Chapter 26
Henry Miller had never been off Arcarius Island, much less off the planet Aldra, so he had not understood Alistair when his friend referred to what he called the Aldran Malaise. There was, Alistair insisted after returning from his tour of duty, a listlessness in the Aldran character quite absent from Kaldisians. Henry shrugged and thought no more of it, but now even he was noticing something strange. Added to the putative indolence was a fearful suspicion expressed by furtive glances at one’s fellows and hushed conversations that paused at the passage of a stranger or even a friend. Scratching at the splintered wood of the table before him with a dirty fingernail, Henry pretended to wonder what was the cause of this shift in public attitude even while an image of the Snitch’s Office intruded on his thoughts.
Another possible culprit was passing in front of the large window of the bar in which Henry found himself. Painted in the deep blue and red of the Aldran flag, it was a six-wheel windowless automobile with a smooth exterior devoid of distinguishing details. Though its form gave no hint of its function, everyone in Arcarius knew it was a surveillance auto. Inside, a navigator read a computer display of the surrounding buildings and terrain, making windows wholly unnecessary. Inside would be anywhere from two to six other Civil Guardsmen, monitoring conversations.
“Why don’t they disguise it?” asked Henry, interrupting the conversation of his three companions. They paused and looked at him oddly until one of them saw what Henry was watching.
“They’re not meant to catch criminals,” said one, more presentable than the others by virtue of a recently shaved face.
Henry absentmindedly scratched at his smooth cheeks that never needed a shave.
“They have other ways of doing that. These are made to stick out so we know they’re listening.”
“Intimidation,” growled the second man with a voice scorched by alcohol and tobacco.
Henry nodded and stared into his mug of diluted ale. He had taken a couple sips and had no intention of finishing the awful concoction, but it felt familiar to have it in front of him. He scratched again at the splinters.
“So is it almost time?” he sighed, hoping his voice did not betray his nervousness.
“We’ll let you know when it’s time,” the third man, a decade or more older than the others, gruffly said.
Henry took a deep breath and blew it out slowly through rounded lips and puffed cheeks.
“Try to relax,” said the first and drained the rest of his ale. He nodded at the second and that one, seated next to Henry, scooted his chair closer to speak in a more conspiratorial manner.
Henry shrank back out of reflex. “We don’t need to cuddle,” he protested and scooted his chair back to get some distance.
The man stared at Henry in disbelief and then, chuckling, exchanged amused glances with his companions. “OK, no cuddling. My wife would get jealous anyway.”
“I just don’t like to be crowded.”
The man nodded, bemused, and withdrew a small pipe from his pocket. A wick protruded from one end. “I was just trying to slip you this.”
“It’s time now,” said the third.
Henry fumbled at the pipe and finally slipped it into his pocket. With his other hand he grabbed the lighter sitting on the table, put it in his pocket as he spun to face the door, and got up to leave. Feeling like every eye in the bar was on him, he slinked outside and into the windy cold. He ducked his face behind the raised lapels of his coat and pressed into the chill wind streaming down the city street. The bar door opened behind him and he imagined it was the three men he was with. They would be going in the opposite direction but, as instructed, he did not turn to watch them go. Instead, he made for the barricade surrounding the Mayor’s Palace.
The road curved to the left before giving into the square around the Palace, and the buildings on both sides of the street were tall and built close together so that the fortified barricade nearly sprang out in ambush on those who rounded the bend. Between Henry and the capital building was a line of tanks around the edge of the square, the statue in the square’s middle, Civil Guard like ants all about and long, streaming wisps of snow blown across the open space. The snowfall had ceased hours ago, but now the snow was blown sideways along the length of the ground as the wind from the sea battered the unprotected side of the city and made its way through the maze of corridor-like streets.
Henry was impressed with the impeccable timing of it all. No sooner did he round the corner and take in the view than a commotion commenced to his left. At first barely audible over the wind, it quickly swelled and he saw the Civil Guard turning their attention to it as debris was hurled at them. As he proceeded, the riot nearly turned into an outright battle, the tanks began to move and moments later a hoverplane appeared overhead.
Gritting his teeth, he took out the pipe and lighter and soon had the wick on fire. It fizzled at first and sprayed sparks but then burned strongly. The wick felt like a beacon announcing his intentions to the Civil Guard, and he imagined their eyes on him. Despite a strict recommendation to the contrary, he abruptly broke into a run. As he passed by a tank, he jammed the pipe into the treads and took off as fast as his legs would take him. Imagining every stray shout was an announcement of his discovery, Henry did not dare pause to look back at his handiwork, but he did hear four nearly simultaneous explosions and knew one of them was his.
***
“The damage was not irreparable, but it has rendered three of the tanks temporarily inoperable,” advised an officer as he followed Captain Travis through the many desks in the large office room. “Immediate repairs are recommended for the fourth.”
Stephanie had already seen the report. As she trailed the two, walking next to Ryan LaSalle and waiting for an opportunity to speak with Travis, she wondered whether the revolt could be crushed as Aloysius demanded.
“How many tanks does that leave us?” Travis demanded in an icy tone.
“Four are operational, but all are in need of a tune up. There are two others I am told will be out of the shop by tomorrow.”
“So six by tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Travis reached the door to his office. He stopped, turned to face the officer, and nodded. “Very well. Is there anything else?”
“No, sir.” When Travis nodded he returned the nod and left.
“Ms. Caldwell, I take it by your persistent presence you wish to speak with me.” Travis’ tone was unrelentingly cold, a manner he frequently used with those below him but almost never with Stephanie.
“If I may. It’s important.”
Travis’ gaze went to Ryan. “And your friend wants to come along?”
“Ryan will not be needed.”
Travis opened the door to his office and allowed Stephanie inside, leaving a disappointed Ryan by himself. After closing the door, Travis went to his cushioned chair at his desk and wearily sank into it, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. She did not know how long he had been without sleep, but he had an unheard-of full day’s growth of beard. Uncertain, she stood still and quiet in front of his desk.
Finally, Travis sighed and leaned his head back against the headrest of his chair, his eyes closed. “There will be no early, easy solution to the rebels,” he finally said. “Aloysius knows it too. He’s ready to escalate.”
Stephanie nodded but said nothing.
“And back and forth it will go until… until someone comes out on top.” He sat up and opened his eyes. “What is it you want to talk to me about?”
“I know where the rebels’ symbol comes from.”
“Where?”
“I researched it. I thought the A stood for Aldra, or Arcarius. Turns out it’s an ancient symbol for anarchy. It first appeared sometime in the 19th century on Earth.”
“Interesting.”
“This immediately made me think of Alistair. And when you told me he was back in town…”
“You think he’s leading this r
ebellion?”
“I don’t know about leading. He has hardly had time since getting back to build a full rebellion. But he was in the Elite Corps. He easily could have worked his way up the ranks.”
“Why does this symbol make you suspicious of him?”
“It’s an ‘A’ inside of an ‘O’. Its origins are not well known, but it is attributed to Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, a French anarchist. He is supposed to have said that order is the daughter, not the mother, of liberty. Order, as he saw it, springs from anarchy.”
Travis snorted in disdain.
“Order comes from Anarchy. O and A. I’ve heard Alistair blabber on for hours about just that kind of thing. And he’s well read enough to have come across it. The fact he is back in town just confirms my suspicion.”
“No, it doesn’t confirm it. But I agree this is interesting. What do you propose?”
“He’s working for his brother in the Transportation Bureau. We need to keep an eye on him.”
“If he’s a spy, he’s not high up in the hierarchy.” Travis rubbed his chin in contemplation. “How sure are you he’s involved?”
Stephanie considered how strongly to declare her suspicions. “Something’s telling me he is.”
“Then pull up a seat and we’ll discuss what to do.”
***
There was an unmoving body lying in the middle of the street and Henry instinctively knew it was a corpse. Amid the scattered rubble and debris left from a day’s rioting, it was left to lie in an impossible position on an amorphous stain of its own blood. A tide of angry citizens had crashed into a wall of Civil Guard and, in the resultant exchange of action and reaction, the whole messy scene carried itself to other parts, losing energy in proportion to the injured who fell from the ranks, or those who were apprehended and taken to the prisoner camp. When the clashing forces swept through this street, passing the Snitch’s Office, some man’s son, some woman’s husband fell, never to rise again.
The corpse wore the ragged clothes of a poor civilian, and the emaciated frame implied an irregular food supply. Staring at it with a reverence he had not known he possessed, Henry felt guilty, though he could not say why. As he walked past the corpse, giving it a wide berth but scrutinizing it, he could not shake that gnawing feeling of culpability.
Upon reaching the other side of the street, carefully ascending and then descending the snow bank framing it, he stopped at the sound of an approaching auto. The engine’s hum reassured him there was life and movement still in the city. The government vehicle, a wagon, rounded the corner and came to a stop a few feet from the cadaver. No sooner did it park than out popped two government employees, street workers with thick winter clothing and a patch of the city seal on their backs and chests. One went to the back of the wagon and opened the door while the other went to the corpse and, giving it a callous kick, managed to roll it onto its back.
Henry winced when he saw how the man’s face was mangled such that he would be difficult to identify. The two city workers lifted the dead body by the limbs and tossed it into the back of the wagon. One partner closed the door while the other hopped into the driver’s seat. When his friend joined him, the auto pulled forward and slipped around a bend and out of sight. Moments later the sound of the engine and the tires tearing through ice and snow also retreated and the street was returned to the silence in which Henry found it.
Leaving the scene, he trudged into the Snitch’s Office, lost in thought, his chin tucked into his chest. The building was unlit and still. His footsteps on the linoleum floors echoed in the small hallways as he made his way into the building. Before long, he spied a faint glow which, upon further investigation, proved to be coming from a candle lit office room whose door was left ajar.
Standing quietly in the doorway, he folded his hands in front of him and waited to be noticed. The man inside had a pad and pen and was scribbling something. Though he gave no indication of having noticed Henry, he eventually said, “Come in,” without looking up. Henry sat in the chair across from him.
“The rioters knocked out one of the power stations,” he explained with a glance at the candles. “Which one are you?”
“Henry Miller 2kj.”
“You have something to report then?”
Nodding, Henry said, “I’ve infiltrated the rebel army.” This made the man stop. “I think I’ve been officially accepted in.”
“How?”
“I had to perform a task.”
The man looked at Henry with a severe frown. “As a spy you are still bound by the law. You will be held accountable for any illegal acts you commit.”
Henry managed not to stammer. “It was nothing like that… I had to deliver some goods is all.” The man did not reply. “Anyway, I’m in.”
“Very well,” said the man with a dismissive tone and returned to his scribbling. “We will look forward to some productive information from you.”
Hesitant, Henry lingered in the chair.
“You will be paid when you deliver us information we are looking for,” the man informed him without looking up. “Names of the rebels, especially the leaders. Attack plans. Dates and times. Things we can use. You will be paid according to your usefulness and merely enlisting in their ranks does not prove useful to us.”
Seeing little point in further conversation, Henry rose hastily left, unsurprised that he would not be paid but still faintly disappointed.
Chapter 27
The new Ashley apartment was perfectly soundproof so, while Alistair watched a group of workers hammering at a small tower they were erecting, the sound did not reach his ears. The short tower was going up on a small empty plot of ground between two buildings on the other side of the street, though it was not immediately apparent to Alistair what it would be used for.
At the sound of his father entering the room, softly humming an unrecognizable melody, Alistair turned and saw he carried his pintador. With a pleasant smile, Nigel stepped onto a stool and, switching the device on, began to change the walls of the room from off white to a deep, reddish tan. It was the third time since Alistair had moved in that Nigel had repainted with his toy.
“Your mother’s got me working again,” he said to his son with a wink.
“Is that going to go with the furniture?”
Shrugging, Nigel said, “If not, I’ll just change it back.” His wand slid back and forth in front of the wall which changed hue as the pintador passed over. “It makes me wonder how I ever got by with paint and a brush.”
Pleased, Alistair smiled and returned his attention to the structure being erected outside. “Do you know what they’re building across the street?”
“Surveillance tower.”
Alistair’s face instantly fell. “Exactly what for?”
He could hear the wince in his father’s voice, almost as if Nigel felt he needed to apologize to his son for the government’s actions. “They are going to be monitoring conversations. And recording movements.”
Alistair did not speak at first. Instead, he pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “This is a sound proof apartment.”
Nigel paused and lowered his pintador. Not looking at his son, he replied, “They are coming to gut the walls and replace the material.”
Alistair nodded again, slowly, but then suddenly his anger bubbled over, surprising even him. “What a shame they haven’t placed a chip in our heads. Perhaps they can sit in the room the next time you’re in bed with Mom!”
Nigel blanched at his son’s words and put out his hands in supplication. “Alistair, I didn’t make the decision—”
“I’m not yelling at you,” Alistair curtly barked and fell silent. As Nigel went back to painting the room, his little song now forgotten, Alistair regretted his outburst. More slowly than it had come, the anger drained out of him. “I suppose,” he said, searching for something to say to break the silence, “this sort of conversation will have to be curtailed. I imagine they use computers with voice readers for monitoring?�
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“I have no idea. I thought you were participating in the system now.”
Alistair smiled mirthlessly as he gazed at the workers with foreboding. “So the next time a mother complains of her “rebellious” children, will the Civil Guard come breaking down the door?” Nigel did not reply. Resources are already in short supply, Alistair thought. What could have been made with that labor and those materials if they had not been used for these towers?
“What time were you going to leave for work?”
Alistair glanced at the clock on the wall. “Right now,” he replied and reluctantly got out of the padded seat by the window. His father had already finished “painting” one wall and was standing back to admire his work.
“Well, off I go,” Alistair said when he was well bundled and already sweating.
“Twelve hour shift?”
“Oh yeah. And an eight hour one after the nap. I’ll see you this evening.” With a quick goodbye he was off and a minute later was outside the apartment complex and walking in the freezing but quiet Arcarian air.
Before arriving at the grand Bureau of Transportation Building, an edifice mocking the run down peasant homes and shops nearby, he passed by four other towers under construction. His anger waxed and waned in relation to their proximity, like some perverse law of physics. By the time he trudged past the marble pillars at the entrance of the Bureau, he was somewhat relaxed, his thoughts having taken him step by step to other topics. After he went through the invasive inspection at the entrance, he was incensed again.
Heading straight to his locker on sublevel one, he stashed his winter apparel, donned his white lab coat and headed for the computer lab. He wiggled his constricted shoulders as he went, trying to stretch the coat, the biggest they had. When he reached the main office room and its maze of cubicles, he allowed himself a small grin when he compared it to the first day he had been given a tour of the building. Just as Leland predicted, the Realists cracked down on laziness. One day, an official – dressed in an officer’s military uniform as all high ranking government officials now were – arrived with a small entourage of Civil Guard, fifteen minutes after the midday siesta. He promptly arrested any worker still in his or her cot and expropriated them for work in the mines. No questions, no hesitating, no appeals and no mercy. The workforce was reduced by a third; the remainder were either busy or looked like it.
Withûr We Page 23