly visits from the constables were a constant reminder of how he was now living in a quasi-police state.
The constable in charge caught Houte’s attention by stepping up to his counter. Houte looked up slowly to see the lanky man standing at attention, his grey jumpsuit and blue beret looking especially crisp and rigid. He recognized from the epaulets that this one was the sergeant.
“We’re almost done here, Mr. Houte.”
Houte hummed thoughtfully. “Find anything?”
The constable frowned. “You’ll receive a full report of our findings soon enough. In the meantime, we still need to see records of all your recent transactions. We’ll also need to see manifests indicating all your purchases for the past few months.”
“Again?” replied Houte. “The last inspection happened a little over a week ago. Haven’t had many since, Sergeant.”
“That’s not important, Mr. Houte. This is standard -”
Houte interrupted. “Not to mention the fact that the last set of constables to come in here, go through my merchandise, and make a big mess of things, got that same information from me. And I still haven’t received their report.”
The sergeant didn’t find Houte’s impertinence endearing. Smiling falsely, he reminded Houte of the reality of his situation.
“Sir, if you don’t want to provide us with that information, I can’t stop you. I can, however, remind you that failure to cooperate will be seen as a sign of resistance.”
Houte raised his hand defensively. Unfortunately, the sergeant wasn’t done.
“Also, I don’t imagine I need to remind you that anyone suspected of being connected in any way to a terrorist organization can be detained for a period of three standard days without formally being charged. I can assure you that any lack of cooperation will be cause for suspicion. Am I making myself clear?”
Houte returned the man’s false smile. “Crystal,” he replied, turning to go into the back, “Give me a moment to fetch what you’re asking for. Assuming your men are done back here?”
The sergeant smiled brazenly. Houte took that as an affirmative.
Houte left the front desk and ducked into the storage area at the back. The sergeant assumed his place behind the counter and opened the curtain that divided the two spaces. There was no way he would allow Houte to wonder off by himself.
Looking at the storage area, Houte sighed at the sight. Things had been in disarray even before the goon squad had arrived, the result of their last visit. He hadn’t quite had a chance to straighten it all out before today’s inspection took place. It therefore took some time to find a cube to transfer his files onto.
In time, Houte found one beneath a pile of old prints. It was mixed in with some assorted components and lengths of wire. The fact they were all together made him cringe. But at least he had what he needed to get the goons to vacate his store. Plugging it into his tablet, he called up the requisite files and downloaded the information. Given the limited amount of information, it didn’t take long for the process to finish.
“Here’s your pound of flesh,” he said, handing the cube to the sergeant. “I trust everything’s in order?”
“Yes,” the sergeant replied, placing the cube in his pocket. “See you again soon, I’m sure.”
Houte refrained from offering a retort. As best he could, he simply stood there and kept his mouth shut as the constables all left. Once he was alone, he let the anger and gloom he had been suppressing up until that point finally boil over.
On all Jovian worlds, the Constabulary was in overdrive. A brutal attack had been perpetrated on some of their own. Now they were determined to crush those who were involved. They wouldn’t stop there. Anyone suspected of harboring people associated with the Aquiline Front, or even those sympathetic to their cause, were being squeezed and pressed too.
From Europa to Callisto, people like Houte were having their lives turned upside down. The local “authorities” were determined to shake them until something fell out. When nothing did, they decided to simply come back later and try again. It was a pattern Houte had seen before, and he knew what to expect.
It’s only going to get worse, he thought.
Sooner or later, someone was going to react. They would meet the escalating repression with resistance, and someone else would die. People would respond in kind, blood for blood, and the cycle would keep going indefinitely.
It was something Houte thought he and Constance would never have to see again. It was the reason they had left Earth and Luna long ago. But as many Retros were likely realizing, moving to the Outer Worlds didn’t mean the old problems were gone. Instead, they had been redistributed to the many new worlds.
It was enough to make Houte want to pack up their things and migrate again. But Constance was immovable. Ever since she had made her new “friend” and was busy with her latest venture, the idea of physical travel was something she would never consider. With a shudder, he wondered what might happen if the Constabulary ever got wind of who Constance was and what she was up to. Most likely, they would stick her in an airlock and bleed out the atmosphere. At this point, any act of rebellion would be treated as an act of high treason.
“Houte, are you there?” said a woman’s voice, coming from the direction of the front door. Houte looked up with a start, seeing a silhouette behind the curtain that spanned the entryway. He sighed as he realized who it was. This quickly gave way to anger.
“Jay? What the hell are you doing here?”
“It was urgent,” she said, her voice low and hushed. Pushing aside the curtain, she ducked inside the main foyer. She wore her usual worn, thick coat. The hood was pulled up around her neck, and a thick scarf concealed her face. She adjusted this scarf to expose her mouth before continuing. “I need you to meet us back at the house as soon as possible.”
Houte’s heart leaped into his throat. Countless terrible scenarios flooded his mind, all of which centered on the same thing.
“What’s wrong?!” he demanded. “Is it Constance? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” Jay replied, waving her hand at him to calm down. “It’s just that we’ve found something. She wants us all to look at it together.”
Houte felt a measure of relief, which was quickly replaced by annoyance. He looked around the clutter that was his business and raised his arms. “In case you haven’t noticed, I just got raided, and they left one hell of a mess. And they probably haven’t even made it up the street yet. You shouldn’t be here!”
“Then keep your voice down,” she urged, looking back in the direction to the door. “I saw them on my way here. I waited until they were far enough away to slip in. Still, I don’t think arguing about it is a good idea.”
Houte groaned. For Jay to risk coming out in public, especially in the current climate of constant inspections, it had to be important. The only thing riskier would have been to call him, given that the authorities were probably listening in on the stores comms. But he had a hard time imaging what could have justified such rash behavior.
Pushing his foremost dreads away from his face and tucking them behind his ears, he decided to ask. “What’s the damn hurry, exactly?”
“Constance has found out something big. You need to come and see.”
“Really?” he asked, incredulous. “What is it this time? Another ghost in the network? Someone else looking for help and offering nothing in return? Not sure I care enough about that to leave work. And you wouldn’t know it, but this is still business hours. I can’t exactly pack up and leave.”
Jay was beginning to look annoyed herself. Whatever news she had was clearly too important for her to be deterred, though.
&nb
sp; “I don’t have time to get into it here, Franklin. I’m not even sure I understood half of what she said to me. But from what I managed to grasp, this could be the break we’ve been looking for. Either way, she really wanted me to come and get you. And I need you there to make sense of what she’s saying.”
Houte took a deep breath and placed his hands face down on the counter. The past few weeks had been rather difficult. Then again, so had the past few months. First, there had been the news of his friend’s death, followed shortly thereafter by Jay’s arrival. The woman’s presence wasn’t something Houte was that fond of, given the influence she had over his sister.
But she had revealed things to the two of them that Constance, ever the champion of noble causes, couldn’t ignore. And as much as Houte didn’t want to trust her, every instinct he had told him Jay was on their side.
Houte looked around his shop. Admittedly, he would rather abandon it in its current shape than have to deal with it. Keeping the store open in the faint hope that someone might come in looking for some off-the-shelf electronic gear didn’t hold any appeal.
“All right,” Houte said finally. “This better be worth it. I’m getting tired of false hopes and wishing for better things to come.”
Jay laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure this is going to be way more interesting than anything you’ve got going on here. It’s not like you’ll be missing out on any business by closing early.”
Houte bristled. He knew she was right. Still, she didn’t have to say it so flippantly.
FIVE
EMILE STOOD AT THE balcony’s edge quietly. The landscape of Ares’ southern hemisphere was stretched before him. It was evening for the facility’s inhabitants, and the sounds of night life wafted up to the walls that enclosed Sarak Lovelock. Some were enjoying themselves by taking to the air with personal airfoils. Others were enjoying dinner at various public houses or bistros, and some were at home engaging in couple or group sex.
But at the moment, Emile wasn’t looking at any of that. All his attention was directed towards the report that hovered before him. It was preceded by a short message from Chaput, who had forwarded it to him from the Constabulary on Ganymede. Given the report’s contents, he had thought it appropriate to warm Emile.
“As you can see, the data doesn’t support much in the way of conclusions. The Constabulary has indicated the attack was perpetrated by five locals. None of the individuals have any known ties to the Aquiline Front or the Children of Jove, and none have any criminal records, beyond simple misdemeanors. And the UAV security footage, which is the damming bit of evidence, is also quite questionable. You’ll see what I mean.
Emile did indeed see what Chaput meant. Within the report, the UAV’s footage was included, along with notes explaining the apparent discrepancies. At one point, the UAV was broadcasting footage from one end of Selket. Then the stream of footage was interrupted abruptly. Moments later, it was transmitting again from another location entirely. This was when and where the attack took place.
None of it made sense. The evidence was far too convenient. Especially the way the UAV suffered a disruption and then started working again, in the right place and at the right time to witness the crime. It all smacked of deception. Emile was almost certain he knew exactly who was responsible, too. He skimmed ahead through the extraneous details and got to Chaput’s concluding remarks.
“All five suspects been arrested and are currently awaiting trial. According to multiple sources, they’re expected to be punished to the full extent of the law.”
“The full extent,” Emile said to himself. The apparent perpetrators were accused of murdering constables. In accordance with Jovian law, a crime of this severity was punishable by decompression. This would involve placing them in a sequestered airlock and gradually releasing the atmosphere. The subjects would slowly die from a combination of extreme cold and asphyxia.
An archaic law by Extropian standards, but understandable given that the Outer Worlds had to contend with limited space and resources. You couldn’t waste either on capital criminals.
Finished with the read, Emile waved it away and sighed heavily. His back and shoulders were aching from standing so long. He had lost track of time and was beginning to feel in need of some food and rest. Unfortunately, there was still much to do before he could put aside the burdens of leading his faction for another day.
The Constabulary report from Ganymede had only confirmed some of his worst suspicions. The attack had been quite inexplicable and had the fingerprints of outside operatives all over it. He could imagine with considerable ease how someone might go about doing it. All he needed was a few highly skilled people and the right equipment. Emile knew where to find both and had employed them in the past.
This time, someone had done the same thing. Someone who was clearly reacting to the publication of the Manifesto and stood to benefit from escalation and chaos in the Jovian system. Which he couldn’t help but interpret as some kind of message...
WALKING THE FACILITY was also proving to be quite uncomfortable. Between passing Pinter’s Heilig room and seeing countless portraits of the old man, Emile felt his presence everywhere. A necessary pretense, of course. Sarak Lovelock was in mourning over the loss of one of their own, and the removal of any of Pinter’s old effects would only raise suspicion.
But seeing it all left a bad taste in Emile’s mouth.
He came to his private quarters at last. The door slid open onto a dark room, only a few lights and displays active while it was vacant. As soon as he stepped in, various displays became active to greet him. The room’s caretaker was also brought to attention, addressing him formally.
“Welcome back, Doctor Chandrasekhar,” it said. “How may I serve you?”
“Hello, Ganesha,” he replied, addressing Lovelock’s AI. “I want quiet. No notifications for the time being. Low light only.”
“Very well,” came the AI’s reply. All at once, the room’s displays shut down and the lights once again became faint, but warm. Knowing Emile’s patterns, and sensing his stress level, it chanced to offer one consoling service. “Shall I play some music? Holst, for your pleasure?”
Emile grumbled, but replied in the affirmative. All around him, the sound of an orchestra slowly filled the room. At first, the sounds of drums and brass were barely audible, but they built slowly towards a martial rhythm that Emile had always felt was invigorating.
Making his way to his desk, he set himself down in the chair heavily. The cushions immediately responded to his presence, forming contoured cushions and sending soothing waves of electrostimulation into his back and kneading his tired muscles.
He gave them a moment to work him over before turning to the desk’s console. Waving over it, he called up the message log for Sarak Lovelock.
Immediately, a list of highly-encrypted messages became visible in his visual field. These were parsed with regular messages from several sectors, mostly from Lovelock personnel or their agents in the field. Emile scrolled through them until he came to the only one he wanted to read right now.
“It’s about time,” he muttered.
He had sent a message to Paulo Auriga days ago, the de facto leader of the Illuvians. Given the current distance between their two planets, any messages sent back and forth would be delayed by about forty minutes. The fact that it had taken Auriga this long to reply could only be interpreted as a slap in the face. Then again, Auriga was getting into the habit of such gestures.
Cueing up the message, Emile sat back in his seat and waited. He couldn’t imagine what excuses Auriga would be making. It wasn’t the thought that he had gone ahead and done something, but the fact that Emile had been forced to hear about it through other channels. Among friends and allies, there was no greater disrespect.
The message started playing, a recording dated to a few days ago. Auriga’s face occupied most of the window, and he looked less than pleased.
“Doctor Chandrasekhar. I thank
you for your recent inquiry. However, at this time I’m afraid I cannot shed any light on the matter you raised. I’m afraid that situation isn’t something we’re that concerned with at the moment.”
Emile scoffed. He wouldn’t even say it aloud, even though he could count on total privacy along their communications channel. And pretending his people weren’t actively worrying about it - how utterly puerile!
The message continued:
“What’s more, I found your request for information to be somewhat impertinent. While our two factions have a long history of working together, and we value our cordial relations highly, we’re not bound by any official information-sharing agreements.”
“What?” Emile muttered angrily. Had Auriga used the term “official” to qualify their arrangement? Unfortunately, the message only got worse.
“Lastly, the Illuvians do not feel obliged to volunteer information with parties that are not in the habit of sharing information openly with them. If you have concerns that actions were taken for which you should have been informed in advance, perhaps you should have consulted us before taking similar measures yourself. I trust this communiqué finds you in good health and good company. But I’m afraid I cannot shed any light on your inquiries at this time. Take care.”
The message cut out. Emile’s fist was balled so tight that his knuckles were becoming white. He released it and flexed his fingers a few times. As upset as he was by Auriga’s lack of transparency - though what he had said spoke volumes - Emile saw no point in losing his temper. Still, he allowed himself to mutter a few angry expletives.
“That lying, arrogant, son of... veshya kee santaan!”
Emile had to admit, he felt a little better. Voicing some of his uglier thoughts in the old tongue also felt comforting. He chuckled softy for a moment, relishing the feeling of releasing some of his pent-up frustration. With that now past him, he returned to the issue at hand.
The Jovian Manifesto (The Formist Series Book 2) Page 4