Now the area was almost entirely dark. The only illumination came from distant buildings, like the Mayor’s Palace, which Aloysius Warwick had taken to lighting all through the night since his election, or from the power sphere not far from it, though this last bit of engineering was not as illuminating as it used to be. The light cast a soft glow on the rooftops; little filtered between the buildings at street level.
With the Civil Guard station empty, Alistair grabbed his belongings and moved along the street by way of the rooftops. When an alley separated buildings, he nimbly sprang from one to the other and so kept his course until he reached the end of the block. Once or twice he landed on a patch of ice, but the treads of his Null Suit handled the smooth material as if it were sandpaper, preventing him from slipping. After a few minutes of progress, the smaller street he followed intersected with Rendral Way, a capacious boulevard with an expansive central island separating the traffic lanes. It ran from the harbor in the southwest, cutting diagonally across much of the city, before ending at the plaza at the Mayor’s Palace in the north.
He set his belongings down and produced a length of rope. This he tied to the ends of his two sacks. That finished, he crept to the edge and was about to lower them to the ground when something caught his eye. Forty or so yards across Rendral Way was his target: The Office of National Service. Four stories of weathered bricks and cracked concrete, it was there that Arcarians were registered for the draft.
Someone else was there. The wind prevented him from hearing anything, but he saw a fleeting shadow take off into the alleyway next to the ONS. There were no further signs of movement, but he elected to remain where he was, crouched down, the rope in one hand and the sacks in another, his eyes scanning all along the street. He saw nothing save for the occasional sign blowing wildly in the wind, and the long tails of snow that the wind scooped off the ground and dragged through the air.
And then the ONS exploded.
It exploded with such tremendous force that he was hammered by the might of it and sent skidding across the roof. Dazed, he still sprang to his feet in a crouch, shaking his head to clear it, and returned to the roof’s edge. The after effects of the explosion sounded even over the wind, and the ruins of the building were well lit now by various fires. The façade was blown open on the bottom story and most of the second; stray pieces of the structure fell down around the newly created opening. Alistair watched as the entire façade gave way with an impressive din, along with much of the heart of the building. Then he saw a flash of light down the alleyway, like an auto passing by.
Retrieving his belongings, he lowered them to the street below. Not bothering with climbing, he leapt to the ground, landing into a roll. Having sustained nothing more than perhaps a mild bruise, he grabbed the sacks, hoisted them over his shoulder and ran past the ruined building and into the alley where he had seen the figure not long before. Seconds later, he burst onto the next street and took off to his left, towards tail lights many yards ahead, managing to keep pace for a time, hampered as the auto was by the potholes and snow drifts, but the lights disappeared when it made a right turn.
Still running all out, his lungs gulping frigid air that tore at them, Alistair too turned right, hoping to parallel its path for a time. After streaking past building after decrepit building, hollow cadavers left to rot, he darted into the open bowels of a corpse and, kicking through the back wall, came onto another street. The auto was much closer.
Next, he discovered why: it had stopped, though it continued to idle, exhaling its exhaust. His next question was answered when a figure exited the car and held a conversation with another much larger one on the sidewalk. Keeping low and in the shadows, he stole closer, hugging rough brick walls that might have snagged a lesser material, the wind covering the sound of his approach. Upon coming within several meters of the two, just as it looked like they had concluded the conversation and the smaller man was getting back in the auto, he called out, “Oliver!”
The men started, ducking down and pulling guns out. The driver of the auto got out and pointed a gun in Alistair’s direction, over the hood of the car, but then Oliver stood up.
“Alistair?” he said, putting his gun away and moving towards his friend.
Alistair rose too and stepped forward, pulling his mask/hood back and grinning as he met his friend with a fierce embrace.
“I thought you were leaving,” said Oliver, raising his voice over the wind.
Alistair could tell by the light in his eyes that his friend was smiling under the winter facemask and the frozen bits of breath that condensed on it while he breathed.
“My ship leaves in a couple hours. I was going to board it after I hurled a Molotov cocktail at the ONS.”
Oliver threw his head back and roared with laughter. Gripping Alistair’s shoulders he shouted, “You arrived a bit too late. Frankly, ours did more damage.”
“Why don’t you two lovers say your goodbyes and we can get out of here before the tin men come?” called out the driver, and Alistair recognized Ryan Wellesley, his hair getting tousled in the wind.
“Come with us,” said Oliver, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “You said the revolution can’t start here, but maybe you’re wrong.”
“Did you guys blow up the last building?”
“We did. Turns out it was… oh hell, we can discuss it later. Are you coming?”
Alistair hesitated only a moment. “I’m coming.”
Guiding Alistair with a hand on his back, Oliver indicated he should get in the back. “We’re taking this one.”
“I don’t know about this—” began Wellesley.
“I’m vouching for him,” Oliver insisted. “Go ahead and get in,” he said to his friend and Alistair, uncertain, entered the back seat. He found himself next to a fellow of forty or so cycles who fixed an unfriendly gaze on him. Oliver closed Alistair’s door and got in the front passenger seat.
“We’re off,” he said and Ryan sped away, leaving the scene of destruction behind them.
Chapter 15
Oliver chatted as if he didn’t notice, but Wellesley and the other rider regarded Alistair with suspicious looks and baleful gazes. Alistair several times caught Wellesley glancing at him in the rearview mirror. It must have been odd for them to have him seated there, he thought, with his blurry Null Suit almost fading into the dark interior of the auto yet his uncovered head clear to see.
When Wellesley finally spoke to him, it was with a flat and guarded tone as he scratched at his scar.
“How’s the suit working out?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
They sped through the empty streets of the west side of the city and into the foothills above it. Winding through, Wellesley eventually turned the auto south, down a snow covered road that sank lower and lower between the hills until it ended at a stretch of snowy beach several miles west of Arcarius. A small boat waited for them, pulled up onto shore just enough so the waves constantly buffeting it did not drag it back into the water.
All but Wellesley got out, and he did not bother with a goodbye but sped off into the hills. The auto’s lights disappeared within seconds as the hills closed in around it. Oliver and the other made immediately for the small boat and Alistair followed, his feet crunching on snow that sea spray had partially melted, leaving it to refreeze as ice. Within a few seconds they were in the water and Oliver’s companion had the motor running. The sea was rough, but the boat cut through the waves, sending cold ocean spray into the air as they headed into the pitch black ocean.
Alistair was enjoying the wintry air rushing against his face when Oliver leaned over to put his mouth next to his ear and said, “When we get back to the base, let me do the talking.” Even so close, his voice was a half shout over the sound of the motor and the wind.
“You always do.”
“That’s true,” said Oliver with a laugh. “But this time it’s important. I’m kind of breaking
a protocol I was pretty adamant on establishing. Don’t worry: they’ll accept you. Just let me do the talking.”
“Are you running this operation?”
“No, but I’m… let’s say in the inner circle.”
Alistair nodded and turned back into the wind.
He saw the structure long before they did. It appeared to be a power platform whose square central stage was perhaps two hundred yards on a side. He knew there were several such power platforms in the ocean nearby, each tapping into the heat of Aldra’s mantle and beaming the captured power to the main power station in Arcarius, Avon or wherever. The broad central shaft plunging from this particular one, however, was dark and quiet. When the monstrous thing loomed over them, the various sub platforms and metal stairs and walkways and small buildings came into view, as well as perhaps two dozen figures scurrying around.
The driver pulled the boat alongside one of the four colossal tube-shaped legs anchoring the platform to the ocean floor. A set of stairs wrapped around it and ended in a small dock that could be mechanically raised and lowered, though this was a small necessity, as the sun was the only notable tidal influence on Aldra. As they docked, their boat pitching up and down in the waves, two figures came around the bend in the stairs.
“Is that the Medicine Man?” asked one, a short, stout figure with a bushy mustache, as he came down to meet them. He did not seem caught off guard by Alistair’s presence.
“Good to see you, Mike,” Alistair returned and stood up to dismount onto the metal dock.
Oliver was just jumping onto it himself, and as his bulk left the boat it caused it to pitch to the side. “We met up tonight by coincidence,” he explained to Mike. “He was going to hit the same target we did.”
Mike nodded. “We’ll talk about this up on top.” To the driver of the boat, Mike said, “Get it stored away.”
The driver nodded and pushed off, restarting the engine while Oliver, Mike, Alistair and the other began to ascend the stairs. With the smooth though aged metal of the support leg on his left and wide open sea on his right, Alistair stared upward and was awed by the massive frame looming high above him. The main platform towered at least one hundred and fifty yards above their heads, and they would have to wrap around the platform’s thick leg several times before reaching it, the wind battering at them the entire way.
At the top, now out of earshot of the waves but in near total darkness, they were greeted by about two dozen other men, all rough and scruffy looking with unfriendly gazes. Only one carried a flashlight. Alistair recognized the two guards who had stood watch outside the warehouse the night he sold his information to Mike, along with Ritchie who led him through the warehouse.
“Stop staring and get back to your jobs,” barked a breathless Mike, and slowly the men disbanded. The two guards from the warehouse stayed, though, and walked with them as they headed for the main structure, a five story affair at the center of the main platform.
It was Alistair’s training that alerted him. He couldn’t even say exactly what it was, but his instincts called out a warning. When one of the guards suddenly spun on him with a knife, Alistair reflexively grabbed the wrist, twisted it around behind his back, bent him over with a knee to the midsection, and with his other hand forced his face down into the metal floor of the platform. This was accomplished a split instant before his heart began to race. All the while, he eyed the other guard, ready to spring into action again.
Mike looked at the display and nodded, impressed but still frowning. “OK, you can let him up,” he gruffly said, then sighed. “My plan was to scare ya’ a bit, see if I could get a confession outta ya’. I guess ya’ ruined that.”
“I’ve already vouched for him,” Oliver said.
The man whom Alistair bested groaned in the uncomfortable position into which he was forced.
Mike turned his gaze on the big rugby star. “Yeah, well, you and I are going to have a private talk about this.”
“It’s worth it,” said Oliver, indicating his friend and his recent exploit with his hand. “He’ll be useful, and he’s already a supporter of the cause. You can trust him. I vouch for him. He’s a 3nn like me, so I’ve known him since childhood classes.”
Mike frowned for a moment and then looked at Alistair. A gust of wind made his loose clothing snap. “I said ya’ could let him up.” Alistair complied after a moment’s delay. The guard, wincing, got up, rubbing at his shoulder. “Your friend has vouched fer ya’. Ya’ betray us, it’s gonna fall on him.”
“I’m not going to betray you, but the next time someone turns a knife on me, it’s going to get sheathed in their midsection.”
“The next time someone turns a knife on ya’, it’ll be a government agent. Stab him wherever you like.” To Oliver Mike said, “Give him his quarters,” and then he and his retinue left Alistair and Oliver alone.
With a slap on his friend’s shoulder, Oliver said, “That went well. Mike’s impressed with you.” He led Alistair to a smaller one story structure away from the main central one. “Anyone who served off in the marines is useful. And he doesn’t realize the full extent of it yet.”
“What exactly is the plan here?”
Oliver shrugged. “Rebel. We’re fighting the Realist Party, the State… you know. Disrupt. Hopefully, our numbers will swell as things get worse and people see someone’s doing something about it. If not… at least we tried.”
“How’d you get involved?”
“That’s a long story for another time. Right now it’s time to get you to your quarters and we can all get some sleep.”
The building to which Oliver took Alistair was simply a long hallway with one mess hall and a lot of small quarters with bunk beds. As Alistair entered, he was greeted in the paltry candlelight with stares ranging from cautious to unfriendly. Oliver stopped in the commons to grab a candle which he lit and then led Alistair down the long hallway. As he passed doorway after doorway, he saw men playing cards or engaged in other activities, all abruptly halted when they caught sight of him. Behind him, several heads peeked out from the rooms to observe. Oliver’s presence and obvious friendship at least mollified most, but none so much as ventured a smile.
“This is your room, little buddy,” said Oliver, stopping halfway down the hall and extending his hand in invitation to enter. “You’ll be with Ryan Wellesley.”
Alistair moved past Oliver into the room. Oliver spread his arms and put each forearm against one of the door frames as he watched Alistair survey his new surroundings. The room was bare save for a chair in one corner and bunk beds in the other. It was cold but not frigid, body heat having served to make the temperature livable. Alistair tossed his belongings onto the top bunk.
“You can’t have the top one. Ryan’s very particular about it.”
Shrugging, Alistair deposited his sacks instead on the bottom bunk.
“He’ll be ornery enough about having a roommate,” Oliver continued.
“I need a safe,” said Alistair.
“Can I get it tomorrow?”
“No, before I go to sleep I’ll need a safe.”
Oliver tapped on the door frame for a moment and then finally nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
When Oliver left, Alistair turned in a circle and considered the room again. Its spartan comforts at least were not filthy. He doffed his Null Suit until he stood naked, and the cold drafts assaulted the body kept so warm inside the Suit. With a shiver, he dug into one of his sacks and pulled out some clothes.
Oliver returned with a small safe as Alistair stood at the window of the room staring out over the dark waters. He bid his friend goodnight while Alistair crouched over the safe, resetting the lock with a new code. When his more precious belongings, including the Null Suit, were safely stored away, he blew out the candle, lay down on the bottom bunk and listened to the wind outside. It was sometime later when Ryan Wellesley appeared in the doorway, a candle illuminating his cherry red face glistening with ocean spray.
“I just got the best news of my life,” he muttered as he dumped a small bag on the ground and blew out his candle.
Alistair briefly glanced at him but declined to respond and not long after they were both asleep on the thin mattresses.
Chapter 16
Alistair was awakened by fabric landing on his face. He removed it and opened his tired eyes to see Ryan Wellesley standing in the doorway. A weak beam of light was streaming through the window from a sun just creeping over the horizon.
“Time to get up, sweetheart.”
Alistair could go from half asleep to up and ready in the time it takes to tell it; he was out of bed and dressing before Wellesley needed to repeat himself.
“Whaddya got in that safe there?” asked Ryan as he folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe.
“Some items of importance,” Alistair replied as he pulled a shirt over his head.
“Like what?”
“Books.”
Ryan frowned and raised an eyebrow. “Books? Those are items of importance?”
“Value is subjective.”
“You can get them at the library.”
“Not these books.”
“Is that all you got in there?”
“Pretty much,” Alistair lied.
After getting dressed, he followed Ryan to the small mess hall where most of the rest of the band were eating a sparse breakfast of bread and porridge. In unison they looked up as he entered, and his ears burned red as he grabbed a plate and sat down next to Oliver. He spooned himself some of the bland porridge from the pot in the middle of the table and grabbed a couple pieces of toasted bread – no butter – and munched quietly on his meal.
“Good morning and welcome to your new life,” Oliver said with a cheery grin.
“Good morning,” mumbled Alistair, wishing Oliver would not speak as if including the entire crew in the discussion.
“Bob LaSalle,” said a voice.
Alistair looked up to see the man across the table holding out his hand. His complexion was a shade or two darker than the others and his hair was black, thick and curly. His features were not entirely Caucasian, with his nose a bit broader and flatter and his lips fuller. Alistair had seen other races on Kaldis and Earth, and knew a few settled on Aldra. Bob LaSalle must have traced part of his lineage to Africa.
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