There was a moment of hesitation, and he saw the startled looks on their faces as they confronted what to them must have seemed an apparition. One officer tried to draw his gun but a shot in the shoulder sent him spinning to the ground. He landed with a groan.
“How about you?” he asked the other and that one raised his hands in the air. “Excellent.”
After he crushed their communicators and handcuffed them together, he moved into the complex. As he weaved his way through the hallways, he heard the sound of occasional gunshots inside, and every now and then a shout or two reached his ears with successive echoes, but the sound he followed was the roar of many voices muted by the thick walls. His going was slow and careful. Every corner was carefully investigated before he rounded it and he frequently checked behind. He came across neither officers nor fellow rebels.
He knew he found what he searched for when the sound of shouting grew louder with each step until the corridor reverberated with the echoes of the yelling and hollering of the inmates. By the time the passageway opened up into a gigantic two-story chamber ringed above and below by holding cells, the floor shook beneath him and the din was so raucous it was hard even to think. The prisoners were not just yelling but were stomping their feet, clapping their hands and even hurling themselves against their cell doors in their excitement and fear.
Alistair burst into the chamber with his gun drawn, but there were no Guardsmen. He blessed his good luck and ran to a holding cell. The prisoner inside, a dirty, ragged and withered looking man with several months’ growth of beard, regarded him with wide eyes and retreated back into his cell. Realizing how he must appear, he lifted the mask of his Null Suit, giving a clear face to focus on.
“I’m here to set you free. How do I open the doors?”
The man hesitated a moment until the question finally sank in. With a trembling hand, he indicated a direction and Alistair, following it, spotted a control panel. Climbing a short flight of steps onto a dais, he went to the panel and spent a few seconds inspecting it. He found his button, pressed it and the cage doors on the top floor opened in unison. Though it hardly seemed possible, the roar grew in intensity and prisoners poured out of their cells.
Alistair pressed the next button and the doors of the bottom floor opened, followed by the same flood of freed bodies. There was a mad rush to the passageway leading out. A few prisoners slapped Alistair on the back, but most just stampeded for the exit. When they had gone and the roar of their passing retreated down the corridor, there were a few bodies left strewn about the chamber. Some groaned. Others did not move at all.
Unsure what to do, he found one feeble old man, crawling along the ground with his right ankle twisted at a sickening angle, and hoisted him onto his shoulder. He groaned but did not struggle and, brushing the man’s beard out of his eyes, Alistair proceeded to follow the sound of the herd of prisoners, figuring they would know the fastest route out. He nearly caught up to the stragglers of the herd when he rounded a corner and was greeted by large, steel double doors blown open by explosives. The herd of prisoners was disappearing into the night while several rebels watched them go in amazement.
“Follow them!” Alistair barked at a few of the men. “Show them where to go!” The men hesitated. “Get to it!” he roared and that served to put them in motion.
“There’s no reason to hang around here any longer,” said Mike, and Alistair turned to see him approaching with two men flanking him. “Couldn’t ya’ find anyone more useless to bring home?” he asked, indicating the old man on Alistair’s shoulders.
Alistair dumped the man on one of the men flanking Mike. “See that he comes back with us. We’ll get him some medical attention.” The man looked reluctant but Mike did not contravene the order so he nodded and left by the open doorway.
“What are ya’, a Jesuit?” Mike asked.
“I think we should leave now,” Alistair informed him, checking his ammunition.
“What did I just say?” asked Mike, irritated. “Alright, men! We’re leaving! To yer safe houses!” Mike turned to Alistair as they walked and gruffly said, “Not a bad night’s work. Care to come in my auto?”
Before Alistair could answer, there was an explosion and he was flying through the air. He couldn’t tell which way was up until his face smashed into the tiled floor and he nearly rolled over on his head, twisting his neck. While his ears rang and his vision blurred, before he even remembered where he was, he instinctively reached for a gun in a holster that was not there. He got to his knees and rubbed his eyes. Not far from him, he saw the gun he had stolen from the officers. He grabbed it, checked it, and crawled along the ground to the doorway.
Outside an auto was obliterated and several bodies lay strewn about. Pulling his mask back down over his face, he scanned the area and then, like a snake, bellied his way across the ground. Then he saw it: the double doors to the perimeter wall opened and a tank blocked the exit. Guardsmen moved into the grounds, swarming in on either side of the tank.
Taking aim, Alistair fired off ten rounds in succession and four Guardsmen stumbled and fell. Amid the shouts of the troops streaming into the courtyard, he crawled along. He fired a few more shots and another officer fell. Discarding the empty magazine and replacing it, he continued crawling, wincing as each movement produced a fire in his ribs.
The tank fired another round into the open doorway and the front wall collapsed. Looking behind him, Alistair saw a yellow A in a circle painted in the quick, furtive strokes of the graffiti artist, but most of it came down with the collapse.
The attacking Guardsmen now reached the carnage, looking for survivors, and Alistair wisely stopped shooting. Relying on his Null Suit, he crawled towards the perimeter wall, but as far from the tank as he could. When he reached the point where the courtyard wall met the perimeter wall, he staggered to his feet, realizing how woozy he felt. Steadying himself, he ran at the corner where the walls met. With a tremendous leap, he was up in the air and hit the courtyard wall with his right foot. He pushed off upwards and to the left and landed his left foot on the perimeter wall, whence he jumped again back to the right. The extra grip of the Null Suit helped him reach the top in this fashion. With a last leap, just as gravity’s pull started to defeat his erratic ascent, he reached out and grabbed the edge. He pulled himself over with a tremendous effort and, lying on his belly, rested for a moment.
He heard the tank move into the courtyard, heard the shouts of the Guardsmen as they retook the complex. His chest was heaving, but it must have been more from shock than exertion, or else his conditioning had further deteriorated. He finally forced himself into a crouch and half leapt, half fell to the ground below, landing with a roll that still knocked the wind from him. Staggering again, he managed to cross the street, his lungs gulping oxygen. Just as the sound of sirens presaged yet more reinforcements, he crept into an alley and disappeared into the surrounding forest of buildings whose windows were beginning, one by one, to light up.
Chapter 20
In the muted light of the warehouse, with only two lanterns in the corner providing illumination, Gregory Lushington leaned over his friend and massaged his ribs.
“Tell me when it hurts.”
“It hurts a little everywhere,” Alistair responded, lying back on a cot with several coats bunched together at the head so that his upper body was elevated. “It doesn’t hurt too much, though.”
“You don’t need to be tough. If something hurts, let me know.”
Gregory moved from the ribs to the neck, carefully tilting Alistair’s head first one way, then another, his fingers kneading the flesh. His gentle digits might have put Alistair to sleep if he hadn’t had to wince every now and then when the doctor discovered a painful spot.
Oliver poked his head into the room. That part of his expression not hidden in shadow was grim. “What’s the prognosis, doc?”
“Not done yet. But there is no serious wound to the neck or body.” So saying, he grabbed hi
s penlight and shone it into Alistair’s eyes. As if startled, he pulled back and then drew close again, studying the orbs. With a puzzled look on his face, he checked the other eye. Then he dropped his hands and, eyeing Alistair curiously, flipped the penlight off.
“They were altered on Kaldis,” Alistair informed him.
“What was altered?” asked Oliver, entering the room and drawing near Alistair’s cot.
“My eyes. It was part of the military program I was in.”
“Improving your eyesight?” asked Gregory.
Alistair nodded.
“What did they do?” asked Oliver.
Alistair started to shake his head but stopped and winced. “Gave me better vision. Gave me night vision. All part of making me a killing machine.”
“Hmmm,” said Gregory and resumed his examination.
“What’s the status, Ollie?” Alistair asked.
“We won’t know who is dead and who is alive for a little while. The men haven’t all reported back to their safe houses.”
“Is any effort being made to contact the prisoners?”
Oliver nodded. “They don’t have anywhere else to go. The ones we have found have been receptive.”
“Are you sure you want to talk about this in front of me?” asked Gregory with a disapproving tone in his voice. He stood up from the cot with an air of finality.
“If I thought you were going to turn us in you wouldn’t be here,” Oliver informed him. “What’s the prognosis?”
“Nothing that won’t heal. You might want to take it easy for a day or two. And, of course, I doubt you will want to be seen in public unless you have a good story for your face.” So saying, Gregory held a mirror up to Alistair and for the first time, he saw his swollen and discolored nose, far more ghastly than the healing wound Oliver sported above his eye. There were several other less serious wounds and bruises as well.
“Broken?”
“Would you like me to set it?”
Alistair nodded. Gregory held Alistair’s head in his hands with his thumbs at either side of his nose. Gregory paused to take a breath, and then, with one decisive movement, cracked it back into place. Alistair could not contain a strained grunt, and his eyes watered.
“It could be crooked when it heals,” Gregory informed him, unwinding a stretch of tape with which he dressed Alistair’s nose.
“I’ll put myself on a surgery waiting list.” Alistair’s voice was raspy as he squinted against the tears flowing from his eyes. “They’ll have it back to normal in ten cycles or so.”
With a sigh, Gregory finished the wrap and collected his equipment.
“Thanks for your help, Greg,” said Oliver as Alistair closed his eyes and lay back, rubbing his temples to soften the headache assailing him.
Gregory loudly sighed again but did not answer.
Oliver watched him for a moment with a gloomy expression, but the young doctor did not turn to look at him. Giving Alistair a gentle pat on the shoulder, Oliver said, “Just lay back and rest, little buddy.”
This produced a strained chuckle from Gregory. “You are the only person on Aldra who could refer to Alistair as ‘little buddy’,” he said and then shook his head. “Damn it, you two…” With his belongings packed away in his small carrying case, he turned to face them. “I was going to say ‘see you soon’ but…”
“We’ll see you again,” Oliver promised.
“I’m sure you’ll be begging for more of my services when Rendral puts your rebellion down,” Greg returned and slipped out of the room.
“Greg,” Oliver called after him but there was no response. “They’ll understand soon enough,” he said to Alistair. “So how many do you think died?”
His eyes still closed, Alistair replied, “Our guys? I don’t know. But Mike is gone.”
“Dead?”
“Buried in rubble.”
Oliver sat down at the desk. He considered the information. “That is going to have to be dealt with,” he said more to himself. “How many prisoners were there?”
“Four thousand at least.”
“If we get just half of them…”
“They’ve got nowhere else to go. We’ll get plenty of them, but we need to find them before the tin men do. Listen, Ollie.” Alistair sat up and grabbed Oliver’s shirt. “You need to personally oversee that aspect. When the new recruits come in, make sure they see you. They need to know your face best.”
“What’s going on here, Al? You want me to lead the rebellion?”
“Not lead, no, but we don’t want everyone looking to Clever Johnny as if he were in charge.”
Oliver nodded, understanding. “Power struggle.”
“Don’t allow them to call any sort of command meeting until I’m up and about. Probably by tomorrow. Where are they right now?”
“I don’t know where Brad is. Clever Johnny’s here at the warehouse.”
“Don’t let Clever Johnny give too many orders. Override him a few times, just to flex your muscle. Don’t let the men see him in charge and get used to him giving orders. And whatever happens, don’t allow them to call a meeting and cast any votes. Brad could fall on Clever Johnny’s side. I have to be there with you.”
Oliver nodded as he took it all in. “I’ll round up a few men right now and get started.”
“This doesn’t mean you’re in charge either.”
“Are you a little paranoid?”
“I’ll be better by tomorrow,” Alistair said, his voice fading to a croak. “Work hard until then. And try to get a feel for the government’s response while you’re out there.”
“Lay back and rest, little buddy. I’ll see to it.”
Oliver put out one lantern, dimmed the other, and left Alistair to recuperate in the dark room.
Chapter 21
The biggest initial effect of the attack on the prison was to cause Rendral to officially declare war on Kaldis. Alistair and Oliver, though against the war itself, could not help but feel a certain guilty excitement at the pronouncement, for it meant the bulk of Aldra’s military might be directed elsewhere. Warwick declared Marshall Law and the Civil Guard carried out house-to-house searches. A few of the rebels were apprehended on account of their wounds from the fighting. A few innocent men were taken for sporting an injury. The arrested men, innocent and guilty, were thrown together in a hastily erected camp of barbed wire and chain-link fences. There were soon reports that some had frozen to death. Mayor Warwick was said to have shrugged off the news, saying that if they wanted a warmer prison they should not have destroyed the one they were given.
More grim news came to make the rebels rejoice: another food shortage. The mammoth Agricultural Bureau improperly stored the food it collected for the winter. Much of it rotted, and when word got out, most of the rest disappeared as worker theft skyrocketed. Amid promises to double the yield from the areas with a year round growing season, the government reported the food was being recovered even then, the amount of spoilage was vastly overstated and the citizens should not worry.
It was difficult to get a clear picture of the situation from remote Arcarius. Rumors flew about, countered by State media agencies, and one could never know whether their misinformation was farther from the truth than the exuberant exaggerations from the rumor mills. Though the picture was blurred and distorted by distance and uncertainty, one could still see the basic form coalescing on the canvas. The Realists had seized power and were remaking the State, but they grasped at so much from a people already exhausted from carrying the weight of so large a government.
***
Across the street from Oliver, Bob LaSalle leaned against the brick wall of a townhouse, smoking a cigar and seemingly oblivious to the world. Oliver sat on the side of the road, using the tip of his knife to pick pebbles from the treads of his boots. Two other men farther down the street were apparently tightening the lug nuts of an auto. Hardly concentrating on his boot, Oliver peered down the narrow street framed by brick buildings o
f varying heights, his hand only absentmindedly guiding the knife point. He stopped when a figure appeared from around the corner. Oliver glanced at LaSalle and saw LaSalle looking back at him. LaSalle tossed his cigar into the street.
Upon seeing this, the other two men quickly stopped working, got in the auto, and started the engine. Oliver sheathed his knife and stood up as the figure approached on LaSalle’s side of the street. Ducking into the shadow of a doorway, he pulled down the rolled up brim of his mask and peered out from two eyeholes. As the man passed LaSalle, Oliver’s partner also covered his visage.
The target was of middle age and sported newly made and expensive winter clothing of a fashion currently popular among the upper class. When he was directly across the street from Oliver, the rugby star walked out of the doorway towards the man, who stopped at a wooden door and was fumbling with his keys. Finding one and placing it in the keyhole, he unlocked the door. When Oliver heard the click, his walk became a run and he barreled into him, slamming them both into the door and flinging it wide open.
The man cushioned Oliver’s impact against the foyer wall and, with a groan, sank to the floor while Bob LaSalle followed them inside. The auto with recently tightened lug nuts pulled up front. Oliver grabbed the semi-conscious man he had crushed and one of the others dashed into the house and closed the door, peering around expectantly. Dragging the target into the living room, Oliver deposited him on the floor.
“Found it!” called LaSalle from another room, and Oliver followed his voice into a pantry.
At the end of the narrow, cramped room there was a locked door. Oliver moved past LaSalle, who had to squeeze up against the shelves to allow the big man through, and with one kick splintered the door. He flipped a switch and, when the light revealed a closet stocked with food, loaded his companions with provisions. They carried them out to the auto and Oliver was close behind with a load of his own. Upon returning, the owner of the home was just rising unsteadily to his feet.
“Watch him,” said Oliver, pointing at the man and LaSalle moved to him and shoved him onto a couch.
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