“We’ve got about two dozen of the bastards pinned down in there,” the man shouted. “They’re all behind the fountain. We’re not letting them—”
There was an explosion and Oliver’s face was pelted with small bits of earth and pavement.
“We’re not letting them escape!” the man finished.
“Go round up your buddies and get some autos wedged in between these pillars!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Anyone with guns, keep them pointed at the upper windows because they’re going to get attacked.”
“Yes, sir!”
The man saluted once and, crouching low and keeping directly behind his pillar, moved to carry out the order. Meanwhile, Oliver risked a glance at the courtyard. There was a large above-ground fountain with a statue of a familiar figure whose name he could not recall. It was chipped and cracked from dozens of bullets. The rebels kept a steady stream of pressure on the trapped guards who themselves did little to respond.
A few minutes later, several autos were collected, gears in neutral. Crowds formed behind each and pushed the machines while a few armed individuals moved in step, their guns ready to fire. Enough autos were found to fill most of the openings, which allowed more rebels to take up firing positions. However, when they did, Oliver signaled for them to hold fire, a command that took a half-minute to make it around. This cessation left them in comparative silence, and in place of the cacophony of battle he heard a ringing in his ears.
Boldly, he stood up from behind an auto and addressed his unseen enemies behind the stone fountain. It seemed his voice was strong enough to shake the foundations of the Civil Guard Headquarters.
“We the people of Arcarius declare our independence!”
A cheer went up. Exhilarated, Oliver bathed in the fierce sound of it. When it died down he continued.
“Your incompetence and unconcern for the people you were entrusted to govern will no longer be tolerated! We demand a State for ourselves, a new Republic of Avon. Let this serve as your notice: we will no longer be abused; we will no longer stand for your corruption; we will not accept your ineptitude! You can no longer punch without being punched back. You cannot steal but we will take back what is ours. You will not compel us, and you will not prohibit us anything. We will live as we choose and we choose a new State!”
Another cheer rose from the masses.
“My name is Oliver Keegan! Remember it: I am the voice of the revolution!”
The cheering went on and Oliver’s face flushed with victory. A figure stood up from behind the fountain, a female with a head of short blonde hair. Stephanie stared at him in wonderment and he returned the awestruck gaze.
“Leave now!” His voice was angrier than before. “And if you come back, greet us as friends or don’t come back at all!”
Amid the gleeful howling of an underdog who has just asserted himself, Stephanie signaled to her troops. Slowly, guns at the ready, they filed away towards one of the entrances. She went in last, her gaze having never left Oliver and his having never left her. When the door shut behind them, the final signal of their retreat, the howling reached an hysterical pitch and Oliver, for all his bulk, was grabbed, hoisted into the air and carried away on the shoulders of his troops.
***
The thick stone walls were not enough to keep the rebel cheering from their ears but at least the noise was attenuated. At first the men waited for Stephanie to give an order, but she was too distracted. It was a few moments later when Captain Travis, announced by the click of his impeccably polished boots on the black tile floor, appeared and sent them about their business. Gratefully relinquishing command, Stephanie eased herself into a cushioned bench and leaned back against the wall, sniffing and rubbing at her dripping red nose and staring into space. The Captain, finished delegating, approached her as the sound of the men scurrying off faded away. He stood before her with his arms folded across his chest.
“Oliver Keegan 3nn,” she said, unsure whether she said it to herself or to Travis.
“Explain,” Travis coolly said, his demeanor, though calm, betraying a hint of his frazzled state.
“He was just outside there. He claimed he was the voice of the rebellion. He claimed he was taking back Arcarius for the people.”
“And you know him.”
“I grew up with him. He’s that rugby player. You already know about him.”
Nodding, Travis turned on his heel. “Come with me.”
Stephanie, feeling tired and realizing how much her feet hurt, winced once but caught up with her commander.
“Ms. Caldwell, you have been promoted quite quickly through the ranks. I’m sure you know this is my doing, and I’m equally sure you know it was not done on a whim.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you an answer for me?”
“An answer?”
“Yes, an answer,” Travis snapped, a rare betrayal of emotion and loss of control. “Oliver Keegan 3nn proposes to secede from Rendral and reform the Republic of Avon. In the name of all Arcarians.”
“That is his justification.”
“And that was the question I posed to you earlier, was it not? How do we justify what we do? How do we justify what we are about to do to this rebellion?”
Stephanie opened her mouth but only hesitant and tentative sounds came out.
“The people are sick and tired of hunger and war and coerced civic service and a list of other things ten thousand items long. You and I both know full well how the election was won. How do we justify controlling like we do? Mr. Keegan has a point: if the people want to govern themselves why should they be stopped? Why do we get to impose our will on them?”
She still could not answer. Travis stopped and turned to face her.
“I’m waiting for orders. Stay here at Headquarters but get some rest. Stephanie.” Officer Caldwell looked her commander in the eye. “I expect an answer from you soon.”
***
Nigel and Mary Ashley huddled together on the living room couch while Alistair stood at the window. An elderly couple, the Chatterley’s, sat on another couch and huddled under a blanket. The electricity was off and the heat was cut. They had their own generator but no battery power to run it, so Alistair’s parents and their neighbors sat together on the couch under woolen blankets. Alistair, the two longest knives in the kitchen tucked into his belt, stood like a sentry.
A rioting mob had passed right underneath them on the street below. Alistair watched them go, waiting for the sound of intruders in the hallway outside but mercifully none came. The city, now bathed in the ruddy glow of an approaching sunset, was nearly silent. Fires burned but no one came to douse them. There were bodies in the street but no one took them away. He turned from the window and collected the empty teacups on the table between the two sofas. While depositing them in the kitchen sink, he was alerted to footsteps in the hallway outside. Drawing both knives, he placed himself to the side of the front door and coiled like a spring. The Ashley’s and the Chatterley’s moved into the kitchen.
A key hit the door and Alistair relaxed. He put his knives away when he saw Gerald come through. The two brothers’ eyes met and they exchanged slight nods. Gerald shut the door and made sure to lock it. Peeking around the corner and seeing her eldest son, Mary rushed out to embrace him. Everyone else quickly followed.
“What’s the news?” Nigel asked.
Shaking his head, Gerald replied, “They’re getting ambitious. Mobs rioted all over the city.” Gerald looked at Alistair. “I’m glad to see you up here.”
“Get off it,” said Alistair and went to sit down on a couch.
“I merely meant you were protecting Mom and Dad,” Gerald retorted with some heat.
“Alistair’s been a savior,” said Mary as she took her son by the hand and led him to the kitchen. “Let’s not fight. I’ll fix you something to eat.”
Alistair sat in the living room while his parents and the Chatterley’s gathered around Geral
d to hear the news. He had few specifics, but he did not let that prevent him from relating quite a tale as if he were privy to the official State report. Alistair stopped paying attention, quickly recognizing his brother knew little of substance. Instead, he went back to the window and looked out at the injured city.
I’m a soldier, not a spy, he thought. It was time to take to the hills, join the guerrillas. Tomorrow, he would use Harcourt’s login and, he hoped, find something of value. Either way he would be back with the rebel soldiers by the next sunset. He continued to stare as he mulled his decision, still as a statue. When he finally turned from the window the bloody sun had burned its image onto his retina.
Chapter 32
In the wake of the riots, Arcarius became a city of isolated communities withdrawn into the interiors of abandoned buildings, fortified like porcupines rolled up in a ball. Defying the government’s attempts to consolidate the winter population, unwilling to wait for Civil Guard to quell the violence or afraid of the violence the Civil Guard might commit, extended families and networks of friends staked out their claims. The power having been cut from all but the approved areas, smoke from fires fueled by anything available drifted out of chimneys or makeshift holes in ceilings. Men stood guard at the entrances, armed with homemade weapons.
As Alistair, on his way to the Bureau, passed by these makeshift fortresses, he weathered the gazes of suspicion directed his way. It was difficult to tell how much of the city’s population took to these arrangements, nor could he guess how long it would take the Civil Guard to force them back in their designated housing. Perhaps they wouldn’t bother at all.
He saw no fewer than three peddlers, men burdened like mules with knapsacks, bags and cases full of items, going from fortress to fortress, hawking their wares. Every neighborhood on Aldra had its craftsmen and peddlers who worked without the benefit of a factory, handcrafting tools and wiring electronics in their living rooms and trading them on the black market. Now they were out seeking opportunity, venturing forth to bring needed supplies to groups of people who preferred not to leave their protective surroundings.
Upon drawing near the Bureau, he spied a young woman in a Civil Guard uniform leaning against the square base of a statue near the entrance. Stephanie Caldwell unfolded her arms and moved to intercept his path. Quelling panic, Alistair scanned the area and, though he could detect no one else, Civil Guard or otherwise, tensed his muscles.
“The Bureau’s closed today, Alistair,” she informed him when he was within a few feet of her. “You don’t look pleased to see me.”
“No one is pleased to see someone in that uniform. But good morning all the same.” He came to a halt in front of her, legs spread and knees slightly bent, as if awaiting her charge.
“You can relax. I’m not here to arrest you.”
He only nodded.
“I know you’re a part of the uprising.”
“You are incorrect,” he managed to say, though it sounded feeble to him. Perhaps he couldn’t muster much will to lie when he so strongly desired to spit the truth in her face.
“Don’t bother, Alistair. Oliver Keegan 3nn announced yesterday he was the ‘Voice of the Rebellion’. I was there to hear it. And if Oliver’s in it then you are in it.”
“Oliver did what?” he exclaimed, his surprise genuine.
“I said don’t bother.”
“Well, you do what you have to. I have no idea where Oliver is—”
“This isn’t about Oliver. I’m giving you a chance to turn yourself in and avoid some… difficulties. It’s either turn yourself in now or be arrested later, and believe me when I say you don’t want that.”
“There’s nothing to turn myself in for,” he managed to get through his constricting throat, hoping he wasn’t blushing as badly as he felt he was.
“Alistair,” she sighed deeply, “this has gotten to the point where the State is not going to be merciful. This will be your last opportunity for clemency. Be grateful and turn yourself in.”
“Grateful?” He nodded his head as he considered her words, the corners of his mouth turning down in a bitter frown. “You and I never really were friends, were we? You knew Oliver, and Oliver and I were in the same suffix group. We wound up being in physical proximity… but we never really knew each other. Our paths crossed and recrossed, nothing more. What I knew of you didn’t compel me to know more, and I suppose you felt the same way. And now, cycles later, both of us have been pawns for our government, but we have vastly different feelings about it. I can see now what I vaguely felt as a child.”
“What did you vaguely feel, Alistair?” she sneered.
“You are part of the State’s whip. Don’t pretend like you don’t know what the State is. What I felt as a child was that flaw in your character that leads you to support it.”
“Always paranoid, Alistair. The State is out to get you.”
“The State is out to keep me in the herd and fleece me until I’m no longer useful. The State controls everything I do, and everything I don’t do, because it has a plan and to hell with mine. Behind every order is a threat to punish me if I don’t cooperate. The State exists for its own benefit. Why was I compelled to serve in the military? Because my talents must be at the State’s disposal. Why has every nation under invasion forced its citizens to fight and die in defense, even if the vast majority would have been better off under the other government? Because the war wasn’t about protecting the people; it was about protecting the State.
“History is one episode after another of a ruling class sucking everything it can from the ruled. But everything it can suck is limited to what the people will allow to be stolen. And so we have parades and anthems and celebrations and holidays and wars and we glorify the military and the Civil Guard and the bureaucrats and we nationalize the schools to teach the proper propaganda, all so the citizens will be more compliant. How do you justify what you do, Stephanie?”
In a taunting, sarcastic tone, which she managed despite the discomfort the question provoked in her, she replied, “But you’re not supporting the rebellion, right?”
Alistair, irritated, shifted on his feet and fixed a dark look on her. “There are laws of human nature just like there are laws of physics. Every culture has a sense of what is right and what is wrong. Sooner or later, the growing pressure explodes. Governments always fail, sooner or later. I don’t need to participate in the rebellion… it will happen anyway.”
Stephanie gave a last mocking smile. “Your last chance is walking away.”
Alistair made no move.
***
Though the Bureau was not open, power was still provided to the various government agencies. At the station where he was required to enter a code before he could pass into the employee section of the building, he made sure to use Harcourt’s. He figured if he used Harcourt’s code later on without having used it at the entrance, some alarm would be tripped.
He meandered through the expansive edifice, hardly crossing paths with anyone. The heat was turned down and at times he could see his own breath. Deeper into the building he went, seeking solitude with furtive glances over his shoulder, thinking how guilty he must have looked. He could walk casually into a cubicle or office and access the system without the other even knowing something was wrong, but the nervousness building in his stomach prevented him. If he went five seconds without looking over his shoulder, he felt a nagging twinge and was far too tense to effect a casual air. Better to do this in a dark corner, he thought, rather than try to be cavalier and easy about it and get discovered.
He finally found, on the first sublevel, a large hall of cubicles lit only by the lights from the stairwells at the northeast and southwest corners. Glancing once more behind him as he left the stairwell in the northeast, he moved into the near dark, passing by any number of suitable cubicles but not yet feeling the confidence to take the last step.
Finally, when he reached the center of the hall, where only his artificial vision cou
ld perceive, in shades of gray, the objects around him, he sat in front of a 3D computer display. Doffing his gloves and setting them at his side, he fired up the computer and entered Harcourt’s login. There was no sense in going back now. The login was recorded and, sooner or later, his break-in would be discovered.
He surfed around the Bureau’s network, grabbing a small recorder disk the shape and size of a coin and inserting it into the appropriate slot. He was at the point of starting when something on his 3D display caught his eye. This has to be some kind of oversight… Harcourt shouldn’t have access to this, he thought as his eyes devoured the information before them.
Then, abruptly, his entire body tensed as he heard footsteps from the northeast stairwell. He admonished himself to relax, that even with his own security code he was cleared to be in this room, but his nervousness did not diminish.
They were two men and they stopped at the bottom of the stairwell. Though they were no longer on a hard tile floor, his keen hearing would have detected the rustling of clothes or even the muffled tread of their feet on the carpet had they continued. He imagined they were staring at the light of his display as it poured out the top of the cubicle. He held stock still, listening, not breathing, not knowing why they were reluctant to enter the room but certain it was his presence that held them back.
And then he heard the click of a gun’s hammer being cocked into place.
He was out of his cubicle before the hammer of the second gun was similarly cocked. Ducking down to keep his head below the level of the cubicle walls, he made for the southwest stairwell, winding through the maze as quietly as he could. A different sound alerted him to new developments, and he looked over his shoulder just in time to see a figure clad in black with a ski mask, gun in hand, rise over the cubicle walls as he stood on a desk.
Sinking even lower, he heard the desk creak under the weight of the lookout. He felt a very real terror as he realized the intruder had a clear shot at both stairwells. His fear was unlike any he ever felt on the battlefield, or during the escapade on the Tessa. There, he was subject to chance, to stray bullets and random explosions. Now he was the specific target of two assassins who possessed a tactical superiority. Before his fear rose up to entirely claim him, he forced it back down with an effort, back down to where it was intrusive but manageable.
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