“My question,” said the first timid speaker, his voice cracking as he spoke in front of the crowd, “is for candidate Aloysius Warwick. Mr. Warwick, we hear our nation has been attacked by the Kaldisians and the next attack may be imminent. What plans do you have for Arcarius as our planet struggles for the war effort?”
As Aloysius accepted a microphone to reply to the question his speech had already answered, Alistair neared the end of the line of questioners. Two armed Civil Guardsmen were coming up the aisle near the line’s end. Pausing for a moment, he felt his will drain out of him, but he steeled himself and descended once again. One of the two Civil Guards roughly placed a hand on his chest.
“My question is for candidate Warwick,” the next in line stated, her voice also quavering.
“No one else is getting in line,” the Guardsman informed Alistair.
“My parents are in the front row,” Alistair explained. “I’m just going down to see them.”
Dropping his hand from Alistair’s chest, the man looked away and nodded almost imperceptibly, already half forgetting his presence. While Aloysius answered the second question, Alistair slipped past the Guardsmen towards the front of the line.
“I also would like to ask a question of Mr. Warwick,” said the third in line, an elderly woman.
On stage, Aloysius nodded magnanimously, as if consenting to hear the question were a favor. Three of the other candidates maintained their pleasant smiles while one shuffled his feet.
As Aloysius listened to the question, nodding solemnly, posture always perfect, Alistair noted that every question had been for him. Sitting down in an empty seat, his resolve faded again now that he was near his objective. He nervously tapped his right foot and bit his lower lip. Do I really want to do this? he thought, gazing at an audience that now seemed, from the bottom of the amphitheater, to be of immense proportions.
When the fourth and fifth questioner also posed their questions to Aloysius, he was filled with a new determination, in defiance of Warwick’s monopoly on the evening. Blushing angrily, he popped out of his seat with a half swallowed growl and grabbed the microphone before it could be handed to the sixth in line.
“I was wondering,” he asked in that moment when everyone else around him was frozen in surprise, “if you could leave me out of your plans?”
Aloysius blinked. The other candidates exchanged bewildered looks and the entire amphitheater was silent. For a moment, Alistair fancied the rest of the populace in the park had stopped what they were doing to watch and listen. The thought made him want to throw the microphone away and pull his coat over his head. For all his anger of a moment ago, he nearly turned to run. The blush winter brings to one’s cheeks was magnified a thousand times on his visage.
Next to him, the man from whom Alistair stole the microphone cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to say something, but Alistair plunged on.
“What I mean is, can I opt out?” There was motion now among the crowd. The mic man next to him looked around for assistance, and he could hear the whispers and murmurs of the crowd. Aloysius looked around as if someone else might be able to explain this to him. “I’m speaking to you, Mr. Warwick.” Aloysius’ gaze snapped back to Alistair. “Can I opt out? If I decide I don’t want to participate, can I decline your program or am I obligated to go along?”
Seeing no imminent intervention, Aloysius replied, “This isn’t a meal at a restaurant, boy. We’re talking about running the nation.”
One of the other candidates stood up to take advantage of a chance to show leadership. “Can we get some security in here?” he called out in his best version of a commanding tone. He even stuck his chest out for better effect.
“But what if it were more like a restaurant?” asked Alistair. “Imagine a restaurant where one man is elected to choose what everyone will eat, how much they will pay, when they will eat, what they will drink, what they may wear, what music will play… I’m simply requesting the right to order my own meal, or to go to a different restaurant, or perhaps build my own. I do not wish to fight Kaldis, I do not wish to be taxed, I do not wish to be told what I may ingest and what not, I do not wish to be put in a line when I need medical care, I do not wish to be directed as to how I may work and for what wages, I do not wish to be told whom I may hire…” In the middle of his speech, his throat closed up on him and he paused to get himself under control. “I do not wish to be a part of your system.” His voice quavered at the end, and he imagined the effect, coming from someone of his size, must have been comical. He fought against his embarrassment and continued. “So my question is, will you let me be to live my life how I want, or are you going to force me into your system? And if you force me into your system, by what right do you do this?”
And then he was seized by several hands and dragged away. Dropping the mic, he allowed himself to be carried along, resigned to whatever sentence he would be given for his display and almost relieved he would soon be safe from the penetrating gaze of the public. He avoided all eye contact with those who watched as he was pulled out of the amphitheater. It was only after he left that he realized the hands pulling him along were not of the Civil Guard, but of his father and brother. They dragged him farther away, to a copse of trees and, with Mary and Katherine not far behind, took refuge in it.
Nigel’s face was flushed with fury. “What the hell has gotten into you!?”
“You’re a damn fool!” Gerald’s outburst followed close on the heels of Nigel’s. “What the hell do you think you’re accomplishing?”
“I asked a few questions,” Alistair said with a feigned innocence that only enraged his brother further.
Gerald lashed out and shoved his younger sibling full in the chest. Though he had not carefully built his body like Alistair, he was still the son of Mary Ashley and was naturally big and strong. Alistair stumbled backwards. Gerald looked ready to continue but Katherine put a restraining hand on his arm.
“Why would you do something like that?” asked Mary of her youngest son, her eyes betraying pain.
“Mom, can’t you see what’s going on? What kind of world is this where I can’t ask questions of the men who run my life? You’re scared to death for me because of a few questions!”
“That’s right. We are,” said Katherine. “For our sake can you avoid trouble for once?”
“Trouble? I just asked a question.”
“Drop the act,” said Nigel through gritted teeth.
“I’m not acting. Open your eyes! ALL I DID WAS ASK A QUESTION. I’ll repeat my last one: what kind of world do we live in where asking a question is dangerous?”
Gerald spun around and walked off muttering, clutching at his head like he wanted to tear through his own scalp. Nigel sighed and approached his son, gripping him gently by the upper arm.
“It’s just a question, Dad,” said Alistair in the most reasonable tone he could muster. “If our government can’t take a simple question, I say we should get rid of it.”
“Alistair,” said Nigel, his tone as gentle as his grip, “I’m at risk to lose my restaurant. Your brother works for the Transportation Bureau. There are going to be repercussions for what you did tonight if anyone connects us to you. For our sake, stop fighting and just accept things.”
It was something he hadn’t considered, and his shoulders slumped. His father’s words felt like a knee to the gut, and his rebellious spirit fought against a rising tide of guilt.
“We used the same tactic on Kaldis,” he said through a mirthless smile. “When we needed to get to someone, we’d kidnap a family member, and we’d publicize it. Then we’d wait, and every once in a while it worked. They’d turn themselves in.”
Gerald had managed to calm down a bit and made his way back to the copse of trees. “Aldra did that?” he asked, the surprise of it peeling away his armor and exposing something more vulnerable underneath.
“All it really did was enrage whatever poor city we were trying to control. All it really did w
as escalate the violence.”
Nigel squeezed his son’s arm. “Don’t be the one to escalate the violence. Not now. For your family, Alistair.”
He shook his head in disbelief, but then looked his dad in the eyes. “If they take your restaurant…”
The implied threat hung in the air until Oliver and Henry came running to the copse of trees. They were both breathless.
“You need to leave now,” panted Henry, his frail hand grasping Alistair’s bicep and tugging at it. “Stephanie told us to get you.” Alistair allowed himself to be taken for a moment, and then his instincts kicked in and he took a more active role.
“Walk with me,” said Oliver to the Ashley’s while Alistair left with Henry. “I’ll go with you and maybe they’ll mistake me for Alistair.”
The five of them began to stroll leisurely in the opposite direction from Henry and Alistair.
“What the hell got into him?” whispered Gerald. The unnecessary whisper was subconscious, a natural reaction when one thinks one is being watched.
“He’s had enough,” Oliver replied. “So have a few others.”
***
There had been some debate as to the manner in which the Ashley’s should return home. Oliver offered to accompany them but Nigel, thanking him, said it would not be necessary. They opted to blend in with the crowd in the Metro. The walk from the station to Nigel’s restaurant and the family home was a quiet one. Nigel and Gerald walked in front while Katherine and Mary hung back. Like the expressions on their faces, the thoughts of the four were nearly identical.
“He’s an idiot,” Gerald muttered, hoping to spark some sort of discussion to crack the silence.
“He’s your brother,” Nigel answered as if that fact settled the matter. “We’re all proud of your work for the Bureau, but don’t ever forget your family comes first. Before friends, before your job… before your country. He’s headstrong, but he’s your brother. Family always comes first.”
Gerald considered the words in silence as they neared the dark structure of their house.
***
Oliver was one of the last to return home. He waited around until he found Elizabeth. The Metro car they rode was nearly empty, and the only sound was the soft hum of its machinery. Staring off into space, Elizabeth held against her lips Aloysius’ rose, twirling it lightly back and forth. Every so often she would inhale more deeply than normal, and each time Oliver winced.
“I wish you’d get rid of that,” said the rugby star for the fourth time.
Elizabeth, bothered out of her reverie, fixed an impatient gaze on him. “Would you forget about it already?”
“It’s difficult to forget when you’re waving it in my face.”
Elizabeth turned away from him with an exasperated groan. “I’m not waving it in your face.”
“You might as well be.”
“It’s a nice gift. I like it. Just let me have it,” she pouted.
Oliver leaned forward, fixing his fingers into a steeple that he pressed to his forehead. “Elizabeth, a man does not give a woman a rose without a very specific reason. That is doubly true for someone like Warwick.”
“It’s a sweet little gift. Stop being so jealous.” Her look was almost patronizing. “I’m not interested in him.”
“Can you show me that by getting rid of the rose?” She did not respond. “Elizabeth, when was the last time you saw a rose in this city in winter? This is not an innocent flirt.”
“Stop being jealous.”
“I wouldn’t be jealous if I didn’t have a reason to be.”
Elizabeth dropped the rose in her lap and turned to address Oliver. “Why do you think you get so jealous, Ollie?”
“Stop it,” Oliver growled.
“Is it some sort of insecurity from childhood? Or is it just the normal competition between males? Maybe some sort of abandonment issue?”
“You’re not a psychologist!” Oliver nearly exploded. “Stop pretending. You didn’t even make it into university.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than he regretted them. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone of voice much softer, supplicating.
Elizabeth turned back in her seat to face forward, picking the rose up once again, her face a stoic wall threatening to crack under strain.
“Elizabeth, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it—”
“No, you’re quite right. I’m not a psychologist and I never will be. I wasn’t approved for a university education… like you said.” Her voice was as frosty as the winter wind.
Oliver slumped in his seat. “That was a terrible thing to say. I’m sorry I said it. I shouldn’t have. But I wish you wouldn’t try to analyze every damn thing I do—”
“I think this is my stop,” she said, standing up and waiting for Oliver to let her out. When he did, she brushed by without a backward glance and, carrying the rose prominently in her hand, left him in the Metro car.
Chapter 8
The mountains north of Arcarius were topped with snow all year long, and as winter approached, the snowline descended steadily into the valleys until the island was entirely white. In the sparsely inhabited interior of the island, Stephanie Caldwell lay on her belly in that snow, next to her precinct commander and dressed in white camouflage body armor. As the wind fiercely whipped the frozen precipitate across the ground, she squinted into a pair of binoculars aimed at an innocuous looking log cabin half a kilometer up slope from them. Behind her, at the bottom of the hill and concealed by the natural lumps and divots, were about a dozen Civil Guardsmen, all armed. An operations vehicle sat on the side of the dirt road, its antenna rotating. A few Guardsmen hurriedly rushed in and out of it, purpose in their strides and a glow in their faces the cold weather could not fully account for.
Stephanie lowered the binoculars. “At least a handful of people inside. They’re not on to us.”
“I agree,” said her commander and put his lips, adorned with a thin dark mustache, to a microphone sewn into the wrist of his body armor. “We’ve got at least three visible targets inside. Targets are unaware, over.” The commander paused and listened to the reply in his earpiece. Nodding, he said, “Copy that. On my signal.” To Stephanie he said, “We’re going in five.”
He slid a few feet down slope and then stood up and waded through snow the rest of the way to the operations vehicle. Stephanie raised the binoculars to her eyes and surveyed the wood cabin one last time. From a stone chimney gray smoke issued to be carried away and dispersed by the strong wind. A driveway was not so covered by snow that its form could not be discerned as it wound through the yard and out to the dirt road snaking through the hilly country. The snow covering the driveway showed one set of auto tracks, and at the end of the driveway was a mailbox in good condition, a reminder of the times when mail was still delivered to the interior of the island.
“We’re on in three,” crackled the voice of her commander in her earpiece. “Find your place.”
Stephanie slid down and made her way to the armored carrier rolling up the dirt road to meet her. An officer in the back gave her a hand up and she took her place with about twenty other officers. She was handed a rifle and sat down on a bench along the side while the transport pulled up to the driveway entrance.
“McCartney,” she said, “Take your men left. Dillard, you’re going right and around the back. Keller, you’re coming with me to the front door. When Dillard gives the signal, we’ll follow Captain Travis inside. Be ready for anything.”
They sat in silence, twenty plumes of visible breath, ten on each side, desultorily puffing out. A soft click announced someone was rechecking his magazine. An officer cleared his throat. Suddenly, the siren wailed.
The wheels of the transport tore into the snow and dirt and it pitched forward as all twenty bodies swayed with the movement. Outside, the hum of gliders, a sort of hover-motorcycle called a Torpedo, announced the arrival of additional Guardsmen. The transport braked and Stephanie exhorted her troops to move out. She followed,
her feet landing in the ankle deep snow and, along with Keller, fell to her belly next to Captain Travis, all three with guns pointed at the cabin. Inside, a face appeared at the window and just as quickly disappeared.
“We’re in position, Captain,” said the voice in the helmet, and Travis looked at Stephanie and nodded.
She, Keller and Travis rose up and, flanked by two men with a hand-held battering ram, approached the front door. The two burly men with the battering ram did not hesitate to smash their instrument into the front door but, to their astonishment, it held. Another blow yielded the same result. Anxiously, Stephanie tapped her finger on her rifle as she pointed it at a front window.
“It’s reinforced, sir!” called out one of the men.
“Take out the window!” yelled Travis.
The two men moved to the side and smashed their ram into a front window, shattering it. Travis and Stephanie flanked the window on either side, pointing their rifles inside. Five men stood around a table, having recently been involved in a card game, with their hands raised, their faces looking bewildered.
“Get down on the ground!” Stephanie ordered them. “Face down and hands out! Get down now!” The men hastily complied. “Is there anyone else in the house?” The men looked from one to another and finally one shook his head.
Keller leaped in through the window and, after some deliberation with the locks, opened the door from the inside. Travis, Stephanie and several others poured in. The men were handcuffed and half a dozen officers searched the cabin. Papers and other objects were soon scattered everywhere. Travis grabbed one of the men and, lifting him up, sat him on one of the chairs around the small kitchen table. He took a seat across from him while Stephanie stood at her commander’s side.
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