Come the Revolution - eARC

by Frank Chadwick

He shivered in the rain, ran the palms of his hands over his face, the same gesture he’d used when we first talked. I slapped his hands away from his face.

  “Stop stalling! Stop trying to think up a lie. For once tell me the goddamned truth!”

  He looked at me, terrified, but after a moment he shook his head. He might be afraid of me, but there was something he feared more.

  Aurora walked forward and looked at him, at the hunched, shivering man who’d raised her.

  “I know why,” she said.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  One problem in Sookagrad those days was the lack of privacy. Folks had been pretty packed together before everything started going to hell, and events since then had compounded the problem. Moshe got us the use of Doc Mahajan’s office and left the three of us alone there. He displayed more sensitivity to our “family issue” than I thought necessary, but when someone offers you a thoughtful and generous gesture, accept it and shut up.

  I sat behind Doc’s desk and my father sank into the chair across from me, eyes on the floor. Aurora stood leaning against the wall, full of nervous energy which seemed to keep her from sitting still.

  “So what do you know?” I asked her.

  “She knows nothing,” our father said without looking up.

  “How could I live with you, then near you, for a quarter of a century and not know something?” she demanded. “You didn’t think I was curious? I am an investigative reporter. You never thought I investigated you?”

  For the first time he looked up and at her. Panic flashed across his face, and then he as quickly looked away. I glanced at her and saw her blink once, slowly, then look steadily at her father as she resumed talking. He wasn’t watching, so I don’t think he realized that everything from then on was being recorded.

  “Peezgtaan was full of biochemists,” she said, “all of them suddenly no longer employed by AZ Tissopharm or Simki-Traak. Don’t you wonder, Sasha, why AZ Kagataan would single out this one biochemist and offer to rescue him from the chaos engulfing that world?”

  “The question crossed my mind.”

  She looked at our father before continuing. “You published five papers before we emigrated to Peezgtaan, three of them on exotic neurotoxins. Once you were on Peezgtaan, no more publications. Why?”

  He shrugged. “All my work there was proprietary.”

  “Yes, the intellectual property of AZ Tissopharm. But then Tissopharm dissolved, and the research was still in your head. What was it you were working on which AZ Kagataan wanted so desperately?”

  He looked up and grimaced. “If they had wanted it ‘desperately,’ they would have provided four seats, not two. What difference does it make now? There were potential commercial applications from some of the neurotoxins in the Peezgtaan native-form molds—psychotropic drugs.”

  She laughed. “You haven’t been working for twenty-seven years on psychotropic drugs. The CSJ did not send four assassins to silence you over psychotropic drugs! I don’t know all the details, but much of it began making sense to me two years ago, when it finally came out that the Peezgtaan native mold forms are based on Human-compatible protein. You are developing Human-specific weaponized biotoxins, aren’t you?”

  I watched his head twitch just a little, his eyes flick up, then to the right, and I knew he was making up a lie.

  He blinked a couple times and then nodded. “Yes, I admit it. It is true. We have developed several neurotoxin protein strains which are Human-specific.”

  So then he told us about how AZ Kagataan had been working on weaponized biotoxins, covertly, for about twenty years, how the psychotropic drug research had mutated into this black op—black because there was a whole string of Cottohazz Wat edicts out there banning bioweapon research. He had a lot of detail, stuff which could only be known by someone on the inside, which made the story very persuasive. Aurora listened intently, nodding from time to time, almost glowing with the satisfaction that came from vindication and confirmation after years of growing suspicion.

  Back in the old country they had a word: maskuvannya—the Russians said maskirovka, same thing. It meant deception, a scam to convince someone one thing is true in order to conceal a different, bigger truth. Maskuvannya always worked best when you tried to convince someone that what they already wanted to believe was in fact true.

  The use, by one species, of bugs which killed another sentient species but left their own unaffected could tear the Cottohazz apart and lead to a massive interstellar war along species lines, possibly a war to extinction. As much friction as there was in the Cottohazz, it never quite broke unambiguously along species lines, which is probably why the ramshackle commonwealth had managed to stagger on for so long. This bioweapon stuff was a really, really big deal, which is what made it such a persuasive maskuvannya. Aurora was buying it because she wanted to be right about her suspicions, and it was potentially the biggest story in a generation. I pretended to buy it, but I wondered what it was hiding.

  What could be a bigger secret than that?

  * * *

  I sent the old man back to Katranjiev’s headquarters building along with an armed guard, told the guard to keep him there under restraint. My father was potentially valuable, but I didn’t want him under foot where folks were doing important work. That was probably unfair to all the folks working long hours at headquarters, but I couldn’t figure out what they were doing or what difference it made. Not their fault Katranjiev had mired himself in bureaucracy, but they could keep an eye on the old man in between processing requests to be added to the official membership rolls of the Sookagrad Merchants’ and Citizens’ Association, and then updating same. Maybe they’d put him to work collating or something.

  I asked Aurora to stay and she finally sat down, as if the old man not being around took away the tension that kept her so wired up.

  “This CSJ guy we caught is fitted with a bio-recorder,” I said. “I’m wondering if there’s any way to erase its memory without killing him.”

  She kept looking right at me, her eyes not moving. “Why would you ask me?”

  We sat there looking each other in the eyes for a few seconds, and then her expression changed from mild curiosity to rueful surrender.

  “How long have you known?”

  “Since back on Stal’s rooftop, the night of the big attack.”

  She nodded. “Not many people know about bio-recorders, not that they are a big secret. There’s just not much interest or demand outside of a couple narrow fields. I’m not recording this, by the way. The agent knows things you don’t want to get out, but you don’t want to kill him. That’s interesting.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “interesting and possibly academic. I may get outvoted, not that I really have a vote, but if we did want to keep him alive is there a way to wipe his recorder’s memory?”

  She looked down and thought for a few seconds, then looked up again. “You want to wipe my recorder memory as well?”

  I didn’t actually, but if I said so, there was as much chance she’d take it as a deceptive attempt to manipulate her, and put her on the defensive, as there was she’d believe me. I didn’t know her well enough to guess which way she’d break.

  “No promises,” I said.

  She nodded a couple times, thinking that over. Finally she shrugged. “Yes, you can wipe his system memory with a strong electromagnet focused on the memory field, which is usually along the forward surface of the spine, between the third and sixth vertebrae. At least that’s where mine is. Your med techs can find it with bio-scanners set to look for silicon. That will also temporarily disable his recorder until he can get it reprogrammed.”

  “Okay, thanks. And no, I’m not going to scrub your recorder memory. We may need it down the road.”

  “What do you want here?” she asked. “And I’m still not recording. I just want to know.”

  I wasn’t sure what she was getting at. “What do any of us want? To survive this mess, to get back to our families, to
get on with lives.”

  “The same lives as before?” she asked. “The same shabby dead-end lives as always?”

  Good question. Want it or not, I didn’t see how life could ever get back to just exactly what it was before, but if not the same, then what? Better or worse? Hopefully better, but how?

  “There are a lot of non-Varoki in the Cottohazz,” I said. “If we can get the bulk of them to see what’s going on here, what’s going on under all the public slogans about consent of the governed and rights of the races, maybe we’ll see some real changes.”

  She looked away and pursed her lips in thought, but then shook her head. “Hard to see how. I’ve been covering it for a decade now, all the political wheeling and dealing. The intellectual property covenants are at the heart of the economic stranglehold the Varoki trading houses have over the whole Cottohazz, and those aren’t changing.”

  “Why not? The Varoki have fewer than 40 votes out of 172 in the Cottohazz Wat.”

  “The IP covenants are not legislation,” she said, “they’re integral to the Cottohazz charter, and that cannot be amended without a supermajority.”

  “What’s a supermajority?”

  “It’s an absolute majority of every one of the six circles, the six races. You can’t alter that, or any other part of the charter, without getting a majority of the Varoki wattaaks to agree.”

  Huh! Well, so much for plan A. That wasn’t going to happen, was it? I figured Plan B was Zdravkova’s answer: a revolt, maybe even open warfare between the races. But I was pretty sure we’d get our asses kicked, given the economic and technological differences, and that was even without some Human-specific superbug AZ Kagataan might or might not have perfected. That could leave Humans knocked back to our own world, maybe bombed back to the stone age, and that’s if crazies like Gaant didn’t get in charge and just solve the “Human Problem” once and for all.

  So what was Plan C?

  Well, I guessed whatever it was it was above my pay grade. I had a family to survive for and get back to. Unconventional and multispecies as that family might be, as far as I was concerned it was still the only real family I had, these two new strange blood-acquaintances notwithstanding.

  * * *

  “Naradnyo, shake your lazy ass and get out here!” I heard Zdravkova shout to me through the open doorway of Ivanov’s main fabrication building, which was starting to look like a mad scientist’s workshop. I handed back the long composite penetrator dart with the tungsten tip and walked over to see what was up.

  “What?” I said. Brilliant sunlight poured through the open doorway, all but blinding me, as my eyes had adjusted to the dim interior of Ivanov’s lair. I stepped out and felt the sun warm my skin, and I smiled. I’ve always loved sunny days, and now even more so since sunlight meant electricity, electricity to run autodocs and fabricators, cook food and light shelters, charge gauss rifle magazines, and even store up some extra juice in those scavenged vehicle battery packs for a rainy day. Literally for a rainy day.

  “What’s got you so excited?” I asked.

  “Some more refugees snuck through the militia lines this afternoon,” she said. “I’m damned if I know what to do with them, but they should tickle you.”

  My eyes were adjusting to the light and I saw a group of tall refugees, about a dozen of them, walking down the street. When I recognized who they were I sucked in a quick breath and felt my skin tingle with the sudden jolt of adrenaline.

  “Varoki refugees? Coming here? Why?”

  I walked over and stood beside her as she watched them approach.

  “Because they heard we were holding out against the militia,” she said. “Because they’re loyalists, because the junta was demanding they sign loyalty pledges, taking over their homes, starting to arrest folks. Because somehow they heard about Captain Prayzaat’s appeal, and they think we’re the closest Municipal Police.

  “What the hell do we do with them?”

  I looked at her and I saw something shining in her eyes.

  “You know what we do with them. We protect them. It’s our job. We are the police.”

  She looked at them for several long seconds, then sniffed and shook her head, but in wonder rather than negation. “This is so strange,” she said, her voice hoarse.

  Yes it was: strange and terrible and wonderful.

  I looked back at the refugees, and then I had another jolt as I recognized one of the faces.

  “Borro?”

  The’On’s personal bodyguard, who I’d last seen the day of the first riots in Praha-Riz, left the group and walked over to me. He was dirty, clothes torn, and half his face and head was concealed in a bloody bandage. We shook hands.

  “Hello Sasha. I had almost despaired of ever seeing you again, but I thought if you were still alive I might find you here. I am afraid I have some very bad news.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  My face flushed, I felt dizzy with fear, and a surge of panic constricted my chest and throat, but I swallowed hard and found my voice.

  “Marr? Has something happened to her? Is it Tweezaa? Is the baby all right?”

  Borro must have recognized the look in my eyes for what it was and he stepped forward, put his hands on my shoulders.

  “No, your family is safe and well, Sasha. E-Lotonaa as well. I am sorry if I made you think otherwise. Please put your mind to rest on that score.”

  Relief didn’t exactly flood through my system. The panic which came to visit had been too real, so it hung around for a while, sizing things up. I clenched my fists to keep my hands from trembling, forced myself to breathe slowly and deeply, from down in my belly. That doesn’t make you less afraid, but it helps relax your throat and upper body, which keeps your voice from shaking. That’s important. When you can’t not be afraid, all you have is not showing it. I saw Zdravkova beside me, watching me, surprised at what she saw.

  “What?” I asked her, and it came out harsher than I intended.

  “Nothing,” she said, and turned to Borro. “So is the bad news personal for Naradnyo, or do we all get to share the joy?”

  “I am afraid the latter,” Borro said.

  * * *

  “This is Borro, the personal bodyguard for The Honorable Arigapaa e-Lotonaa of the Consular Corps of the Cottohazz Executive,” I said, introducing him to the troika and Captain Prayzaat. I turned to him. “You know, as long as I’ve known you, I don’t know the rest of your name.”

  “Borro is sufficient, my friend,” he said.

  “Yeah, it’s sufficient for me anyway.” I turned back to the others. “I’ve known Borro for over two years, went through hell with him on K’Tok, and almost got killed with him during the first riot at Praha-Riz. I trust him with my life. You don’t know him so I’m sure you’re skeptical, and I understand. But for whatever value you place on it, I vouch for him.”

  We were gathered in Captain Prayzaat’s small headquarters, or at least the room dressed as a holovid set to look like one. He’d spent the last few days here, holed up with his three troopers with not much constructive to do. We tried to keep him informed, sought his advice when we had time, but he probably had a lot more influence outside of Sookagrad than inside it. The only people in Sookagrad outside this room who knew he was even here were his three patrolmen and Ted, the vid tech. I think Aurora was beginning to suspect, but she probably wasn’t sure yet. Just bringing Borro into the circle required a major leap of faith on the troika’s part, but they’d done it without much persuasion once they got a load of what he had to say.

  “I appreciate your assessment, Mr. Naradnyo,” Captain Prayzaat said. “Do you believe there is a possibility this new intelligence is linked to the CSJ raid last night?”

  My initial reaction was to just deny it, but I realized there were a lot of ways they could be related, and I took a little while to think about them, but I ended up shaking my head anyway.

  “Not directly. I mean, I don’t think CSJ is working with the junta or th
e militia. Gaant’s speech that first day of the coup, the one about how ‘the Cottohazz can rot’ is just the sort of thing to make the provosts roll their eyes back up into their heads and swallow their tongues. Really, I can hardly think of anything more calculated to drive those guys into a seizure than talk like that. The Cottohazz forever, that’s what CSJ believes. From their point of view, the Gaantists are worse bad guys than we are.”

  “And the raid?” Prayzaat asked.

  “Only reason CSJ would try to kill my father is if he knew something which, if revealed, would damage or destabilize the Cottohazz.” I then spent a moment thinking about that. Other than a species-specific superbug, what could a biochemist specializing in exotic neurotoxins know which could destabilize the Cottohazz?

  “You said no direct relation,” he said. “But indirectly?”

  Katranjiev jumped into the discussion. “Their raid and the military buildup could be independent responses to a common external pressure. Your appeals and directives, Captain Prayzaat, along with our local bulletins, must be paying off. They must both feel as if the time for action is running out, that whatever is going to get done has to get done right now.”

  For a change, I thought Katranjiev might have hit the nail on the head. Prayzaat nodded as well.

  “Very well, let me hear the details of this buildup.”

  Borro repeated what he’d already told the rest of us, but in more detail this time. Lots of logistical units, supply dumps, mess facilities, and mobile med units for casualty treatment. Headquarters in place along with laser communication hubs, which would cut through the jamming provided they had a line of sight to their receiver. The logistics people had been showing up all last night and this morning, and now the first combat units were arriving: APCs carrying regular infantry, some light combat walkers, and at least a handful of gunsleds that Borro had seen himself, out west of our lines. He hadn’t seen any indirect fire support assets, but he’d been close to our lines when the combat units started showing. The support weapons, if they were there, would be farther to the rear.