Withûr We

by Matthew Bruce Alexander

  A half minute later, Katherine was in the dining area eating a sandwich of ham and stale bread with a cup of tea. Nigel and Alistair sat across from her.

  “I just got the news a half hour ago,” she explained after swallowing a mouthful of her sandwich. “Can we take the auto to the spaceport?”

  Nigel nodded with a smile, his eyes still wet and shiny.

  Katherine bit off another mouthful and washed it down with another swig of tea. “Our local director was going to go but he couldn’t. I don’t know why. Someone from the National Academy called me at work and asked if I could come down.”

  “What are you going to work on?” asked Alistair.

  “Flow Theory. What I was telling you about before.”

  “So what exactly is Flow Theory?” Nigel asked.

  Taking a deep breath, Katherine let it out with a whoosh. “Flow Theory is the most exciting – and potentially most important – theory to come out of the physical sciences since Heim Theory back in the Terran 20th century.”

  “The Dawn of Technology,” said Nigel.

  “The end of it,” amended Alistair. “The Dawn of Technology refers to the period when lone inventors and scientists worked in their basements… that was one characteristic. Burkhard Heim was kind of in a transition period when science was carried out by teams in a laboratory and science started to become ultra specialized. The defining—”

  “Alistair, I love you,” said Katherine, putting a hand on her brother’s shoulder, “but I don’t have much time to tell this.”

  Alistair looked sheepish and she went on.

  “Flow Theory is still unproven… it deals with fundamental forces outside the realm of the physical universe, or at least the universe as we know it. Why does our universe have the properties it has? What makes an electron an electron? Burkhard Heim explained this with the geometrization of space, extending the theories of an earlier scientist named Albert Einstein. But why should our universe have developed that way? Why not with a different kind of geometrization? Flow Theory posits what is called an Overlay.”

  “An Overlay?” asked Nigel.

  Katherine shrugged. “No one can really describe it well, but it works like another layer over the same dimensions we exist in, just laid over top of our reality, like a veneer on a table. In the Overlay are particles called Essentials that flow around in a constant pattern. The interactions of these Essentials as they flow through and over and around each other actually cause the properties that cause the properties of our universe.”

  “And you’re going to try to prove this?”

  “It makes certain predictions we are going to try and verify. But if it’s true, the technology at our command… in time we could reshape the universe. If we alter the flow of Essentials, we conceivably could remake the rules.”

  At that moment, Mary’s stout form came out of the bedroom hallway with Katherine’s packed bags. Alistair jumped up to carry the luggage down to the garage underneath the complex and the others followed him. After a tremendous effort at pulling the frozen trunk open, Alistair loaded Katherine’s traveling bags and all four piled into the frigid auto and sat shivering on the seats. Mary took her accustomed position at the front of the government-designed and produced auto and squeezed a throttle. In the driver’s seat, Nigel pressed the start button and produced only a small cough from the engine.

  “Alistair?” Nigel prompted, and his son jumped out and, grabbing the auto at the back, rocked the machine back and forth, mixing the chemicals inside.

  After a minute of this shaking, Nigel was able to start the auto. Mary closed the lid to cover the throttle and hopped inside. The fusion engine slowly sipped at the water powering it and the energy lost through inefficiency trailed out the back, creating a wispy tail of a cloud. Before long, they crested Tanard’s Mountain and the spaceport, with its many blinking lights, lay before them. The control tower, thirty stories high, jutted into the sky from the center of the complex and was ringed with lights. On the far side were the naval barracks, drab but solid walls encasing a well-lit complex. As they made for the port, a large vessel shaped somewhat like a beehive was slowly rumbling down a lit path towards a landing pad from whence it would fall into the sky. Katherine rode with her faced pressed to the window, watching the ships with fascination.

  “I wonder which is mine,” she breathed, fogging the part of the window by her lips.

  The landing pads were blocked from their view as Nigel pulled the auto in front of the spaceport and into a parking spot near the entrance. The pavement of the long neglected civilian lot was cracked such that it was now halfway to being a gravel lot, but it was paved long ago with a material which melted ice and eventually evaporated it, a precursor to the roads on Kaldis which directly sublimated frozen liquids. This attribute remained in the material despite its condition, so that the parking lot was a square of gray in the midst of a sea of white.

  Mary and Katherine rushed across the lot and into the spaceport proper while Alistair, burdened with the luggage, moved at a lesser pace. Nigel hung back with his son. When the two men reached the entrance, Mary was speaking with an armed port official while Katherine, having found a communicator booth, was speaking with Gerald.

  Mary gestured for Nigel and Alistair to follow her. She called out to Katherine, who took two steps towards her mother while hurriedly saying goodbye and dropping the communicator without looking to see if she managed to leave it on its hook. She caught up with the others and, panting, set the lead pace as they proceeded down a long tiled hallway. Guards with powerful rifles stood at attention every fifty feet or so on the right side, while on the left a window gave a view of the landing area.

  The western sky, its blue now deepening as oranges and pinks streamed over the tops of the mountains framing the western edge of Arcarius, acted as a backdrop for the launch of a vehicle. There was no burst of flame from a rocket, nor did any jets keep it aloft. Instead, the HD Drive whirred to life and converted photons of electromagnetism into gravitophotons, carriers of one of the three types of gravity. There was a moment when the heavy vehicle, though still touching the ground, seemed to be free of it, like when two boats docked side by side happen to touch one another but are not drawn together by any force. Then the ship was moving away from the ground, first slowly but at ever increasing speeds as the gravitophotons made the ship “fall” into the sky at nearly ten meters per second per second. It was not long before the ship was a small dot in the distance.

  They came to Katherine’s transport. Two guards stood at either side of the exit door while a couple marines were just finishing gathering their belongings. Katherine, Mary and Nigel arrived out of breath, and Alistair was disappointed to realize he too was breathing just a tad heavy. He again made a mental note to exercise. It’s easier to stay in shape than get it back, he chided himself. And you may need to be in shape in the coming months.

  Katherine said goodbye to her family as they enveloped her in their heartiest embrace. Nigel was crying once more, and Mary soon did likewise. Katherine’s eyes looked wet as she promised to get in touch with them as soon as she could.

  “There’s no household communication allowed right now,” Nigel told her, “so let us know your number and we’ll call you when we can.”

  “You can call me at the Bureau,” Alistair told her as he affectionately pinched her cheek.

  “Last call!” shouted a voice at the exit.

  Katherine gave each another embrace and then jogged towards the door. The two marines in the waiting area made their way outside. The Ashley’s moved to the window to watch Katherine go, staying there even after the ship’s steps retracted and the doors closed. They were still there when the transport rumbled down the pathway. Though Alistair briefly worried about the hour and his plans, he said nothing, letting his parents watch as the ship fell skywards. Even then he was sure they would have preferred to stay and stare at the spot where the ship disappeared, but a port officer strode past and gruffl
y informed them they would have to leave if they did not have a ticket.

  Chapter 29

  The Aldran night, always dark without a reflecting satellite, was made even darker by the clouds covering the sky so entirely that nowhere could a star be seen. When one turned away from the city, there was only the black sky and the equally black sea melding together into an impenetrable canvas. As Alistair had shut off his enhanced vision, it was like staring into the maw of a black hole. Only the lapping of the waves against the sides of the boats and the occasional stirring of his companions reminded him of where he was. That and the occasional soft snowflake that melted on his forehead, or got tangled in his eyelashes.

  Someone cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, groaning as he relieved pressure on one part of his backside. Turning from his perch on the side, Alistair activated his preternaturally keen vision, an action as natural to him as the moving of a finger, and he picked out the others on board: Oliver Keegan, Bob LaSalle, Ryan Wellesley and Brad Stanson, all unshaven and dirty with warm but ragged clothes. He idly raised his right hand and waved it slowly in front of Ryan’s face. His partner blinked once but did not otherwise react.

  “What time is it?” asked Ryan as he rubbed at his eyes and yawned.

  Brad pinched his wristwatch and the display lit up. “13th block just started,” he said. “Anytime now.”

  “My muscles are going to freeze before the damn ship gets here.”

  “It’s impossible to predict exactly when it will arrive,” Brad explained in his pacific and matter-of-fact way.

  “Why don’t we talk a little less?” suggested Oliver from the back of the donated thirty-foot boat, his right hand resting on the antiquated outboard motor. “Concentrate on the horizon.”

  A series of waves passed through, inclining the boats first one way and then another, and the water smacked against the many hulls.

  “Oh, hell,” Wellesley dismissively said a moment later, “Alistair’ll see it well before we do.”

  “Not necessarily true,” corrected the ex marine. “My vision cannot see around the curve of the planet any better than yours can. Distance here is not what is hiding the ship from our sight.”

  “Oh, merciful Christ,” Ryan moaned. “Why didn’t we pair the two professors together?”

  Shrugging, Alistair said, “Whom would we teach?” Oliver, Bob and Brad chuckled but Ryan just shook his head and spit over the side.

  They fell back into silence, but it was a ponderous silence. Without any particular reason, Alistair knew each of them was focused on the coming task and possible battle, so that when Bob LaSalle finally spoke it was an extension of each of their thoughts.

  “Supposing this goes off as it should… what do we do next? Mount a frontal assault or stay guerrilla?”

  “It depends on what we salvage,” said Brad quietly from his spot in the prow, never taking his eyes from a horizon he could not distinguish.

  “We hit ‘em hard and crush ‘em fast,” said Ryan with force. “City’s ripe for the picking.” He spit once more over the side.

  “Is it?” asked Alistair, not really meaning to enter the conversation but everyone stopped and turned in his direction.

  “We have someone here who has some experience with rebels and revolutions,” said Oliver.

  When it was apparent this was not going to be enough of a prompt, Brad said, “Alistair? What do you think?”

  “What do I think? I think Aldrans are hungry and that’s why they’re feisty. I think if you got the power working and brought back the hearty meals and projector programs they’d quiet right down until they missed their next meal.”

  “Bread and circuses?” asked Oliver.

  “Something like that. I think there is little fighting spirit, and even less principle. No living Aldran has ever been free. A cradle to grave government welfare state is all they’ve ever known, and the government schools make damn sure they don’t learn anything else. It was only when the so-called Voluntary System’s flaws became intolerable that trouble began. No centrally controlled system can be held together with smiles and promises. It will take the kind of brutality the Realists are quite prepared to use to do that. The problem is there is no competing ideology. When the Realists’ system falls apart or people get sick of it and overthrow it, what’s going to replace it? Just more of the same?”

  “I’m sorry if we’re not the principled philosophers you were looking for,” said Bob, “but seeing as we’re the only revolution around, what would you do?”

  “If we get a good harvest tonight, we attack soon. There are rumors of other insurrections and riots across the planet. A resounding victory might just set off a full-scale revolt, and a resounding victory is more than obtainable against the forces currently in Arcarius.”

  “But there has to be more than that,” said Brad. “Millions of discontents need direction, a leader. Someone needs to step forward and be the face of this rebellion.”

  “A leader is exactly what we don’t need,” Alistair said, but Wellesley’s response overlapped his.

  “And who should this leader be?” he asked with a cynical sneer.

  “I don’t want it, if that’s what you mean,” Brad replied. “And I don’t envy the man it turns out to be. I’d feel much safer being the man who replaced the guy who steps up, or possibly the one who replaces the man who replaces the guy.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” mused Oliver. He vigorously scratched at his jaw line, covered in stubble and dirt and grease, and then removed his hat to scratch at his scalp. “The State might just be ready to fall. One good push might do it.”

  “Lights on the horizon,” Bob LaSalle proclaimed, jerking upright in his seat.

  The others came alert as well. Oliver took out a pocket-size telescope out and scanned until he had the ship in view. They could hear the stirring and whispering of the men in the other boats.

  “It’s her,” Oliver breathed. He retracted the telescope and stuffed it back in his pocket. He then switched on the tiny device nestled around his ear and from which extended a small microphone to his mouth. “Ready your men,” he said, though a slight quaver betrayed his anxiety. “On my mark then. Out.”

  While they waited, Stanson turned on a small light and set it on the floor of the boat. It was weak, but its soft glow allowed them to discern their surroundings. Bob LaSalle stood up and shook his legs and arms. Wellesley followed suit, groaning as his cold frame protested, and Alistair settled for a few stretches. Stanson, who would remain in the boat, did not bother to warm up, and neither did Oliver, who simply sat in the back with an intense glare at the lights of the distant ship.

  Oliver eventually ordered the weapons taken out and loaded. When they could faintly hear the sound of the ship tearing through the waves, they took their places, each tying on his head a distinguishing red bandanna. When they could see the ship’s spray sent flying up and out to the side, Oliver pulled the rip cord and the engine came to life. The engines from the other boats were soon rumbling as well.

  Taking a deep breath of the salty sea air, Alistair, in the prow, focused his mind on the ship as it barreled towards them. It passed the Arcarian port, and though the radio was disabled if all had gone according to plan, it would be obvious to the port authorities that something was wrong. Praying for a slow response from the government, he rechecked the magazine of the handgun and, finding it still in order, slammed it back into place.

  The sabotaged cargo ship was of medium size, perhaps eighty yards from bow to stern and less than a third of that in width. Its gunwale rose fifteen yards above sea level, and the bridge rose a few stories to tower above the freight holds and decks below. In front of the bridge a large crane stood above what Alistair knew was the central cargo hold, a large chamber whose retractable roof served as the floor of the main deck. Lights were spaced at intervals along the gunwale, on a special tower in the bow and all over the control tower. Light also streamed from the windows of the control tower, and t
he ship was close enough now that Alistair’s keen vision could see the black forms of the sailors scrambling about, like ants whose home had just been crushed.

  The sound of the boat plowing through the waves grew increasingly louder as did the soft sound of the spray it made, like silk on silk. The men sat quietly as the ship headed directly for the spot on the shore that they had planned for. Some, like Alistair, were upright but unmoving. Others, like LaSalle, twitched and shook and bounced their legs up and down.

  Then, with a multitude of different and competing noises, all of them thunderous, the ship first tore at the shallow bottom of the sea and then crashed into a small beach. It cut through the short stretch of sand and rock and finally crashed into the cliff face. With the loud groan of metal under stress, the ship leaned to the port side but did not fall. A few rocks, jarred loose by the colossal impact, fell from the cliff, some of them crashing into the ship’s deck. The pop and crackle of electricity was heard, and sparks flashed in several spots.

  The comparative quiet that followed sent a tingle through each and every spine, and they anxiously waited like a bird dog on a leash. From the ship the men heard wails of pain and anger and confusion carrying through the night across the dark waters. An alarm went off and several rotating yellow and red emergency lights now gave the ship a different hue.

  Emitting a loud, baritone war cry, Oliver fired a few rounds into the air and, as most of the men around him imitated his call, squeezed his throttle. The lights of a score of small boats came on and the small regiment was speeding across the distance between them and their fallen prey.

  Amid the whooping and exhilaration, Alistair kept his quiet, preparing himself for the skirmish to come as the wind blew in his face. It was his second battle since returning home, and he still felt naked without a war suit. It meant his tactics and technique would have to adapt to his new vulnerability; it meant less bravado and more circumspection. It also meant he might kill again. When will that counter stop? he asked himself.