Hearts of Oak

by Eddie Robson

  Then the door swung closed.

  * * *

  It was deep into downtime when they emerged from the mouth of the old mine. Victor walked at the front, Iona at the rear. Between them walked thirty-eight citizens. Iona caught a glimpse of the city as they crested the hill: it all looked quiet.

  Just before they reached the edge of the suburbs, the citizens started to peel off and head down different streets. This was part of their programming: they would take different routes to the bureau to avoid attracting attention. Before long Iona and Victor were walking with just two other citizens following closely behind. This small group would not seem unduly suspicious.

  Some part of Iona, in the face of everything, still nurtured some notion of going back to her old life, of just quietly going home and leaving Victor and Alyssa to it. She couldn’t help but think of her house and the school as “normal.” Things were simpler before she knew the truth, before she’d remembered what she’d lost. But as they passed other citizens going about their business—rickshaw drivers, night-shift construction workers—the impossibility of this became clear. She saw the citizens differently now and she didn’t want to go back to the school, see her old colleagues, her friends. She would know what they were really made of, she would detect the artificial patterns in their responses. She saw through the thinness of her old life. She couldn’t go back and pretend—and if others had any clue about what she’d done today, they wouldn’t regard her as normal either.

  She tried to think about what her life would be like after this.

  Then they reached the bureau, and there were other things to think about.

  * * *

  The other reprogrammed citizens had all concealed themselves in the streets near the bureau, waiting for Victor’s signal. Iona couldn’t see them but Victor was confident they’d be there. Iona fretted she’d made a mistake in replicating Victor’s program: a single misplaced digit might have sent a citizen somewhere else entirely.

  Victor had brought Alyssa’s electric torch with him from the ship and this was the agreed signal for the attack to begin. They’d also brought some sharp-edged tools that were actually designed for hacking vegetation away from overgrown areas when setting up camp, but they had potential as weapons, were retractable, and could be concealed under clothing, and most importantly they didn’t require any power source.

  “You don’t have to come inside,” Victor told Iona. “It might be just as useful to have someone waiting out here to help Alyssa get away—”

  “I’m coming inside,” Iona replied, rather irritated by the implication she was too old and incapable of helping.

  Victor nodded, turned on the torch, and shone it around the nearby buildings, spreading its light. There was no mistaking it—all forms of light native to the city looked completely different from this.

  The movement began at once: the citizens who’d been watching for the signal emerged from hiding and rushed toward the bureau. Iona and Victor rushed with them and suddenly it all felt real and it hit home that she might actually die here. Could she die here? The dome was supposedly keeping them all alive, but did it only stop them from aging or developing diseases? Could it reckon with a fatal wound as well?

  The bureau was better guarded than usual but it was still unprepared for a massed attack. Though the reprogrammed citizens were untrained they attacked with complete abandon, unconcerned for their personal safety. Iona and Victor walked at the back, letting their citizen army go first. The guards at the door had been dealt with swiftly and Iona passed their broken bodies on the way inside. She didn’t look at them too long, telling herself they were only wood.

  Iona’s intimate knowledge of the layout of the bureau was invaluable. The citizens had been programmed with clear instructions on where to go and what to do when they got there. The rescue party started heading up the stairs. Thanks to the element of surprise, thus far they had sustained only minor injuries.

  As they climbed to the higher levels Iona could hear guards from the detention level coming down to confront them. There were more clashes; some of their party fell. Iona reached the detention level and for the first time she had to use her weapon as a guard rushed at her. She lashed out as hard as she could, barely aiming at all. As the weapon made contact it jarred her shoulder and stung her hands but it worked. The guard’s head came clean off.

  Iona turned her eyes away and kept running.

  She checked the first cell she came to but it was empty. So was the second. Victor was not far behind, along with some of their citizens—all of them swarmed around the detention level searching for Alyssa.

  Alyssa wasn’t there.

  “Is there anywhere else she could be?” demanded Victor. He and Iona stood in one of the cells, looking around as if there was anywhere a person could hide in here. Outside their citizens were still searching—but reinforcements were arriving to protect the bureau and clashes were beginning again in the corridor.

  “I don’t know,” said Iona. “The newspaper said she was in custody. This is custody, so—”

  The door of the cell closed behind them and the bolt was swung into place.

  10

  EVERY SEAT AT THE Point of Return was occupied despite the early hour, and despite the event only having been announced at dawn. The aisles were packed with standing spectators and the doorway thronged with latecomers jostling for a view. All of them had been told that if they came they would see something special. Few of them, however, believed the rumor that the king would appear here personally. Surely not after the recent attack on him—he’d never risk it.

  This meant that when the king, flanked by four guards, entered through the front door and walked down the aisle a gratifying ripple of excitement spread through the crowd. He glanced to where Clarence sat atop one of the decorative carved scrolls that adorned the wall to the right of the stage.

  Clarence nodded.

  The king let the hubbub go on for a few seconds, then raised a hand and everyone fell silent.

  Good.

  The king said nothing. Instead he signaled to the doorway that led through to the waiting room and two trolleys were brought out by attendants. They were just like the trolleys used every day here at the Point, with one important modification—thick restraints had been fitted to each one, holding the subject by the wrists and ankles. These restraints were not usually necessary because the occupants of the trolleys were usually dead.

  One of the trolleys held Ward, the other held Alyssa.

  Alyssa maintained an impassive countenance in the face of the audience’s hushed scrutiny as the trolleys reached the center of the stage—a space the king had now vacated, stepping to one side—and were tilted so Alyssa and Ward were almost upright. Now they had no choice but to face the people.

  The king pointed to the people on the trolleys and addressed the audience.

  “He is the man who attacked me. But she ordered the attack. And she started the fire.”

  For a moment the crowd considered what the king had said. The king took this opportunity to move farther out of the way.

  Then the bombardment began.

  Everyone, it seemed, in the first dozen rows had come prepared: all had brought bits of old furniture or discarded building materials and they flung it at the criminals. Ward remained entirely passive, just as he’d been since his arrest, and Alyssa did her best to follow suit. She bit her lip, managed not to cry out in pain, and waited for the crowd to run out of ammunition—which, after less than a minute, they did. However, they then started to pull pieces off the seats so they could throw those, and the king’s guards were forced to intervene.

  Their rage was a bit disturbing. But at least they cared.

  The king held up a hand and walked back to the center of the stage. The crowd fell silent again.

  The king turned and gestured to the attendants. This time the furnace doors opened, revealing the inferno within. A wild cheer came from the crowd. Alyssa was unable to see the f
ire but she could feel its heat. From a distance people might infer from her apparent lack of reaction that death somehow did not matter to her. But the king was close enough, and perceptive enough, to see on her face genuine dread and despair.

  The trolleys were unceremoniously dropped back into their previous position and the attendants started to wheel Ward toward the furnace. In moments they would do the same to Alyssa. She turned her head to face the king and spoke to him—loud enough for him to hear but not loud enough for the unruly crowd, who were chattering with anticipation at the punishment to come.

  She said: “Steve.”

  The king was astonished. He turned and stared at Alyssa and felt panic rising within himself. He wanted to walk away from her, down the aisle and out of the building—but at the same time he wanted to know how Alyssa knew that was his name when he had all but forgotten it himself.

  Behind them Ward was being fed into the furnace. The king had been especially looking forward to that part but now that it was happening he didn’t even turn to look.

  “Steve—you came here on a ship, the Mull of Kintyre,” Alyssa went on. “This city is a cage and there’s something trapped in here with you; I thought perhaps it was you but now I know it’s not—”

  But it was Alyssa’s turn for the furnace. The attendants started to wheel her away and her voice was lost in the baying of the crowd. The king held up a hand, trying to stop them, but the attendants were facing away and couldn’t hear him. She was pushed toward the flames, the mob screaming for her to be destroyed, and all the king could do was stand and watch. He wanted more time to think, he felt like telling everyone to stop for a moment—but for all his power and influence, he lacked the courage to intervene.

  As Alyssa vanished into the furnace, the king saw the heat singe her hair but she closed her eyes and remained silent. Her resolve held until the furnace doors shut behind her, but then she let out screams that penetrated the doors and rang out through the hall. At first this brought cathartic enjoyment to the crowd but as it went on, discomfort and unease set in.

  The king felt wretched.

  Something touched the king’s ankles and he started in surprise. It was Clarence, brushing around his legs. A deep purr came from his throat.

  * * *

  “Good news, Your Highness,” were the words that greeted the king as he stepped through the side door of the memorial parlor and into the waiting room. They were spoken by Saori Kagawa, who was waiting for him there.

  “Right,” muttered the king, swiftly closing the door before Clarence could follow. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. Alyssa’s screams had cut through him in a way he hadn’t expected and he really, really wished he’d spoken out and stopped it from happening. He stared down at the floor.

  “You were told of the attack on the bureau last night?” said Saori.

  “Yeah . . .” His attendants had told him about it while he was getting dressed this morning.

  “We’ve questioned the perpetrators. They came to liberate Alyssa, not realizing we’d already moved her here. So we’ve captured more of her network.”

  The king didn’t look up. Saori seemed puzzled by his lack of reaction but didn’t say anything.

  “Yeah,” the king said finally. “Good.” He was far from sure that this was the real problem, or if it was a problem at all. What Alyssa had said to him just before she died was true. There was a spaceship called the Mull of Kintyre and his name was Steve.

  “Two of them are quite high-ranking citizens,” Saori went on, trying to prompt more of a response. “An architect and teacher called Iona Taylor, and a policymaker in the planning department called Victor Musa.”

  The king looked up. “I know those names.”

  “You might have met them.”

  “I think I have.”

  “In the course of business.”

  “Maybe.” But the king knew the names were familiar for other reasons.

  The king walked past Saori, toward the door. “Well done,” he said over his shoulder.

  “What do you want done with them?”

  “Nothing.” He was almost through the doorway now.

  “What do you mean, nothing?”

  “I mean nothing,” snapped the king, turning back to her. “Just keep them where they are and . . .” He waved an arm. “Await my instructions, alright? And no I don’t know when I’ll have instructions so just wait—”

  The king stopped talking. For several moments he just stared at Saori as though seeing her for the first time. Then he said in a quiet voice: “Were you on the ship?” They were alone in the room but he was worried someone—he didn’t know who, but someone—might be listening.

  “What ship?” said Saori. It wasn’t a word anyone in the city ever used. The king didn’t know where he’d learned it. But as Saori repeated it back to him the king noticed she hadn’t asked, What is a ship? She’d simply asked, What ship?

  “The spaceship,” the king replied, modifying the rootless word to produce another one. “It was called the Mull of Kintyre. Were you on it?”

  Saori didn’t reply. The king took her frozen expression for incomprehension.

  “Never mind,” he said and stormed out of the Point, hoping Saori wouldn’t tell anyone he’d gone weird on her.

  * * *

  Iona had not been allowed to sleep before being removed from the cell she and Victor had been shut in. They’d put her in another room and questioned her. Standard tactic, get people when they were tired and they let things slip they otherwise wouldn’t. It didn’t matter anyway—their citizen army answered every question they were asked truthfully, as Victor hadn’t been able to include anything as sophisticated as deception in his program. So their entire plan had been laid bare.

  Now Iona had been placed in a new cell and though she was allowed to sleep she couldn’t, despite exhaustion. Anxiety gnawed at her—fears about what had happened to Alyssa, about what would happen to her and Victor, about whether the Poramutantur would now get out. She wondered how close the citizens were to cracking the lock.

  As Iona pondered this question her eyes went to the door of her cell. Through the small grille window in the center she could see the back of a citizen’s head. It had been posted to stand guard. This meant long, long hours of doing basically nothing: standing and staring straight ahead.

  This seemed a considerable waste of processing power. Surely the sensible thing to do was to put the guards to work on the problem of escaping the cage.

  Maybe whoever had set this thing in motion was sensible.

  Iona walked to the door, put her mouth close to the grille, and quietly said, “Starlit sky.”

  The guard told her it was in the midst of processing data and asked if she would like a progress report.

  Iona said she would like this very much.

  * * *

  The king sat by his window and stared out across the city. He had told everyone he was not to be disturbed but as usual Clarence assumed this didn’t include him. The cat paced in and out of the chambers and sometimes the king could hear him talking to someone outside. The bureau was still searching for more of Alyssa’s associates. Clarence seemed to believe this was why the king was looking out of the window, that he was thinking about where traitors might still be lurking. But he wasn’t thinking about that at all.

  Clarence hopped up to the windowsill and shared the king’s view.

  After they’d both been sitting there a while in silence, the king said: “Maybe it’s time to let someone else have a go.”

  “A go at what?”

  “Being king.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Why’s that ridiculous?”

  “Who else could do the job?”

  “Anyone. What do I even do? Why do we even have a king? Everything runs itself.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Well yeah, you run most of it.”

  “No no no. I just advise.”

  “Y
ou could advise someone else, doesn’t have to be me.”

  “What would you do?”

  “Lots of things. I’d like to get into research.”

  “Research?”

  “Yeah, just . . . finding out how things work. We’re always making the city bigger and bigger and it seems like we never stop to think about, like, things outside the city—”

  Clarence was staring at the king like he’d brought up a distasteful subject.

  “It was just an idea.” The king took off his crown, turned it over in his hands. “But I did wonder, though—who would I be if I wasn’t the king?”

  “Well, this is what I’m saying—you’d have nothing to do.”

  “I don’t mean what would I do. Everyone calls me the king. If I wasn’t king, what would my name be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know everything,” said the king insistently. “Why haven’t I got a name, Clarence?”

  “You don’t need a name.”

  “Everyone else has got a name.”

  “Then we’ll get you one, if it makes you feel better.”

  The king went back to looking out of the window. He knew he had a name. He just wanted to see if Clarence knew it.

  * * *

  For the first time Iona was taking part in the kind of discussion the citizens had been engaging in for years, but which she had always felt excluded from. Without turning around the guard spoke to her in a calm, measured voice, explaining the latest thinking on how the door used by the figures could be opened. The citizens had built a virtual model of the door in their minds and all of them now shared it. The guard described the theoretical opening device they were designing. Iona, who knew a thing or two about doors and locks, responded with ideas of her own.

  The only frustrating part for Iona was that she couldn’t tell the citizen to open her cell. She could ask it for information and she could feed it information, but she couldn’t give it commands. It ought to obey her—that was why it had been made in the first place—but someone had gotten inside its programming and locked her out.