Withûr We

by Matthew Bruce Alexander

  2-0-0-3-0-1-0-3-1-4-0

  He repeated the sequence so many times he tripped over it and doubt assailed him. Were those the ones? He could no longer clearly picture Harcourt’s fingers striking the keys, but he was reasonably sure he had been reciting the same set of eleven numerals. He repeated them a dozen times, and then a score more after that. He used some tricks to make the numbers stick. Twenty is the number of regular season games in the rugby season. 03, 01, 03. 313… How long ago was the Solar Empire founded? About 380 cycles. No good. Fourteen wins will normally get you into the rugby playoffs, and zero is the number of championships Arcarius has won. 2-0-0-3-0-1-0-3-1-4-0.

  He realized he was walking at a tremendous pace in his adrenaline rush. Slowing down, he looked about and found himself alone and well on his way to his parents’ apartment. The frosty night air was especially cold, he realized, and he fixed his hat to better cover his stinging ears. The early northern dusk had darkened to a black night lit only by the faint stars and the rare glow coming from windows in buildings supposed to be empty for the winter. It had been a while since the street lights were in use. Tucking his chin into his scarf and using his breath to keep it warm, he nearly missed the looming hulk in the alley as he passed by. He stopped and waited for Oliver to emerge from the shadows.

  “Is this a good idea?”

  “Good to see you too,” responded Oliver, his usual grin and affable demeanor was back. “You’re not being followed. LaSalle’s cousin is our tin man. He says Stephanie turned your name in, but her request for a tail was rejected. You’re not important enough to warrant the resources.”

  “Stephanie?” Alistair said, startled. “How ‘bout that.”

  “Don’t let it get to you. It’s not a surprise.”

  “How old is that information?”

  Oliver shrugged. “A couple days. Why?”

  “I think they’re on to me at the Bureau.”

  “Why?”

  Alistair shook his head a couple times and frowned. “Just… looks I’m getting. One of my coworkers is acting suspicious. And I ate lunch with my brother today… I felt like I was at a formal inquiry. I’m thinking I might have to pull out.”

  “Relax a second. It’s easy to misinterpret, especially in your position.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you pull out, there’s no going back. And I mean not to the job, not to your cozy apartment… you’ll be sitting by a fire in a cave somewhere north of the city with a few other rebels who are as unwashed, unshaved and ill-fed as you’ll be.”

  Alistair breathed deeply and started walking. Oliver fell into pace beside him, accompanied by the sound of their feet crunching the paper-thin layer of ice covering the snow.

  “I figured you’d want to talk to me about the raid. About Clever Johnny.”

  “Yeah.”

  “First of all, thank you for not pursuing it right there on the boat. I know you were angry, but—”

  “I’m not angry, Oliver. I’m furious.” The proclamation was met with silence so Alistair went on. “I want him brought to justice.”

  “I think—”

  “He did exactly what we criticize our government for. I don’t want to hear anything about war and collateral damage.”

  “I wasn’t going to say it.”

  “I don’t want to hear any excuses. He killed innocent men, men I promised protection to. He wasn’t in danger, he wasn’t driven to do it by anything but… hell I can’t even say what drove him to do it.”

  “You’ve said it before: war breeds immoral behavior. The chum sitting across from you enjoying a beer can turn into a savage killer on a battlefield. I can’t say why he did it. I don’t like it anymore than you do—”

  “Oliver,” Alistair said, grabbing his friend by both shoulders. Having come within sight of his parents’ building, he now paused to finish the conversation out of earshot. “I know you hate what he did, but please believe you hate it far less than I do. Do you have any idea what goes on in a training camp?”

  Oliver shook his head.

  “They spend the entire time trying to singe the humanity out of you. The American Empire fought the Korean War. They discovered that half of their soldiers were purposefully missing their targets when they fired their rifles. Some innate humane instinct pressured them not to kill, even when allowing the enemy to live meant risking your own life. The same held true in other wars, all the way back to the War of Southern Secession. Nearly half of all soldiers only pretended to fire their rifles. Who knows how many more fired high or low on purpose?

  “Well good heavens, when the State wants a war they can hardly allow their pawns to make these kinds of decisions. Training tactics changed. After the Korean War the Empire was fighting again in Asia, but this time what they now call the kill instinct was 90%. Since then they have refined their methods. Every military in the galaxy follows it. Over 98% of marines are successfully imbued with the kill instinct. Do you know how they do it?”

  Oliver shook his head, his expression properly somber.

  “We spend hours repeating killing chants. We pray to be killers before every meal. They start us off torturing and killing animals. Then we graduate to virtual reality humans. Not just shooting but actually torturing. Before we graduate we participate in the execution of criminals. By then most of the recruits can laugh while they kill.” The crescendo to which Alistair’s voice built cut off and he took a deep breath, finally releasing Oliver’s shoulders from his fierce grip.

  “I refused to go along. I resisted. I prayed for my humanity to whatever god might have been listening. But I was part of a small, small minority.”

  Oliver’s deep, rumbling voice was compassionate. “How many did you kill on Kaldis?”

  “Thirty-six, though my official total was eight hundred and sixteen. I only killed when I absolutely had to. I swear to God I did. I met a man who resisted like me, and he deprogrammed my War Suit. Each suit has a tracking program to measure your effectiveness. He replaced it with a dummy program that recorded non-existent kills. I made it through my tour that way. And yes, some of those I did not kill probably killed my comrades. Do you hate me?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You and maybe ten other people on the planet. They say patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel. I think it might be worse than that. I didn’t want my comrades to die… but we were the invading army. The Kaldisians had the right to fight us.”

  “Try telling that to the public.”

  Alistair absentmindedly nodded, staring off into space. “Anyway, I am done with killing. The State must be overthrown, but we will kill only those who directly oppose us, and only if we have to. Clever Johnny is a predator. But then, what right did I have to kill to save myself, especially when I wouldn’t do it to save my buddies?” There was a catch in his voice, and he struggled to suppress something.

  “I have no idea what to say, Alistair. Why did you stay the extra three cycles?”

  Alistair’s faint smile was mirthless. “I was stupid. I wanted to learn what they had to teach me, to use it against them. I shouldn’t have stayed. It wasn’t worth it, but at the time I made the decision I hadn’t…” Alistair’s trance was broken and he looked his large friend in the eyes. “I think I made a breakthrough today.”

  “What happened?”

  “I might have some access I am not supposed to have. Stay tuned for further details,” he finished cryptically, and, giving Oliver a pat on the shoulder, left him staring as he finished his trek home.

  Chapter 31

  “All teams in place, lieutenant,” said the rough male voice over the communicator.

  “Copy. Whenever you’re ready, sergeant,” Stephanie replied, her eyes glued to the 3D image in front of her. In the back of the command vehicle, lit only by the glow of computer displays, Lieutenant Caldwell sat at the head station, flanked by a handful of others in the dark blue and red of the Civil Guard. A monitor – an insect-size flying surveil
lance robot – accompanied a team of Guards outside the decaying husk of a factory. The monitor was recording some sort of noise coming from within, but heat sensors picked up nothing because something interfered with the signal.

  “How the hell do they have equipment to jam our heat sensors?” grumbled one of the men in the vehicle. “Most of our equipment is on back order.”

  “Because they’re willing to pay what the black market merchants ask,” Stephanie replied without taking her eyes off her 3D image. “You get what you pay for.” The other officers frowned while she blushed, surprised at what came out of her mouth. She remembered Captain Travis told her that. Or was that something Alistair said? It unsettled her to think she could confuse the two.

  “They’re going in,” another officer declared. A blast of condensed air from a handcannon made the front entrance explode into a storm of splinters. A couple more shots were fired and the inside of the factory filled with smoke. The Civil Guard charged in, shouting orders and sweeping their guns. Stephanie was trying to make sense of the cacophony of yells and barked orders in her headset when suddenly there was a flash of light and the 3D image went blank.

  “What the hell…?”

  “The monitor was taken out,” she said with the tone of a curse.

  “What was that flash of light?”

  While her fellow officers were still looking around in bewilderment, Stephanie hopped out the back door and onto the pavement, a cold wind buffeting her. Though she could not see the factory, she did spy a single cloud of red smoke rising into the air. While her fellow officers joined her, the brisk wind tore the cloud apart. Then the sound of gunfire rang out.

  “Back into the vehicle,” she commanded. “Put in a call for reinforcements.”

  ***

  There was no knock at the door; the three Guardsmen simply burst through, weapons already drawn. Oliver, relaxed in his padded chair and smoking a cigar, didn’t even flinch at the abrupt disturbance, but rather carefully studied the men in front of him. They were beefy and rough, their expressions aggressive and a kind of unfriendly never far from disdainful. Their entry brought in a gust of cold air which carried away the smoke from his cigar. Oliver exhaled through rounded lips.

  “We’re executing a search of the premises,” the first informed him with his Rendralian accent. “Wait outside.” His two partners were already moving.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Oliver informed them in a calm tone. “In the future you will knock before entering and enter only when permission is given.”

  Having already performed two dozen such searches, the men had fallen into a perfunctory rhythm. Oliver’s unexpected response was a slap in the face. They stopped and stared.

  It was the speaker who recovered first, leveling his gun and an intimidating glare at Oliver. “You lookin’ to be arrested?”

  “Perhaps I wasn’t clear a moment ago,” Oliver replied, his voice still steady but now lower and more menacing. “Get out of my apartment.”

  All three turned to face him, scowls on their angry faces.

  “Got something you’re hiding, do ya’?”

  “Indeed. I’ve got about ten pounds of specnine in my bedroom I prefer you don’t disturb. I sell it and use the proceeds to purchase the illegal arms I donate to the rebel cause. It was these weapons that helped us take down the Tessa, if you remember that. Of course I also purchase explosives, which I made use of during the jail break a few weeks ago.”

  The trio stared at Oliver. They still had not decided exactly what sort of fool he was when suddenly there were seven guns pointed at them. Men popped out of closets, hallways and from behind furniture, and the Guardsmen were surrounded. A moment later their guns were confiscated and they were handcuffed with their own gear.

  ***

  The command vehicle had not come to a complete stop when Stephanie and her fellows hopped out. After the rumbling of the vehicle’s engine ceased, the only sound left was the wind, not strong enough to actually moan through the city streets and mountainous crags above, but it tossed a good amount of snow around. There were two bodies lying face down in the parking lot, soaking in their own blood. They had not been there long enough for snow to pile up against them; any meager flakes that might have accumulated were quickly stained crimson and melted. The factory itself seemed from within hit by some concussive force, for every door and what remained of the windows were blown outward. The occasional thin wisp of red smoke still poured out of these.

  “Orders?” prompted an officer, much her senior in age though not rank.

  “Sweep the area.” Then, in a lower voice, “But we’re not going to find anything.”

  The men spread out in formation. As senior officer, Stephanie brought up the rear. Having crept close to the edifice, two men took up positions on either side of the main entrance, backs against the wall. With a mutual nod they signaled each other and a moment later burst through the opening, followed soon after by the rest.

  Inside, another body, a Guardsman, lay on the floor, this time on his back but like the others in a pool of his own blood. There was another spot where some blood accumulated but no body lay. The interior of the structure was much like its parking lot: empty save for the occasional rusted metal body stripped of any useful item. The red smoke swirled about in the rafters, occasionally finding an exit and pouring into the atmosphere outside.

  They searched and were soon aided by new arrivals, but there was nothing else to be found. Stephanie was walking back to the command vehicle, her cheeks cherry red and her nose a leaky faucet, when the sound of distant gun fire broke out. Everyone froze, heads turned to the west. Stephanie broke into a run, vaulting into the back of the command vehicle.

  “Find out what the gun shots are about.”

  “I’m just getting it now,” replied the communications officer, holding a restraining finger up and listening to his headset. Then he said, “The Search & Seizure teams are under attack.”

  “They were waiting for us. And they have more than one trap ready.”

  Behind her, the back door opened and another officer stepped up into the vehicle.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded to know.

  “We’re going into battle,” was Stephanie’s reply.

  ***

  There had been no recent serious food shortages, a motivation whose absence had concerned Oliver. Nevertheless, something awakened in the populace. Perhaps it was seeing their neighbors fighting back. Perhaps the present SS searches were too intrusive, or maybe too many low level bureaucrats were threatened into voting for a Realist regime they did not desire. The recent experiences with rioting had no doubt left the people less uncomfortable with the idea. Maybe it was the sum of many abuses combined with a general sense that things should be better. Whatever the reason, a long dormant sense of self came to life.

  At Oliver’s signal the rebels erupted into vindictive violence. The first assault crushed the unprepared Civil Guard who, so used to herding sheep, now had to contend with wolves. There followed a stunned silence while the city collected itself, and then the response came. It was a response the rebels were more than ready for, and when stunned and terrified citizens dared to peek out their windows, they saw a well armed rebel force beating back a Civil Guard they suddenly realized they hated. An entire anti-riot phalanx was mowed down by armor piercing rounds. A tin can was blown to burning bits by a rocket. An attackcraft was hit by some pulse rendering it lifeless and it crashed to the ground, tearing up chunks of pavement until a brick building brought it to a crashing halt.

  A mob of citizens formed, unarmed but potent. It swept through the streets, each member emboldened by the safety of numbers, like an army of ants. Where the mob passed they left behind overturned autos, burning buildings and lifeless Guardsmen. A few were brought down, but many more joined the throng. It was then that Aloysius and the governing class felt the second edge of the double blade of Rendralian policy: Civil Guard were transferred
to unfamiliar cities so as to be less likely to blanch when brutal action was required. This policy now left the fuming masses with a similar lack of compunction.

  With the smell of smoke in the air, Oliver strode through the wreckage of the city, unable to say where all his units were and what exactly was happening. In the distance he could still hear gunfire, but of the forty unit leaders given a rendezvous point to hold, only five reported in and two of those to say the Civil Guard held their point. He could only guess at what happened to the rest.

  With the dozen men he pulled from the whirlwind, he marched towards the sound of fighting. A hum of voices became audible under the noise of the bullets and the occasional explosion. When the shattered street he traversed finally dead-ended into a larger boulevard, Oliver looked across the thoroughfare to his right and realized he had come to Rendral Way. A mixed mob of citizens and rebels surrounded the main headquarters of the Civil Guard, a ten-story structure with an ample central courtyard with pillars at the front. It was largely clear save for a few armed individuals hiding behind the pillars and exchanging fire with an unseen opponent trapped in the courtyard.

  As Oliver and his cohort pressed into the wind and crossed five-foot snow bank at the median, the mob below was fired upon from windows on the fifth floor. The rebels among them returned fire, as did Oliver and his fellows. Restraint is something else they need to learn, he thought as they continued pelting the fifth story long after the attackers retreated. Upon reaching the agitated crowd, he grabbed the first armed rebel he saw and spun him around.

  “How the hell did this get started?”

  The man, cowed both by Oliver’s size and reputation, shook his head. “I just followed along.”

  Oliver let him go and, crouching low, rushed to the open front section and slid in behind a thick marble pillar. He looked to the man at his right, also behind a pillar, and yelled, “What can you tell me?”