Eminent Silence

by Tristan Carey

  We agree to this plan, not knowing what else to do. I fear going on our own, knowing that we will not be as well protected. I have little self-defense knowledge, and while Crain knows how to use a gun, he's never killed anyone. I don't want to ask him to take on such a burden now.

  There are three more checkpoints. The first two go smoothly, although I'm as nervous hiding as I was the first time we slipped away. The last checkpoint, however, something goes wrong.

  Being locked in the trunk, I'm not quite sure what happened. The inspection seems to go smoothly at first, with Sergei sounding amiable and complying to the Chekist officer. But then their voices raise, an argument, a shout. Then a gun fires.

  Its returned tenfold, and I cry out as bullets riddle the sides of the car. It's armored, and none come through — something I am only aware of after the fact. Terrified, Crain and I cling to each other as a firefight rages outside. More guns arrive, I think. I believe Sergei has brought back-up, perhaps more rebels hiding, following through the woods. The Cheka are unprepared for the attack.

  It lasts only for a few minutes, although it feels like an eternity. When it suddenly goes silent, I wonder if something terrible has happened. We must have lost. The Chekists outnumber us, and the rebels are badly armed. Would they have the right manpower to even take down an entire checkpoint?

  I get my answer soon enough. A knock comes to the hatch. My heart practically leaps into my throat. Slowly, Crain pushes it up, and we peer out.

  Sergei, his face bloody, stares at us, victorious. He laughs at our expressions. 'Look at you, pale as ghosts!' he says, cackling, and I spot Sokovian rebels milling about behind him, checking the fallen bodies of the Cheka soldiers. 'Scared we might lose, yes?'

  I was wrong. The civilians far outnumber the police force. They must have come across a weapons cache, because each one is armed with assault rifles, many with back-up pistols and batons.

  They are better prepared than I thought.

  Sergei proceeds as promised, and takes us to the border. We no longer have to hide now; Crain and I ride in the back of the Jeep, surrounded by an envoy of more stolen vehicles. The Sokovians are mobilizing so quickly — I wonder how many of them were prepared for this. The riot in Novi Grad had seemed so spontaneous and chaotic, I couldn't possibly conceive it as planned. And yet here they are, these rebels, looking as though they've been thinking about doing this for years.

  Then again, perhaps they have, and had merely been waiting for the opportune moment.

  The border arrives almost too quickly. The rebels prepare themselves, expecting an army of Cheka waiting for them at the border gates, ready to fight off and kill escaping Sokovians. But they lower their guns in surprise when we round the corner, and discover the gates abandoned.

  The downside to the rebellion is a lack of communication — frequent, at least. They rely on short-wave radios to contact each other, and information hardly seems up-to-date. The concept of 24-news, of instant, up-to-date relays seems alien in a country that is decades behind the rest of the world.

  But rebellions have succeeded in the past, without the need for Internet or cell phones. This appears to be no different. Despite a lack of technology, the Sokovians are still quick and clear in their relay of messages. Most of it I don't understand — they speak in code, in case any Chekists are listening in.

  We drive through the border unhindered.

  We have reached Slovenia.

  The Slovene border guard are twenty meters down the road, and I have to say, they look quite surprised to see us. At first they are wary at the approach of Chekist vehicles, but their attitude changes when they see that the men and women riding in them are dressed casually, only a few in uniforms. We stop when they tell us — the Sokovians are not interested in making enemies.

  The Slovenes are the first to learn of the Sokovian riots, of the rebellion spreading across the country. From there, the message spreads.

  It begins with one of the patrolmen who, ordered by his commanding officer, runs off to make some phone calls. The Slovene officer can speak passing Sokovian; the Sokovians themselves can't speak any other language aside from their own. When Sergei introduces Frank Crain and I to the man, the officer surprises us with his English. He's greatly concerned by this news of unrest in Sokovia, but he is willing to help us. Luckily, Crain and I brought our passports.

  From there, it is smooth sailing. Crain and I jump off the Jeep, and the envoy turns around. The Slovene guards relax considerably when they leave, and two usher us onto another vehicle, taking us to the nearest station. This land, in Slovenia, looks no different than Sokovia, but there are not enough words to express my relief at the change of flags, the national colors, the sight of cell phones and Mac computers in the offices. Passing through the building, we pass a wall covered in clocks, one for each timezone. It's 8:34 PM in London.

  We meet with the Major in charge; his office is neat, and I stare at his laptop, almost unable to recognize it. His English is smoother, and has just gotten off the phone when we enter. Without saying a word, he hands the phone to me.

  Not knowing what else to do, I take it, bringing the receiver to my ear.

  On the other side, a female voice speaks. 'Good evening, Miss Julia Frink.'

  The woman sounds old, but she doesn't sound soft. Her voice is prim and stern, politer than I expected. And yet I recognized her instantly.

  I cover my move, nearly drop to my knees. Crain catches me before I fall. He says, 'Julia, what's wrong? What is it?'

  I look up at him and whisper: 'It's the bloody Queen of England!'

  Her Majesty continues on the other line, as though she hadn't heard me (I certainly hope she hadn't). 'Pardon my intrusion to your wonderful escapades, but the head of MI6 has just informed me of two British reporters having been rescued from Sokovia. Is this true?'

  I am nearly breathless as I answer. 'Y-yes, your Majesty. I, I mean we, Frank Crain and I, we've been in Sokovia for the past year, recording the conditions for the citizens leaving here. We were only planning on a quiet return, to bring with us our findings.'

  'But, as I understand it, things turned out a little differently.'

  'Yes, your Majesty. The people are rioting. I fear we may have a war on our hands.'

  'Well, thankfully, it's not your responsibility anymore. I want you back in London immediately. My Minister of Defence will ensure you safe passage. Good day, Miss Frink. Say hello to Mr. Crain for me.'

  And the phone-call ends. Frank is staring at me. I blink back at him. 'The Queen says hello.'

  It all seems too much, too soon. Just earlier today I witnessed three super-powered individuals lay waste to an entire platoon of Chekists. I've seen the Sokovian people take the country by force, faster than anything I've ever seen. And now, I've just spoken to the Queen of England. The fact that she knows my name nearly makes my heart stop.

  In two hours, we are on a chartered flight to France — apparently, there was some confusion, so instead of a straight flight to London, we stop and catch another in Paris. The Queen was not happy about this, according to Minister Hawthorn, who greeted us after we departed Heathrow airport.

  Stepping out onto familiar soil, I wanted to collapse and never get up again. I would've fallen asleep right on the tarmac if I could have, but I doubt that would have been very fitting of me. The sight of London, of Westminster, of Big Ben, of the Bridge — it finally gets me. Frank holds onto me as I start to bawl my eyes out like a little schoolgirl.

  We are ushered into a dark SUV and escorted to a private hotel. I thought they would take us home — my apartment is just in Chelsea, I try to explain, but the Minister, who sits opposite us inside the vehicle, explains that its not safe for us in our homes yet. It is unknown of our identities are wanted by the Sokovian government, if they seek to do us harm, and for now, it is better safe than sorry.

  But in my gut, I know that is not entirely true, a thought confirmed later,
when we are interviewed and debriefed by the Minister and his colleagues. We give them everything we know, and he advises us of the media storm about to hit us, and what we should and shouldn't tell the world. England is wary of releasing such sensitive information about a potentially-hostile country, especially when Mutants are involved. It is a well-known fact that there are still strong anti-Mutant sentiments still in the UK, despite the UN accords having been signed. The Mutant Registration Act is still a highly controversial topic.

  It's a harsh reminder of the 20th century and all our past mistakes; the Cuban missile crisis, the Mutant Civil Rights movement, the Paris accords and near assassination of President Nixon. Threats of rogue Mutants haven't haunted us in centuries, but now they have returned. Telling the world that there are two very powerful teenage mutants out there, fighting in revolutions, is not something many are happy to hear.

  But hear it they must.

  Since returning to London, my home, the events of Sokovia have earned a multitude of names. The Sokovian Riots, the November Revolution, the Underground Liberation. However, I find the most fitting to be the People's Uprising — for it was people I saw, regular citizens who fought and died for their freedom, striking out against an oppressive regime, and forever changing the history of Sokovia. There have been uprisings before, but this one has maintained a life that is frankly unprecedented.

  The Respublika will not be able to suppress the people this time. They cannot suppress the outrage the world bears for them. Sokovia will not be forgotten.

  November 6th, 2012.

  'Yo, Pete, have you seen this?' Ned called, running up to catch up with Peter in the hall. They were joining the ambling rush to lunch, and Peter turned to see Ned waving the latest TIME magazine in his hand. The cover was almost as bold as Ned's hand-crafted Avengers screen-print t-shirt — designed by yours truly in Midtown's print shop. The design turned out to be surprisingly popular, and so far Peter had made about fifty bucks selling those to other kids in school.

  'Yeah, I saw that this morning,' Peter replied, taking the magazine in hand. Ned was a little out of breath, and he heard a few jeering calls down the hall from Flash, but two boys ignored him. Peter wasn't afraid to stick up for him, but recently he learned to pick his battles. Unless Flash started getting aggressive, Peter was going to play it cool. He'd defended Ned plenty of times in the past — they were best friends, after all — and Ned likewise had done the same for him…to varying degrees of success.

  Peter already knew what the article was about — Karen had read it to him on the way to school that morning. And that wasn't mentioning the intense news coverage Sokovia was getting, thanks to this article.

  'It's crazy, right?' Ned asked, almost laughing in bewilderment. 'First aliens attack New York, we get our own team of superheroes, and now Sokovia's uprising against their Communist overlords — getting their asses kicked by Mutants!'

  Peter didn't have much recourse but to agree. For the past six months, everything has felt very strange to him — and not because of his newfound spidey-powers (a fact which no one knew about, except Tony Stark). It was like the whole world had been turned on its head. What was normal was strange, and the strange was the new normal. Mutants and uprisings, what next? A secret Soviet plot to take over the world? 'I know, it feels like it's from a movie or something.'

  'You hear what they're saying, that the girl in the picture is only fifteen years old?' Ned just shook his head, disbelieving. 'Not that you can really tell, since her face is hidden, but still. So here this chick is, fighting for freedom in some crappy country. What have I done today? Procrastinated on Mr. Harrington's homework.

  'It'd be cool to meet her,' Peter agreed, glancing down at the magazine again. 'You think it's true, that she's really an American? That some kid from here somehow managed to get all the way over there?'

  'Oh, sure,' Ned said, earning a surprised look from Peter. Ned just shrugged. 'I mean, if you've been kidnapped by the KGB.'

  'Ned, the KGB was disbanded in 1991.'

  'So they say,' Ned shot back in a conspiratorial whisper, making Peter just snort in response. 'What, you don't think there isn't something weird going on over there? I mean, hello, they have a freaking Chairman in charge over there, that no one ever knew about, until that girl, Rebel or whatever, mentioned him. Who even is this guy? How the hell has he stayed in charge for so long? Why is he kidnapping people? Was he part of the Soviet Union?'

  The questions fell rapid-fire out of Ned's mouth, nearly overwhelming Peter. Thankfully, they finally got to the lunch line, and Peter had to hold up his hand, before the other kids started giving them weird looks. 'Whoa, slow down, Agent Mulder, you're giving me a headache. I'm pretty sure that's what everyone is trying to find out right now. Isn't Anderson Cooper already in Sokovia, reporting on the situation?'

  'Oh, yeah, I heard he was on the first flight out just two hours after the story broke. Now everyone's going crazy. I mean, just look at those guys,' Ned gestured to the TVs hanging from the walls on either end of the cafeteria. Each were of different channels, talking about different things. News stations from all over the world were desperate to get cameras in Sokovia. 'They can't decide what's more important; the presidential election or the People's Uprising.'

  'Doesn't help that it's Voting Day, either,' Peter added. They shuffled forward in line. Across the way, a kid got up on one of the tables to change the channel on the second TV, switching to the revolution talk. Not many kids were interested in an election they couldn't vote in. TIME magazine had great timing (pun intended).

  As they continued to wait, Peter flipped back through the article, looking for something. He wasn't sure what at first, but something about it had struck him as unusual. A sense of déjà vu. He went to look for it again, scanning each line carefully.

  'What's up, dude?' Ned asked five minutes later, after they'd gotten their food and already sat down. He must have noticed the intense expression on Peter's face; he was still scanning the article (it was longer than he first thought).

  'I don't know, just something Frink wrote,' Peter hadn't found it yet, and was half-mumbling around his finger as he chewed on it. 'She was talking about Rebel and — oh, here it is.' He pointed to the passage so Ned could read it for himself.

  'I can't help but note the slight stutter in her voice, although she doesn't seem nervous or afraid. Perhaps just a speech impediment. The charming spray freckles on Rebel's face only further hammer in how young she is.' Ned narrated out loud, in a hammy English accent. He glanced up at Peter, one eyebrow raised. 'Okay, so?'

  'It just, I don't know,' Peter bit back his thought, resting his cheek on his fist, elbow on the table. He did the page a one over, looking over at the photo taking up the other half of the spread. The article, and all its photography, took up almost twenty pages in the entire magazine. 'Just that description. It...it reminds me of Mia.'

  Ned blinked at him, before comprehension dawned across his head; then he glanced away. 'Sorry, dude. I know you're still messed up about her.'

  Peter thought it was fair to say Ned didn't know Mia as well as he did. Granted, Peter didn't know as much as he thought he did, either, if Mia's video had been anything to go by. But still, Peter was sure he knew the essence of her character, of who she was — enough that he could find the traces of where she'd been.

  And for some reason he was finding it in a TIME magazine.

  'I know she's still alive,' Peter said, perhaps a little too quickly. Ned raised his eyebrows at him, and Peter sighed, hunching up his shoulders. 'Sorry, I just - I don't know. Three days after I get an email from her in Sokovia, and the whole country explodes into chaos. It can't be a coincidence. And it's been over a week now, and I haven't heard anything else from her. What if something happened? A lot of people died in the Uprising, Ned. What if she's one of them?'

  Something about it struck him as incredibly odd, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Peter's gut was tellin
g him that Mia was related to this somehow, but how could that be? Mia was hardly in the physical state to get involved in these sorts of things.

  'Man,' Ned threw his head back, holding out his hands. 'If Mia somehow survived six months in god-knows-where, and then managed to hack a Soviet satellite just to send you a little message, you really think that one little revolution and she's gonna bite the dust?'

  The optimism was a bit surprising coming from Ned — then again, Ned believed there were three culprits to the Kennedy assassination, one of them a Mutant. Still, it was a bit reassuring. At least someone believed him, at least someone listened.

  But Peter still held reservations. 'Seriously? You went to her funeral, man.'

  'If I recall correctly, so were you, my dude.'

  Peter frowned, annoyed; Ned had a point. But he wasn't about to concede that. 'You don't get it, man. You weren't there when she...when she collapsed. Someone like her, in her condition...she wouldn't survive a day in Jersey. How can she stand a chance in freakin' Sokovia?'