“Do you want to make this easy on us, or are we going to have to find everything ourselves?” asked the commander, scratching at the black hair of his left sideburn.
The man across from him was dark haired and square jawed. Despite his unshaved beard and generally slovenly appearance, he was handsome. His dark eyes betrayed anger, but not fear, as he faced his interrogator.
“Your boys handled that front door nicely,” scoffed the man.
Travis’ expression darkened. “Which one of you is Rod Haverly?”
“You’re talking to him.”
“Rodney, tell me why we’re here.”
“Roderick, and I didn’t invite you, so I don’t know.”
Stephanie jumped in and said, “You don’t look surprised enough to make me believe that. Why bother reinforcing your door like that? Does it buy you a few extra seconds when the Civil Guard come?”
“Wind blows pretty strong out here,” Rod answered. “It’s a precaution.”
An officer tapped Stephanie on her shoulder and she turned her attention to him as Travis continued questioning Roderick amid the chaos of the search.
“They’ve found a secret chamber in the basement, but it’s locked with a steel door,” he informed her in a low voice.
Stephanie nodded. “I’ll be there in a minute.” The officer nodded and moved away while Stephanie relayed the information to Travis.
Nodding and directing a knowing smile towards Rod, Travis said, “It seems you have a vault.”
“Are those illegal?”
“Would you care to open it for us?”
“Anything to speed this up.”
Escorted by Stephanie and Travis, one on each side firmly holding an arm, he was taken down the rickety steps to his basement and released from his handcuffs. He typed in his code and the door opened with a pop. Two officers rushed into the vault, guns at the ready. They emerged in a moment shaking their heads.
“It’s empty,” declared one.
“Scan it,” ordered Travis, a hint of irritation in his voice. One of the men left and Travis turned on Roderick. “We’re going to find anything you have.”
“Just so long as you put it back.”
“You know how I know you’re guilty?” Travis asked him, moving in close to his face, almost nose to nose. “Because you’re too good at being interrogated.”
“Thank you.”
“You can tell a career criminal by how used to questioning he is. How prepared his answers are.”
“I have no criminal record, officer.”
“For the moment,” replied Travis and pulled away from the man. “Take him back upstairs.”
The cabin was invaded by a horde of men and women with all sorts of instruments. Back and forth they went, over the yard, around the basement, under furniture… they found nothing. The five men were finally allowed to sit, though still cuffed, while officers repeatedly questioned them. They shivered in the now freezing cabin, one of them quite violently, but the Civil Guard were indifferent.
Stephanie regarded him with a smoldering anger. She had no doubt he was a specnine trafficker. No one reinforced their front door and kept an electronically operated steel vault in their basement for any other reason. The mailbox out front was also a giveaway. Mail was no longer delivered outside the city, but the mailbox itself could be a convenient signal. He was guilty, living outside the law. He had been given his boundaries, and he had transgressed. Sit there and shiver, she thought.
Hours later, as midday approached, Stephanie was still on the scene, sitting in the back of a transport and sharing a smoke with her comrades. The Torpedoes were parked, and the troops who weren’t specifically assigned to standing a post were lounging around, waiting for the order to head out. The operations vehicle sat in the front yard, antenna still rotating. Occasionally an officer would exit or enter, but the pace had slowed.
“Fucker should have made his payments,” commented one officer as he took a drag on a cigarette and passed it along to his mate.
“Naw, this one never made payments,” said another. “He got ratted out by someone who was. That’s why we’re here.”
“That’s what I’m saying: fucker should have made his payments.”
The cigarette came to Stephanie and she took a puff. It was not something she cared for, but it was a ritual she felt she could not afford to eschew. She inhaled as far as she dared – it would have looked bad to cough – and then passed the precious stick along.
“Talk like that and you’ll find yourself before the board in a hurry,” said a third man.
Somebody tossed a snowball at him. Stephanie did not react to the talk. It did not concern her and she preferred to ignore it. Captain Travis appeared at the back of the transport and caught her eye. He motioned for her to join him, so she hopped down and walked with her commander across the snow covered lawn, now torn up from hours of traffic.
“There’s nothing here. I’m gonna keep interrogating the smart mouth bastard a bit longer, let him freeze a bit, but we’re not going to find anything and he isn’t going to crack.”
Stephanie nodded. “I’ll set up a surveillance camera.”
“Don’t bother. These guys are professionals. They’ll find it and disable it. I’m going to give you the job. I want you to form a team, anything you need, and keep your eye on these guys. That’ll mean coming out here personally and keeping it under watch.”
Stephanie’s brows rose in surprise. “What about satellites?”
“Satellites are limited. We’ll need a force out here in person. I want these gentlemen in jail before the end of the month.”
“Yes, sir.”
Travis stopped walking and turned to face her. “They say a lot of good things about you back at the station.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Travis nodded. “You voted yet?”
“No, sir. I was going to as soon as I’m done here.”
“It’s about time for siesta.”
“In a little bit.”
Nodding again, Travis said, “Well, you can head on out of here. Get the teams debriefed and leave a small force with me.”
Stephanie nodded and turned to go.
“We’re voting Warwick.” Travis informed her.
Stephanie stopped in her tracks. “Sir?”
“You know that, right? We’re voting Warwick.”
Stephanie hesitated, and then tried to nod as confidently as she could. “Yes, sir. That’s my understanding.” She stood for a moment, staring at her commander who was leveling a penetrating gaze on her. A few strands of hair had gotten out of her helmet and now whipped across her face in the wind. To give herself an excuse to leave, she said, “I’ll get the troops dismissed.”
“See to it.”
***
Alistair was reclining in a private viewing booth. It was semicircular, with a small table in the middle, and it faced a screen on which a two dimensional movie was playing. The movie was in black and white, and its reflected glow danced about his features as he watched. The door opened and light streamed in around the hulking form of Oliver. Closing the door quietly, he tiptoed into the room, sitting across from Alistair and setting his drink on the table.
“Voted yet?” the big man asked his friend.
Alistair shook his head but did not look away from the screen. Oliver turned his attention to it for a few moments. A big fat man was walking along at night with a slighter man, while a third, grasping some sort of ancient electronic device, spied upon them. Ducking through iron beams and stepping over obstacles, he trailed their movements while the other two talked, their voices coming through on the receiver in his device.
“How old is this?” Oliver asked when he could feign interest no longer.
“Centuries.”
“Their accents are weird. Where is this from?”
Alistair smiled at his companion in friendly toleration. “It was filmed on Kaldis over two hundred years ago.”
“I
s that the Kaldisian accent?”
“One of them.”
Oliver watched for a few more moments. The two men were crossing a bridge. The spy followed along underneath, but as his receiver broadcast the conversation above, it echoed under the bridge and the big man stopped, noticing the echo.
“What’s it called?”
“Touch of Evil. It’s not the original. As far as we know, that was destroyed during the Second Solar War. This was a recreation by Florentino Amaya. He saw it a few times in his youth, when he studied on Earth, and when it was lost he refilmed it.”
“How close is it to the original?”
Alistair shrugged. “No one knows for sure. Amaya swore it was identical. But he was a pretentious bastard.”
Oliver watched as the fat man was shot and slowly sank into the river.
“And this was considered fun a long time ago?”
Alistair laughed. “Still is.”
Oliver shook his head. “I don’t know… two dimensional images are… boring. They don’t look real.”
“It’s the two dimensions that make it so superb,” said Alistair with passion. “Representing three dimensions on a two dimensional plane. You can do so much more. Look at the camera angles. Look at the way the camera moves, the way they present the image, the way it’s lit.”
“You can’t even see the whole scene,” complained Oliver. “With threedies you can see everything.”
“Exactly! There’s no artistry to it. With 2D’s the director can control what you see and what you don’t. He can control the perspective.”
“They could at least have filmed it in color.” Oliver shrugged, unconvinced, as the credits rolled. “Well, it looks like your 2D is over. The others are just arriving for lunch if you’re interested.”
“I’ll be right out.”
Alistair’s friends gathered at a large table in the central dining area, and they hailed him and Oliver when they spotted them. Gregory, Elizabeth, Henry and Jack were there, but Stephanie was not. Pulling up a chair, Alistair sank into it and a waitress, a young girl eager to give good service to her boss’s son, was immediately at his side.
“Just give me a good beer for now,” he said.
“We’re out of beer for the next two days,” she said with a wince. There were general groans about the table.
“Any juice?”
“A little.”
“I’ll take whatever we’ve got.”
“And I’ll have some red wine,” said Oliver.
“I’ll see what we have,” she replied and hurried off.
“No beer!” groaned Jack. “I had to go straight to whiskey.”
“That was probably hard for you,” said Henry in feigned sympathy. Jack answered by taking a healthy chug from his glass.
“Did anybody vote yet?” asked Elizabeth.
“Not voting,” said Jack, and Henry nodded in solidarity.
“I voted for Warwick,” she informed them.
“And I forget who I voted for,” Oliver said. “I just made damn sure it wasn’t Warwick.”
“I voted for Lexington,” said Gregory. “I can’t stand Warwick. Alistair?”
“Haven’t voted.”
“But… I imagine you’re going to vote for Warwick? Your Dad…”
“I’m not voting for Warwick.”
Gregory looked at him as if slightly confused, tilting his head a bit to the side, but he said nothing and neither did Alistair.
Turning to Oliver, Elizabeth said, “Do you really not remember who you voted for?”
“Actually, I think it was Lexington. I didn’t really care.”
“You shouldn’t vote carelessly,” she chided and gave him a kiss to soften it.
“I took great care to make sure I didn’t vote for Warwick,” Oliver insisted and returned her kiss, enveloping her in his left arm.
The waitress reappeared and set down the drinks. Alistair took a sip and then said, “You should have written yourself in.”
“They don’t allow them anymore,” Oliver reminded him and Alistair nodded in remembrance.
“Which party is Lexington?” Elizabeth asked.
“Libertarian,” Greg replied.
“They’re the ones who…?” she prompted.
“They’re the ones who were good a long time ago,” Alistair answered. “Before we were born.”
The waitress was back with their food, a community stew set in a big bowl with a serving spoon resting on the edge. Steam enticingly rose from the bowl. Oliver grabbed the spoon first, dumped generous servings onto his dish and then passed the spoon to Elizabeth.
“This is what we’re all getting?” queried Alistair.
“Menu’s a bit sparse today,” explained the waitress, and with that she was off to serve another table.
As they served themselves, Stephanie arrived, her cheeks ruddy and her nose dripping. She sat down next to Alistair and greeted her friends.
“Been working outside today?” asked Jack.
“Yeah, ready for some food,” she breathed as she set her coat on the back of her chair, revealing her uniform. Oliver tossed her a dish and Gregory handed her a spoon.
“Any word on the election?” Gregory asked the new arrival.
“Warwick’s going to win,” was her short reply.
Looking about the room, Alistair spotted his brother walking in with an air of searching for someone. A moment later, Gerald spotted the group and came to the table.
“Hello everyone,” he greeted them, his manner and tone businesslike. “Alistair, are you free tomorrow?”
“I am not,” said Alistair around a mouthful of steaming stew. Gerald seemed put out, though whether it was from the news or Alistair’s unhelpful tone and attitude was unclear.
“You’re busy all day?”
“Most of it.”
Alistair said nothing more and continued eating. When it became apparent he was going to let him stand there, Gregory jumped in.
“Would you care to eat with us, Gerald? We’re just getting started.”
Gerald surprised his brother by saying yes, and he took a seat next to Stephanie. Alistair stopped eating for a moment to give him a curious look but then went back to ignoring him.
“Everybody voted?” Gerald asked in a tone only Alistair knew well enough to know the question was not innocent.
Oliver pointed out the individual members of the group as he recapped. “No, no, Lexington, Warwick, no, and Lexington I think but anyone but Warwick,” he said, finishing with his finger on his own chest. “Stephanie?”
“Not yet, but I’ll be voting Warwick,” she replied, not looking up from her stew.
“I voted Warwick. That’s what the department is doing,” Gerald offered and then dug into his stew.
This roused Alistair from his deliberate aloofness. “What did you… the department is… what?” He finally finished with a vigorous shake of his head.
“We’re voting Warwick. That’s what we’re doing this year,” Gerald replied and then slurped broth from his spoon. “It’s all for the best anyway, because he seems like a suitable candidate.”
“We’re all voting Warwick too,” said Stephanie.
Alistair looked at them like they were crazy. “I’m sorry, that defeats the purpose of voting. Not that I give a shit but… who made this decision?”
“It came down from above,” Gerald replied.
“From above? But you don’t have to vote for him if you want to pick another candidate.”
“That’s not… not typically a great idea,” Gerald replied.
Stephanie confirmed this with a nod.
Alistair fell back in his chair. “This is unbelievable.”
“It’s for the best,” continued Gerald. “I think an incoming candidate has a right to the support of the bureaucracies he’s going to be working with and in charge of.”
“There’s always some excuse and someone willing to buy it,” said Alistair with a shake of his head. “I can’t
believe you’re taking this so… The hell with it. Tomorrow I’m starting the Revolution.”
This time it was Gerald’s turn to get agitated. He looked around the room for anyone listening to them. “Damn it, Alistair, some time the wrong person is going to hear you say that.”
“The wrong people have been hearing me say it all my life. I’m waiting for the right ones.”
Gerald’s face reddened but he contained his retort and concentrated instead on his stew. The talk eventually turned from politics. When the meal was finished, Gerald excused himself. The others sat around with their drinks until Stephanie excused herself to go vote, and this prompted everyone else to leave too.
Amid the general goodbyes, Oliver turned to Alistair and shook his hand. “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, then?” he asked.
Nodding, Alistair replied, “Tomorrow it is. See you then.”
Chapter 9
Realist Aloysius Warwick ran away with the election, Libertarian Henry Lexington finished a distant second and the vote totals of the others were hardly worth noticing. All over Aldra, from Avon to New Boston, New Kensington to Trenley, Waterdown to Rendral itself, landslide victories were recorded, and the Realists were quick to proclaim the message: the people had given them a mandate. Within hours of being sworn in, the new Realist Parliament appointed General Mortimer Duquesne as Aldra’s new President, it’s first non-Voluntarist President in a century.
The Realists engaged in the same sort of ancestor worship all regimes find so essential, holding up historical figures as simplistic but shining examples for today’s generations, or equally simplistic villains to be denigrated. In this effort the Realists resurrected few unfamiliar ghosts. Instead, they ransacked the Idealist temple and appropriated its idols. It was, for them, the path of least resistance, for the population could go on admiring the same figures, and since most people knew little enough about them to begin with, it was easy to alter perspectives. The result was that the heroes were still the same, they had simply been Realists all along.
Even words sacred to the idealists shifted in meaning and implication. This new breed of Aldran political leader was still strongly isolationist in the Aldran tradition, but isolationism now required foreign intervention. After all, they had been attacked by Kaldis despite their peacekeeping efforts. Isolation at home would be preserved by war abroad. The small peace keeping force had to be expanded.
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