Withûr We

by Matthew Bruce Alexander

  The doors to the balcony reopened, and out walked Aloysius Warwick, dressed in a well decorated officer’s uniform. The crowd erupted into applause, this time sincerely. Behind the mayor came an entourage of unnecessary individuals, who, in exchange for making Aloysius look important, got to be seen and imaged with him. They were all dressed splendidly, which is to say their clothing was unfit for the cold in which they found themselves. Elizabeth was among them, dressed most splendidly of all.

  She was dazzling. Always a beauty, she stood out even dressed in the rags a miner’s daughter managed to put together. Now she was dressed as royalty, wearing an elegant evening gown with a mink coat and make-up expertly applied. She shivered now and then, but it was a sacrifice she no doubt considered worth the opportunity. Her smile was radiant. It was her first public appearance at Aloysius’ side and she was clearly enjoying herself. Her smile stood out next to the plastered-on smiles of the local pols, stood out not just for its beautiful splendor but also for its authenticity. Oliver and Alistair could not have been the only ones looking at someone other than the mayor.

  The big man stood transfixed, his face nearly cracking at first. He quickly recovered and his expression became stoic and unreadable. When Aloysius spoke, Alistair had no doubt Oliver did not hear him. He was there because he could not resist the torture, and probably would not resist it for a long time. Scanning the crowd, Alistair saw nothing to cause him great alarm. A couple Civil Guardsmen strolled past, but they took no notice of the two.

  Aloysius avoided any mention of the leaflet Brad Stanson had written. He talked of the coming war, of the need for social bonding and cohesion, of the need for sacrifice. He spoke of the recent attacks by the Kaldisians, adding to the list the attack on the ONS, and saying how desperate the Kaldisians had proved themselves to be, how afraid they were that Aldra was to enter the war in force.

  Alistair almost allowed himself to focus on the speaker, but he happened to glance down at the crowd and saw Stephanie Caldwell, in full Guard uniform, wandering the perimeter. Cursing himself for relaxing his vigilance, he gave Oliver a nudge in the ribs with his elbow.

  “We need to get going. Caldwell’s here.”

  Oliver followed Alistair’s gaze and quickly spied their old friend. “Alright,” he conceded. He looked once more at Elizabeth before turning to the right and following Alistair through the throng.

  Alistair decided to walk into the crowd and out the far side, rather than skirt its edge, hoping this would keep them from Stephanie’s notice. He was not willing to take the chance she was unaware of the Civil Guard’s surveillance of them.

  The crowd separated for them, making a wake as they passed through. Alistair prayed this also went unnoticed as he weaved his way through the bodies, opening a space that widened a moment later to allow Oliver passage. When they emerged on the far side, across from where they spotted Stephanie, they stepped right into the path of a pair of Guardsmen with a canine.

  The dog approached and sniffed them. Alistair and Oliver stood still, and the officers stopped moving.

  “They need to divide the city into precincts like Avon does,” said one Guard to his partner.

  The dog finished sniffing Alistair and inspected Oliver. The two officers did not even spare a glance.

  “They won’t do that because our permanent population is too small.”

  “Most of the year we’ve got over two million people. For five months we’ve got a skeleton crew—”

  “So they organize us like a smaller city,” finished the first officer as if reciting a refrain, and they both shared a chuckle of resignation.

  The dog finished its inspection and the officers moved on. Alistair found himself bristling, but was not sure whether it was due to the invasive inspection by the dog or the cavalier disinterest of the officers, who took as much note of them as a fire hydrant on which the dog urinated.

  The officers having moved on, the two companions made for a small alley. They turned to regard the scene one last time: Aloysius on the balcony, framed in lights, his voice booming from the speakers; the crowd attentive, if not overly enthusiastic; the several officers patrolling the plaza, all armed as if for battle. Stephanie was not visible, but Elizabeth was, and Oliver’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he followed Alistair into the alley.

  Chapter 19

  With a nervous breath, Alistair lifted his shirt over his head and stood in only his pants. He dropped the apparel on his cot and breathed in again, the action causing his muscles to swell and ripple across his back and shoulders. Exhaling loudly, as if purging his spirit of anxiety, he dropped his chin to his chest and closed his eyes. Oliver watched his friend’s routine in the dimly lit room.

  “Nervous?”

  “I never had a battle yet where I didn’t sweat.”

  “I’ve never been in a battle,” said Oliver, sitting down at the desk. The chair creaked under his weight. “I didn’t know you got a tattoo.”

  Looking down at it, Alistair traced the drawing with his finger. “My first and last. I got it on Kaldis.”

  Despite the words, Oliver thought he detected a touch of pride in Alistair’s voice.

  “If we get captured…”

  “We’ll be executed. So don’t get caught.” Alistair shook his head and pursed his lips. “Ah, we’re not going to get caught. We’ll hit them hard and fast and we’ll be out before there’s a response.”

  He unbuttoned his pants, pulled them down and reached for his Null Suit on the cot. The material stretched enough so his lower body fit through the opening at the face and passed into the leggings. He pulled it up his body and stuck his hands into the arms before finally pulling the hood over his head and the mask down, attaching it at the chin. Where Alistair had just been there was now a blurry silhouette in human shape, ready to blend with the shadows.

  “I’d hate to be the tin man who comes across that in a dark alley.”

  “That’s the idea.” Grabbing a few items and placing them into his thigh pouch, Alistair continued, “Get the men in place. Remember how much is riding on this.”

  “Don’t worry about my end.”

  ***

  Sewn into the Steltar of Alistair’s Null Suit, inside the mask and next to his mouth, there was a tiny transmitter. Next to his ear was a receiver. The transmitter would first scramble his vocalizations and then send them to Mike’s receiver, which would descramble the message, appearing, they hoped, to any outside party as random static. Once the attack began, the State’s forces would not know which frequencies to jam. It was ideal for their purposes, but the rebels possessed only the two Mike and Alistair were using.

  Thus Alistair waited again atop a building in the dark Arcarian winter night, his body insulated from the frigid air by the amazing properties of his Null Suit. He crouched at the building’s edge, across from the prison’s concrete outer wall, which ran flush with the edge of the street and comprised the entire city block. From behind the wall, neither sound nor ray of light issued. There was a tower at the center, the only part of the complex visible from where he was, and there would be Civil Guard posted there. Behind the one-way windows in the saucer-shaped head of the tower, they would be sitting at their stations, relying on computer equipment incapable of detecting him.

  There were no street lamps in operation, so no long shadows preceded the arrival of four rebels. Only the desultory echoes of four pairs of booted feet hustling down the street in the still night announced their arrival. When they were twenty yards or so from him, they stopped at the door of a building opposite the prison yard wall, opened it with a key, and filed inside. A moment later, a whistle as if from a bird was heard.

  “Alpha Team in position,” said Alistair softly into his transmitter.

  “Alpha Team in position,” said Mike on the other end, his voice as clear as if they were side by side. “Copy that.”

  Grabbing the rope and grappling iron at his feet, Alistair stood up. No such primitive ent
ry was possible on Kaldis, for sensors would detect the hook the minute it touched the perimeter wall, but on Aldra the hook fell into place after a smooth toss and no alarm was raised. Pausing only to heft a small satchel, Alistair clambered down the side of the building, taking with him a small sack of supplies. Aided by the rope, he proceeded to scale the smooth concrete prison wall. In a matter of seconds, he was atop the five yard high barrier and surveying the compound and its three story edifice.

  “I’ve gained the wall,” he whispered.

  “Copy that. Wall gained.”

  On Kaldis, Alistair embarked on many missions in solitude, with only his communication system keeping him in contact with his mates. It was a strange thing, especially at night, to be so alone and yet to have a link to companionship, to another’s voice. It was no different for him there on the prison wall, as he grabbed hold of his grappling hook and prepared to penetrate deeper into the complex.

  Wrapping the rope around his shoulder, he sprinted until he came to an intersection, his footfalls mere whispers in the night. Another wall, running perpendicular, ended at the perimeter wall and separated one courtyard from another. He sprinted along it, heading straight for the central building and its tower. When he neared it, he grabbed hold of the edge, lowered himself down as far as he could, and dropped the rest of the way. Removing an item from his satchel, he attached it to the main building’s wall. It was the work of a few moments, and when he finished he pressed a red button and a tiny green light at the top of the device turned on.

  “Number one in place.”

  “Number one. Copy.”

  He went to the courtyard wall on the other side, with the aid of his hook climbed once again atop it, and repeated the process in the next courtyard. In all, he attached five of the devices to the walls of the prison. From there, he went on to attach five more to the inside of the perimeter wall. There was no indication the prison guards were onto them. All was quiet and still. A couple windows in the complex were lit, but Alistair detected no movement and no sound. With one last scan of the area from atop the perimeter wall, he decided it was time.

  “Number ten in place. We are go on my end.”

  “Number ten in place, copy that,” came the reply. “We’re go.”

  He dashed along the wall towards the complex. When he was halfway across, the sound of ten simultaneous explosions shattered the night’s stillness. He saw bursts of light and bits of brick wall flew into the air. It was as if ten fountains erupted from the complex, except dust and chips of brick and concrete, rather than water, were sprayed.

  The explosions were followed by the sound of detritus raining back down to earth. Some of the bits pelted Alistair through his Null Suit but he ignored them as he reached the central complex and vaulted onto the roof above. A short-lived quiet reigned. Then, from inside the complex underneath him, came frantic shouting and officers barking orders.

  As fast as his legs could take him, Alistair flew towards the tower’s base. Upon arriving, he saw bundles of equipment running up and down it, along with long tubes of plastic and a ladder on the north side. He hopped onto this ladder and climbed, the rope and grappling hook still wrapped around his left shoulder, his satchel abandoned.

  From below came the sounds of gunfire and shouting voices. Mike’s frenetic voice, not speaking to Alistair, broke in intermittently. There were the isolated snaps of the rebels’ rifles mixed in with the crackle from the automatic weapons of the Civil Guard. The sounds grew fainter as Alistair climbed all the way up the tower, coming at last to the part underneath the floor of the command room. There was a hatch there, but it would be locked and was not the best way for him to enter anyway.

  Once again grabbing his grappling hook, he snagged a railing running underneath the tower and, after testing the weight carefully, let go of the ladder and dangled many yards above the roof of the complex. As he inched his way out to the edge of the tower room, he looked below his hanging feet and saw dozens of points of light burst into fleeting existence. Like fireflies, the flashes from the gunfire lit the courtyard below like a meadow on a spring night, but the crackle of gunfire and the shouts of men in battle were a reminder that below was no innocuous rustic scene.

  “To the left! To the left!” Mike yelled to someone, his rough, throaty voice rising an octave as his adrenaline took over.

  Upon reaching the edge, Alistair hung suspended from the railing by his left hand while his right reached up and found a small ledge. It was iced over, so he was forced to spend a minute clearing it off. Finally, he grabbed hold of it with his right hand, thankful for the extra grip his Null Suit provided and, fighting every instinct nature had given him, let go of the grappling hook. Reaching up quickly with the second hand, he now hung from the tiny ledge encircling the base of the tower room.

  The walls were too thick to hear anything inside, and the one-way windows provided no view into the room, but he imagined things must be getting excited inside. The Guardsmen would be too well trained for things to reach a frantic pitch, but they definitely would be distracted. So thinking, he circled around to the other side of the tower. He heard a mechanical noise, like gears moving, coming from above. Suddenly, a deafening blast assaulted his ears, and then another. The ledge from which he so precariously hung vibrated. Below, sections of the courtyard erupted as the projectiles hit. He redoubled his efforts.

  Upon reaching the far side, he pulled himself up so his chin reached the ledge, then placed his right forearm onto the small shelf and pushed himself up until his waist reached the edge and both his palms were supporting him. Leaning into the side of the tower room, never more than a couple inches from losing balance and falling, he lifted his left leg and placed it on the ledge. With his left leg and right arm he held himself steady while, with his left hand, he reached into his thigh pouch and withdrew the small black puck he used at the politician’s home. The deafening blast from the tower’s guns continued unabated.

  “Hold steady! Roderick, hold bloody still goddamnit!”

  Alistair lifted the puck above his head and just managed to reach the one-way window above. Licking his lips inside his mask, he cut out a small section, withdrew it, and set it next to him on the ledge with the puck. Grabbing onto the newly made hole, he pulled himself up to stand. Squatting down, he retrieved the puck and cut out a bigger section of the window.

  Peering into the tower room, he saw two men and two women in the red and blue Civil Guard uniforms. The men were manning two large guns, almost cannons resting on tripods, and the women were at the computers. He waited for a moment, but they were oblivious to his presence.

  Once more reaching into his thigh pouch, he produced a black sphere about half the size of a golf ball. He squeezed it once and then tossed it into the room, scooting sideways away from the hole as he did so. After a moment, there was a buzzing noise and he heard the sound of bodies hitting the floor. The tremendous cannon blasts ceased.

  “Tower taken out.”

  “It’s about damn time! They’re fucking killing us down here!”

  “You should be able to penetrate the complex now,” he responded as calmly as if they were discussing weather over a cup of tea.

  Using the puck and still pressing himself against the one-way window, he opened an even larger hole, tossed the cut off section into the empty space behind him, and entered the tower room. A circular area about fifteen yards in diameter, it was lined with computer stations and had two cannons at each cardinal direction. It was lit by the lights from the computer monitors and buttons on the keyboards, a soft, multi-hued glow creating dozens of indistinct shadows.

  From the receiver of one of the women, he heard a voice demanding a response. He plucked the receiver from the unconscious woman’s head and tossed it out the hole in the window, then used their own handcuffs to bind them in pairs, back to back and to the seats bolted to the floor. As expected, they wore firearms and he availed himself of these and their ammo.

  Next, he went
to one of the cannons and, careful not to fire at any individual, kicked up a cloud of debris and dust in one of the courtyards. Bits of pavement sprayed into the air. The gun’s kickback rattled his hands and a blast of wind came back at him with each shot. The visceral thrill of firing a powerful weapon reminded him of Kaldis. This reminder was quickly followed by the awful memory of what such weapons had done, and the sick feeling that remained when the thrill waned.

  From the computers’ heat sensors he determined that the Civil Guard had retreated from the barrage, so he fired into the building itself, toppling a whole section of roof and wall and leaving the way clear for the rebel advance. This process he repeated once more with another section of courtyard but dared stay no longer.

  He used the computer to call for the elevator. A conical apparatus, it immediately rose from the center of the floor like the tower of a submarine from the ocean’s waves. Alistair stepped inside only long enough to press the emergency button to disable it. That done, he lifted up the hatch next to the elevator and, cloaked in absolute darkness, descended the tower stairs.

  He had not been long on the winding stairs when he heard the rumble of footsteps coming towards him. Setting both his feet against one wall and his back against the opposite, he managed to lift himself up to the ceiling. He held this position until the group of Civil Guard passed beneath him, guns drawn, never noticing the shadow above them despite the flashlights attached to their helmets.

  “… almost reached the tower level…” one of the three was saying as he passed underneath.

  As soon as they rounded the bend, he let himself down and continued to the bottom. When he reached it, he burst into the room with his gun pointed at the two Guardsmen he found. They were startled and did not have their guns ready. He put a finger in front of his mask where his lips were but kept the gun pointed at them.

  “If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead. But I’m perfectly willing to if you make me.”