Alistair sharply turned his head back to face the window and he glowered at the world outside.
“Gerald says they do their best to accommodate requests,” said Nigel, his gentle tone a foil to Alistair’s heat and anger. “I’m sure they’ll allow us to move south.”
“You shouldn’t have to ask,” his son almost whispered.
There was a moment of silence as there always was after Alistair punctuated a discussion with a bit of passion, and then he glanced at the clock on the wall and reluctantly stood up, like one who is awakened too early in the morning.
“I need to head back,” he explained and donned his winter apparel.
“Head back where?” his father asked.
“Mayor’s Palace. Or what was formerly the Mayor’s Palace and will be again in short order. Listen,” Alistair looked his father directly in the eyes, “stake out a corner in the building’s basement and be ready to head down there at a moment’s notice.”
“What’s going to happen?” his mother asked.
“The army will be sent in to retake the city. I don’t expect there to be much fighting in this area… but just be ready. Just in case.”
He gave his dad a firm embrace and his mother a pair of pecks on the cheeks before he was out the door, heading down the stairwell, out the entrance hall and into the winter evening. He was considering taking a more direct route back but to the west, somewhere in the vicinity of Rendral Way, he heard what sounded like a large group of laborers. Curious, he decided to head there instead.
When he reached the boulevard, he saw scores of rebels breaking up the road and digging trenches whose edges they lined with anything that would do to stop shrapnel or a bullet. Every thirty yards or so all along the boulevard the trenches were being dug. Not realizing his mouth was open in shock, he regarded the project in silence. He was moved to interfere, to try to impose reason, but finally just shook his head and, with a sigh of equal parts exasperation and resignation, made for the northeast.
He had not gone far when he spotted Henry Miller among the diggers, his slight frame hard at work pitching dirt over his shoulder. Alistair called out to him. Henry stopped and peered around a bit before he caught sight of Alistair. His eyebrows shot up in surprise and, dropping his shovel, he clambered out of the ditch.
“I haven’t seen you in forever,” breathed Henry. “Did…” Henry stopped, reluctant to speak. “Is it true about you and Oliver?”
“What did you hear?”
“Well… I heard you had a bit of a quarrel.”
“A very short quarrel. I socked him one good in the face and it was over.”
Henry was at a loss for words.
“Well… all because of the train?”
Alistair glared sharply at Henry. “Who told you that?”
“I talked with Oliver.”
Nodding, Alistair looked out over the workers falling deeper into shadow. “This is the most colossal waste of time since the Pyramids.”
“We’re buildings defenses for the city—”
“You’re wasting your damn time. We don’t have the men to trench the city, or the time to set our defenses so we don’t get flanked. We don’t have the artillery to support it all and we don’t have the air power to keep from getting bombed half to death before the invasion even starts. There is a long history of guerrilla warfare and it’s not a big secret how to do it successfully. If somebody wants to…” He stopped, looked up to the heavens and let out a deep sigh. “Forget it. I’m not going to argue about it. If you’re smart you’ll come back to the Mayor’s Palace with me, grab some supplies and head for the hills.”
Before he got anything coherent out of his mouth, Henry started to speak a couple times and looked indecisively between Alistair and his fellows. Finally, he managed, “Alistair… I don’t… you’re going out in the hills on your own?”
“For now. I’m going to cross the channel as soon as I can and look for something to do on the mainland.” He started walking again.
“You’re leaving the rebellion?”
“I’m starting my own,” he called back, leaving Henry to stare after him for a few moments before, head hanging low and features twisted into a disturbed expression, his friend shuffled back to his trench and grabbed his shovel again.
Midway through his trek back to the Palace, the lights popping on here and there in response to the growing dark suddenly turned off all at once. Did they even bother about the power generators? he wondered. Overhead, an aircraft silently hovered overhead. Its body invisible against the black sky, it was like a team of light points circling the city far above, maintaining a rigid formation. And we are powerless to stop the reconnaissance.
It was not until he was in the presence of the dark hulk of the Mayor’s Palace that Alistair realized what the power outage meant for his DNA test. With a curse he broke into a run, reassured some alarmed guards at the entrance that he was not attacking them, and tore through the Palace until he was back at the station. Most of the Palace was pitch black but some candles were lit and scattered around. Dave was still there, along with one other, and they were both crouching over a piece of equipment in the shape of a box. They turned to look at Alistair as he jogged in.
“I got a generator,” Dave explained.
“Excellent work, soldier.”
Dave’s partner plugged in a wire and, pressing a button, started the generator humming. The DNA constructor came back to life.
“It should automatically save the work as it goes,” Alistair prompted.
Dave sat down and replied, “Yeah, it finished about an hour ago. Let’s see if I can call up the images…”
He stroked the keys for a moment and tables of information flashed over the 3D pad. Finally, a naked human male appeared. A table of data next to him indicated he was just over six feet tall and weighed about 200 pounds assuming a healthy, lean body weight. His hair was reddish brown and a generous covering of it grew over his arms, chest, belly and legs.
“Give him a short beard and a broken nose sometime in his past. And make him forty five.”
Dave typed in the instructions. Rising from his chair then, he came round to stand next to Alistair, as did his companion.
“What is this for?” he asked.
“Something very important, so keep your lips sealed.”
“Is that…?” Dave started to ask, pointing at the generated image.
Alistair nodded. “The guy who was in here earlier today? Yes. That’s Clement.”
Chapter 37
The dusky interior of the Palace, filled with rebels with the grime of battle, grew more tolerable to smell as the powerless building lost its heat and the seeping cold did what cold always does to odor. With the loss of heat, the squatters in the Palace lost their momentum. They looted what they could, celebrated for a time and now settled down in small camps, waiting for someone else to do something.
One of the few signs of activity was a group of men carrying wounded companions along a hallway. When they passed in front of a ray of light emanating from a room with a generator, Alistair spied Ryan Wellesley struggling with an inert rebel dripping a trail of blood. He hustled to catch up and reached the group just as they entered the Palace’s main banquet hall. Wordlessly, he fell into step with Wellesley, shared a nod with him, and halved his burden.
The banquet hall was converted into an infirmary, though not a comfortable one. A couple dozen cots were rounded up, but most of the wounded were lying on the hard floor, on blankets if they were lucky. Despite the dropping temperature the room smelled of many human odors, blood most noticeably. The few bulbs, powered by a dilapidated generator, gave just enough light to turn most forms into silhouettes weaving in and out of long shadows. Like so many miniature geysers, the wounded were lined up on the floor spouting their cloudy breath, and the sundry moans of the conscious reverberated softly throughout.
As Alistair eased his charge onto the bare floor at the end of a row of bodies, he spott
ed Gregory Lushington in a heated argument with an armed rebel. Gesticulating wildly, the young doctor was a stark contrast to the laconic soldier who merely shook his head every so often, a gesture which sparked a renewed outburst from Gregory. When Alistair drew nearer, dimly aware that Wellesley was tagging along, he could make out the words Gregory flung at the man in a sort of hushed yell.
“… I’m not taking care of a sprained ankle while somebody bleeds to death!” The guard shrugged and looked bored. “I didn’t agree to any restrictions when I came here, now give me the supplies!”
The rebel lazily ran his tongue across his bottom row of teeth, pushing his lower lip out, and shrugged again. “Take it up with him,” he said, indicating Alistair with a nod of his head before languidly spinning on his heel and walking away.
Gregory turned his head and, seeing Alistair, a relieved expression crossed his face. “They’re not letting me treat any Civil Guard,” he said, grabbing his friend by the arms. “I’ve done what I can for the rebels and now they want me applying bandages while the Guardsmen die. There are about a half dozen who are ten minutes from bleeding to death but I might be able to save some if they let me act now. Tell them to give me the supplies to treat them!”
“Ryan, take him to the supplies.”
“They’re this way,” was Wellesley’s reply and he set off.
“Thank you,” said Gregory with the utmost sincerity and he squeezed Alistair’s shoulder before following Wellesley.
Alistair caught the attention of the rebel with whom Gregory had been arguing and called him over with a crooking of his finger. “This place is filling up pretty quickly. Why don’t you grab a couple soldiers who can apply a field dressing and get the walking wounded out of here? Find another room for them somewhere else.”
“I can’t do much more than put a band aid on.”
“Buddy, we’ve got bullets in chest cavities and I count about eight trained medical personnel. Take the ones who can move and treat anybody you think you can help more than harm.” The man repressed a sigh but nodded. “And put the safety on that goddamn rifle.”
The man stopped and checked his safety, gave a look of unconcerned surprise, clicked the safety into place and nodded his thanks.
Alistair was about to bring some sense and order to the distribution of cots and blankets when a voice stopped him.
“You know, we’ve only got a limited stock of medical supplies.”
Alistair turned to see Oliver, his bulbous nose a ghastly mess and his eye sockets purple patches surrounding blood shot eyes.
“I decided not to use any for an injury I received today.”
“You’re a martyr for the cause,” Alistair replied in a low and even tone, not quite unfriendly. “There are a few train attendants and engineers who are quite beyond any medical attention. You’re not getting an apology. I’ll deck you a second time long before that happens.”
“I don’t expect an apology,” Oliver responded in an equally even tone. “Look, Alistair, every Civil Guard we patch up is one less of ours we can fix up and one more soldier we have to shoot again. Think of it in those terms. Why the hell would we treat the enemy?”
“Because it feels like the right thing to do,” Gregory interjected as he brushed by Oliver with a bundle in his arms. Dumping the bundle on the floor next to an unconscious Civil Guard, he knelt down to attend to him.
“Just stabilize him,” Oliver ordered. “This isn’t a luxury hospital.”
“No hospital is.”
“And don’t waste your time or our supplies on anyone who isn’t ready to die. Or on anyone who isn’t going to live.”
Oliver waited for a response but Gregory was finished with the conversation. Turning to Alistair, he said, “Can you and I talk for a moment?”
“I think we need to.”
“Follow me.”
Oliver took Alistair out of the makeshift infirmary, past bored rebels playing cards in the candlelight, to a smaller chamber just down the hall. Lighting a match, he touched it to a candle’s wick and closed the door. Alistair’s keen night vision scanned the gloom and he saw what must have been some sort of smoking room to judge from the wrecked furniture piled against the back wall. Opulent though it was meant to be, even the ruling class had endured privations of late as evidenced by the handful of accumulated cigarette burns on the old carpet. Oliver set the candle down in the middle of the room.
There was a moment when Alistair thought he felt Oliver soften. Perhaps the big man’s shoulders slumped a bit, or his furrowed brow loosened, but the softening proved to be transitory. When he looked into the cold, hard expression of his erstwhile friend he was left with no doubt how Oliver was going to proceed.
“I did what I did for good reason. I tried to tell you before: you are too important to the cause to lose hijacking a train we can blow up and send a stronger message.”
“What message is that?”
“That we’re not to be trifled with. This is a war and we have to project strength.”
Alistair shook his head. “You don’t help the cause with acts like that. Right now colonels and generals are gathering in Avon and they’re deciding to send the same message and project strength. They’ll attack without mercy, and if you survive you’ll no doubt decide you weren’t hard enough, so the next time you’ll be even more vicious. Before long the violence escalates so far, you’re stuck in a war with both sides competing to commit the most atrocities. In the meantime you lose the broad support of the people; the general populace views you both as monsters.”
“What would you have me do, Alistair? Waste my best soldiers? Let them come at me with all they have and return their punches with a halfhearted slap? You think that’s how to win a war?”
“Did you really bring me in here to have this argument?”
“I brought you in here to get your advice. Whatever you think of me, I’m hoping you’re still fighting The Realists. So tell me how to fight them.” Oliver brought his fists up in front of his chest in a gesture half supplication and half anger.
“I’ve been giving you advice and you refuse to hear it. If you try and fight like a professional army you are going to get swept off the face of the planet. YOU… CAN’T… WIN… THAT… WAY. This has to be a guerrilla war, and that gives you all sorts of advantages. A guerrilla army costs nothing and requires little organization. They don’t have to be housed, trained, fed and paid for. Militias form when they are needed from inspired volunteers and then they disperse when they must, leaving nothing for the State to attack. They can do this because they have the support of the general populace, a support you undermined today. It might be one thing to assassinate a hated dictator, but those innocents you killed have wives, children, family and friends. With every decision like that you erode the support you need to be effective. You shouldn’t have done it simply because it was monstrous, but if your conscience isn’t enough, at least try to make smarter plays.
“You can start by dispersing. This is the beginning of the war; you won’t hold any cities until the end. And blow the mines up to cripple their supplies.”
“I don’t know if we have enough cloaks to hide in the hills.”
“Will you listen to me? I didn’t say retreat, I said disperse. Go back to your homes. You can’t, obviously, and neither can I now, but the rest of the men can take care of themselves. That’s the advantage: you don’t have to plan a full scale retreat. Decentralize! Let each man take care of himself. If they’re dedicated, they’ll be back when you need them. A guerrilla army works best when it can’t be distinguished from the general populace. So disperse; destroy the mines and disperse. It would be a huge victory so early on.”
Oliver studied Alistair for a time. “How will they come at us?”
“I have no idea. If you leave it won’t matter. On the way here I saw a reconnaissance craft overhead. They are analyzing our capabilities right now. They may bombard us from the sea while landing paratroopers behind our lines�
�� they could land two forces south and north of the city and slice through us… they may batter us with an air assault first… or they might just try an all out landing on the harbor and run over us. It depends on which General is in charge and what suits his fancy, but even the dimmest plan is guaranteed success. They won’t let those mines be taken. And another thing: I’d get the hell out of the Mayor’s Palace. The term ‘sitting ducks’ comes to mind.”
“There is some news that might interest you,” Oliver said with an air of changing the subject. “We cracked into the Civil Guard’s computers. Turns out they have a file on Henry. He is listed as one of their double agents. He’s been trying to infiltrate us.”
Alistair actually felt as if he had been slugged in the gut. “There’s no… no doubt about this?”
Oliver shrugged his shoulders. “There really isn’t much he could tell them. That’s not what bothers me.”
“I’ve been targeted for assassination,” Alistair said in an abrupt change of subject. “The assassins are here with us. I got an image of one from a DNA sample.”
“You don’t think Henry…?”
Alistair shook his head. “Henry didn’t even know we were involved until recently. And he wouldn’t do that.”
“How sure are you?”
“It’s someone else.”
“So what do we do about Henry?”
“Keep him. Feed him false information.” With that, Alistair moved towards the door, pulling it partially open. “I’m leaving. I’m going to stock up on some supplies and head out. But I am done coordinating with you. Our goals may coincide for the present and we might wind up helping each other, but I’m not fighting this war to put you on a throne.”
“That’s not what I’m looking for, Alistair!”
“The assassins are Cain and Clement. We used the DNA constructor to make an image of Clement and it’s pretty accurate. Let Henry be; the other two I would take out as soon as I could.” He took his first step out the door but stopped in mid-stride. “I saw Elizabeth. She was at the train station.” Oliver did not reply but his body stiffened. “She’s alright. She’s mad as hell. I don’t know where she’s going.”
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