Withûr We

by Matthew Bruce Alexander

  Slinking into another cubicle, he scanned its contents for something he might use as a weapon. He found nothing better than a ruler which he grabbed before popping back out, moving always farther away from the computer whose light had announced his presence. He moved until he came to a four-way intersection. Holding his breath, he grasped the ruler at its ends and brought it down over his knee, striking the blow diagonally rather than cleanly straight across. There was a snap that, in the quiet of the room, sounded like a thunderclap. Ducking his head as low as he could, he took off. No shot was fired.

  These men are experienced, he thought as he sank to the floor with his back to a cubicle wall. They’re not anxious; they’re not going to take unlikely shots. He examined the two halves of the split ruler, reassured to discover each had a reasonably pointy sliver of wood. It wouldn’t do to penetrate any thick winter coat or leather, but delivered to the right spot it would make a nasty, perhaps even fatal, wound.

  Chancing a cautious peak over the cubicle walls, he saw that one of the assailants was still standing on the desk, gun ready. Sinking back down, he listened for the sound of the man’s companion but for the moment there was naught but silence. As he contemplated his circumstances, he realized he was not at such a disadvantage. Unless they have been given some of the same enhancements, or are wearing special lenses, I can see much better than they can. And I can hear better too. But they must not realize this or they would have turned the lights on. In their dark clothing, they must think they can hide better than me. Inclining his ear, he could again hear the movements of the second man. He was somewhere in the vicinity of the computer station where Alistair had accessed the network.

  Who sent these bastards?

  He immediately thought of Stephanie. What did she say to me? “This is the last chance to save yourself”? Could she be a part of this? Then the image of Clever Johnny flashed through his mind’s eye. He thought of the agents who tried to intimidate him the night of the Debate. Maybe his behavior was reported to Aloysius Warwick. Maybe Aloysius read reports from the Civil Guard, perhaps reports Stephanie filed. Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not worth the notice of the mayor. Not yet.

  The lights of the computer display he left running were switched off with a click, and the hall darkened another couple shades. He heard the second assassin moving away from that central cubicle and looked for the best place for an ambush.

  He was nimble enough, despite his bulk, to move silently. He proceeded in the general direction of the second assailant, though his route was not a direct one because the cubicles were not laid out in a perfect grid. Eventually, he found an intersection only yards away from the sound of the second man’s movements. Approaching one of the corners with the utmost care, he peered around the side and saw the would-be assailant as he moved from cubicle to cubicle, his gun ready to fire.

  He coiled himself as the man drew closer, moving from one side of the aisle to the other, unaware his prey was now hunting him. He turned away from Alistair when he checked a cubicle, then turned back when he moved between them. Then he turned away again, and back. Again he repeated the procedure, before coming to the last cubicle before the intersection. One final time he turned his back to Alistair and, with no more announcement than a soft rustle of clothing, Alistair leaped at him.

  The man turned to confront his assailant, but Alistair delivered a side-swiping kick with his left foot to the man’s forearm and the gun flew from his hand. Having drawn both his hands to his right side, Alistair now sliced his makeshift daggers through the air, aiming for just above the man’s beltline. Both wooden points dug into their target and sliced along the midsection. The man gave a stifled groan and Alistair followed with an attempted head butt, but the potentially disabling blow met only empty air. Not pausing for an instant, Alistair delivered another great kick, this one to his attacker’s chest. The result was a body propelled several feet through the air before it landed on the ground.

  The attack was a matter of no more than three seconds and then Alistair was gone, hidden away in the darkness. No shots were fired and no words were spoken, but when he was again a safe distance away and peering over a cubicle wall, he discovered the first man was no longer standing watch on the desk. Taking advantage of a window of opportunity, he bolted for the southwest stairwell and was soon flying up the steps. He paused only long enough to look at his improvised weapons and saw a piece of cloth pierced by one of them. He examined the fabric and noticed a bit of blood stained it. Tossing the rulers aside, he pocketed the material and made for the exit. Moments later he passed the guards at the front, giving them a hasty nod, and was out under the sun and walking rapidly away, almost jogging. Absent an unforeseen twist of fate, it would be the last time he ever found himself in the halls of the Transportation Bureau.

  Chapter 33

  Alistair lay in the snow that formed a mold of his body, nearly as still as the rocks on the hillside around him. Ryan Wellesley, on the other hand, had not stopped digging into the snow and looking for stones underneath to toss down the side of the hill.

  “It must be a technical glitch,” he muttered for the third time. “You get a new fucking piece of equipment and I think, ‘What’s the point?’ Goddamn thing’s broke more often than it works.” He tossed another stone. “Most likely a waste of time anyway. The odds they have a satellite trained right on this spot… Hell, Rendral’s got hardly any satellites that still work. Rest of ‘em are lifeless hunks of scrap metal in orbit.”

  “I don’t mind waiting.”

  Irritated, Wellesley heaved a stone into a snow bank in response. Just then, in the valley below, a figure emerged from the hill and waved a red flag. Wellesley was on his feet and heading down the hillside with that side-to-side waddle one uses in deep snow. Alistair, hefting his travel sack, was only a couple steps behind. The cave was cloaked from spying technology by a field generator that made the hillside appear to other instruments to be solid all the way through. The problem was, a satellite could still detect anyone walking towards the cave, and if a rebel were to disappear into the side of a hill that was supposed to be solid, it was sure to give them away.

  The entrance of the cave was well hidden. Its opening was naturally tucked between folds of rock, and some decoration had further concealed the aperture. The narrow and confined tunnel at the entrance soon opened into a large chamber dimly lit by the blue glow of a dozen or so light sticks set into the cave wall. Much of the cavern was excavated and it was fast losing the normal irregularities of a natural cave.

  Alistair spotted three tunnels apart from the one they had come from and a couple men were just getting started making another. They were using a tool he was surprised to see on his home planet. It was a box-shape apparatus about the size of a torso with two large handles on either side. It emitted a beam of red light that softened the stone into the consistency of cream which then poured into a hovering wheelbarrow. It took only a couple minutes to fill the wheelbarrow with the still soft but rapidly solidifying rock.

  “It’s always good when your enemy has other enemies,” said Oliver with a nod at the devices as he approached Alistair and slapped him on the shoulder. His grin was from ear to ear, though his beard nearly covered it, and his skin sported several chapped and cracked areas along with a couple scabs.

  “Where’d you get those?” Alistair asked as he gave him a quick and rough embrace. He might have meant the machinery or the sores.

  “Kaldis, no less. There are some interests there that think a rebellion on Aldra will keep the Aldran armed forces occupied. We’ve got foreign sponsors.”

  “We’re official.”

  By way of guiding him to his quarters, Oliver put an arm over his friend’s shoulder. “We’ve got all sorts of news for you.”

  “Yeah, I hear the rebellion has a leader now.”

  Smiling almost sheepishly, Oliver replied, “The rebellion needs a face. I gave it one. Ryan, why don’t you hustle off and see if you can make yours
elf useful?” Wellesley did not bother to hide his irritation but left without a word. Looking carefully around to confirm they were alone, Oliver continued, “And that took the authority neatly away from Johnny.”

  Alistair nodded in a noncommittal way. “The trick to leading a rebellion is being on top when it’s over, not necessarily when it starts.”

  “Johnny’s under control,” Oliver assured him and entered a small chamber with a curtain for a door and whose walls, looking like frosting spread on a cake, had obviously been excavated. There was a small desk in the back corner, an octagonal table with four folding chairs, and a couple cots at the far end. It was dimly lit by another light stick ensconced in the wall. “You’ll stay with me until we figure out what to do. Hungry?”

  “A little.” Alistair dumped his travel sack on the floor near the cots. Sitting on one, he asked, “What of the other news?”

  “Avon is in revolt. We’re pretty sure a few other cities have some activity too, but Avon is on fire. Here.” Oliver tossed Alistair a rolled up parchment. The torn and faded paper proved to be a rebel manifesto declaring secession from Rendral and restoration of the Republic of Avon.

  “The Republic of Avon? Is this from them or us?

  “Them.”

  “Does this mean they’ll want to annex Arcarius?”

  “Maybe. If we get to the point where that’s a serious problem, I’ll be happy.”

  “And other cities too, you said?”

  Oliver nodded. “That’s what we hear. News is mainly hearsay, but we’ve got a few reports I think are reliable.” Another smile split the big man’s grubby face. “The Empire is cracking.”

  “Only a matter of time.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  “I’ve got some other information you’ll be interested in.”

  “Go on.”

  Reaching into his travel sack, Alistair fished around for and finally produced a piece of parchment folded over twice. He held it out for Oliver to take and said, “In two weeks time, on the date and hour written down there, a train is coming into Arcarius from the Undersea Tunnel. There are going to be several Apex Committee members on board… as well as President Duquesne.”

  Oliver’s lips parted as he scanned the text.

  “They are coming at the head of an army.”

  Oliver’s attention was ripped from the parchment back to his friend. He nodded in understanding. “It makes sense. They need the mines to be operational. A rebellion in Avon is a blow to the war effort, but a rebellion in Arcarius might be lethal. And God forbid we should get control of the mines and set up our own little kingdom.”

  “Kingdom?”

  “Kingdom, Republic… whatever. Don’t read into it,” he said dismissively and with a hint of irritation. He stared back at the paper. “It looks like we have two weeks to decide what to do next.”

  “Easy decision: we detonate the mines and keep fighting guerrilla style.”

  Crumpling the note in his meaty fist, Oliver tossed it back to Alistair and moved to take a seat behind his desk. He scratched at his head and then let both forearms drop down onto the desk.

  “I’m thinking it might be time to increase the pressure.”

  “Oliver, don’t get any ideas—”

  “Alistair, just hear me out.”

  Shaking his head like it would keep Oliver’s voice from his ears, Alistair said, “Damn it, Oliver, this is the worst time to make a tactical mistake.”

  “There are things going on—”

  “Why don’t you listen to someone who has some war experience?”

  A knock on the curtain rod interrupted them, and in the following silence they realized how loud their voices had become.

  “Come in,” said Oliver, clearing his throat.

  Two young men entered, one of them pointing at a small crate against the back wall as he looked at Oliver with expectation. Oliver nodded and the two men grabbed the crate and left the room. The big man’s gaze followed them and he did not speak until they were gone.

  “They have started executing prisoners,” he said more quietly. “Suspected rebels are being executed after… let’s call it intense questioning.”

  Shaking his head, Alistair turned and lay back on the cot, lifting his booted feet up like they were weighted down with rocks and easing them onto the foot of his bed. “We have enough fire power now,” he said with a despairing sigh, as if he knew in advance his forthcoming advice would be nodded at but not taken. “I could detonate the mines all by myself if you can smuggle the equipment in. Then we sit back and harass as the Empire dissolves in a thousand places at once, like a sugar cube in water. That’s all we need to do. And when it happens we’ll have our own little island of Arcarius. It doesn’t matter what happens anywhere else. We’ll have Arcarius and we can be free here. Others can follow our example.”

  He rolled up onto one elbow to face Oliver. “You want to recruit a proper army, just like a State, and drive them out of Arcarius to take over. Am I right?”

  Oliver had the courage to stare his friend in the eye and nod affirmatively. Alistair sighed and returned to his prone position staring up at the cave ceiling.

  “The first president of the United States was a dunce named George Washington. When the original colonies revolted against the British Empire, he insisted on forming an army with ‘proper’ discipline. They surrounded Boston, and a cheap, decentralized rebel movement turned into an expensive, complicated army.

  “That’s exactly what you are going to be left with if you take Arcarius. A guerrilla army is quick and fleeting. It coalesces and dissipates. Each member supports himself, brings his own food, his own weapons. He comes when he wants to contribute and leaves when other matters call. A guerrilla movement is the way a freedom loving people fight: it can never invade, only defend. Guerrilla warfare is the warfare of freedom; army warfare is the warfare of government slavery.

  “This movement was born out of dissatisfaction, nothing more. The Voluntarist System collapsed. We’ve got an extended empire, we’ve got hungry and angry citizens, but what we don’t have is an ideology. Everyone is fighting what is without a thought to what will be. If you’re the face of the rebellion you can give it an ideology, and if you create a regimented army and occupy Arcarius that’s exactly what you’ll be doing. You’ll give it the ideology that brought us the Aldran Commonwealth, and later the Voluntarist System and now the Realists. You’ll be giving it the ideology that created the Solar Empire, and the Terran Empire before it. It’s the ideology of the Sino-European League, the American Empire, the Soviet Empire, the British Empire, the Roman Empire…it’s an ideology that replaces what was with a nearly identical version. Why fight the State just to make the State?”

  “You know I respect your opinion, Alistair. I learned a lot from your grandfather, just like you. But the fact is, if we don’t take control, someone else will. Someone like Clever Johnny. Who would you rather have at the head of the rebellion, him or me? I believe government is slow and inefficient. I believe there are evil men and they fester in government cabinets and parliaments. I believe good men have been corrupted by working in government. I believe government is unfit to do most things. But I also believe in law and order, and a little government is necessary. It’s not fair to say we’re fighting the State to make the State. We’re fighting to reform the government we have, to make it what it should be. The city is ripe for the picking, and we’re sitting here with all the tools and manpower we need. The executed prisoners might just be a perfect catalyst. No more mobs without a goal. This time when we strike, we take the city, and we make government what it should be.”

  Alistair shook his head again but did not argue. It’s the same damn thing over and over and over and over, he thought. Out loud he said, “The prisoner execution is likely a response to Clever Johnny’s slaughter on The Tessa.”

  “You might be right. That wasn’t my idea.”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything. But the train
with the Realist officials… leave that to me. Take the city if you want – if you can – but leave the train to me.”

  “What exactly do you have in mind?”

  “I’ll kidnap Duquesne.” The bold pronouncement was delivered in a matter-of-fact tone, and he continued before Oliver could muster a protest. “Let me get a group of men together and we’ll get him. He’ll be a valuable bargaining token and if we let him live… killing him escalates things again.”

  Oliver bit at his lip while he thought it over. “And what if, when we’re bargaining, they demand the man responsible for the deaths on The Tessa?”

  Alistair’s words were low and menacing. “I’d turn him over in a heart beat. I don’t believe in execution but I’m not going to cry over Clever Johnny. It gets him out of our hair—”

  “And alienates a sizable portion of our resistance. Like it or not, this revolution began with underworld elements, and the glue holding it together are the men who’ve been with it from the beginning… men loyal to Clever Johnny for a long time. Clever Johnny deserves whatever happens to him, but I like to be practical. Turning over Clever Johnny is not. Neither is your plan on kidnapping.”

  “Just leave it to me.”

  “No, Alistair. It’s too risky when a simple bomb gets rid of him, sends a strong message, and starts the city’s conquest off with a bang. Literally. Try to kidnap him and you’re as likely to get yourself killed as anything else.”

  “Bombing the train kills all sorts of innocent rail workers—”

  “And keeps you alive and fighting for the cause. People die in war.”

  Alistair sat bolt upright in his cot and swung his feet over the edge. “That doesn’t excuse it! Duquesne is scum, but you don’t have the right to indiscriminately bomb civilians, I don’t give a damn how convenient it is!”