Withûr We

by Matthew Bruce Alexander

  “If you have an argument to make, make it. If you think justice can be done better, than do it yourself. And be patient, because time is required to find the right answer, and there is no remedy for that. And be willing to accept the market’s verdict, be humble enough to accept you might be wrong. But do not introduce coercion into relationships that up to now have been voluntary. If we do not yet have one overarching standard of justice for all, it is because there is no consensus yet on what that is, at least not in the fine details. Let us not risk imposing the wrong standard simply to have it done more quickly.

  “Ashley Security & Arbitration will not participate in any such course of action. Neither will we submit an application and ask permission to operate. Neither will we countenance any initiation of coercion on your parts such as you have proposed today.”

  Odin stopped speaking and cast his stern gaze over all assembled before him. His audience, just as stern as he, looked back. To his speech he merely added, “Now you know how we feel.”

  ***

  It was nearly midnight before Alistair returned. His retinue dispersed, headed for their own abodes, and he, having used his home and office to transport them, stayed behind. He did not retire for the night, however. Instead, he permitted himself the luxury of lighting a lamp and brooded in one of his small offices. At times he sat with his arms folded; at times he paced the floor, moving in and out of the halo of diffuse light incompletely streaming through the lampshade.

  He heard the exit ramp being manually lowered, then heard the door at the top being opened. One pair of heavy footsteps trod on the carpeted hallways, opening first one door, then another. Knowing the visitor was looking for him, he did not feel helpful enough to call out. Instead, he sat down in a chair, on the edge of the lamp’s light and facing the door, folded his arms and waited until the searcher finally happened upon the right door.

  It turned out to be Miklos, who gave Alistair a tense nod upon entering. His normally lethargic expression was replaced by one of acute worry.

  “Gregory is asking to see you,” he said, then added, “You should come quickly.”

  “What’s the matter?” asked Alistair, impressed enough by this rare display of vitality on Miklos’ part to rise out of his seat.

  “It’s Ryan.”

  Alistair followed Miklos into the fresher night air. Though it took them several minutes to arrive at their destination, he knew from the moment they started where they were going. At the front façade of Gregory’s two story hospital, which reminded one more of an overbuilt log cabin than a proper hospital, Miklos looked back to cast another troubled glance at his boss but did not hesitant to enter. He led Alistair to the back of the building and down a flight of steps to the basement.

  Gregory and Layla were both in the dark, stone cellar. A single electric bulb on the ceiling provided just enough light to read by. Scattered about were several cabinets, tables, beds, carts and other supplies. A few areas were curtained off, but in one the curtain was drawn back, and there Alistair saw the body of Ryan Wellesley lying on a morgue cart.

  He reacted as if a blow landed on his gut. He half doubled over, placed his hands on his knees and breathed unevenly. The others hung their heads and folded their hands.

  “There were eight of them,” Gregory softly said when he deemed it appropriate to speak. “Layla has been preparing their bodies all day.”

  Alistair glanced at Layla and for the first time in a long while she smiled at him, though it was a sad smile full of pity. She held his gaze only for a moment before staring at the floor again.

  Straightening up, Alistair finally approached the body. It was clean and composed, but there was no hiding the marks of violence, nor the pallor claiming his skin. Whoever killed him made a point of violating the entire corpus, not even respecting the most private regions, and the cadaver was in ruins. Even the face was damaged to the point where it was not an easy matter to identify him.

  “Was a thorough examination done before it was cleaned?” he asked, stone faced, as he stared down at the body of his friend.

  “I did it myself,” said Miklos. “I can tell you who did it. The Gaians. They stuck twigs and branches in his body, and rubbed dirt all over him, and branded a circle on his chest, and scraped his—”

  “I’ll read the report,” said Alistair, interrupting the crescendo of emotion.

  Poor, loyal Ryan, he thought as he placed a hand on the corpse’s hair. So many chapters end so abruptly. And so violently.

  “If all the work has been done you may bury him,” he mumbled.

  “First thing tomorrow morning,” said Gregory. “He was Christian, right? Did he have a burial preference?”

  “He wasn’t Christian,” said Miklos. “Not practicing anyway.”

  “If he had a desire for his burial it’ll be recorded in his file,” said Alistair. “If not we’ll cremate the body.”

  Without waiting for further deliberation and not bothering with a goodbye, he was on the stairs and out of the basement morgue a moment later.

  ***

  Alistair risked a trip on a Torpedo to a cave system he had homesteaded for his company. There he found Shukri and Amina still awake, surrounded by trinkets and gadgets and tools and hunched over another pile of the same, their light provided by the same bulb from their cave by the Birth Crater. When they heard his footsteps they stopped their work and twisted their bodies to face the entrance, apparently not expecting any visitors at that hour of the morning. When they saw who it was they looked both relieved and curious.

  “Alistair,” said Shukri by way of greeting.

  Alistair absentmindedly nodded as he strolled over to their pile to catch a glimpse of what they were working on. “How long until we can make advanced circuits and superconductors?”

  “A long time,” said Amina, more perplexed than before. “That is years away.”

  “We have to build the machine that can build the machine that can build the machine that can build it,” said Shukri. “And we have to build the machine that can build the machine that can extract the materials needed to manufacture all the compounds. If we stopped everything right now and dedicated all our efforts to it, which we could only do if we stopped needing food, shelter and clean water, it would still be many months, maybe years away. I’ve told you this. Why do you ask?”

  “We’re limited to what we salvage from the Gaian cities,” said Alistair, an understanding more than a question.

  “Correct,” said Shukri.

  Alistair bit his upper lip as he thought for a moment. “Build me a spacecraft. Make it your highest priority.”

  “The aircraft you have now can make it into space,” said Amina. “I assume you want an HD Drive?”

  “The best you can give me. When can you finish?”

  “Alistair,” began Shukri with a note of irritation. “If we can do it at all, and that depends on what remains from what has been salvaged… Two months.”

  “Two months.” He nodded, staring through their workbench and seeing something they could only guess at. “Fine. Make it happen. Work on nothing else until you finish it.”

  As Alistair turned to leave, Shukri said, “We got the Old Korean translated. It’s an Aradnium system like we thought. It’s making a protective shield for the moon—”

  “I’ll read the report,” said Alistair, and then he was gone.

  Chapter 83

  Having left no instructions as to the care of his cadaver, Ryan Wellesley was cremated. Gregory took charge of planning the observance, which surpassed in ceremony what Alistair considered proper but he endured it. There was a respectable turn out, and many well wishers came who had not known Ryan but wished to express their condolences to Alistair. Nature, always indifferent to Man’s sorrows and joys, turned out a beautiful morning that had better accompanied a wedding. When the ceremony was finished, Alistair retired to his aircraft and shut himself in, alone, and there was finally able to say goodbye in a solitary and quiet m
anner that suited him.

  About a week after the cremation, a man came to see Alistair about applying for his permit. Santiago and Giselle formed Justice Enforcement, and together with The Shield, Bedrock Security and a number of smaller entities formed The Law Enforcement and Arbitration Network, demanding anyone presuming to provide arbitration and security services submit an application and comply with certain standards. Alistair, seated in a chair with his hands resting on his belly, listened to the man. When he was finished speaking, Alistair continued staring at him, as if still listening, to the point where the man grew visibly uncomfortable.

  “What is your reply?” he finally asked.

  “What happens if I don’t apply for my permit?”

  “You need a permit to operate.”

  “My question was what happens if I don’t apply.”

  “You need a permit to operate.”

  “I understand that. What happens if I refuse to apply?”

  “No one will be permitted to operate without a permit,” the man said again, drawing himself up to his full height and sticking his chest out.

  “You will shut me down?”

  “Your operations will be shut down if you have no permit.”

  “Shut down how?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I want to know.”

  “Well, I don’t have that answer. Now, may I give you the paperwork for the application?”

  “What if I insist on operating without a license?”

  The man rolled his eyes and shifted his stance. “Why would you do it? All that is being done is… we are applying a standard. So everyone gets the same justice, dealt in the same way.”

  “What if two people have different ideas about justice, and how it is to be dealt? Should they not have different options? And if some differences must be resolved, why should it not be resolved through cooperation between firms?”

  “That’s what we are trying to do.”

  “No, you are forcing me to shut down if I do not apply and agree to certain standards. That is not cooperation. So please answer my question or get out of my sight: how will my operations be shut down?”

  “I already told you I don’t know that.”

  “Presumably they will send troops.”

  The man clenched his teeth. “If you force them to.”

  Alistair tossed his head back and barked a humorless laugh. “That’s rich! I am forcing them to do nothing. They are forcing me to comply or be shut down. Don’t you think that’s awfully rich? For the aggressors to try and blame the victim for their crime?”

  The man stammered and spluttered for a moment before Alistair cut him off.

  “Do you agree I should be forcefully shut down if I don’t have a permit?”

  The man’s pitiful efforts at speech abruptly ceased. Once again he drew himself up to his full height. “Yes,” was his even reply. “This is for everyone’s good and if you can’t see that, we are not going to bother arguing with you about it. Now, may I give you your application papers?”

  Alistair smiled without genuine merriment and faintly nodded his head, as if mulling something over. Rising from his chair with a casual air, he then sprang like a bear trap, striking the messenger in the abdomen with a fist. His breath escaped him in a rush and he fell to his knees, at first silent, a few seconds later wheezing to get air back in his lungs. Alistair stared down at him.

  “Get out of my sight,” he ordered with a tone brooking no dispute.

  As soon as the man’s legs regained enough strength to support him, he was on his way.

  ***

  The investigation of the murder of Ryan Wellesley and seven others was quickly taken as far as possible. It was clear a group of Gaians had attacked, and Alistair figured he already knew why, at least in a broad sense. Finding the particular Gaians responsible for the crime was another matter.

  Activity at their temple had recently become more frantic, but no one from any of the security agencies was allowed within shouting distance of it. There was a din of chanting and dancing and wailing and banging of instruments with crescendos and diminuendos but which never completely ceased. At night Alistair would sometimes go up to the roof of his aircraft to star at the sunset, or the stars, or at Srillium, and contemplate the state of affairs, and he could hear the distant cacophony. It was just enough to buzz at the edge of his consciousness while he marinated in his melancholy. Unsure how to proceed, whether to attack the Gaians if they refused to cooperate or to allow the horrible crimes to pass unpunished, he was caught in a permanent hesitation from which he felt incapable of extricating himself, and he feared only an outside impetus would bring the affair to some form of resolution.

  He periodically would check in with the Singulatarians, observe them for a few minutes, ask a couple of questions to determine how far along they were and then leave. They calmly weathered his repetitive interrogations for the few minutes he was there. Even the grimace he inevitably gave when they told him how much longer they would take they endured with aplomb. If, in his impatience to have an HD Drive, he inclined a bit towards the ungrateful, or lacked proper appreciation for their wonderful work, they were willing to forgive. They liked Alistair, enjoyed the freedom and the salary working for him entailed, and when one day they informed him the drive was nearly ready, that all they needed was an ignition key, his thankful smile was compensation enough for his earlier behavior.

  The five of them, having expected his regular visit, awaited him behind their creation with the pride of a peacock. Even Faisa could not help but grin. It was vaguely box shaped, with several compartments and tubes and wires protruding. Its most salient feature was the bluish crystal dome at the top, a dome Alistair knew would glow when demands were made on the engine. He almost knelt in its presence but, remaining on his feet, took to circling the creation.

  “Now, this isn’t the fastest engine in the galaxy,” said Akihiro, who was hobbling on his cane in Alistair’s footsteps as the Aldran described large circles about the equipment. “Not much faster than the first HD Drives.”

  “It can reach supraluminal speeds, correct?”

  “You can be sure of it,” said Faisa.

  “When you reach your top speed,” continued Akihiro, “you’ll travel a light year in about four days.”

  This caused Alistair to pause and Akihiro nearly plowed into the back of him.

  “That would make Aldra, at a straight shot… almost two years away.”

  “And you won’t have any hibernation technology,” the old Japanese man reminded him.

  Looking a little nervous, Alistair slowly nodded. “It’ll do.” Then he more convincingly said, “It’s marvelous. It really is a marvel.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Shukri, his bushy eyebrows bunching up as he smiled.

  “We couldn’t make an ignition key for it,” said Akihiro.

  Alistair shook his head as if it were of little importance. “Darion’s got a few of those in his drills in the mines.”

  “And we’ll need a week to install it in your aircraft.”

  Alistair finally tore his attention from the motor and turned his smile on his five scientists. “When I get back… I don’t know… I’ll make a donation to the development of artificial intelligence.”

  “Just blow up a Gaian temple,” said Faisa, her smirk equal parts camaraderie and malevolence.

  Akihiro came around to face Alistair and grasped his arm with his free hand. “I did my best work on this, Alistair. We all did. But engines can break down, things can go wrong. If you get stranded out there…”

  “I understand.”

  “Why go? Why risk it? You have a life here now. We have a society. And you’re in a better position in this one or you never would have been sent here in the first place. Why leave?”

  Alistair grasped Akihiro’s arm in response. “Let’s just say I have the urge.”

  ***

  A detachment of six troops arrived sometime later, a delegat
ion from the other security firms, demanding to speak with Alistair. They informed Taribo they had a cease-and-desist order to deliver to the head of AS&A. The West African sent a man to relay the information, and when he returned it was to say that Alistair would permit only one of the six to enter his aircraft and deliver the order to him. The head of the delegation informed Taribo this would not be satisfactory, at which point Alistair’s head of security shrugged his shoulders and returned his attention to where it had been before the delegation arrived.

  After a minute of deliberation, a peeved leader of the delegation told him he consented to Alistair’s conditions, at which point he was permitted to enter the aircraft. Only a minute later the door reopened and Alistair came out, carrying the leader of the delegation by the hair on the back of his head and the seat of his pants. The papers of the cease and desist order had been crammed into his mouth and a trickle of blood flowed from a cut on his eyebrow. The great muscular Aldran heaved the hapless man into the air, but not far enough to clear the entire exit ramp. Instead, he fell face down onto the end and half bounced, half rolled into the dirt beyond it.

  With the clipped and frantic motions of a furious man, he sprang to his feet, ripped the papers out of his mouth, spat, adjusted his clothes and returned to his detachment with a face red from anger and embarrassment. With a movement of his hand like he was slicing something with a dagger, he motioned for his men to follow him and, not looking back, vacated the premises.

  “Tell Mordecai I said hello,” said Taribo without bothering to look at them. He received no response.