Withûr We

by Matthew Bruce Alexander

  “And outlaw old people.”

  “Hell yeah,” said Wellesley and a small grin, defeating him, curled his lips. He took another sip from his beer.

  “So let’s say we win. We overthrow the government and now we’re in charge. What do we do?”

  Wellesley shrugged. “Impose some order. Get the trains running on time, make some sensible laws. Common sense stuff.”

  “And what system would best accomplish that?”

  “Oh hell, I don’t know. I just know we need a change.”

  “Is that why you’re fighting? For a change?”

  Wellesley made a face and nodded slowly as he considered the question. “There’s nothing else to do. I repair mining equipment. There’s no miners this time of year.”

  “So start a revolution?”

  Wellesley shrugged again. “There’s nothing else to do. I’ve been running specnine for Mike for a while now.” After another swig of beer, he continued, “So, how exactly are we going to take this place out?”

  Alistair leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “I need to scout it first. I can’t do that now because I don’t want the surveillance imagers recording me. I’ll go tonight and get a basic idea of what we’ll need. Nothing too fancy: surprise, brute force, and a quick retreat.”

  “Do you know what it’s like inside?”

  “I’ve been inside.”

  “I mean…” Wellesley stopped and considered Alistair. “No kidding? You? In there?” He made a face of appreciation. “And here I had you pegged as another clean cut intellectual like Stanson, wet behind the ears. A big clean cut intellectual, but still… well hell’s bells.”

  Alistair chuckled despite himself. “Ryan, where do you think I got to look like this?” He indicated his own physique. “I got quite a bit of experience on Kaldis.”

  “No, that’s not the experience… You know what I mean. On Kaldis, you were on the other side. Now you’re a law breaker… what were you in for?”

  “I wasn’t convicted,” he said around a sip of beer. “I was arrested but the victim did not wish to press charges.”

  “What did you do?”

  “He firebombed my dad’s place. I ran him down and beat the shit out of him.”

  Ryan Wellesley gave a low whistle and shook his head. “And he didn’t press charges?”

  “I think Oliver had something to do with that.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Wellesley grinned. “He bombs your dad’s place, so you naturally kick the snot out of him, and you go in the cage. I hate tin men. That’s another change we need. When we rule Aldra, no more damn tin men.”

  “Well, there’s plenty to do between now and then.”

  “Like destroying the local cages and getting some new recruits.” Draining the last of his beer, Wellesley reached into his pocket and tossed an iron key onto the table. “That will get you in and out. Just be damn sure to lock it behind you, even if you’re inside.”

  “Will do.”

  Wellesley nodded, rose, and waddled out of the bar, his belly full of beer and his tab already paid in advance as had become the rule around town. Pocketing the key, Alistair took a last swig and then left his drink half full on the table. He exited the restaurant a few seconds behind Wellesley, but with a different destination.

  An hour’s walk later, Alistair was at the base of Tanard’s Mountain, heading up the winding road leading to the spaceport at the summit. Halfway up he came to a plot of ground he knew better than any other. There were sounds that prepared him for what he was going to see before he rounded the bend. Machinery was running and men were calling to each other over the din.

  When he did turn the corner and looked at where Nigel’s used to be, an ineffable feeling welled up inside him. Anyone near enough to see the brooding glare he directed at the now empty plot of ground must have shivered from the chill. Where Nigel’s had been there was now a crane, a bulldozer and about half a dozen men working on a half finished foundation. There was no sign of the old restaurant and Ashley family home.

  “It’s not the same without your dad’s place anymore,” said a voice behind him.

  Alistair turned to see a familiar face, a regular at Nigel’s and family acquaintance. He was looking apprehensively at Alistair, like one who tries to soothe a tiger. He had a sackful of something he carried over his shoulder.

  “I think we’ll all miss it.”

  “It’s a shame,” the man said, stepping forward to stand next to Alistair. There were icicles dangling from his mustache where his breath had frozen.

  “It’s an atrocity. A man’s home is taken from him without his consent. What gives them the fucking right?”

  The man shrugged as best he could with his load. “They’re the government. Have they reimbursed your dad yet?”

  “It doesn’t matter. If they had his consent they could buy it for a single Credit. Without his consent, a million pounds of gold would not be a fair reimbursement.”

  “Government doesn’t need consent.”

  “Then what good could it ever do us?”

  His mouth opened but this time he could not find an answer. Patting him gently on the shoulder, Alistair wished him well and left him and the laborers behind in the long shadows of evening.

  ***

  The iron key worked, though it required a hefty turn to unlock. Alistair quickly entered the old warehouse and closed the door, making sure to lock it as instructed. The building was not heated, but at least the walls and ceiling acted as shields against the raw Arcarian wind. He grabbed a lantern off the table by the door and lit it, producing a diminutive sphere of dim light and finding himself in an empty room that most likely had been a waiting area. He moved through it and into an office room and past that into the warehouse proper, full of bundles covered in tarps and canvasses, of ropes and hooks hanging down from the ceiling, and of stains on the floor of indeterminate origin. The fishy smell of the wharf was less strong inside the warehouse, but was replaced by the smell of oil and mildew. The uninviting sound of a liquid dripping onto a puddle met his ears.

  A well trodden path had sprung up among the covered bundles, and he followed it into the recesses until he detected the glow of another lantern. There, in the back corner, was a small antechamber with several cots. The door to the room was torn off the hinge and dim lantern light filtered from the opening.

  Upon crossing the threshold, he saw Oliver sitting at a small desk, his giant form nearly overwhelming it and the chair he sat in. He was furiously writing with a pencil on some parchment, and when Alistair entered he looked up briefly, flashed him a fleeting, humorless smile, and looked back down at his work. Alistair lingered in the doorway for a moment but Oliver, frowning and obsessed with his scribbles, paid him no more heed.

  Tentatively, he moved to his cot and removed his shoes. He lay back on the bed with his arms behind his head and closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the sound of Oliver’s pencil scratching the paper. He nearly dozed off before he realized the sound had stopped. Opening his eyes, he saw Oliver turned around in his chair with his forearms resting on its back. The giant man said nothing, was not even looking at him.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” asked Alistair as gently as he could.

  He glanced at Alistair and then back at the wall. “Elizabeth left me.”

  Alistair sat bolt upright in bed. Swallowing, he tried to think of soothing words, something appropriate, but nothing came out.

  “She didn’t bother to tell me to my face. I got a letter slipped under my door. When I went to her apartment she wouldn’t see me.”

  Alistair chided himself to say something, but still nothing came out. He swung his legs around to the edge of the bed and set his feet on the floor. Finally, he managed, “Are you writing her a letter?”

  “I wrote a letter to her, but she’ll never see it. Neither will anyone else.”

  So saying he opened the portal to his lantern, stuck an edge of the letter inside and, when it
caught flame, let the parchment full of his emotion fall to the dirty cement floor. The two friends silently watched as the paper was consumed, leaving behind only the smell of smoke and some ashes that scattered when Oliver kicked them.

  “Was it him?”

  “Yes.”

  More silence followed. Unsure if his friend wanted consoling, quiet companionship or solitude, Alistair sat on his cot in indecision, supremely uncomfortable, afraid even to breathe too loudly.

  “What do you want to do?” Oliver eventually asked after Alistair had lost track of his breaths. “With your life. You served off on Kaldis; you’ve got all sorts of technical skills now… what do you want to do? How do you want to live?”

  “In an ideal world,” Alistair slowly answered, caught off guard by the sudden change in subject, “I think I’d start my own security company.” There was a long pause. “What do you want to do?”

  Oliver frowned and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.” He lifted his bulk off the chair and made for the door. “Are you on tonight?”

  “Yeah, I was going to take a little nap until it gets dark out.”

  “I’ll wake you up,” Oliver promised and then left.

  After blowing out both lanterns, Alistair lay down on his cot, but sleep proved elusive as he thought of Oliver and Elizabeth.

  Chapter 18

  Stephanie Caldwell held the parchment and her eyes glided over the writing. It was tinged brown, and thick, rough and uneven, like it was homemade. The original writing, transferred by some method of photocopying, had been in pencil. The officers in the station each had a copy and no one focused on anything else, their mood inclined towards amusement.

  We declare war on the government of Arcarius and of Rendral… For a multitude of offenses… for causing widespread starvation… for numerous prohibitions… a government in need of reform… a return to the early days of Aldra… we will fight until the tyrants are overthrown and a more concerned government rules the land… At the top of the page, before the ostentatious declaration of war and list of grievances, was a yellow circle with a yellow A inside it, the three points of the A ending at the circle.

  “Anyone you know?” asked Captain Travis as he crept up behind Stephanie with a cup of coffee.

  She shook her head. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “A return to the early days of Aldra. The Republic of Avon. Sounds like your friend Alistair, doesn’t it?”

  “No, this isn’t Alistair. It’s similar, but… I definitely wouldn’t put it past him to declare war on the government.” She let the parchment fall back on the table.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Stephanie,” Travis admonished, his tone just shy of severe, “you wouldn’t be shielding him, would you?”

  She fixed an incredulous frown on her captain. “I told you, you don’t need to worry about that. Alistair is not going to receive favors from me. The law is the law.”

  Travis nodded. Taking a sip, he said, “What’s that symbol for, I wonder?”

  Stephanie shrugged. “They’re calling for a new Arcarius and a new Aldra. I imagine it stands for one of the two. Or both.”

  “Even if you’re sure it’s not Alistair, why don’t you stop by the Ashley household and ask around? Let them know Alistair needs our help.”

  “I don’t think there is much help to be had from the Ashley’s, but I’ll stop by and ask a few questions before I go to the rally.”

  “You have crowd duty?”

  “I signed up for it.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Travis took a sip. “I wonder how Aloysius will handle this,” he said, indicating the manifesto.

  “I doubt very much he’ll mention it. He’d be a fool. It’s beneath his dignity. Something like this is best ignored by him and handled swiftly by us.”

  “Perhaps. But if they blow up any more government buildings he’ll have to take notice.” When he spoke again, his voice had lost its severity. “Let me know what the Ashley’s have to say.”

  He left before she could reply.

  ***

  Though different interests had conspired to steal Nigel’s home and business, the Ashley patriarch was not without recourse. He was, after all, a moderately successful businessman with a daughter who was a respected scientist, a son who was rising through the bureaucratic ranks and another son who had distinguished himself on Kaldis, his recent missteps notwithstanding. Many of the local power brokers spent time at Nigel’s and were acquainted with him. The loss of his house was not an act of revenge, for Nigel had no enemies. Rather, he simply owned property deemed fit for better use. Or rather than owned it, Nigel thought with a sad smile as he remembered his youngest son, leased it for a time with the State’s permission. It was a phrase right out of the mouth of his father-in-law the Homesteader.

  When Nigel was shown the apartment he, his wife and daughter would be assigned, he was pleased. It was a spacious affair with large bedrooms, a big central area near the dining room and kitchen, a roomy and elegant balcony extending from the central room all along the outside to the master bedroom, and a study/library with a high ceiling and some gorgeous woodwork stained a dark reddish brown. The floors of his new abode did not creak, and the building did not groan when the wind blew against it. Looking out on the downtown from fifteen stories high, it was part of a large building where most of the upper class now resided. Thirty stories in all, the building’s foundation was in the shape of a square with a smaller, open square at its center. This area was a courtyard kept safe from the winter weather by a glass ceiling. There was a small garden and a pathway through it, as well as a swimming pool. It had fallen a bit into disrepair, but with such shortages as they had experienced this was understandable. When the compensation for his business and home came on time and in the full amount promised, he made his peace with the State. If they needed his land for the cause, so be it. His living conditions were better than the majority of Aldrans.

  As Nigel reclined on a couch in the main room, sipping at a glass of wine before dinner, there was a knock on his door. Rising from the couch, he set the glass down and went to open it.

  “Stephanie,” he said with a warm smile. “Good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you, Mr. Ashley,” she replied with a smile of her own. “May I come in?”

  “Absolutely.” He guided her in with a gentle hand on the back. “May I get you something to drink?”

  “I can’t right now. I actually came to talk to you about Alistair.”

  “Oh,” said Nigel, and his mood became somber. He sat down with an anxious look, indicating with an extended hand that she should also take a seat.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of the manifesto.”

  “We did,” he said, then hurriedly added, “but we didn’t read it. We were told not to read it.”

  “It’s OK. We know people are reading it. Frankly, I think the more people read it the worse off this little revolution will be. It’s absurd.”

  “You think Alistair is involved.”

  “No I don’t. I honestly don’t. It’s not his kind of… rebellion, I guess. You’ve heard him talk just like I have. I honestly don’t think it’s him. I honestly don’t. It’s similar but… if you have any idea where he is… it looks suspicious. Alistair needs to give us an alibi for a few things. I don’t think he’s part of this, but he needs to clear his name.” There was a moment of silence. “If you knew where he was, would you tell me?”

  He did not answer at first. His kind eyes just welled up. “Stephanie… the State comes for my home… that’s one thing. If it’s what society needs. But this is my son. This is my son.”

  “We’re not looking to arrest him. We just want to help him clear himself of any possible suspicion. I really don’t think he had anything to do with the bombings or the pamphlet.”

  He smiled a smile with the effect of a frown. “If you tell me you don’t think he’s a part of it, I feel better. If y
ou tell me several times you sound like you can’t quite make yourself believe it.”

  Sighing, she replied, “The best thing for him is to come in and clear his name.”

  “All I know is what Katherine told me. He’s left for Avon and then for who knows where.”

  She nodded and stood up. “Well, I just wanted to see how things were, let you know we’re doing what we can. Are you going to the rally tonight?”

  He stood up as well and walked her to the door. “Mrs. Ashley and I are going to spend a quiet evening together.”

  Stephanie now stood in the doorway. “Until next time.”

  “Until then,” said Nigel and closed the door when Stephanie walked away.

  ***

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be together,” suggested Alistair, digging his gloved hands deeper into his coat pockets and hunching his shoulders to keep his hood hanging low over his face.

  “We’re too bundled up to be recognizable,” Oliver replied, giving Alistair only just enough attention to manage a response.

  “There probably isn’t another couple of men our size likely to be standing together in all of Aldra,” Alistair grumbled. “We cannot be found right now.” Oliver did not reply. “We have work to do tonight.”

  The two friends stood on the edge of the crowd that gathered for the rally at the Mayor’s Palace. The sky was darkening, and a number of officials stood on the balcony above the double doors of the front entrance. The balcony’s colored lights had been lit and shone off the sides of the Palace to impressive effect. In addition, two speakers had been set on either end of the balcony to project the orators’ voices.

  There were a number of tin men about, and Alistair nervously eyed them. None took any special note of them, but their presence was always a concern. The crowd tittered in its various subdued conversations. Someone emerged onto the balcony and attempted to excite them with a speech, but the cheering and applause was forced, not lasting five seconds past the time the speaker reentered the Palace. There was little to cheer about.