“I’m just saying it would cause more trouble than it’s worth,” Wellesley was saying.
“Naw, it’d be helpful,” insisted one of the men. “We’ve had all sortsa trouble trying to arm ourselves—”
“We’ve had a steady supply of arms from smugglers for weeks.”
“It ain’t been steady, and before it was hard going. I’m just saying if they hadn’t outlawed guns, we’d’ve been armed from the start.” The young debater turned to Alistair. “Ain’t I right, Alistair? We coulda had more arms from the beginning.”
“Are you looking out for Civil Guard?” Alistair asked without looking away from his own post.
“Yeah, I’m looking out. But ain’t I right about the guns?”
“If every citizen had a gun they’d be trippin’ over ‘em left and right,” Wellesley said. “More trouble than they’re worth.”
“Of course it would be helpful if we had guns to begin with,” said Alistair, his tone suggesting it was an already settled issue. “All governments prefer to have unarmed citizens. Arms restrictions go back a long, long time. The Qin Dynasty in China, third century B.C., confiscated all weapons for its own use. It wasn’t for any other reason than that it gave them an advantage in controlling the provinces. Of course, it didn’t work well, but that was their intention.”
The men shared surprised glances and then, shaking their heads, snickered.
“Do you do anything other than read?” Wellesley asked.
Turning his head slowly to gaze at his partner, Alistair replied, “What do you think?”
“He reads and he lifts weights,” said Kendrick and the men snickered again.
“Where do you learn all that stuff you talk about?” asked another as he tried to recline on an old, torn passenger seat.
“There was a library in Mar Profundo, on Kaldis, where an android reads to you while you lift weights.”
There was a second of silence before the men broke into the laughter of one who almost got fooled. Alistair allowed himself a smile.
“How much do you know?” asked Kendrick. “Who was the fifth Governor of the United States?”
“Prime Minister, you jackass,” growled Wellesley and the other three hooted and hollered.
“President,” corrected Alistair. “And I don’t know.”
“Oh, we got him! We got him!”
“Who was the best president of the United States?”
“There’s no such thing as a good president,” Alistair said, and the merriment abruptly halted. “There are mediocre presidents, bad presidents, awful presidents, and unspeakable ones. No good ones.”
Wellesley gave a low whistle. “What about Oliver?”
Alistair briefly debated whether or not to answer, but a whistle bursting from the Undersea Tunnel interrupted. Springing to his feet, he reached for his communicator.
“The guests are arriving,” he said and waited. There was nothing on the other end. “Dad, do you hear me? The guests are arriving.” When there was still no response, he tossed the communicator to Wellesley. “See if you can get that to work,” he said and grabbed the detonator. The train whistled again but, hovering over the magnetic rails, it made no other noise to announce its arrival. Scanning the area one more time for Civil Guard, Alistair readied his thumb over the button while his five companions rechecked their weapons. Upon seeing the glow of lights inside the tunnel, he judged the train was at the point of emerging, but before he could blow the track, a great explosion knocked him onto his back. He was shaking his head to clear it when debris started raining down around them, and when he sat up he saw black smoke pouring out of the Undersea Tunnel. A few burning scraps were ejected into the snow. The tunnel itself collapsed and a good portion of the hillside subsided as well, sealing off the Undersea from the island.
Reflexively, Alistair put his hands to his ears but knew there was nothing he could do to stop the ringing. He betrayed me, was the only thought he could put together in his head. He betrayed me. Turning to the men, he saw their blank, stunned stares, fully as shocked as his. Wellesley had been hit in the forehead by something and a stream of blood was just forging a path around his eye and down his cheek. He turned back to the wreckage and burned with rage.
Wellesley sidled up next to his partner, breathing as if he had just run a mile, and asked, “What do we do now?”
Alistair tossed the detonator into the deep snow outside the car. Gripping his gun, he pulled it from its holster and checked the chamber to confirm the presence of a bullet. “We finish the battle,” he said through gnashing teeth.
***
Having chosen her path, Stephanie walked it with bold strides. It was not for nothing that she so easily fell into command roles, and not for nothing that she caught Travis’ attention. Relegating conscience to a back corner of her mind, she threw herself into her assignment.
Nearly every rebel hid his face. When the interrogator entered the cell he would stare at the floor, meekly, and only made eye contact when ordered to do so. Even then it was a tremulous, faltering look turned away at the first opportunity. Ryan LaSalle was no different. The erstwhile jocularity was gone and in its place was shame and terror in equal parts.
“I never need to explain to a traitor why they are guilty,” she informed him. “They hide their faces in shame because they already know.”
Even such a remark as that did not provoke a response. He was, as she could tell, already beaten, but brutality is not something a successful regime can compromise. The recent Voluntarist collapse was a firm reminder of that. Despite his protestation of ignorance of practically every aspect of the rebellion, and despite the fact Stephanie believed every word of it, Ryan LaSalle was a battered, twisted, bleeding, shattered, quivering body an hour later. His silence was due only to his voice giving out. What once had been a young man’s lithe fingers were twisted fragments. Where once an easy, cocky smile had been was now a mouth of shattered teeth and torn lips. The arms that had encircled his mother, his girlfriends, his cousin – the arms which once had wrestled with his father – lay useless on the ground, more like boneless tentacles.
By the faraway stare in his eyes, she figured his mind was shutting out the pain it could not cope with. Her arms tired and her chest heaving, she dropped her hammer onto the floor and glanced at the gray wall where, on the other side, Travis was still watching her, and then back at the body she had broken. Wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her cleaner left hand, she made for the exit. There was only one thing left to do, but as she reached for the handle her attention was abruptly arrested by the low rumble of a distant explosion.
***
The Undersea Tunnel ran into Arcarius at the southern part of the city, just east of the harbor, and went north to the main train station at the southern terminus of Rendral Way and the northeast corner of the harbor district. Alistair and his small group followed the tracks from the detonated train to the city’s main station, a trip of perhaps two miles. When they emerged from a small cluster of dark and empty worker flats, the station came into view. All was still.
They heard the sounds of a firefight immediately following the detonation of the train. By the time they covered half the distance to the station, the various booms and cracks, at least the nearby ones, had ceased. Now, standing before it, Alistair saw it was perfectly intact. The skirmish did nothing to damage the south side of the structure.
The noises of combat surrounded them on all sides but at a great distance. The lion’s share came from the northeast, up Rendral Way, where the Civil Headquarters and Mayor’s Palace were. An occasional flash of light was seen on the hillsides surrounding the city and Alistair’s keen vision could make out small groups of men operating light artillery.
“At a run, men,” he said and broke into a gallop over the snowy terrain. After a space of a couple hundred yards they reached the platforms and passed into the shadow under the roof perhaps thirty yards above. His head a full foot beneath the platform
s, he was unable to see what was above, but there were several streams of blood still dripping a little off the edge even as the red fluid both froze and coagulated. Holding his hand out to slow the men down, he gently approached a set of stone stairs, his firearm at the ready, listening intently for any hint of movement. Slowly he ascended until his searching eyes broke the level of the platform and the sight of several dead bodies greeted him.
The terminal was a spacious area with seven separate platforms long enough that an entire train could shelter underneath the glass roof. Alistair chose the central tracks for the approach on the theory that, running by the largest platform, it would be deemed the most appropriate to welcome Duquesne. He guessed correctly, as there were a couple dozen corpses, killed by gunfire and grenades by the look of them. Some lay peacefully while others were contorted into impossible positions. A few were Civil Guard; most were in civilian clothes. Two station workers had been killed, but they had weapons in their hands and Alistair recognized one as a rebel.
His men picked their way through the carnage of bodies and rent benches and shattered glass. Many were fascinated by the corpses, and one even stooped down to peer into the lifeless eyes of a young woman as she, lying on her shredded abdomen, stared along the platform floor. Alistair remembered his first battlefield, before he was assigned a War Suit, and recalled feeling exactly the same horrible fascination. Such novice feelings were gone now, as was the sick feeling of regret. No, he thought, the regret is not entirely gone. It’s buried but not gone. I’ll grieve when the battle is over.
“Staring at the bodies is the surest way to join them,” he growled. “Keep a look out and follow me.”
He led them down the length of the platform, sweeping his gun back and forth. The sounds of distant battle were all that broke the stillness, that and the occasional sniffle or spit from one of his companions. Passing through the doors at the front of the platforms, he and his men were greeted by the large marble main hall. Lit only dimly by sunlight streaming through the glass front doors and the windows high on the walls, it sported marble staircases in each of the four corners. There were ticket windows, a large, cubical bulletin board in the center that replaced the less trustworthy electric monitors and some abandoned portable stands used by well connected vendors. There was another dead body, a Guardsman, lying spread-eagle and face down with his head pointing towards the entrance.
“I want a gun pointed at each staircase at all times,” Alistair informed his team and began to cross the main hall, trusting the men to sort out his order for themselves. They had nearly reached the midway point, a mere handful of yards from the bulletin board, when he signaled a stop, listening for just a moment before hiding behind the board. The others followed suit. Seconds later they finally heard what alerted Alistair: footsteps on the staircase behind them to their left.
When the others emerged from the deep shadow of the staircase, it was with slow and fearful steps. The first three were Civil Guard; the twenty or so following were civilians, a few of them ostentatiously dressed. Laying a calming hand on Wellesley’s shoulder, Alistair let the party go about halfway from their stairwell to the front doors.
With a whisper so slight it hardly existed, he said, “Stay with me now,” and then popped his torso out from the side of the bulletin board.
“Don’t move!” he bellowed, and his companions trained their guns on the group.
A collective scream went up from the score of civilians while the Civil Guard, true to their training, hit the deck and aimed their weapons back on the rebels, shouting orders all the while.
“Put your weapons down!” roared Alistair. “You have no cover and we’ve got you pinned down! Put your weapons down!”
There was another interval of shouting, and finally one of the Civil Guard turned and shouted to his comrades. He raised his weapon towards the ceiling and stood up. The other two did likewise a moment later.
“Keep your weapons pointed right at them,” said Alistair and then, sweeping wide to avoid any crossfire, moved out from behind the bulletin board and approached the group.
He was fifteen feet away when he noticed one of the ostentatiously dressed ladies was Elizabeth. He nearly missed a step when he saw her. Her makeup was sullied with tears and several stray strands of her beautiful black hair hung over her face. Her chest heaved in fear but her eyes were fixed on him.
Returning his attention to the Guards, Alistair softly but firmly ordered, “Put your weapons down one at a time. You first… now you… now you. Step away from the weapons and keep your hands above your heads.”
With his free hand, Alistair waved his men forward and kicked the weapons to a safer distance.
“You three, get down on your bellies and kiss the floor.” They quickly did just that. His companions were at his side a moment later.
“Search the Guards and take anything useful,” he commanded, and as they hastened to obey he turned to Elizabeth who was looking at him with a mixture of fear and anger.
“What happened here?”
“What do you think happened here, Alistair!?” She spat his name when she pronounced it.
“Elizabeth, settle down and—”
“Don’t tell me to settle down!” she wailed and clumsily drew her arm back and slugged Alistair a blow meant for his face but which connected with his neck. Her body heaved with unsuppressed sobs and the breaths wheezed in and out of her lungs. “They tried to kill us! You tried to kill us!”
“Getting worked up isn’t going to solve anything.”
“Don’t give me your logical shit!” Elizabeth’s hysterics were creating a stir among the other people in her group.
“Shut that bitch up!” hollered Wellesley.
“SOUND OFF!” Alistair roared and his holler echoed in the marble cavern. Even Elizabeth was reduced to a few quiet sniffles. Summoning his gentlest voice, he said, “Elizabeth, I need you to tell me what happened here.”
Through sobs that made her teeth chatter, she gave him the short version. “We were waiting to greet President Duquesne. There was an explosion and then everyone was shooting at us… Alistair they killed Aloysius!” A sob wracked her body. “They killed the mayor!” She broke down into tears again. Supremely uncomfortable and uncertain what to do, Alistair awkwardly placed an arm around her shoulder but she threw it off and retreated into her group of companions.
Sighing, Alistair turned to his fellows. “Have you searched them yet?”
“We got everything.”
“Alright. Get out of here,” he said and waved them on.
“What the hell?” said Wellesley.
“Get going!” he repeated with a sharp bark that cut through their hesitation. The Civil Guardsmen leapt up and, first at a fast walk and then at a jog, made for the main entrance. The civilians whom they escorted, Elizabeth included, kept pace.
When the rebels were alone again Wellesley sidled up next to Alistair and fixed a disbelieving gaze on him. “They’re going to be back in the ranks and rearmed within an hour. We could have saved ourselves the trouble right here. And probably somebody’s life.”
“They put up their guns and surrendered,” Alistair replied without looking at his partner. “I’m not killing anyone in that position. Now let’s head up Rendral Way and see what we can see.”
His disgruntled men followed him outside, their boots making echoes off the marble of the hall.
***
Staying in the protection of the narrow alleys and smaller streets, Alistair led his band northeast, parallel to Rendral Way but away from its wide open space. The cacophony of battle persisted, but other than the smoke from fires lit around the city they saw little evidence of it. For several blocks he trekked from alley to alley, pausing to scan when their path crossed another street and then quickly leading his men across. Once, while passing through a neighborhood, he glanced at a window and looked right at a pair of eyes staring back at him. As quickly as he called a halt, the face ducked away into the dar
kness of the house and Alistair decided it was just a poor woman trying to hide from violence. They hurriedly left the neighborhood behind.
A few blocks later, he once again raised his hand for a halt, listening for a moment. “The battle’s moving this way. We’re going to camp out in one of these homes and hit them when they come through.”
“We could head east and just go around,” one of the men suggested, but Alistair was already trudging through the snow of a short front yard. The men followed and caught up as he hopped onto the front porch of the boxlike structure and pounded on its front door.
“What are you doing?” asked Wellesley incredulously.
“Seeing if anyone is home.”
Staring ahead at the door in front of him, he did not see the amazed looks of his companions.
“Uh, Alistair… we’re in a battle right now. Just kick the door in.”
“Property is property.”
“OK, but it looks like no one is on this property that is property.”
Alistair lifted one massive leg and shattered the wood near the handle with a mighty kick. The door flew inward and bounced back into him as he strode through. Quickly surveying the entrance hall, he crossed over its creaking wood floors to a staircase.
“Make sure the first floor is empty,” he commanded without looking back.
With a loud creak at every footstep, he ascended, his gun ready. As his eyes rose above the level of the second floor he saw another hallway as bare as the one below. The house was dusty and had nothing to indicate anyone was living there. He paused at the landing to listen but heard only the battle and the heavy footsteps of his men. Gun first, he quickly checked the half dozen upstairs rooms and found a series of offices with desks, chairs and sagging bookshelves covered in dust. The thick tomes bending the wood of the shelves were tax manuals, all out of date. When he finished checking the last of the rooms and returned to the landing, his men were just coming up the stairs.
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