“Let’s listen to them play,” he suggested and turned his seat around, presenting Stephanie with his back.
“I don’t want to be shipped off to some other planet to fight a war,” muttered Henry.
“You and me and Oliver will be shipped south to work in the mines, I bet,” said Jack.
“Don’t count on it,” said Oliver. “They’ll get old folks to do that. We’re going to Kaldis to fight on the front lines.”
Katherine approached their table. Her smile, as she passed by guests, was a faint imitation of Nigel’s as he glad-handed bureaucrats. But whereas Nigel’s smile was enough to fool all but those who knew him best, Katherine never managed to erase the worry lines, nor make the stress disappear. When she reached Alistair’s table she did not bother with a preamble.
“Mom wants some help serving the spatch.” She followed that with, “Hello everyone.”
Nodding, Alistair rose from his seat and followed his sister to the kitchen where a large cauldron of spatch was boiling. Mary was standing over it with a paddle-size spatula and stirring in slow circles while Gerald was testing the concoction. Dissatisfied, he grabbed a container and poured in a little more cinnamon.
“Don’t add any more,” said Mary. “We don’t have time.” Looking up, she saw her daughter and youngest son joining them. “I hope we have enough,” she said, managing a tired smile.
“It’s free,” said Alistair. “I’ll personally deal with anyone who has the nerve to complain about the quantity.”
“Perhaps you might care to go easy on certain officials here tonight,” suggested Gerald coldly while he put the cap back on the cinnamon container. “Unless you prefer to be homeless.”
Alistair opened his mouth to reply but Katherine shoved a tray into his gut with enough force that he might have expelled some air had he a more civilian midsection.
“Let it go. Give everyone a bowl, and then come back for some clean glasses.”
Alistair took the tray, stacked some empty bowls on it, and went from seat to seat, setting the bowls down in front of their guests. The atmosphere was buoyed somewhat by the music played by the quartet, and the conversations were growing louder accordingly. Alistair briefly exchanged a few pleasantries with relatives and friends, endured a few introductions to people he did not know, and said nothing at all to the politicians. As he went back to the kitchen for more bowls, his mother came out with some fresh glasses, followed by Katherine with a pitcher of water, their only beverage aside from liquor.
In the kitchen, Gerald was scooping some of the spatch into a smaller kettle. “I’ll need your help carrying this,” he said.
Alistair stood next to the kettle to wait until Gerald had finished filling it with spatch. “What do you know about the draft?”
Gerald did not divert his gaze from his work but he answered, “As much as you. It’s obviously needed for the war. How extensive it will be I don’t know. Probably it’s coming soon.”
“The government can’t even feed us adequately and they’re ready to send us off to fight a war?”
“Grab the handle on your side and lift together,” was Gerald’s response.
***
When Alistair made it back to his table, Elizabeth was showing off her new firearm. They were outlawed on Aldra without a special permit, a permit everyone understood no ordinary citizen could acquire. Yet there she was, producing from her purse a small, sleek little pistol that fired concussion charges powerful enough to kill a man with no armor on.
Her friends were slack-jawed in shock.
“How the hell did you get a permit for that?” asked Oliver, only just managing to keep his jaw off the floor.
“With the riots and everything I thought I’d need it,” she said defensively. “Especially in the winter when the city’s practically empty.”
“I didn’t ask why. I asked how.”
Elizabeth passed the gun around, starting with Stephanie. “You just have to know who to ask.”
Stephanie held the gun lightly in her hand. She passed it on to Greg with a nod of her head. “That will do the trick. But Elizabeth,” she hesitated only a second, “I’m a Civil Guard officer. I have to ask for the permit.”
Elizabeth happily complied, proffering it with pride. Stephanie gave it a glance and nodded her head, handing the permit back.
“The gun’s yours.”
When the gun had been passed around, Elizabeth reclaimed it and put it back in her purse.
“So how did you get the permit?” asked Oliver again. “You aren’t that beautiful.”
Elizabeth gave him a withering look. “Please, Oliver. I need it for protection. Let it be.”
“We could all use one for protection,” said Alistair. “You have to be connected to get one, though.”
“Aloysius,” said Oliver, his hands dropping to the table top with a pair of thuds. His face darkened several shades. “That’s how you got it.”
Elizabeth didn’t react except to blush. Oliver shook his head with a grimace but didn’t pursue the inquiry.
Little more was said. Oliver was brooding, and his dark mood infected the others, just as his jovial ones did. After the meal was finished and the guests sat around with a last cup of brandy or other spirit, one of the politicians stood up and proposed a toast. The musicians stopped in the middle of their song, and conversation in the hall died down.
“A toast to a fine evening, with a fine and generous host,” he boldly proclaimed, his strong and rich voice just the sort to convince complete strangers he was qualified to run their lives. Nigel smiled, a genuine one, and bowed his head humbly. “And a patriot,” the councilman added. “Two of his children work for Aldra, and the third recently returned from a four cycle tour of duty on Kaldis.” With his glass, the man indicated Alistair, sitting at the far end of the dining hall. The guests all applauded, but Alistair ducked his head behind Oliver and mutely stared at the table, his cheeks as red as cherries.
As the applause died down, the man continued. “And now Nigel himself is called upon to contribute to our nation.” A pause for dramatic effect met with silence. “His restaurant sits on an important location, within easy reach of the mines and not far from the space port. He has been called upon to sell his restaurant to the city, and the deal was authorized this morning.”
The politicians and bureaucrats clapped, but few who knew Nigel well did more than lightly touch hands a couple times, their expressions pained. For his part, Alistair sat in shock. He looked for his father and found him, seated with Mary and some relatives. Nigel’s expression was a mix of embarrassment, anger and shock; not very different from his youngest son’s.
“That son of a bitch,” Alistair whispered fiercely, feeling his pulse rise and his limbs shake. He was oddly aware he spit some saliva from his mouth with the force of his curse and it landed on the back of a man sitting in front of him. Oliver grabbed his friend’s forearm and held him in his seat. Alistair had not even realized he had begun to stand up. “That goddamn son of a bitch!” he said more loudly, and a few nearby heads turned.
“Save it for later,” Oliver cautioned with urgency. “Don’t do this now. I’ll help you do it later, but right now calm yourself.” Grabbing Alistair more firmly, he guided him back to down to his seat.
“He of course will be reimbursed for his sacrifice,” the politician intoned. “But we all know Nigel and his dedication. The pride he feels for Aldra I am sure he considers payment enough.”
“I am going to slit throats,” Alistair quietly raged, his jaw clenched. “This is my goddamn house! I am going to slit throats!” Oliver squeezed his arm again.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” concluded the politician, pointing a hand towards the host, “Nigel Ashley. A true Aldran patriot.” The politician clapped, and the applause was taken up by the others, though there was no soul in it. Nigel himself rose uncertainly and managed a weak smile. He quickly sat back down – or his knees gave out, the result was the same – and j
ust as quickly the applause died down. Mrs. Ashley pursed her lips and tears threatened to run down her cheeks.
What followed would have been an uncomfortable silence the musicians could have filled with a melody. Most of the guests would have sat quietly for a moment, but eventually would have recovered enough to accompany the music with a bit of conversation. This was not to be, for at that moment there came the sound of an explosion, distant but close enough that the silverware rattled on the table. The crowd gasped in unison and all heads turned to the windows.
Alistair was the first out of his seat and up against the windowpane, but dozens of people followed him. Below lay the cityscape, mostly hidden by darkness save for a spot where a tall building a few miles away had burst into flames. It seemed to have exploded from within, and burning debris was scattered around and threatened to set fire to surrounding structures. The guests, after some initial gasps, watched wordlessly before breaking into various hushed conversations.
The explosion served as a signal the evening was over. Some remained at the window with Alistair, but others made for their coats, planning to get a closer view as they went home. Stephanie was first out the door and headed straight for the scene. Others lagged behind, stopping to say goodbye to Nigel and to thank him for the meal. Gerald also took off, and Alistair considered it but ultimately decided to hang back and wait for news, preferring to be with his parents. Oliver wanted to stick around for a while, but Elizabeth insisted she wanted to go, so he left with her. Jack and Henry also left.
A few minutes and many hurried goodbyes later the room was almost empty. Gregory, Katherine and Alistair sat before the expansive windows, gazing out at the scene as emergency crews responded. Though hidden from view, they could see their red, blue and yellow lights painting the middle and upper stories of the surrounding buildings. Nigel and Mary looked on for a while, quite overcome by the events of the evening, but then turned to cleaning up the mess left behind by their guests. When Alistair, his friend and his sister noticed this, they assisted. Nothing was said. Instead, Nigel moved listlessly about, looking like a man who had lost himself. Mary, an automaton, concentrated on clearing the tables and so managed not to cry. For his part, Alistair wanted to talk to his father, but couldn’t think of how to start. He remained silent and, having gathered the last few dirty bowls, entered the kitchen to find Gregory speaking with his mother.
“Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Ashley,” he said. “Only you can make spatch taste good.”
Mary managed a meager smile.
“I was wondering… the hospital has run out of food. I’m sure I’m going to be called in a few moments… Could I take a few bars of spatch back with me?”
“Oh, of course you can, Gregory,” Mary said, patting Alistair’s friend on the cheek. “I’ll wrap some up for you.” With that, she left for the pantry.
Alistair set down the dishes and Gregory turned at the sound. “Alistair.” There was a moment of silence. Finally, he managed, “I’m sorry about… about your house.”
“I am too.”
“Should I say something to your dad?”
Alistair shook his head. “I don’t even know what to say.”
Gregory lowered his gaze and nodded. “There really isn’t much I could say, I guess.”
Alistair grimaced. “Saying is for politicians. That’s all they’re good at and that’s all they do. I am so sick of words.” Gregory looked sharply at his friend, concerned by his tone. “I think words have no power unless they’re untrue. I think words are ignored unless they’re convenient. Words are either foul breath coming from a liar’s mouth or unheeded noise. Words can wreck a whole planet if they’re deceitful enough. I spent four cycles learning how to kill because of someone’s words. I’ve had enough of words and of saying and of talking. I’ll fill up your hospital with lying politicians and greedy, jealous, petty men before I try to talk sense to anyone again.”
Alistair became aware his chest was heaving. He took a deep breath to calm himself and then turned on his heel and left. Gregory, taken aback by what he heard, and not entirely sure he could write it off as transitory anger, watched his friend leave with a sick feeling in his stomach.
Chapter 12
Alistair firmly gripped the edge of the roof and hoisted himself up. He stood still for a moment, a black, indistinct figure in his Null Suit. The thin material hugged his form from head to toe, and a mask was pulled down from the hood to cover his face so that not a bit of skin could be seen. Instead of slots for his eyes, there were two small, round caps of a plastic like material opaque on the outside but transparent from the inside. Had anyone looked in his direction, had they been close enough to see in the darkness, they would have seen a blur if they had seen anything at all.
He walked to the other side of the roof, naked under the Null Suit yet perfectly warm. The bitter cold wind blowing all around him, sending snow and bits of ice flying past, did not penetrate the suit. As he came to the edge, he looked out and saw, a few blocks away, the remains of the building blown up earlier that night.
Though it was still smoking, he could see no flames. It remained standing, though the front façade was gone. Parked all around it were tin cans and other vehicles with flashing lights. Dozens of figures moved about, going through the motions of an investigation. Armed men formed a ring around the area, many with scanners. These did not frighten Alistair. He knew no waves would bounce off his suit and return with a signal. Heat detectors would not spot him, nor any sort of movement detector.
He lingered there, surveying the scene, glorying in his invisibility, almost taunting the policemen below. A sneer crept onto his lips and he contained an urge to spit over the edge.
Turning, he raced off into the night, flying over the rooftops, leaping from edge to edge. Then, as suddenly as he started running, he stopped and descended, using the gripping material on the hands and feet to aid him as he clambered down from window ledge to window ledge until once again he stood on the snow covered ground. Looking around, he located the street he wanted and nimbly ran to it, accompanied only by the howl of the night wind. Preferring to remain in the shadows where his suit made him absolutely invisible, Alistair hopped from dark bend to darker corner to darkest alley. For never more than an instant at a time was he to be found in the middle of the street.
And then he arrived. The building before him, ten stories high, was as nondescript as most other apartment buildings. The façade was flat with only the front double doors and windows providing any sort of detail. On the sides there were balconies of respectable size, though during the winter months many were empty. Alistair disappeared in the alley next to it and stopped halfway, looking up at a balcony three stories above.
He strode to it and, grabbing the drainpipe, climbed. He placed his toe in a small crack. He grabbed at an exposed brick where the mortar had worn away just enough to offer a ledge. He leapt into the air and grabbed the railing enclosing the first balcony. In this manner he scaled the side of the edifice; before three minutes elapsed he was standing on the third story balcony. A broken chair lay against the wall at the far end. Cupping his hands around his eyes, an action of habit the goggles of the Null Suit made unnecessary, he pressed his face to the glass and peered into the dark interior.
Satisfied, he reached into a small pouch sewn into the thigh of the Suit and withdrew a device like a hockey puck but half the size. This particular device was reported destroyed in an operation on Kaldis. Placing it flat on the glass near the handle, he slowly traced a circle, leaving a thin line in its wake. He again placed it flat against the glass but this time in the center of the circle he had made. The puck gripped the glass, and when he pulled, it brought the circular portion of the glass with it, cut neatly away from the pane.
Replacing the puck in his pouch and tossing the glass on the snow at his feet, he reached inside, unlocked the porch door and opened it, closing the door after he entered. The wind made a whistling sound as it poured through the ne
wly cut hole, so he grabbed a small pillow off of a couch near him and stuffed it into the opening. The whistling ceased, leaving only the muffled sound of the wind outside.
His heart beating furiously now, Alistair took stock of his surroundings. The building itself was old and showed it. Like the wrinkles and minor infirmities which for a time are marks of respect and wisdom but which, with greater age, pass from respect to pity, and from wisdom to senility, the defects of age in this building had passed from venerable to decrepit. Even so, it was a well-covered decrepitude. In one corner of the room stood a clock as tall as a man, its frame carven oak and stained a robust dark brown. The crack in the wall it covered only just peaked out from the top. A connected room to the left sported a long dining table, also carven of oak and stained. The furniture was generally impeccable, and the worn wooden floors were mostly covered with ornate rugs not so old as to have lost their cushioned fullness and softness.
On an end table by the couch stood a framed picture with a family of five headed by the councilman who had dined on spatch at his father’s home and had so praised Nigel for his patriotism while announcing his sacrifice. He briefly considered breaking it.
Moving down a hallway without a definite destination, his footsteps were soft whispers producing no echo to disturb sleeping ears. He entered a study and scrutinized it without disturbing the contents. Finally, he came to a picture on the wall. It was a 2D photo of the capital building in Rendral, at night, in all its ostentatious and many-storied majesty, a capital building designed to impress and to project power. Gently grabbing hold of the frame, he lifted it from the wall and smiled in triumph at the safe behind.
Once more he withdrew the puck-like device from his thigh pouch but this time he placed the thin edge of it up against the safe handle. The metal softened as if melting, but no heat was generated. The handle drooped at its base, still without heat, and eventually he grabbed it and tore it free, sending a few drops of the metal, like melted wax, flying onto other parts of the room.
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